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When the hurricane has caught you so off guard that all you can do is sit in the eye and watch.
Slipping
The BurdenFinancialon Middle–Income Students
the Through Cracks
ByAnishaUppal-Sullivan&EdithPhilip
From refueling at a gas station to making scrambled eggs, everyday life has grown increasingly more expensive for American families, as the costs of basic goods have soared since 2020 without comparable increases in income. Although rapid inflation and rising costs have affected all industries, they have led to a distinct increase in the long-term cost of attending college. Since 2005, tuition and fees have increased by 126 percent for private universities and by 133 percent for public national universities.
These rising costs have the most acute impact on middle-class families, whose income is generally too high to qualify for significant financial aid, but not high enough to pay tuition out-of-pocket without risking economic instability. In an article for the Boston Globe, Shannon Barry Vasconcelos, a college finance coach with Bright Horizons, said, “What the college thinks you need and what you think you need are often very different figures.”
For many middle-income undergraduate students at Tufts, tuition presents a serious financial burden. Although 77 percent of the student body comes from the top 20 percent of median family income, this group includes a wide range of financial margins. While a family may have the means to pay $92,000 for annual tuition, doing so can still impose a significant economic burden and considerably impact students' ability to act on their future plans.
For example, many young people, hoping to tap into their newfound independence after high school, intend to take a gap year to pursue an exciting internship, travel the world, or explore their passions. For one senior, who requested to remain anonymous, taking a gap year represented a much-needed break before attending her first year at Tufts. Coming from a small rural town, moving to Boston was a big change for this student, who commented that she hoped to take “a gap year to ease my transition to college and expand my horizons.”
Eager to see the world, the anonymous student submitted applications for programs to teach English in Jordan and learn environmental protection practices in Madagascar—plans that never came to fruition. Her dreams of deferment came crumbling down after a conversation with the Tufts Financial Aid Office.
At the time, the anonymous student’s older sister was in her last year of college, and she was told that deferment would “significantly affect [her] financial aid package for [her] freshman year.” The Tufts financial aid policy explains that “when more than one sibling will be attending an undergraduate college or university degree program, the family contribution (as determined by our institutional analysis) is divided based on the educational costs expected for that sibling.”
This policy is a double-edged sword for some families. It means that the more years siblings can spend in college at the same time, the more aid will be received; however, once a sibling graduates or defers, financial aid drops significantly. Many middle-income families could, in theory, afford to pay
the full price of a Tufts education. However, in the case of this student, it would be unsustainable, taking up almost 50 percent of her family’s annual income. If she had deferred by one year and started at Tufts after her sister had graduated, her aid prospects would have changed drastically. “While I was upset to have not taken a gap year, it was the best decision to make to consider my family’s finances,” she commented.
Fluctuations in financial aid packages from Tufts can leave students in dramatically different financial positions from year to year. However, these fluctuations also allow Tufts to ensure that aid packages are allocated fairly. In a written statement to the Tufts Observer, Meaghan Hardy Smith, Director of Financial Aid at Tufts, explained, “We believe it’s essential to reassess need each year, as family circumstances can change due to factors like income fluctuations, household size adjustments, or significant out-ofpocket medical expenses.”
Addressing the sibling policy, Hardy Smith explained that adjusting financial aid packages based on the number of siblings attending college is one way Tufts allocates aid based on shifting demonstrated need: “Just as we increase aid when a sibling enters college, we also adjust when a sibling graduates, allowing us to support as many students as possible while maintaining equity in our aid distribution.”
Some institutions address the instability of fluctuating financial aid by offering a fixed package that does not decrease over the course of enrollment. For instance, The Northeastern Promise guarantees that university scholarships and grant funds remain consistent for up to eight in-class semesters, with adjustments for financial emergencies, providing families with a more stable and extensive financial outlook. Policies like these allow families to
plan for long-term college expenses with greater confidence.
