long-distance

With Black History Month in full swing, many galleries showcasing Black art and culture are just steps away from Columbia’s campus. Harlem galleries that have reopened for in-person visitors are featuring pieces that tell stories often underrepresented in the art world. Many of the galleries that remain closed have expanded their online presence or transitioned to outdoor art exhibits and installations.

Every year, the United States has a national holiday called Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday of November. Traditionally, Thanksgiving is a holiday spent with family, so many Columbia students use the long weekend to travel back home to do so. This year, Columbia’s Thanksgiving break is from Nov. 25 to 29, and as some students celebrate, international students may be left wondering what the holiday entails.

In a time of social distancing and widespread museum closures, the Wallach Art Gallery, located at 129th Street in the heart of Columbia’s Manhattanville campus, has taken advantage of digital mediums to preserve aspects of an in-person gallery setting by embracing the challenges of creating an engaging online experience.

I organize my playlists according to distinct time periods in my life. For that reason, some playlists stick around for months, while others last only weeks. These playlists contain the cliches: First heartbreak at a middle school dance (thankfully, in my pre-Spotify days and no longer accessible), 715B (named after my Carman Hall dorm room, of course), Brandy (what I wished I was drinking when I created the playlist in my cubicle at 10 p.m. on a temperate summer night) and last but not least, حبيتك يخرب بيتك––a phrase carrying the sentiment of anger towards unreciprocated love––consisting strictly of Arabic ballads that aren’t suitable for any creature with ears.

As I sat in my hot car on a sunny morning, eager to surprise my boyfriend with homemade cinnamon rolls, I had no idea that he had a much grimmer surprise for me.

I’m sitting on the couch in the living room next to my older sister. We just met. Her name is Anna. We study each other’s fingers, which are skinny and long, with rounded tops. After a pause, we ask each other about food allergies and lactose intolerance. We’ll ask each other about shared feelings, but that’s later. She asks me if I like purses. She tells me that she has a collection. I’m not much of a purse person. She’s not into wide-leg pants.

In a lot of ways, being the Midwestern golden child who left the humble fields of Daleville, Indiana to pursue the endless possibilities of the Big City feels like playing a part in a Broadway production: the cut-and-paste ingenue that’s thrust into the whirlwind of urban life and somehow manages to keep her footing. There are bragging rights in excess; it’s a quintessential Columbia student luxury to be trekking to the Met on Saturday, catching a matinee on Sunday, and topping it all off with a Brian Greene lecture bright and early Monday morning.

Chinese and Japanese mythologies share a belief based on legends involving a “red thread of fate.” According to this belief, people who are meant to meet at some point in life are bound together by a red string tied around their ankles or little fingers. The two people on both ends of the cord may meet other people, travel the world, or cross paths without noticing—tangling and knotting the red string numerous times, but never breaking it. Although this belief is most often used to refer to an inevitability of romantic partnerships—the “soulmate” idea—I personally consider it reflected in my most valuable friendships.

This past Wednesday, I was told that my friend Heather had passed away. My friend Julia, who flew home from a gap year in Brazil to see her, called to tell me the news mere minutes after sharing her last moments with Heather. Heather’s mother had called me the Sunday before to let me know that I should come down in the next few weeks to say goodbye. I immediately scheduled a flight for that Thursday.

Sometimes I look into my mom’s eyes, and I know she feels like she doesn’t know me. It’s not as if she doesn’t love me or doesn’t care about me. But I left home so long ago, our relationship has been condensed to brief winter break windows at 10 p.m. when she gets home from work and scattered phone calls through which she tries to pry into my life. I know she hates that she didn’t get to see me grow up. She won't let you know it, though—she’s tough, the toughest person I know—but I can feel it.