For as long as I’ve known how to, I’ve loved reading. In middle school, I always joined my school’s annual competition to see who could read the most books over the summer. The last week of school, I would roam the Barnes and Nobles in my neighborhood, accumulating a pile of books taller than I was and paying for them with the B&N gift cards I received every Christmas from my relatives. In September, after a long summer of reading, I was always crowned one of the winners.
The first thing I noticed without my headphones was how dependent I am on the distraction of music. I live in a quaint and homey Mod, and even something as simple as walking to the Walsh laundry room—a one-and-a-half minute journey, at most—always required my AirPods. I grew uncomfortable doing so without them. The walk was shorter than the length of a song, yet I loved the reassurance that I would not have to talk to anyone I ran into.
I have always been a planner. My notes app is filled with to-do lists, reminders, and anecdotes—a tangible, terrifyingly disorganized snapshot of the inside of my brain. I came to college with a set plan—a political science major on a pre-medical track, setting myself up to go to medical school.
After Boston College football pulled out an exciting, well-fought victory against Syracuse, about a quarter of the BC student section finally trickled out of their place in Alumni Stadium. Where were the rest? Already gone, and had been gone for a while. Those empty stands were antithetical to the turnout at the previous night’s hockey game against Maine, featuring a line wrapping around the back of Conte Forum and a student section that was full and rowdy until the very end of the game.
On Nov. 30, 2022, ChatGPT launched for the public, forever altering the academic landscape. The sudden, widespread accessibility of the platform presented University administrators with a series of unprecedented challenges: keeping up with this unpredictable technology, educating professors about the benefits and drawbacks of these platforms, and determining guidelines for the ethical use of artificial intelligence (AI) in higher education.
This morning, I started to write a radically different article. After a painful U.S. election, I wanted to issue a call to action and a plea for hope in the face of what seemed like utter hopelessness. The first paragraph quoted Emma Lazarus and the second lamented Arizona’s passage of Proposition 314. Frustration poured onto the page. Then I got an email. My friend died this afternoon.
Stop whatever you’re doing—we are in a crisis. America has a housing crisis. The Western world has a well-documented mental health crisis. Microplastics are creating a new physical health crisis.
The Boston College Republicans’ recent statement to the community shows a disappointing misunderstanding of how politics works on a college campus. Half-baked or unpopular opinions have circulated this campus in every era—often by way of this very publication. The community hashes out the merits and flaws in dining halls, dormitories, and classrooms.
“Welcome to Milwaukee, The Bloody Mary Capital of the World” greets me like a familiar hug each time I arrive at General Mitchell Airport in Milwaukee. Green Bay Packers paraphernalia, Cheeseheads, and Drink Wisconsinbly shirts adorn the vendor stations lining the central walkway to baggage claim.
I’m writing in response to a statement published on Sunday evening, authored by the Executive Board of Boston College Republicans. The authors raise a number of points that I, as a Democrat, agree with: we must reject political “intimidation” and “hate speech,” “ad hominem attacks” are no substitute for healthy “debate and dialogue,” and it is wrong to dehumanize our political opponents over disagreements.