However, financial pressure on students extends beyond just incomprehensive financial aid. Families apply for financial aid using annual income tax documents, but these forms calculate aid based on family income from two years prior and do not necessarily reflect current financial status. For students who suffer unexpected changes in their family’s financial circumstances, such as a parent losing a job or needing to cover sudden medical bills, financial aid may not reflect the reality of their financial needs.
For such students, Tufts offers an appeal process for re-evaluating financial aid based on more updated information. Referring to this program, Hardy Smith wrote, “We understand that a family’s financial situation can change unexpectedly, espe cially since financial aid applications reflect income data from two years prior.” The ap peals process is designed to give families an opportunity to receive more aid if their fi nancial circumstances have worsened. “We encour age families to provide updated finan cial documenta tion so we can reassess their need and determine if an adjust ment to their financial aid package is possible,”
Hardy Smith wrote.
According on undergraduate student appeals, as of 2025, financial aid can be reconsidered if income from the previous year is “at least 15% less” than income from the year be fore. For families enduring more recent
hardship, aid may also be reconsidered in the event of “a period of unemployment lasting six months or more, or medical expenses over 5% of total income.” However, the financial aid office is not guaranteed to review these appeals until October of the upcoming school year. As a result, students are still expected to pay for fall tuition in full, and any extra awarded financial aid will be subtracted from the upcoming semester balance.
Many middle-income students finance their education by balancing part-time jobs with school. Tufts provides employment opportunities through the Federal WorkStudy program, which was designed to “provide grants to low-income students in order to help them finance higher education through part-time employment.” However, FWS often constitutes a very small part of aid packages, alongside loans, grants, and other forms of economic subsidies.
Geena Kumaran, a junior at Tufts, said that she works two jobs outside of FWS because campus employment is not sufficient to support her. She explained that she makes “minimum wage, and all the dining hall jobs are no-tip.” Kumaran’s sentiment that for students who are financially independent from their families, the FWS wage—which varies based on state minimum wage—is often barely enough to cover day-to-day expenses, let alone to make a dent in higher education costs. On-campus FWS positions at Tufts pay $15 an hour, though the living wage for an adult with no children in Massachusetts is $28.88 an hour. Kumaran says that this year, she is working around 30 hours per week, not accounting for her resident assistant job, which is difficult to quantify hourly.
For Kumaran, taking on multiple part-time jobs is crucial to both contributing to her education and meeting the rising costs of general living. She said her employment has “been important for also just supporting my own lifestyle too, like transportation to and from jobs [and] essential shopping.”
Kumaran’s experience is a common one for many middle-income students. Luna Smith, a junior at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts at Tufts, is earning two degrees across two campuses while working her food service job at Mortadella Head, a local deli in Davis Square. “My dad lost his job last year, and I’m paying for rent by working 18 hours a week on top of a full course load,” she shared.
Smith, like Kumaran, is working to support herself while reckoning with the financial insecurity in her family. Looking forward, Smith mulled over her career choices as an art student. “I think I feel more pressure because of my major, because, what am I going to do with art?” she commented. “And I have loans, so I need to pay [those] off. Which puts just a lot of pressure on what I’m going to do after graduation.”
Smith and Kuamaran’s stories highlight the deep financial anxieties felt by middle-income students at Tufts. The key question is: How can financial aid policies be more balanced and comprehensive to reflect the economic realities of everyday Americans pursuing higher education?
Some private universities have begun adapting their financial aid policies to better reflect the changing economic realities of middle-income Americans. Washington University in St. Louis, for example, implemented a “no-loan” policy in Fall 2024, replacing all loans with scholarships and university grants to ensure students can obtain a worldclass education without accumulating debt. Taking it a step further, Davidson College and Swarthmore College offer no-loan financial aid without requir-
ing a minimum student contribution. At Williams College, students reported that the policy shift allowed them to “focus more on just being a student rather than worrying about paying for college.” While the no-loan model isn’t a perfect solution, it represents a significant step toward modernizing financial aid at wealthy institutions.
