Undergrads Quotes

I cast my mind back, to before grad school, before undergrad even, all the way to the first moment I remember loving a story. Feeling like I was living it. Being, even as a child, bowled over by how something imaginary could become real, could wring every emotion from me or make me homesick for places I'd never been

Imagine a young Isaac Newton time-travelling from 1670s England to teach Harvard undergrads in 2017. After the time-jump, Newton still has an obsessive, paranoid personality, with Asperger’s syndrome, a bad stutter, unstable moods, and episodes of psychotic mania and depression. But now he’s subject to Harvard’s speech codes that prohibit any “disrespect for the dignity of others”; any violations will get him in trouble with Harvard’s Inquisition (the ‘Office for Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion’). Newton also wants to publish Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica, to explain the laws of motion governing the universe. But his literary agent explains that he can’t get a decent book deal until Newton builds his ‘author platform’ to include at least 20k Twitter followers – without provoking any backlash for airing his eccentric views on ancient Greek alchemy, Biblical cryptography, fiat currency, Jewish mysticism, or how to predict the exact date of the Apocalypse. Newton wouldn’t last long as a ‘public intellectual’ in modern American culture. Sooner or later, he would say ‘offensive’ things that get reported to Harvard and that get picked up by mainstream media as moral-outrage clickbait. His eccentric, ornery awkwardness would lead to swift expulsion from academia, social media, and publishing. Result? On the upside, he’d drive some traffic through Huffpost, Buzzfeed, and Jezebel, and people would have a fresh controversy to virtue-signal about on Facebook. On the downside, we wouldn’t have Newton’s Laws of Motion.

There was less bulimia and more fights than I had known as an undergrad, but the same feminine ethos was present—empathetic camaraderie and bawdy humor on good days, and histrionic dramas coupled with meddling, malicious gossip on bad days.

FUCK. This is not good. I'm allergic to whiskey. I think maybe I should explain this to her, and request a different alcohol. Then I remember that I am awesome. Even fighting through anaphylactic shock, I can STILL bury this emotionally unstable, bulimic undergrad.

When I was a real girl, my mother fed me her glass dreams one spoonful at a time. Harvard. Yale. Princeton. Duke. Undergrad. Med school. Internship, residency, God. She'd brush my hair and braid it with long words, weaving the Latin roots and Greek branches into my head so memorizing anatomy would come easy.

Utilize    A noxious puff-word. Since it does nothing that good old use doesn’t do, its extra letters and syllables don’t make a writer seem smarter; rather, using utilize makes you seem either like a pompous twit or like someone so insecure that she’ll use pointlessly big words in an attempt to look sophisticated. The same is true for the noun utilization, for vehicle as used for car, for residence as used for house, for presently, at present, at this time, and at the present time as used for now, and so on. What’s worth remembering about puff-words is something that good writing teachers spend a lot of time drumming into undergrads: “formal writing” does not mean gratuitously fancy writing; it means clean, clear, maximally considerate writing.

her fourth grade teacher was going to overlook the incident. Until Vive declared it was happy hour, pulled out a blender, taught the class how to make frozen daiquiris, and served them.

Do you think parents at your school would rather their kid be depressed at Yale or happy at University of Arizona?” The colleague quickly replied, “My guess is 75 percent of the parents would rather see their kids depressed at Yale. They figure that the kid can straighten the emotional stuff out in his/her 20’s, but no one can go back and get the Yale undergrad degree.”1

A Lethe alum named Lee De Forest, who had once been suspended as an undergrad for causing a campus-wide blackout, had left Lethe with countless inventions, including the Revolution Clock, which showed an accurate-to-the-minute countdown to armed revolt in countries around the globe. It had twenty-two faces and seventy-six hands and had to be wound regularly or it would simply begin screaming.

I got my undergrad degree at the University of Chicago. Half the people who studied botany were hippies who thought they could return to some natural world system. Somehow feeding seven billion people through pure gathering. They spent most of their time working out better ways to grow pot. I didn’t like them.

I cast my mind back, to before grad school, before undergrad even all the way to the first moment I remember loving a story. Feeling like I was living it. Being, even as a child, bowled over by how something imaginary could become real, could wring every emotion from me or make me homesick for places I'd never been.

Because, sir, the United States Marine Corps is a forward-thinking organization, and they anticipated Earth would be invaded by aliens, leaving a major force trapped offworld to develop its own independent economy,” Rivera said with a deadpan expression. “My master’s degree is in management; economics was my undergrad major.

Left to their own devices, Valenti and his son Kyle tended to live like a couple of undergrads in some low-rent fraternity house.

