Letter from the Editor: 9/6/2017
This past week, Penn as a community received the most horrible possible news: a College senior, Nick Moya, took his own life.
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This past week, Penn as a community received the most horrible possible news: a College senior, Nick Moya, took his own life.
Today marks the first day in the history of 34th Street Magazine that the print edition will be offered as a stand alone—not within the pages of a copy of The Daily Pennsylvanian, not nestled and hidden away and difficult to find without significant effort.
Right now, I'm on a lot of second to lasts. It's my second to last semester editing Street. It's my second to last Fling, my second to last bright Philly spring and hellish Philly summer. It's my second to last year as a college student.
Hello!
I only have one thing that I really, really care about during my tenure as Editor–in–Chief: leaving the magazine off in better shape than when I first received it. Of course, I didn't know at the time what that would entail. I didn't realize it would mean restructuring to include four days of new online content. I had no clue it would involve cutting the Round Up. And of course, I never could have possibly dreamed that it meant a shift from Thursday to Wednesday print.
I didn't really have a group in high school. At least, not for a long time. I transferred into my high school's feeder middle school in eighth grade, and I spent most of that time trying to figure out how to talk to other people. Do you know how hard it is to try to make friends as a thirteen–year–old? I'll tell you. It's impossible.
Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday I walk to 16th and Walnut. It doesn't matter if it's raining, snowing, sleeting, winding (that's what I call the Philadelphia–specific phenomenon when the wind blows hard enough to push you back a few steps physically and mentally). I put on a beanie, gloves, snow boots, whatever I need, and make my way downtown.
There was only one thing I wanted to do this break: go the fuck home. I missed my family. I missed my home friends. Most of all, I missed my dog (she's amazing—she could be a therapy dog but one could argue that she's too loving). My parents picked me up at the airport with a salad waiting for me in the backseat. As we drove the long, long route from busy LAX to my cozy little suburb, I was shocked to see green.
For the first time in two and a half years at Penn, I’m trying to do my reading. For all my classes. Seriously. All of it. Are you surprised? I was too—but we shouldn’t be.
The younger, hipper version of Forbes 30 Under 30—just with more Quakers and (slightly) fewer billionaires.
This week I joined the long, long list of people that fell in love with La La Land. I wandered into the Rave with a friend, equipped with the water bottle I always sneak into theaters. (Seriously, who would ever pay five dollars for a water bottle? Water is a basic human right, dammit.) I expected to poke holes in the movie—I'd been warned that the film was deeply flawed, or boring, too long, overrated.
I’m cutting the Round Up. Bear with me.
Sweetgreen was closed for renovations for roughly a week and a half at the beginning of this semester. I complained for two weeks. When I went last night and the line was long, I complained louder. And don't forget the car alarm going off on Locust late last night—I woke up complaining. My very first words this morning were, "I don't deserve this." I start every conversation with some kind of grumble: I'm too warm, I'm not warm enough, I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, I have so much work, and did I mention that my shower ran cold today?
I had a column in my high school newspaper called "Oh Really." For those of you that don't yet know me, the title was a shameless pun on my name. For those of you that do know me, I'm sure you're adding this particular new tidbit of information to your bank of embarrassing Orly facts.
Three and a half years ago, I walked—alone—up the stairs of some sketchy building on the corner of 40th and Walnut streets and into a room of people that would change my life.
On Tuesday, I woke up excited. Anxious to be sure, but excited about the possibility of electing our first female president, a candidate whom I have supported for years, and a human being that I believed could rescue our America from the coursing wave of populism, nationalism, and hate that has been shaped and nourished by Donald Trump for the past 18 months.
What if all our actions had no consequences?
So the Cubs are in the World Series.
I’m going to tell you a story.
I don’t know about you, but I have never appreciated Fall Break more than I do right now.
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