In reference to whether Tufts has considered implementing any similar aid policies, Hardy Smith wrote, “ Tufts recognizes the financial challenges that middle-income families face, and this is an important issue we continue to evaluate.” Although Tufts does not currently have any aid policies that directly address these challenges, she explained that Tufts has worked to keep costs relatively stable for all students receiving aid: “Despite rising tuition costs, the net cost to the average aided student at Tufts has remained nearly the same since 2014—increasing by about $2,000. Accounting for inflation, we have effectively lowered the cost of attendance for these students.”
Nevertheless, middle-income students express great concern for their financial stability. In addition to the financial burden of paying college tuition, the day-to-day emotional and cognitive effects on middle-income students' lives are often substantial. Kumaran emphasized that the stress of working nearly thirty hours a week impacts her ability to thrive as a student: “I can’t tell you how many times I’m in class and I am so exhausted since I worked two double shifts over the weekend, or I woke up early to work some various minimum wage jobs, or stayed up late after a 14 hour work day to do homework.”
Additionally, these economic strains can influence relations between students and their families. Smith expressed the anxieties of navigating her family dynamics following financial difficulties. She described her family situation as awkward, saying, “Even though I
know they’re my parents, it’s this weird dynamic where I don’t want to ask them for money.”
For middle-income students, navigating fluctuations in aid packages from year to year, filling out financial aid forms, and balancing school with parttime jobs can become both a financial and psychological burden.
The economic struggles of middleincome students at Tufts highlight the pressing need for more equitable and predictable financial aid policies that accurately reflect the realities of modern families. As universities begin to modernize their approaches, the challenge remains to ensure that every student, regardless of financial background, can pursue higher education without sacrificing their physical, emotional, and economic stability.
Iro n y Epidemi c
By Ian Xinyi Gu
According to “Rules of the Internet,” a collection of statements written by anonymous users during the inception of the internet, nothing online should be taken in earnest. While these rules aren’t strictly followed by modern internet users 20 years later, Gen Z embodies this guideline by making viral TikTok videos about trivial matters. This tendency reflects a key symptom of the “irony epidemic”—where sarcasm, absurdist humor, and self-referential cynicism dominate communication among younger generations.
Musician Ethel Cain pioneered this term in a Tumblr rant on October 18, 2024, writing, “There is such a loss of sincerity and everything has to be a joke at all times.” The endless flood of memes about her album “Perverts” frustrated her. So,
why does irony infect us like the winter flu on a college campus? Shall we craft a defense mechanism to ward off future ‘cultural stagnation,’ or is this indeed our defense mechanism against absurdity? Let’s grind it together with Doctor Pop Culture.
Originally a rhetorical device, irony exposes the opposition between the words and expressed meaning or the incongruity between the expected result and reality. Irony has existed long before the meme culture of course. Back in the ‘old days,’ through deconstructing social norms, artists used irony as a political weapon to show resistance and to encourage critical reflections. Dante built the Commedia on it, employing the idea of ‘contrapasso’— punishments that mirror and mock the sinners’ crimes, usually contrarily. In Inferno, he even turned Roman Emperor
Augustus into a human matchstick, waiting to be ignited, a visual gag with a clear political target to ease his discontentment.
“Artists have been using irony to deconstruct the existing frameworks, representing the incoherences through humor,”
Silvia Bottinelli, a Senior Lecturer at the Visual and Material Studies Department of the School of the Museum of Fine Arts, commented on the relationship between irony and art. Surrealist painter Rene Magritte created The Treachery of Images (1929), a painting of a pipe captioned, “This is not a pipe.” This piece raised a postmodern crux challenging imagery representation and reality. Avant-garde artists justify that irony isn’t merely a glitch in our culture; it helps amplify dissenting voices. In 1995, Chinese contemporary artist Ai Weiwei dropped an invaluable
2000-year-old Han Dynasty urn on camera, turning cultural heritage into political slapstick—a gesture loaded with historical trauma. “Irony is an empowering tool that hinges in many cases,” Bottinelli offered. “It is operated by at least two mechanisms, one is juxtaposition, piecing two images from different contexts together, or exaggeration, something grotesque is inflated into almost funny.”