No one I know really knew what they wanted to do when they graduated. What people are doing now is usually not something that they’d ever even heard of in undergrad.

Anglo-Saxon Protestant, otherwise known as WASP, and American Black is always on the bottom, and what’s in the middle depends on time and place. (Or as that marvelous rhyme goes: if you’re white, you’re all right; if you’re brown, stick around; if you’re black, get back!) Americans assume that everyone will get their tribalism. But it takes a while to figure it all out. So in undergrad, we had a visiting speaker and a classmate whispers to another, “Oh my God, he looks so Jewish,” with a shudder, an actual shudder. Like Jewish was a bad thing. I didn’t get it. As far as I could see, the man was white, not much different from the classmate herself. Jewish to me was something vague, something biblical. But I learned quickly. You see, in America’s ladder of races, Jewish is white but also some rungs below white. A bit confusing, because I knew this straw-haired, freckled girl who said she was Jewish. How can Americans tell who is Jewish? How did the classmate know the guy was Jewish? I read somewhere how American colleges used to ask applicants for their mother’s surnames, to make sure they weren’t Jewish because they wouldn’t admit Jewish people. So maybe that’s how to tell? From people’s names? The longer you are here, the more you start to get it.

The Body fucking,” Victoria adds. Eleanor gives her a dark look. Then she looks at me with a smile like glass breaking. They’re waiting, I see, for a response from me. “Great. That all sounds so great. So—I’m sorry—what is it that you’re doing? Exactly?” They look at each other again. Samantha. We always forget that she attended a state school for undergrad. The first in her family to even go to college. Maybe even high school? We always forget that. That’s okay, Bunny. Let’s break it down for her. Let’s use smaller words.

And when I started at NYU and I met all those kids right out of undergrad, I thought, Hell, yeah, I’m a fucking Marine. Some of them, highly educated kids at a top five law school, didn’t even know what the Marine Corps did. (“It’s like a stronger Army, right?”) Few of them followed the wars at all, and most subscribed to a “It’s a terrible mess, so let’s not think about it too much” way of thinking. Then there were the political kids, who had definite opinions and were my least favorite to talk to. A lot of these overlapped with the insufferable public interest crowd, who hated the war, couldn’t see why anybody’d ever do corporate law, didn’t understand why anyone would ever join the military, didn’t understand why anyone would ever want to own a gun, let alone fire one, but who still paid lip service to the idea that I deserved some sort of respect and that I was, in an imprecise way that was clearly related to action movies and recruiting commercials, far more “hard-core” than your average civilian. So sure, I was a Marine. At the very least, I wasn’t them.

Alex eyed the Bonesmen, robed and hooded, crowded around the body on the table, the undergrad Scribe taking down the predictions that would be passed on to hedge-fund managers and private investors all over the world to keep the Bonesmen and their alumni financially secure.

The truth is, when I arrived here, I was exhausted from years of foster homes, where I had to stay on my toes, then scrambling through undergrad, then grad school, trying to figure out how to make a name for myself, make a mark. Survival takes a lot of work if you’re an orphan woman in America.

LOG ENTRY: SOL 14 I got my undergrad degree at the University of Chicago. Half the people who studied botany were hippies who thought they could return to some natural world system. Somehow feeding seven billion people through pure gathering. They spent most of their time working out better ways to grow pot. I didn’t like them. I’ve always been in it for the science, not for any New World Order bullshit. When they made compost heaps and tried to conserve every little ounce of living matter, I laughed at them. “Look at the silly hippies! Look at their pathetic attempts to simulate a complex global ecosystem in their backyard.

With an IQ of 160, Alex Volkov was a genius, or close to it. He was the only person in Thayer’s history to complete its five-year joint undergrad/MBA program in three years, and at age twenty-six, he was the COO of one of the most successful real estate development companies in the country. He was a legend, and he knew it.

Heaven forbid you do anything -cliché-, Mr. English-Professor-in-Training," says Dodger. "You might find a single cliché is a gateway drug to tweed jackets and khaki slacks, and the next thing you know, you're teaching Kerouac and making eyes at that cute undergrad in the front row who makes you think about fucking all of Middle America in one triumphant go.

I think that, like species, languages will form evolutionary trees, with dead-ends branching off all over. We can see this happening already. Cobol, for all its sometime popularity, does not seem to have any intellectual descendants. It is an evolutionary dead-end — a Neanderthal language. I predict a similar fate for Java. People sometimes send me mail saying, “How can you say that Java won’t turn out to be a successful language? It’s already a successful language.” And I admit that it is, if you measure success by shelf space taken up by books on it, or by the number of undergrads who believe they have to learn it to get a job. When I say Java won’t turn out to be a successful language, I mean something more specific: that Java will turn out to be an evolutionary dead-end, like Cobol.

