There’s an unmatched agony I associate with the university housing process.
When Allemai Dagnatchew (SFS ’22) began her final semester of college, the last thing she wanted to worry about was digital privacy.
As we continue to navigate in-person education during the pandemic, we must realize that a “return to normal” cannot mean a return to inaccessible, ableist structures.
In the face of mental illness or medical emergency, a growing number of college students are taking a leave of absence. Often, it doesn't help.
The pre-pandemic normal encouraged students to work through burnout and prioritize arbitrary academic and professional pressures over our wellbeing. While it seems that many students are still enamored by this lifestyle, I’m not sure that I can handle a desperate cling to the old normal when it was harmful in the first place.
Implementing multipartiality provides participants with a consideration of counter narratives, as well as a consideration of why these perspectives are so often suppressed. This question of “why?” provides insight as to the function of larger structures, including the education system itself.
This process of self-shaming and hiding ate at me—until I began to identify as disabled.
Georgetown loves to espouse its Jesuit values. Yet one of them, cura personalis, or care for the whole person, fails to live up to its name.
Last week, I finished my second year at Georgetown. As much as I wish I could provide some eloquent update about how, despite the obstacles created by COVID-19, I made the most of this semester and learned a lot, that simply isn’t the case. The reality is I’m tired. I’m really tired. I’m tired because I’ve spent every day for the past two months thinking about the fact that Georgetown doesn’t seem to consider me, a first-generation student, valuable.