For hours and hours as I drove north on I-95, I desperately grasped for memories like a child catching fireflies, trying to chase and hold onto as many as possible.
I intend to start with a mimosa precisely at 9:00 a.m. so I have time for a full day of despondent moping before crying myself to sleep looking at photos from previous LDOCs.
I would give so much to be able to share one more brownie sundae, to steal one more handful of French fries from someone else’s plate, to split one more chocolate chip cookie in half.
At first I thought I might use this time to get in shape, maybe pick up running. But it is currently 30 degrees in Vermont and there is still snow on the ground, so that might have to wait a couple weeks.
There is no feeling in the world like chanting “Our house” in Cameron with a thousand other Crazies. Stomping, clapping and yelling so forcefully that my joints ache, my fingers sting and my throat burns, feeling the vibrations coming through the air and bleachers, resonating throughout my whole body.
A student could obtain an English major without reading a single book by a person of color, and maybe only two or three written by women.
One of my favorite parts about Duke Dining is the abundance of carbohydrate options. So many choices!
It is a privilege to be told that your story matters.
This world is hard, and doesn’t make sense, but I have never had a bad day that wasn’t alleviated by watching these kind, brilliant people cook and laugh together.
I have been caught up in remembering my previous Duke Thanksgivings. They have always just felt like a comma, a brief pause in the long stretch of the fall semester that strikes just before the end.