You went to med school at Hopkins,” he says with quiet wonder in his voice. “Undergrad at Tufts. I’m so proud of you, Mace.” My eyes go wide in understanding. “You rat. You Googled me?” “You didn’t Google me?” he shoots back. “Come on, that’s step one post-run-in.” “I got home from work at two in the morning. I fell face-first into the pillow. I don’t know if I’ve brushed my teeth since this weekend.

My Fellow Non-American Blacks: In America, You Are Black, Baby Dear Non-American Black, when you make the choice to come to America, you become black. Stop arguing. Stop saying I’m Jamaican or I’m Ghanaian. America doesn’t care. So what if you weren’t “black” in your country? You’re in America now. We all have our moments of initiation into the Society of Former Negroes. Mine was in a class in undergrad when I was asked to give the black perspective, only I had no idea what that was. So I just made something up. And admit it—you say “I’m not black” only because you know black is at the bottom of America’s race ladder. And you want none of that. Don’t deny now. What if being black had all the privileges of being white? Would you still say “Don’t call me black, I’m from Trinidad”? I didn’t think so. So you’re black, baby. And here’s the deal with becoming black: You must show that you are offended when such words as “watermelon” or “tar baby” are used in jokes, even if you don’t know what the hell is being talked about—and since you are a Non-American Black, the chances are that you won’t know. (In undergrad a white classmate asks if I like watermelon, I say yes, and another classmate says, Oh my God that is so racist, and I’m confused. “Wait, how?”) You must nod back when a black person nods at you in a heavily white area. It is called the black nod. It is a way for black people to say “You are not alone, I am here too.” In describing black women you admire, always use the word “STRONG” because that is what black women are supposed to be in America. If you are a woman, please do not speak your mind as you are used to doing in your country. Because in America, strong-minded black women are SCARY. And if you are a man, be hyper-mellow, never get too excited, or somebody will worry that you’re about to pull a gun. When you watch television and hear that a “racist slur” was used, you must immediately become offended. Even though you are thinking “But why won’t they tell me exactly what was said?” Even though you would like to be able to decide for yourself how offended to be, or whether to be offended at all, you must nevertheless be very offended. When a crime is reported, pray that it was not committed by a black person, and if it turns out to have been committed by a black person, stay well away from the crime area for weeks, or you might be stopped for fitting the profile. If a black cashier gives poor service to the non-black person in front of you, compliment that person’s shoes or something, to make up for the bad service, because you’re just as guilty for the cashier’s crimes. If you are in an Ivy League college and a Young Republican tells you that you got in only because of Affirmative Action, do not whip out your perfect grades from high school. Instead, gently point out that the biggest beneficiaries of Affirmative Action are white women. If you go to eat in a restaurant, please tip generously. Otherwise the next black person who comes in will get awful service, because waiters groan when they get a black table. You see, black people have a gene that makes them not tip, so please overpower that gene. If you’re telling a non-black person about something racist that happened to you, make sure you are not bitter. Don’t complain. Be forgiving. If possible, make it funny. Most of all, do not be angry. Black people are not supposed to be angry about racism. Otherwise you get no sympathy. This applies only for white liberals, by the way. Don’t even bother telling a white conservative about anything racist that happened to you. Because the conservative will tell you that YOU are the real racist and your mouth will hang open in confusion.

The world had six trillion trees, when people showed up. Half remain. Half again more will disappear, in a hundred years. And whatever enough people say that all these vanishing trees are saying is what, in fact, they say. But the question interests Adam. What did the dead Joan of Arc hear? Insight or delusion? Next week he’ll tell his undergrads about Durkheim, Foucault, crypto-normativity: How reason is just another weapon of control. How the invention of the reasonable, the acceptable, the sane, even the human, is greener and more recent than humans suspect.

Neither would I want to travel back to my and the Humberites' very undergrad discourse on the nature of love at Le Croc the other night, but if I did I'd tell Fitzsimmons et al. that love is fusion in the sun's core. Love is a blurring of pronouns. Love is subject and object. The difference between its presence and its absence is the difference between life and death. Experimentally, silently, I mouth I love you to Holly, who breathes like the sea. This time I whisper it, at about the violin's volume: 'I love you.' No one hears, no one sees, but the tree falls in the forest just the same.

