Articles tagged: Carrying On
I never felt more uncomfortable in an outfit than I did on fifth grade picture day. My mother, who I somehow consider my style icon, dressed me in a pink... Read more
Last fall, I got in a rather bizarre accident. It’s a long story, but it involves a trip to an apple farm, a hayride trailer carrying lots of innocent children... Read more
This past weekend, I did something incredibly nerve-wracking for me. No, it wasn’t exposing myself to the arctic weather or even the smutty antics and laughable dialogue of Fifty Shades... Read more
Wednesday evening in Leavey 424 is always a party. But it’s not the typical kind of party. For instance, we do shots, but of espresso. There’s loud music, but we... Read more
When I say I am bad at math, I don't mean bad in the modest Georgetown "I didn't get a 5 on the AP subject test" sense. I mean bad as in sometimes I find myself wondering how many quarters are in an hour, before I remember that quarters go into dollars and minutes go into hours. It's difficult to explain that you're late for class because you confused cents with minutes.
There's one question that I regularly encounter in Morocco with my newly-grown beard. "Are you Muslim?" the vendors ask in Arabic. I've come to realize that in Muslim countries, a beard carries a specific meaning, or at least something other than, "I'm too lazy to shave."
I understand why my parents came to America. Where else can two fresh-off-the-boat, kiss-strangers-on-both-cheeks-in-front-of-the-local-blue-collar-bar foreigners eventually become locals? In the late 1970s, they stepped off a plane in appallingly-polyestered Kennedy International Airport as outsiders and by the grace of the American experiment, they now celebrate Thanksgiving, watch college sports, pay taxes, vote, do yardwork, have potlucks, and cheer for U.S. Olympians alongside Daughters and Sons of the American Revolution. They criticize this country, but they always acknowledge that in no other place in the world would the union of a South African daughter of a pogrom survivor and an Austrian son of a Nazi ambulance driver have been possible. I accept this, but even so, I've always wished I had not been born in America.