Through jokes, memes, and a haze of exaggeration, the internet reduces complex issues into pieces of digestible, comedized clips to tailor rapid feed consumption. Luigi Mangione, the alleged killer of the UnitedHealthcare CEO, has become the internet’s favorite suspect—not for the expected reason. Rather than for his radical act of retaliation against the company’s alleged role in denying vital healthcare access, Luigi’s hotness and Ivy League halo significantly contributed to him becoming an internet celebrity.
Recently, a photo of Luigi’s shackled feet boosted an internet hysteria. One of the thirst posts on X (Twitter) commented, “I feel like a Victorian man seeing a woman’s ankle for the first time.” Luigi became the new erotic subject of the American anti-hero fantasy; even his merch went viral. Despite his outpouring of public adoration, targeted gun violence is first-degree murder, which could go up to a life sentence. The ‘upheaval’ and inversion of social norms initiated by Luigi’s stans allows individuals to temporarily evade social morality, dispersing personal guilt into a shared experience. This unorthodox ‘campaign’ of supporting a sexy murder suspect distracts public attention from serious moral discussion. Underneath the transgressive jokes lies a question—what does it mean that Luigi was exalted for his attractiveness instead of the radical implications of his actions?
The irony epidemic is more than just a quirky generational habit. It has mutated into a reflexive stance toward everything— news, disasters, consumer culture. TikTok creator Hannasaurr’s 1.8-million-liked parody of the “Donuts Daddy”—a chef who turns cooking into provocative performances—exposes how far ‘‘food porn’’ has gone. ‘Food porn’ videos that used to refer to the “well-done plating of expensive ingredients” have transformed into filthy
cooking clips, turning the genre into simply “a new category of pornography.”
It’s easy to laugh at Hannasaurr, with bronzer-fake mustaches in a muscle suit, attempting to lick the egg yolk. But a literal, consumable parody like this abandons the deeper contemplation for the easier reward from the algorithm. Taking a closer look at Donut Daddy’s ‘oeuvre,’ criticism inevitably revolves around female objectification. As Jean Baudrillard reminds us, what is more sexual than sex itself is pornography, not because it’s more explicit, but because it exposes the machinery of desire—the gestures, the framing, the labor of turning something or someone into an object of consumption. In that sense, Donut Daddy isn’t just baking—he’s performing a kind of masculinity conditioned by the visual logic of pornography. Yet another aspect is that Donut Daddy’s videos disrupt the production of pornographic imagination, a profit-driven industry that embodies the values of capitalism. While there are many ways to respond to Donut Daddy’s beautifully shot films, we have to admit, stripping away the aesthetics for a sketchy parody doesn’t offer meaningful commentary.
Irony is a kind of humor that contains inward violence—yet why are we obsessed with this ‘obscene’ humor? One explanation lies in comic catharsis, channeling negative feelings through jokes and exaggerated portrayals of real targets (audiences), evoking just enough discomfort to allow emotional release. This dynamic is evident in standup comedy, a profession that lives on irony and satire, which is experiencing a resurgence in popularity. A Reddit post expressed perplexity about the controversy of standup comedy, and asked, “Why are many comedians dark, miserable, and depressed?” Obviously, even though jokes and irony can be very hurtful, comedy shows are not a full-contact sport—they are not designed to insult people but rather to make the audience laugh. Standup comedian Ali Wong mocked feminism for ruining women’s life while visibly pregnant, instantiating both feminism and antifeminism at once. It’s her physical form that makes the joke work. But take the exact same words offstage a year ago— without the comedy buffer, the public
may receive Ali’s edgy humor less kindly. Perhaps, we just want to be mentally manipulated, not for a day, just for an hour at night. Comedians have always used irony to transgress and critique, but Gen Z’s flavor of irony feels different—less about subverting, and more about self-alienation.