There are also hunger strikes. Hunger strikes are noble and sometimes necessary. If you’re a political prisoner in China or North Korea (where the entire country is on a hunger strike, not by choice), I get it. For you, it’s life or death. But at Harvard, it’s about a press clipping and maybe getting a better grade or a higher class of hand job. So when an undergrad adopts a hunger strike in order to get someone to divest from oil, I say, let the twerp starve. Most of them are overfed, pudgy masses of soft tissue—it wouldn’t hurt if these sad sacks lost a few pounds. They might even understand the plight of the average Venezuelan, who operates under conditions American activists see as utopian, when they’re really nightmarish. How about the next time one of our coeds feels a hunger strike coming on, we exchange her with someone who’s genuinely starving?

The uninitiated often assumed that undergraduate students were at the bottom rung, but undergrads were the paying customers, or at least their parents were. And paying customers needed to be kept happy. Grad students worked for the school as teaching and research assistants--TAs and RAs--but weren't really proper employees, and as such they weren't entitled to the benefits that, say, a cataloger in the Coffey Library received. Then there was the fact that they had to learn to leave behind passive studying and test taking, which was what most of them had been taught in their school careers up to that point, and learn how to actively attack research problems and come up with new ideas, all while being poorly paid. Like Helen had said, a not insignificant number of grad students left after a year instead of sticking around to work on obtaining their PhDs. Who could blame them? Industry paid more and had better benefits.

The government doesn’t care if our kids learn to think or learn for the sake of learning, as long they learn to love their country, and grow up and pay taxes. How much of what we learnt in 10 years of our schooling actually comes handy in our day-to-day lives? Why can’t we learn useful skills, like cooking, in school that actually come in handy when it comes to survival? Does schooling need to last for 10 years? Is it possible to complete schooling in 7 years? Nobody knows and schools have done a great job at not letting us ask questions. We live in times where we cautiously invest 4 years in undergrad schools or 2 years in B-schools in the hope that we acquire strong skills or at least secure a job. Schooling, as it exists, is a 10-year course that neither helps us get a job nor imparts a skill and unfortunately, it is compulsory. Half the jobs that exist today won’t even exist 10 years from now. That’s how fast the world is progressing. We still ask our kids to learn when Shah Jahan was born. It is a joke that at the end of these 10 years, we are expected to choose a career in science, commerce, or arts when school education hardly helped us explore ourselves. Some of the world’s greatest artists, athletes, inventors and scientists are from India. Unfortunately, they are all engineers and tragically none of them know about their talents. The biggest reason for this tragedy isn’t the society, parenting, coaching or anything else. The school is the reason and they too are all eventually victims of the same century-old schooling system. In the legendary words of Kevin Spacey from Usual Suspects, “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.” and our school is our society’s biggest devil.

I awake with a start, shaking the cobwebs of sleep from my mind. It’s pitch-dark out, the wind howling. It takes a couple seconds to get my bearings, to realize I’m in my parents’ bed, Ryder beside me, on his side, facing me. Our hands are still joined, though our fingers are slack now. “Hey, you,” he says sleepily. “That one was loud, huh?” “What was?” “Thunder. Rattled the windows pretty bad.” “What time is it?” “Middle of the night, I’d say.” I could check my phone, but that would require sitting up and letting go of his hand. Right now, I don’t want to do that. I’m too comfortable. “Have you gotten any sleep at all?” I ask him, my mouth dry and cottony. “I think I drifted off for a little bit. Till…you know…the thunder started up again.” “Oh. Sorry.” “It should calm down some when the eye moves through.” “If there’s still an eye by the time it gets here. The center of circulation usually starts breaking up once it goes inland.” Yeah, all those hours watching the Weather Channel occasionally come in handy. He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “Wow, maybe you should consider studying meteorology. You know, if the whole film-school thing doesn’t work out for you.” “I could double major,” I shoot back. “I bet you could.” “What are you going to study?” I ask, curious now. “I mean, besides football. You’ve got to major in something, don’t you?” He doesn’t answer right away. I wonder what’s going through his head--why he’s hesitating. “Astrophysics,” he says at last. “Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes. “Fine, if you don’t want to tell me…” “I’m serious. Astrophysics for undergrad. And then maybe…astronomy.” “What, you mean in graduate school?” He just nods. “You’re serious? You’re going to major in something that tough? I mean, most football players major in something like phys ed or underwater basket weaving, don’t they?” “Greg McElroy majored in business marketing,” he says with a shrug, ignoring my jab. “Yeah, but…astrophysics? What’s the point, if you’re just going to play pro football after you graduate anyway?” “Who says I want to play pro football?” he asks, releasing my hand. “Are you kidding me?” I sit up, staring at him in disbelief. He’s the best quarterback in the state of Mississippi. I mean, football is what he does…It’s his life. Why wouldn’t he play pro ball? He rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his arms folded behind his head. “Right, I’m just some dumb jock.” “Oh, please. Everyone knows you’re the smartest kid in our class. You always have been. I’d give anything for it to come as easily to me as it does to you.” He sits up abruptly, facing me. “You think it’s easy for me? I work my ass off. You have no idea what I’m working toward. Or what I’m up against,” he adds, shaking his head. “Probably not,” I concede. “Anyway, if anyone can major in astrophysics and play SEC ball at the same time, you can. But you might want to lose the attitude.” He drops his head into his hands. “I’m sorry, Jem. It’s just…everyone has all these expectations. My parents, the football coach--” “You think I don’t get that? Trust me. I get it better than just about anyone.” He lets out a sigh. “I guess our families have pretty much planned out our lives for us, haven’t they?” “They think they have, that’s for sure,” I say.

