Taylor Hawes | Recognizing the other kind of diversity
The other day, I was sitting in one of those 200-person lectures where everyone has a laptop and no one pays attention.
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The other day, I was sitting in one of those 200-person lectures where everyone has a laptop and no one pays attention.
Earlier this summer and earlier this month, two pretty girls were acquitted of accusations of very ugly crimes. If you haven’t heard anything about the murder trials of Casey Anthony and Amanda Knox, you must not have read or watched the news at all for the past year. We’ve all heard about these famous cases ad nauseam, thanks to the incredibly heavy media saturation both of these trials have enjoyed here and abroad. We all know that Anthony was accused of murdering her toddler in cold blood and was found not guilty — to the astonishment and often outrage of the American public. And a few weeks ago, Amanda Knox was released from an Italian prison, her 2009 conviction for the murder of her roommate having been reversed by an Italian appellate court.
When I was a kid, I got bullied, and I’m willing to bet you did too. Oh, no one shoved me into any lockers. I never experienced a whirly or an atomic wedgie or any other such classic hallmark of grade-school bullying. In fact, I didn’t even know I was really being bullied.
If there’s one thing I love about Penn, it’s heading down Locust Walk into the heart of campus and being (almost) surrounded by real grass and real trees. It’s the closest I can get to nature in the urban glitz and grime that is Philly. Don’t get me wrong — I’m a city girl at heart. But everyone needs a good tree hug every now and then.
There is a nauseatingly consistent routine that every Spanish class I’ve ever taken at Penn follows. The students file in and find seats. The teacher takes his or her usual place at the front of the room and issues a command that is always prefaced by the same dismally invariable phrase, “Con tu compañero…” That directly translates to “with your partner.” It indirectly translates to “without your teacher.”
I can’t count how many times I’ve asked a friend what his or her major is and received some variation of the following two answers: “biology” or “(insert other major), but I’m pre-med.”
The other day, as I took a weekend stroll downtown, I found myself pulled almost irresistibly into the Apple store, like a moth drawn to a porch light.
I’ve noticed a pattern in my classes. I walk into a lecture hall, find an empty seat in an empty row, sit and wait. Almost infallibly, the seat beside me on either side remains forlorn and empty as the room around me swells to capacity — until, that is, another black student walks in.
Group projects are either a blessing or a curse to students, with very few in-betweens.