Human bodies displayed in disturbing poses. Intestines and organs decorating the countless walls. Bones suspended every few feet. Sounds like a scene from a Stephen King novel, but in reality this grotesque display is not found in a book. It is found a mere 30 minutes from Stern College for Women.
When the Pilgrims, fleeing their king, landed At Plymouth, 'twas a haven From religious persecution. Their descendants, free of England, did Then fittingly engrave in Their new country's constitution That all men had equal ranks And for this we must give thanks: Of America's debut, sing! But the Pilgrims met with trouble In this newfound land of freedom.
On Tuesday, November 10th, Yeshiva University was privileged to have Israel's ambassador to the United Nations, Ms. Gabriella Shalev, address the student body about the Goldstone Report. Certainly, at face value, this was a significant occasion, but to my mind it completely failed to fulfill its potential.
Thursday, November 12, should have been a day just like any other day in midtown Manhattan. I'm a normal twenty-one year old college student, so my day progressed just like ordinary: I got up, bought a newspaper and a lattè from Starbucks, sat through my classes, then went to the New York Public Library after class to do research for a paper.
I wish to declare that I am an ardent supporter of autism awareness and activism. My younger brother, who has autism and who is the coolest person I know, led me to this path in life, and, quite frankly, shaped me into who I am today. His life is so intertwined with mine that my outspokenness and loyal dedication to his cause should come as no surprise.
How does one measure the effectiveness or greatness of an American president? As the one-year anniversary of Obama's electoral victory recently came and went, the president's administration has come under even more scrutiny than usual. From almost every media outlet and in multiple personal conversations, I have repeatedly heard the viewpoint, mostly stated quite acrimoniously, that there has been a serious lacuna of fulfilled promises by the Obama administration.
I know a lot of people who hate writing. Defenestration, decapitation, or both, are far more preferable to them than writing a paper. I've never had that problem. Prose, elegant and disastrous, flows from my fingertips like ink from a leaky pen. This talent of smearing pieces of paper with the written word stems from two events that occurred to me two and three years ago.
When you're working for a journalistic cause, deadlines can take on a sort of divine significance. And, as anyone who's ever had to hand in a sensitive topical piece knows, it can be difficult to get information and quotations from interviewees. Journalism code dictates that one may quote anything a person says, unless the person specifies that the remark is off the record before he or she actually says it.
Poetry is a language I speak leaking my soul across all soils wearing my heart on my sleeve as I roam far and wide, I seek Professors who can fair curl and foil poetry, the language I speak until all as we know it grows weak until connections smear like oil searing my heart to my sleeve We explain, We plunge down dark and deep into our straining souls, we bring all up to boil through poetry the language I speak in a never ending feat, we kick back and beat learn to dance in intricate coils learns to wear hearts on our sleeves As we leap and keep the joy of all deeds of trees and of words, we reap in all spoils with poetry the language we speak holding our hearts at our sleeves.