I’ve been inside more vaginas these last four weeks than all four years of undergrad combined. And that’s saying something, believe me.

The truth is the MBA is simply an overpriced, over-hyped degree. As time goes on and the market is flooded with more of them, they will become less unique and therefore less valuable. Furthermore, as you’ll find out when you get older, unless you have connections or your last name is “Rockefeller,” chances are you’ll just be indebting yourself to a crippling level. Instead, I highly recommend getting an undergrad in Accounting and then pursuing your CPA. Not only is a CPA much cheaper ($3,000 for all the exam and fees,) you’ll have even better earnings potential than the average MBA.

the nurses who had tended to Marilyn over the twelve-odd hours and they looked at him knowingly, fondly, not as Dr. Sorenson but as a soon-to-be new dad; as a man who, when prompted, made up a story to entertain his suffering wife, something Arthurian that he remembered from an undergrad lit class; as a man who took it stoically when his wife shot down the story, hissing, No knights. Nothing medieval. Don’t talk to me about the fucking patriarchy right now, and don’t ever touch me again.

Olive believed in work hard, play hard. After a week spent in class and the library, Friday and Saturday nights were for cutting loose. Drunked and fucked. That was the saying she’d coined years ago in undergrad.

(Caltech is a wonderful place. Named the top university in the world by the Times of London in each of the last three years, it is small enough—just 300 professors, 1000 undergrads, and 1200 graduate students—that I know Caltech experts in all branches of science. It was

We’re so afraid of charging what we’re really worth because we fear that people will walk away. I say good riddance to bad rubbish. People who want to pay us pickle juice for champagne work have to get used to hearing no. Don’t come to undergrad with elementary expectations. Don’t come to this rice party with a kale dish. I’ve bent over backward for the opportunity to work with some companies before. I’ve charged what I knew was less than my value just to “build relationships,” and in the end all I felt was cheated. And THAT is the greatest suck of all. When you realize that you were taken advantage of and you let it happen, that’s also when you decide you don’t want it to happen again.

official programming language was reminiscent of the minis. Created in the spring of 1975 by two young men who had been inspired by the Popular Electronics article—Bill Gates, now a Harvard undergrad, and his high school buddy Paul Allen, a programmer working outside Boston—Altair BASIC took a number of key features from DEC’s BASIC for the PDP-11.

Adam will preach the point to undergrad psych majors, when he’s even older than his father is on the night they pick a tree for unborn Charles. He’ll build a career on that theme: cuing, priming, framing, confirmation bias, and the conflation of correlation with causality—all these faults, built into the brain of the most problematic of large mammals.

Hardenberg first became curious about translation as an undergrad at Smith College, where she ultimately translated part of a novel from French as a portion of her honors thesis in comparative literature. After receiving a dual master’s degree in comparative literature (with a focus on translation) and library science at Indiana University

From afar (think like a stalker), I loved Dale Carothers with all my heart,

Did my two friends lose their minds? We’d gone from hugging besties to face-slapping frienemies and now horny girls on the prowl. WTF.

The truth was his work got me fired up about historical preservation and its place in sustainable design. His master’s thesis was my favorite bedtime story through undergrad and I pulled it out whenever I needed inspiration.

We all have our moments of initiation into the Society of Former Negroes. Mine was in a class in undergrad when I was asked to give the black perspective, only I had no idea what that was. So I just made something up.