“It feels theatrical—like we are consciously acting nonchalant in order to fill in the nonchalant character,” G.H. Norun, a psychology student at Tufts, commented. “Gen Z favors Kieran Culkin beating Timothée Chalamet on the Best Supporting Actor because ‘he is so chill and funny.’” Kieran Culkin spent 70 seconds in his speech reminding his wife about her promise to have a fourth child if he won an Oscar. On the other hand, people found Chalamet’s speech winning SAG Best Actor, where he said, “I’m really in pursuit of greatness … I want to be one of the greats,” quite annoying. Jessica Peerez observed and commented in her MovieWeb article, “Chalamet’s bold comments and blatant admission of his dedication to and pursuit of greatness attracted a fair share of controversy.” Several users have “called out the actor for lacking humility and grace.”
So, this is the Netizen’s dilemma: the internet’s panopticon makes sincerity dangerous—someone’s honest expression of genuine feelings could become embarrassing or even shameful when deduced into meme form. Irony, by contrast, is a safe card. It alienates both the author and the beholders from the real sentiment or outrage, so even if the joke flops, you can always say you didn’t mean it.
Being nonchalant is a survival tactic in the hyper-sensitive and surveilled realm. Fear of being earnest and emotionally vulnerable pervades our digital space. Over-memification and parodies warp our perception of the tangible world; however, irony enables us to distance ourselves from reality, instead of immersing ourselves in nuanced situations. With this distance, we run the risk of becoming “desensitized from the feeling of being in a particular situation,” as Bottinelli warns. She reminds us that irony is both a mirror and a shield, but never a door for an escape from discomfort.
Coil
By Elizabeth Chin
Content Warning: Discussion of Self-Harm
those preceding weeks and months—an assignment, an unpleasant interaction, an upcoming event, a deadline, a suppressed childhood memory—the wall draws ever closer, removing space from the box in which I reside and depleting oxygen with every breath I take. I feel as though I am sufocating from the inside out, drowning, but the water is fowing from leaky capillaries in my lungs. I think, how did I get here in life, walking an undesired path? Te wrong path. Is it my dream to be an engineer? To do research and sit at a desk? Is it my wish to hide and shelter my emotions? To never be known?
It feels as though my choices aren’t my own, procrastination and hurt imposed. My actions don’t belong to me; my life
master hangs more strings and pulls them taught— and I can’t get of the wheel. I curse at the world for the hand I’ve been dealt, too exhausted still to shed a tear, so I close my mouth and surrender. With each step, I cement my path and walk farther along. In these moments where I’ve lost all sensibility and control, I recenter myself in the one way I can, back at my inception.
…
I lay back on the carpet of my childhood room, lights low and my chair backed against the door. Tighter and tighter. I hold the cord, simultaneously fghting against and encouraging it, whiteknuckled. It coils itself like a snake around my skin, threatening to pull my fesh to its fnal threshold. To subject the column of
cooling sensation courses through me, bringing clarity as I face the sticky web I have spun. Pressed to the wall that has sealed me in, I run my fngers along the joinery of the bricks. I wonder how so many could have accumulated before me, why I never picked them up and moved them aside, and I realize that I myself cemented them together out of neglect.
…
It’s debated whether the umbilical cord was coiled two or three times; I say just one. And I know for certain that it was of my own doing. I used to think my mom was taunting me when she said I almost choked myself to death, that it was just another instance in which I was to blame for the universe’s decisions. I got defensive over baby
FROM DORMS TO DATING APPS
Unpacking Hookup Culture at Tufts
By Samira Amin
It starts with meeting another’s gaze across a dimly lit frat basement. A few drinks, a conversation, and hours later, you’re in something… but what exactly? A relationship? A one-time thing? A situationship?
The past decade has witnessed an explosive rise in hookup culture, with the concept of ‘situationships’ emerging as a defining feature of modern dating. This culture is impossible to ignore at Tufts— whether you’re simply catching up with friends at Dewick or scrolling through Sidechat, you will inevitably find out about someone’s newest hookup. Situationships put people in the grey area between a relationship and a one-time hookup, where commitment is often sidestepped in favor of ambiguity, and emotional detachment is seen as a form of self-preservation.
