Somewhere on campus, a man calls a female student a terrorist from his car window, a group of students passionately argue the logic behind public bans on hijabs and a TA refuses to give a student her exam until she removes her headscarf.
In the fall of her senior year at Penn, Jess King (C’15) asked herself if education was the most valuable thing she could do with her diploma.
“Hell yeah, it is” she said.
It was junior Ian McCurry’s second time setting foot in HUP’s Cardiac Surgical Unit. He entered the examination room to introduce himself to his patient of the day, a middle–aged man who had recently undergone a heart transplant.
Bubbles stream up furiously, erupting from the swimmer’s mouth. His legs work powerfully as he propels himself towards the wall—just one final push, he’s almost there.
It’s one against 70, and the recruiter is losing. Rather than file out, the students swarm him, ply him with resumes and cover letters, jostle his arm in hopes of a handshake.
They are many in number. They are stoic. They are strong.
They are the guardians of Penn’s campus– of our souls and ourselves.
They are bound to stand by us, in sickness and in health.
They are the support we need, not the support we deserve.
They are walls.