He assured me there were no free fish to be found in the Farran household, so if I wanted to make something of myself (and I did!), I’d have to find a pole and catch some fish. From that point on, I was on my own. I put myself through college, doing my undergrad at Creighton University in three years. I then put myself through dental school at the University of Missouri–Kansas City.

Sometimes we keep the ones we love from knowing the truth about us, who we are, what we’ve done, because we don’t want to hurt them. In the long run, are we only making it worse?

Everyone has their own cross to bear, they just might not wear it on their sleeve the way you do.

As Blake had once said, the girl was made of Teflon.

Our biggest difference, besides our sexes, is simple: she is a successful millionaire with more money, awards, and fans than she can count, and I’m just a college student who clears his search history more than he cleans his room.

Today for ‘show and tell’, your daughter brought in a bottle of Farnworth Firewater liquor.

The kitchen clock above the sink ticked. Wendy could look out the window and see the undergrads walking to class, all animated, young, with the clichéd rest of their lives waiting around the corner. Next year, Charlie would be one of them. You could tell these kids that it will go faster than they think, that they will blink and college will be gone and then ten years and another ten, but they won’t listen, can’t listen, and maybe that’s a good thing. “I

Marc Andreessen (here) long ago referred to the above double-/triple-threat concept, citing Scott’s writing, as “even the secret formula to becoming a CEO. All successful CEOs are like this.” He reiterated that you could also cultivate this in school by getting unusual combinations of degrees, like engineering + MBA, law degree + MBA, or undergrad physics + economics.

a group of MIT undergrads won millions of dollars by understanding the guts of the Massachusetts state lottery.

I pass flurries of undergrads who, despite their proudly proclaimed diversity, look more and more the same.

And now, with one semester to go, Mark was staring miserably at the reality of graduating with a combined total, undergrad and law school, principal and interest, of $266,000 in debt.

Undergrad was still in session, wrapping up in the weeks as spring ebbed into summer, and younger versions of who she used to be scurried around them everywhere, backpacks weighing down their shoulders, messy buns atop their heads, iced coffees on hand to push them through their weekend cram sessions.

Look, I’ve taught at MIT, Harvard, Johns Hopkins, the best schools on the planet. I’ve met the smartest motherfuckers in the room, and Jason, you would’ve changed the world if you’d decided to go that path. If you’d stuck with it. Instead, you’re teaching undergrad physics to future doctors and patent lawyers.

I majored in business as an undergrad, but I never knew what I wanted to do with the degree. It just seemed like a safe bet, like I would figure it out afterward.

It was almost empty save a few undergrads who had made their way over to this graduate student part of campus, probably for the quiet, the decreased chance of recognition. I'd once been like that, so lonely that I craved further loneliness. Even after I'd made a few friends in college, I would still go out of my way to create whatever conditions I needed that might allow me to be alone.

A 2018 study published in the Journal of Social and Clinical Psychology10 split undergrad students at the University of Pennsylvania into two groups: one that was allowed ten minutes a day on Facebook, Instagram, and Snapchat, respectively, and one that was allowed to use those platforms as frequently as desired. At the end of the study, the people in the group that was limited to only thirty minutes a day reported feeling less lonely and less depressed.

But of course, she wouldn’t. She would avoid the confrontation, as usual. Typical Sera. “Josh, you and Lauren start recording the location of the necklace,” he said. She did a double take. He was assigning undergrads to a find of this magnitude? “I’m okay,” she said shakily as Nora helped her to her feet. “I’ll work on the amulet.” Chad’s eyebrows pulled together. “The what?” “It’s an amulet. To protect the temple.” She did her best not to cringe from his glare as she explained. “It sure did a piss-poor job,” Nora huffed. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’re going to rest.” He turned around. “Back to work, everyone. We’ll have time to gawk at the pretty necklace later.” Sera frowned as he casually dismissed her and walked away. World-renowned archaeologist Dr. Charles Lambert—Chad, as he preferred to be called by students—made significant advancements in remote sensing technology in the last decade, sending his career skyrocketing. Her college’s archaeology department had been using his new methodology last year when they discovered the buried temple in Campania, Italy. After requesting to lead their excavation this summer, Chad had agreed to return to the university as a visiting scholar for the next school year, much to the excitement of the entire archaeology department.

My job, should I decide to undertake it, as it were, is to determine if the accident was by fault of impaired equipment or that of a preternatural event as the screaming boom operator would have one believe. I vote for a ghost. It makes things infinitely more interesting or my name isn‘t Beluga Stein, P.I. — Psychic Investigator. Part-time anyway. That is, when I‘m not teaching biology to a bunch of undergrads who know everything about libido except how to spell it. So my ballot is cast for a ghost.

