Thoughts by Cholly Knickerbocker
Yesterday evening, in what can only be proclaimed as an offense against my rather placid senses, a certain co–resident of mine — a man who we in the Quadrangle are ashamed to call one of our own, although he shall remain unnamed — disdained me for foregoing the traditional shirt and cummerbund combination in favor of the slightly marvelous backless waistcoats, seen on Savile Row this past year.
So I’ve never registered for classes during advanced registration before. No, seriously. I’ve always miraculously either slept through advanced registration or procrastinated to the point of Real–Housewives–of–D.C.–reunion–show oblivion, and watched advanced registration period become a blip in the distant past.
I suppose I should begin this tirade with an admission. Despite the fact that I am in possession of a rather acute British accent, and despite the fact that I am constantly extolling the virtues of my Middle–Eastern background, I am, well, an American.
I walked in to room 329 of the Anthropology department a little late on the first day of classes. Sure, it was a little unsettling that everyone around me looked prepubescent, but I just assumed I was feeling a little more senior than usual.
It wasn’t until the professor asked how we were finding freshman year that I realized: I was in a freshman seminar.
There is nothing like a spell of clement weather to bring out the uncompromising Brit within. Every day I wake up with Al (as in Roker) and depend on his soothing voice to dictate my choice of attire and more importantly, my mood.
Last week at our Passover Seder my family got into a political discussion (read: screaming match). Someone brought up Israel and before you knew it Grandma was foaming at the mouth yelling something about Palestine.