In my first few months on campus, I’ve noticed how people avoid labeling their relationships, opting instead for vague descriptors like “We’re talking” or “We’re a thing.” According to Lisa Wade, an associate professor of sociology at Tulane University who conducted interviews with 150 undergraduate students between 2020 and 2021, “Gen Z students are increasingly reluctant to define relationships or admit to wanting them to progress,” reinforcing the trend of ambiguous romantic entanglements. With the growing influence of dating apps and an emphasis on personal freedom, the idea of traditional relationships has taken a backseat in favor of emotional detachment and undefined dynamics. But how do these trends impact students’ lives and psyches? What does it mean to date (or not date) at Tufts?
Tufts, like many other colleges, has developed an environment where hookup culture thrives. Many of us enter college eager to embrace the ‘college experience,’ which often includes casual encounters rather than long-term relationships. For many, there’s an underlying belief that college is a time for experimenting, both academically and socially, before settling into serious commitments after graduation. We hesitate to be ‘tied down’ while we’re still figuring out our future. I’ve observed that at Tufts, people avoid defining relationships as if it’s a trap rather than a choice. Most of this stems from the social scene at Tufts, with pubs, dorm parties, and frat parties providing ample opportunity for quick and easy hookups. Boundaries often blur, making it easier for casual encounters with little to no conversation about what they actually mean.
In addition, Tufts students tend to be independent and focused on themselves, which may influence their approach to relationships. Rather than viewing romantic commitment as a necessity, many of us prefer to dedicate our time to personal growth, academic ambitions, and social exploration. There is an overarching culture of independence that sometimes translates into avoiding traditional relationships that could require compromise and emotional labor. Between
classes, clubs, and internships, relationships feel like an added responsibility. Situationships offer intimacy without long-term obligations; they offer companionship without disrupting our academic and professional ambitions. The ability to maintain some level of romance without fully committing is appealing, even if it comes with emotional complexities.
Although the lack of clarity of a situationship can be mentally taxing, situationships offer a way to navigate intimacy without the risk of attaching yourself to someone. Keeping things casual is a form of self-preservation; it’s an attempt to maintain control and protect ourselves from the vulnerability and potential heartbreak that comes with commitment. Defining a relationship can create pressure, expectations, and the possibility of rejection, while an undefined dynamic provides a sense of freedom without requiring full emotional investment. By avoiding labels, you are free to engage in romantic or sexual connections on your own terms, shielding yourself from the deeper entanglements that come with serious relationships. Moreover, situationships don’t necessarily come into fruition only from meet-cutes or sticky frat basements at Tufts—they also start from an unassuming click or a swipe right from the comfort of your phone screen. This paradox of choice, amplified by dating apps like Tinder, Hinge, and Bumble, has made it easier to engage in casual connections, making commitment seem daunting.
With so many potential partners just a swipe away, the illusion of unlimited options can make it difficult to settle with just one person. But does anyone really feel like they have that many options? If anything, the abundance of choice seems to have made dating even more frustrating. While dating apps provide an accessible way to meet people outside of immediate friend groups, they also reinforce the idea of dating as a low-stakes, transactional activity. You can swipe left or right endlessly, matches come and go, and ghosting is common, further normalizing noncommittal interactions. In a study from the University of Wisconsin, researchers found that “daters who chose from a small pool of options were more satisfied with their match than those who chose from a large pool; those who chose from a larger pool were more likely to ‘reverse their choice’ and opt for a new match instead.” This creates a cycle where we move from one situationship to another, never fully investing in any single relationship. The more choices available, the less urgency there is to make a decision. This creates an environment where people feel replaceable—if a match doesn’t work out, another match is only a swipe away.
In real life, on a campus as small as Tufts, hookups don’t always stay in the past. Running into a former situationship in the library, at a party, or even in class can create awkward moments. There’s nothing like running into a past hookup at Tisch after hours of studying, hair a mess, hoodie on, and dark circles fully visible under the fluorescent lights. You’re just stuck staring at each other wondering if you should say something. It’s a strange kind of intimacy where you know details about someone’s life but only exchange a glance. Beyond the discomfort of running into an ex-hookup, the small social circle at Tufts means that personal relationships rarely stay private.