I listened as she griped enthusiastically about the pathetic emotional stamina of the undergrads foisted upon her. She’d said the same thing last year. I said, “It’s gotten worse?” “It’s nonstop devolution, Alex. The batch I got this semester is allergic to facts and feels entitled to unearned adoration. We’re talking the emotional musculature of blind cave worms.

instantly, tense and on guard. I can’t help thinking of that rape charge during his undergrad years, and how violence against women is almost never about sex, but about domination. About crushing a woman’s autonomy with total control, driven by hate.

Liz used to joke that when she was an undergrad at Cornell, she and the girls in her sorority would play “Homeless? Or tenured professor?” while driving around the streets of Ithaca. It was a hard game.

before the word “paradigm” got taken over by corporate dipshits and lazy undergrads

After being introduced to Adrian’s parents shortly before receiving his undergrad degree, Beck endured the contemptuous green gaze of Adrian’s father. “You don’t look like a gay,” he said, his voice as cold as January ice. Beck had smiled back cheerfully. “That’s because I’m not,” he said. “Am I, babe?” Adrian had rolled his eyes. “He’s not gay, Dad.” “Then is this some sort of joke? I can’t say I appreciate—” Beck had leaned down and kissed his boyfriend. Thoroughly. With visible tongue. Adrian’s mother had cleared her throat. “I would like to know what your intentions are, young man. I won’t see my son humiliated or hurt when you get tired of whatever game you’re playing and leave him. What exactly is my son to you?” Adrian had gasped softly. Beck grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “He’s mine.” “Your what?” Adrian’s father had spluttered. “Just mine,” Beck had said with finality, and that was that.

Andy put the note in his pocket. “Much to think about,” he said out loud. This was a thing that one of their TAs had liked to say at the end of every class, back in undergrad. There’d been a certain intonation, and it had cracked Hannah and Andy up all semester. They’d said it to each other all the time. It had been the working title of Hannah’s dissertation.

Jasleen Patel gave her a scowl for doubting her expertise. Jazz had completed her master’s degree in marine biology two years before and was finalizing her doctoral dissertation under Phoebe’s mentorship. Jazz had been one of Phoebe’s undergrad students and eventually her teaching assistant at Caltech’s marine lab. Since then, they had been working collaboratively for more than five years. So much so that Phoebe and Jazz became known as PB&J by most of their colleagues

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The first time I heard the term liminal, I was eighteen, sitting in an African American Studies 101 class at the University of Virginia. A tall and slender Professor Penningroth, his complexion like my mother's relatives, had written the words Middle Passage in the center of a black chalkboard. He walked us through not just the number of Black bodies taken or the number of years over which they were stolen, but what it might have been like to be yanked into a void. To live (or die) between what was and what would be. The concept felt close and easy, like something I'd always known. The idea of a space without bounds that held within its hull the power to harm or to free or to form-that idea has never completely left me. Would I have thought as an undergrad that liminality might one day describe some of my experiences as a Black woman in America? Yes. Would I have guessed liminality might describe my future experiences as a mother, wading through waters of science and faith, in search of the truest way to know my son? Not al all. And yet here we were, drifting from the shore of one unknown to the next. Caught somewhere between "no longer" and "not yet." It was getting harder to discern where the journey had begun and where, if ever, it would end.

Non-American Black, when you make the choice to come to America, you become black. Stop arguing. Stop saying I’m Jamaican or I’m Ghanaian. America doesn’t care. So what if you weren’t “black” in your country? You’re in America now. We all have our moments of initiation into the Society of Former Negroes. Mine was in a class in undergrad

It wouldn’t be fair to say that my father had pushed me to become a doctor because he didn’t—at least not overtly. I had wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps from the very beginning. But ever since I was a child, he had very carefully nudged me in the specific direction of heart surgery by basically discounting every other profession in the world. He would say, “Son, what’s more important than keeping people’s hearts beating?” I thought I was so clever that once I had said, “What good is a beating heart without a functioning brain?” He had, of course, very quickly replied, “It’s as good as any beating heart. The important thing to note is that you can keep even a nonfunctioning brain alive as long as you have a beating heart. Doesn’t work the other way around, does it?” There had been about five minutes in my junior year of undergrad, when I had come home after reading about the use of power tools in orthopedic surgery, during which I had said to my father, “I think orthopedics is going to be my thing, Dad.” The next day he had brought home a trunk full of items from Home Depot and one extra-large cow femur bone. He then ran the cow bone over with his car in the driveway until it splintered, cracked, and broke in several places, and then he gave me a bag of tiny screws and bolts and a cordless drill. “Have at it, kid.” I had spent sixteen hours straight in the garage without so much as a drink of water. By the time I had finished, I was exhausted and thoroughly spent but proud of the fully assembled cow bone, which I paraded through the house. My mother was mortified and told my father he had created a monster. He just laughed from the couch, hollering back to me, “Looks pretty, but will it support sixteen hundred pounds?

