Statement

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In accordance with the Pew Research Center this article refers to second-generation as US-born children of immigrants.

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Pacifist is a title I started giving myself after the fateful day I spent with Yoko Ono’s treasure trove of experimental, anti-war art at the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, Spain on my first trip abroad.

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The piano in my childhood home is tired. Her brown, fraying ivory sags with overuse and dulled keys sing softly — worn out from years of pounding fingers. Her exterior — covered in stickers and stamps and carved into with uncut fingernails — reeks of resignation.

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I grew up in the arid valley where the moonlight was muffled by the smoke of thousands of coal-burning stoves. It was cold and scary at night and the day came, only to reveal the night’s crimes.

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My expectations of love and romance were doomed from the start. As a child, I lived and breathed Disney movies. The story was always the same: A beautiful princess was in trouble and — shocker — a beautiful prince came to save her.

Around a corner you might otherwise stroll past on Main Street, there is a set of glass doors between ivory white brick that holds the smallest, most restless Cuban eatery in town.

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It’s a Saturday night in mid-December, and despite the freezing temperatures and the impending tempest of finals, Angell Hall Auditorium A at the University of Michigan is packed.

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In terms of an introduction, this is a column about nothing in particular. But it’s also a column about anything under the sun. I don’t know if this affords me unmeasurable literary freedom or if it cages me in, wandering aimlessly around the halls of banality.

The Michigan Daily is printed at the Michigan Web Press in Davisburg, Michigan.

At 11:30 PM last night, after making the paper, the Michigan Daily senior class traveled an hour North to Davisburg, Michigan. Every year, the seniors get a tour of the Michigan Web Press where our papers are printed.

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I’ve never written about sex before.