Gossip of romantic encounters spreads quickly, and we often find ourselves in situations where friends, acquaintances, or even strangers are aware of the intimate details of our love lives.
While hookup culture and situationships offer freedom and flexibility, they also come with emotional costs. Hookup culture is supposedly about personal freedom—but does it really provide that? If so many people feel drained by it, maybe it’s not as liberating as it seems. The lack of clarity in undefined relationships can lead to stress and insecurity. And yet, despite this, we keep engaging in them. Is it because we are attracted to the constant drama and entertainment that a complicated situationship provides? Maybe every once in a while we just want to be chaotic and stir the pot. Maybe it’s because we sometimes feel like openly wanting a relationship is embarrassing.
Unlike traditional relationships with clear expectations, situationships often involve one person wanting more than the other, leading to unbalanced emotional investment and the fear of rejection. It can impact mental health, causing anxiety, stress, confusion, and self-doubt. According to the APA, a survey of 1,468 undergraduate students found that “27.1 percent felt embarrassed, 24.7 percent reported emotional difficulties, [and] 20.8 percent experienced loss of respect” after a casual hookup. The ambiguity of where you stand with a casual partner creates a lack of communication. The problem is that no one wants to be the first to define their relationship. Hookup culture comes with its own
set of social pressures. Students feel like they can’t ask for more without seeming clingy. The constant self policing is exhausting. Some worry about how they are perceived—whether they are too emotionally attached or not cool enough. Others may feel the fear of missing out (FOMO), believing that they should be engaging in casual relationships simply because it’s what everyone else is doing. Those with avoidant attachment styles may find comfort in situationships, as they provide intimacy without deep emotional vulnerability. However, those with anxious attachment styles may struggle with the unpredictability, leading to emotional distress.
The rise of hookup culture and situationships at Tufts reflects a broader cultural shift in modern dating—one that prioritizes freedom, self-exploration, and emotional detachment. While many find empowerment in these dynamics, others experience confusion, frustration, and emotional exhaustion.
What’s clear is that there’s no single ‘right’ way to approach dating in college. For some, hookup culture is liberating, allowing them to focus on personal growth without the pressure of commitment. For others, it can feel draining, leading to cycles of disappointment and emotional uncertainty. Ultimately, navigating the Tufts dating scene means confronting these complexities head-on. Whether we choose to engage in hookups, situationships, or committed relationships, the key lies in better communication, self-awareness, and understanding personal boundaries. In a world where ambiguity reigns, clarity—both in intentions and emotions—might be the most valuable currency in the dating market.
Packing For
Kalkidan
By Abilene Adelman
There is nothing that I hated more as a child than getting shots. I never quite understood the point of paying someone to stab you with needles, and my humanities-inclined mind was just never scientific enough to understand that maybe there was more at play there. The idea of getting not one, not two, but multiple shots, all at once, was horrifying.
Unfortunately, at ten years old, I did not have a choice. I had recently been informed that safety from certain possible means of death was not the only thing waiting for me on the other end of those devilish needles. I would also be getting something that I had been hoping and begging for since I was five years old—a younger sister.
A younger sibling is something you expect to have warning for—nine months of warning, to be precise. I got two weeks. Two weeks to get shots protecting me from yellow fever and hepatitis A, two weeks to learn where Ethiopia was, and two weeks to savor being the only child that I had been for 10 years. There is nothing that prepares you for joining your parents on a journey to a foreign country to adopt the six-year-old child that will be your family for the rest of your life. Two weeks never were, and never would be, enough time.
After the shots—which a poor, overwhelmed doctor had to basically chain me to the chair to receive—there was packing, not just for us, but also for Kalkidan, my sister-to-be. Shockingly, foster homes don’t send children to their new homes with a suitcase full of clothes. After the packing, there was a pile of paperwork to fill out and dozens of phone calls to be
made. Then, on July 8, 2016, my family of soon-to-be-four found ourselves on a plane to Ethiopia.
