“But I can say this: as I stood on stage on that final sold-out Saturday and belted out the final lyrics to the finale, “We’re home!” for the first time since arriving on Princeton’s campus I felt like I had a place on this campus. I felt at home.”
The genealogy of nominative determinism begins with my ambivalent attitude toward this series of articles. Whenever the Nassau Weekly name column would come up in casual conversation, I would exclaim that there could be nothing potentially interesting in a piece truly about the writer’s name. After all, I thought, what would have to be true for an article about your name to be interesting?
I grew up with a brother who, since age four, abstained from eating animals and shouted things like “Meat is murder!” when he saw a plate of chicken nuggets. To this day, when I sit on a leather couch, I hear his voice, whispering, “Is that carcass comfortable?” This is not to say that I don’t enjoy eating meat, or indulge in leather accessories, but I feel a certain guilt in doing so.
It is 3 a.m and there is Advil by my bed. My phone is on my pillow. I have told four separate friends to text me when they get home, but I may fall asleep before they do. I didn’t know whether I was bringing anyone home tonight, but I made my bed just in case.
My ears picked up on it the moment I walked through the entryway. As I walked up the staircase to the lecture hall, I could clearly make out sentences of the conversation being had behind me. It felt out of place to me, belonging to a different time and place.
Casually, if cautiously, a throng of men encircles the scarred metal of an American fighter jet, the US F-15. A few, more daring men climb the torched cockpit, and children observe with rapt interest. This first American lapse in the … Read More