Dear reader, As we scatter across the world, some of our writers find peace in the warmth of summer sun, or vitality in the glow of a languid, multicolored evening sky. Others yearn for the relationships that only time and … Read More
Workers’ rights groups around the world celebrated an unprecedented victory last November in what had been an ongoing struggle between the workers of Honduras and Russell Athletics, the largest private employer in the country. Almost a year ago, Russell shut … Read More
It it is January 14th, Dean’s Date. You are hunched over a 500-page anthology of Russian Literature, writing your final paper. The deadline is in 2 hours and 18 minutes and every second counts. You ask yourself, why?! Why did you leave these hunks of textual meat in the oven until the last possible second? Why do you always wait until the deadline?!
I learned my lesson long ago: there is no place for “Zahava” in Starbucks. For many years, in the overpriced land of hissing espresso machines and foamed upper lips and green-clad baristas, Zahava didn’t exist. Instead, for the ten minutes I spent each day ordering coffee, I was Zoe, or Sarah, or Lauren. It was easier that way. But I resolved recently to tell the truth about my name.
Last night, I was waiting in line for the bathroom in the basement of Pianos, a popular hangout in the Lower East Side of Manhattan for, among others, college-aged Asian girls posing as semi-literate meth heads (description courtesy of Vin Dee of Arbor Day), when I observed one of the most absurd debates I expect to encounter during this election year. The exchange was between a white college-aged kid wearing standard New York club-going attire and a Latino guy. Neither were typical clientele of the club, which is known, even in the Lower East Side, for being particularly hipster-rific.
“There are three types of curlers: the competitive, the prepubescent, and the beer-drinking. I have played with all three types in roughly equal measures.”
