Like every great work of academic literature, I’ll begin with the superfluous introduction to what lies ahead.
I was going to write a year in review. I was going to write about how crazy 2016 was with all of the atrocities that plagued our world, from our nation’s deadliest mass shooting in Orlando to everything that has been happening in war-torn Aleppo. I was going to write about how we lost popular-culture icons every month, from David Bowie in January to Debbie Reynolds at the tail end of December, and then we had an orange one elected to be president of the U.S. in between. I could have written all about every single bad thing that happened last year. I was going to, but then I realized that by doing that, I would be focusing on only the negative things that happened.
I’ll be the first to admit it. I tend to think New Year’s resolutions are a bunch of malarkey — and thank you, Joe Biden, for popularizing that expressive phrase. By Jan. 10, I’ve forgotten half the goals I’ve set for myself, and then I begin to hate the other half of the vague intentions I’ve set. (e.g. “Really, Mia? You wanted to ‘worry less’ this year? And how are you going to accomplish that?”)
Let’s talk about respect. For many people, college is the first time they find themselves amid a diverse population, expected to communicate their ideas in a meaningful way. The critical exchange of ideas is how we grow, and if respect is the compass with which we navigate these interactions, I think it is vital to take a closer look.
The other night I was biting my nails at a party. I was trying not to step outside and bum a cigarette. It had been five days since I last smoked. I had felt proud of myself earlier in the day, but the familiar feeling of intense craving welled up the second I stepped into the dimly lit apartment. Now, one hour into the soiree, sipping my second rum and coke, I was exhausted with small talk. I didn’t want to discuss my major, my post-graduation plans or my summer internship. I grimaced at the faux-floral stink of the scented candle in the corner, downed my cocktail and stepped onto the balcony. I saw a portly guy with a scraggly brown beard puffing away at a cigarette. I tried to play it cool.
I’m going to go ahead and get the sappy cliches out of the way: All good things must come to an end. The end is just the start of another beginning. Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened.
Two years ago, I walked into the office of the Alligator on West University Avenue to take the copy-editing test. The copy desk chief at the time sat me in a small wood-paneled office that held rows of shelves lined with tall black books: about half of the archives of a student paper that’s been around for 110 years. Thankfully, I passed that test.
It was here I fell in love with my craft, my college and my colleagues, and it was here I realized journalism is far from over.
I don’t recall how or why I started watching “Black Mirror” and “Westworld;” only that I began both in an attempt to distract myself from finals week and was immediately hooked. Much like my introduction to “Game of Thrones” a few years ago, as soon as I began binging these shows, I found that everyone around me was talking about them, obsessing over fan theories and expressing the discomfort these fictional worlds instilled in them. Warning: spoilers ahead.
For many students, a typical walk to class consists of a sigh of remorse and the comfort of sweet melodies seeping through some Apple headphones. With eyes locked on the pavement below, students make their walk in straight lines, firm in their mission to avoid confrontation by any means possible.
In the aftermath of many months of planning, I’m both exhausted and exhilarated.
It’s become increasingly common for reboots, remakes and sequels to be produced for films and series that were created in the recent past.
Well, dear readers, the end is near. The end of the semester, that is. To those of you who are graduating, congratulations! I hope from the bottom of my heart that life treats you well and that you accomplish everything you hope to. To those of you who are not graduating, good luck on finals, and I’ll see you right back here on this page next year! For my last column of the year, I’d like to not focus on endings but, rather, beginnings.
When news of Fidel Castro’s death broke out, the reaction of the Cuban community was one of elation. Cuban-Americans danced and sang in the streets, celebrating the death of a dictator who had divided their families, forced them into exile and, in many cases, imprisoned and executed some of their closest friends and relatives.
For this entire calendar year, Reddit, “the front page of the internet,” has been waging a secret war on one of its most popular and active subreddits: The Donald. Created around the time of President-elect Donald Trump’s presidential bid announcement, this community of brave souls who were courageous enough to proclaim themselves pro-Trump on a website as public as Reddit started off small, with only about 6,000 subscribers after its first six months of existence. Then, sometime around February, an inexplicable spike in subscribers was initiated and has yet to show signs of slowing down. Now with more than 300,000 subscribers, or “centipedes” as they are called on the subreddit, The Donald has become one of the most cohesive, discussion-based and meme-making subreddits in the website’s history.
Fidel Castro is dead. Finally. For years, there were rumors regarding the Cuban leader’s declining health. His public appearances had become scarce since he transferred power to his brother Raúl in 2006. But late last Friday, news broke that the 90-year-old had passed away.
I came home for Thanksgiving very eager to shut myself inside the house and relax; my sister came home very eager to get out of the house and see all the friends she had left behind. It’s not that I don’t have friends in my hometown. It’s just that one of them doesn’t come home for that short break, and the others I see in Gainesville anyway. I didn’t really keep in contact with all the people I was friendly with in high school. Maybe in the beginning I did, but in the end, only the really strong relationships lasted.
First off: My name is Mia, and I’ll be joining the opinions section next semester as a regular columnist. I love music, politics, great food, good books, comedy and being outdoors. That’s all you need to know about me — on with the column!
The first time I dressed in drag, I was in the seventh grade. I was at my neighbor Elena’s house for a Halloween party, and I didn’t have a costume. Elena took me into her room and painted my nails black. Then she applied eyeliner, mascara and lipstick to my face. Finally, she put me in this tight-fitting dark-blue dress and, voila, I was in costume. I washed most of the makeup off and put on my regular clothes before coming home from the party, but I left the nail polish on. I liked the way it looked.
Thanksgiving always manages to shift your perspective, creating a different effect with each visit. It can make you nostalgic, anxious or maybe just send you straight into that existential tailspin the Alligator detailed in last week’s editorial. It’s a brief reprieve from a tedious collegiate schedule and a reality check on life in the Gainesville bubble. It’s a week of compromise: with your parents promising not to pry too much about post-graduation plans and you tolerating the pageantry of the Christmas-card photo shoot in return. Despite this being my last Thanksgiving Break as an undergraduate, I experienced a variety of firsts, proving that while I grow and change, so does my home.
Solutions by The State News
