Crimson staff writer
Roey L. Leonardi
Associate Editor Roey L. Leonardi can be reached at email@example.com.
For architecture buffs, the Carpenter Center itself is a wonder to behold, but behind its stark walls Harvard student artists spend hour upon hour creating masterpieces in their own rights.
Our Harvard Can Do Better’s demands do more than express concern about the Title IX changes made under DeVos — they also expose a major gap between what Our Harvard thinks students need and what the University provides in terms of support. The organization’s nine year fight to fill this gap provides a window into varied interpretations of justice.
Though P. Winston Michalak misses spending time with his friends, competing with the club swim team, and seeing the Pfoho dining staff at meals, he feels lucky to spend so much time with his family. “I grew up hanging out with my siblings,” he says, “so it’s been easy to not feel so isolated.”
It is a privilege to write about the South the way I do, as a mythical world of wise old ladies and muddy creeks and velvet-antlered deer. Yet I try to complicate this world: I write about struggling with spirituality amid devout Christians and growing up with three sisters in a society permeated by patriarchy. Still, there are topics I’m afraid to touch.
"When I think of this period of national reckoning, in my mind’s eye, I see a photograph captured in my hometown of Charleston, S.C. It documents the removal of a statue of John C. Calhoun, a former vice president and an ardent defender of slavery, from its 115-foot tall pillar in the center of the city. In the early hours of the morning, the sharp silhouette of the bronze Calhoun and the crane hooked to his neck and shoulders is set against an orange sunrise. The image it conjured is unmistakable — it is that of a man hanging from a noose."
So I call her double-mother, and for life I owe her twofold, or more. My debt to her is pleated infinitely, like the skirts of the floral chair in her living room. When I was little, I’d hide beneath the wooden coffee table and play with her orange and blue Dala horses, the clacking of their lacquered legs muffled by the cream carpet.
I wish I could pinpoint what exactly it is that keeps me coming back. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that Waffle House will welcome six bleary-eyed high school seniors who can’t help but order the entire menu on a Saturday night, just as it will welcome families the next day in their Sunday best and truckers who’ve driven across countless state lines the night after that.
In order to avoid another significant bill, Jordan opted to Uber off-campus to Mount Auburn Hospital, accompanied by her roommate. She received a taxi voucher from UHS for her trip back to campus, but when it failed to summon a taxi for “three to four hours,” she ended up returning to campus around 7 a.m. with HUPD.