His blue gaze was intent and not even when a drunk undergrad bumped into the back of his chair and mumbled a slurred, “Sorry, mate,” did his gaze waver from mine.

Olin is the most prestigious five-year-old institution in America. The secret? Full scholarships for all of its 200 undergrads. A campus on the outskirts of Boston adds attractive geography to the mix and a spanking new physical plant is state-of-the-art in everything. (Rising Stars - Franklin W. Olin College of Engineering.)

Most demons are as dumb as a sackful of hammers. This does not mean they’re safe to mess with, any more than a C++ compiler is “safe” in the hands of an enthusiastic computer science undergrad. Some people can mess up anything, and computational demonology adds a new and unwelcome meaning to terms like “memory leak” and “debugger.” Now,

We’re so afraid of charging what we’re really worth because we fear that people will walk away. I say good riddance to bad rubbish. People who want to pay us pickle juice for champagne work have to get used to hearing no. Don’t come to undergrad with elementary expectations.

In undergrad, I started to care more about my relationship--well, one in particular--and people thought I wasn't reaching my potential. I never liked how that was framed, as if it's a trade-off between love and work. Love enhances everything.

Yet after seven years at Harvard—four as an undergrad, three and counting as a graduate student—nothing had changed. Without realizing why, he studied the most quintessentially American subject he could find—cowboys—but he never spoke of his parents, or his family. He still had few acquaintances and no friends. He still found himself shifting in his seat, as if at any moment someone might notice him and ask him to leave.

And this is an undergrad haunt. You know at least one person has had their tits out in the stacks.

We must look at the fact that even in emergency situations, white bystanders are less likely to help Black people than each other. We have to ask ourselves why the study “White Female Bystanders’ Responses to a Black Woman at Risk for Incapacitated Sexual Assault” shows that even young white women in college are less likely to help potential victims of assault if they are Black. We have to ask why white undergrads said to researchers that they would be less likely to help Black women because they felt less personal responsibility for them. Or why they perceived Black victims as experiencing more pleasure in situations that they recognized as dangerous for white women.

After Buffett finished undergrad at University of Nebraska in Lincoln, he was working as a stockbroker, which essentially means he was a stock salesman. Though nearly every time Buffett tried to get a meeting with a businessperson in Omaha, he was turned down. No one wanted to meet with a young guy with no credibility, trying to sell them stocks. So Buffett changed his approach—he began calling up businesspeople and made them feel he could save them money on their taxes. All of a sudden the businesspeople said, “Come on in!” And just like that, Buffett booked his meetings. “This is the thing,” I told Corwin. “Although people won’t meet with you for the reason you want, that doesn’t mean they won’t meet at all. Just find another angle.

Whoever said that smart men were bad in bed clearly hadn’t been banged by Seneca Seminole.

Luckily, all of the students thought Moddie’s speech in David’s class had been a joke, a bizarre rant for their amusement structured around useful, practical information about making money as a fine artist. She said a lot of things about “the brotherhood” and about how making art was to manifest a tangible version of the soul, and that not all souls were equal. Tawdry work was the result of a tawdry soul, undeveloped work the result of an undeveloped soul, and even if you used a formula to make your art, hoping to hide behind the thoughts and gestures of the great minds who had come before you, even this laid bare your formulaic soul, your selfish feeble cowardice and fundamental lack of curiosity. Let every man be judged by what he makes real in this world. The man who plants and tends a geranium and remembers the name of his cashier at Kroger is higher in the eye of god than the charlatan who copies Cy Twombly at the coffee shop, charging thousands of dollars and thinking himself a guest at the dinner party of eternity. Woe to he who makes this error, and woe to he who mistakes accolades for artistic clarity. ... Moddie was finishing an interesting story about having a blackout panic attack while trying to tell some freshman art undergrads about grant applications, but accidentally going on a winding incoherent rant instead.

Fortunately, as an undergrad, I did have a chemistry professor who embodied Flynn’s ideal. On every exam, amid typical chemistry questions, was something like this: “How many piano tuners are there in New York City?” Students had to estimate, just by reasoning, and try to get the right order of magnitude