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Toad’s in France

It is Friday night here at La Plage, a Bordeaux nightclub boasting five separate dance floors. Clutching the hands of my travel companions, I squeeze […]

Lives: Lost and Found in the Stacks

This summer, I spent most of my time reading documents that were meant to be private.

In the Margins

This past year we’ve counted words and column inches, set deadlines and called the Yale minibus at 4 a.m.

Labor and Loss at Sea

That’s what they say might have happened to Jeremy, who died on a Wednesday in mid-August, found lifeless by another lobsterman out among the multicolored buoys that indicate troves of crustaceans deep under water. It was my neighbor who found the body, but I don’t hear that from him.

Gà kho gừng: Ginger-braised chicken

My house, like the braised chicken, is a patchwork of reincarnated materials, an ever-present celebration of my late father’s thrifty resourcefulness.

Closets (My Queer Manhood)

Learning to be gay is a dangerous thing. I have learned to be gay; and girls have come to see me as a child; a little boy, to be hugged and kissed. You will, no doubt, find this familiar.

Where Did All the SWUGs Go?

Suddenly I thought it, and there it was. SWUG, that word, that acronym (Senior Washed Up Girl) that haunted this campus last year. And now it was here again, floating between me and this pale and tangled version of myself reflected in the harsh florescent light.

Beyond the Words

Last Wednesday, I attended the reading of the late Marina Keegan’s posthumous book The Opposite of Loneliness. I walked into the Yale bookstore, down the stairs, behind a few bookshelves and into the alcove where the reading was being held. There were chairs set for about 50 people. I took a seat in the second row from the front, directly facing the podium.

Bursting the Bubble

The journey began with two hats in a store window. I was walking back to my apartment from the train station the Monday after spring break and found the words “Peace” and “Violence” glaring at me through the window. Unable to avert my gaze, I tossed aside the three duffle bags strewn over my shoulder and craned my neck to get a closer look. Two camouflage hats with brilliant red and orange-blended brims came into view. The store manager was quick to notice my fascination, and darted over to open the door for me.

That Summertime, Summertime Sadness

This morning in philosophy lecture, my professor, despicably, went over the format for our final exam. This might not have been so atrocious — you might even suggest that I should have been appreciative — had it not come in conjunction with a few other ill-disguised attacks on my emotional well-being.

What Arbitrary Thing Are You?

The two pseudopsychological tests offered similar results: Jane is a shy perfectionist who likes her friends a lot. She even has a “creative” streak. The same platitudes hold true for a lot of Yale kids but, still, I don’t object.