Our trip was chaotic from the beginning. We arrived safely at the Addis Ababa airport, but our luggage was lost somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. What a way to start.
Immediately after leaving the airport, I was overwhelmed by the new environment—all the people begging for money in the middle of the road, barbed wire on top of every single fence, and a lack of stop signs and street signs made up for by voices and hand gestures out open car windows. Later, I would discover even more new things: that Ethiopian food, delicious and spicy, is eaten with your hands, and that the police force in Ethiopia, very connected to the military, is everywhere, carrying guns bigger than I was at the time.
My family met Kalkidan for the first time on July 11, about two days before we adopted her. She was a small, emaciated, buck-toothed little girl in a worn pink dress, staring up at us like the strangers we were to her. I didn’t know this girl. We didn’t speak the same language. We didn’t have the same colored skin or hair. I had no idea how to connect with her, and it was inconceivable to me that we were now family.
Part of what made this trip so unpredictable wasn’t just what was happening in Ethiopia but also what was happening back at home. Colorado is known for its dry,
hot summers, prone to forest fires. In July 2016, a large and quickmoving fire erupted in dangerous proximity to our house. We were issued an evacuation notice, but we were halfway across the world. My parents were on the phone for a full day, trying to coordinate with a volunteer firefighter friend of ours for him to help retrieve as many of our important belongings as possible.
These forest fires ended up being a blessing in disguise. My family had a general lack of knowledge about how long we would be in Ethiopia. We originally expected to be there for about a month. Once we arrived, we were told we could be there for up to six months, which, quite simply, wasn’t going to work.
While I remained blissfully ignorant of everything going on, these fires expedited our trip, even though our house was completely fine. We ended up being in Ethiopia for only around two weeks. This meant that everything had to be done within a much faster time frame than expected, and left barely any time for Kalkidan to get to know us, or vice versa. I still had absolutely no idea who this girl was. I had never met another person my age whose family had done anything like this. My parents, after a few miscarriages and failed internal adoptions, decided that nontraditional methods were the only way for us to grow our family. The Disney Channel’s hit TV show Jessie popularized a multicultural family brought together by adoption, but they were also rich and had a nanny, so it didn’t feel very relatable. Everything that had ever been familiar to me had been made unfamiliar by the emergence of this
new person in our lives. The adjustment period took a lot out of my family, and my memories of the time are shrouded in a fog of exhaustion and confusion.
What I do remember from this time was a trip that my family took to Wyoming on Labor Day weekend, just a month or so after we brought Kalkidan home with us. Kalki, six years old, sat next to me in her booster seat. Quite quickly, it became clear that she could not conceptualize the idea of a vacation. She still spoke barely any English, and from the second the car pulled out of the driveway she started repeating the only words she knew, that had become integrated into her daily routine, such as “tubby,” “dinner,” and “night-night,” over and over again.
The last time Kalki had seen a suitcase was when she had been forced to leave everything she knew behind and journey to the great, unfamiliar land of Colorado with people she barely knew, so it made sense that she was scared and had no idea what would happen to her. My parents and I still did not have the right language to convince her it was all okay, did not know her well enough to show her that she was safe, now, with us. It got to a point where my sister was so frantic and upset that we decided to pull off the highway, get some food, and try to regroup. We made our way into a Mexican restaurant in the middle-of-nowhere, Wyoming, a place somehow even whiter than Colorado. Three other people were in the restaurant, one of whom was an African-American man. Our little interracial family caught his attention immediately. Noting my sister’s distress, he came up to us and asked where she was from.
“Ethiopia,” my parents responded.
“I thought so,” the man said, eyes shining with familiarity. “My home country.”
My mother, shocked, asked him if he spoke Amharic, one of the nearly 90 lan-
guages spoken in Ethiopia, and the only one my sister understood.
“I do.”
In a random restaurant off a major highway in Wyoming, we met a man who was only in Wyoming for a very short time himself. He could communicate with Kalkidan to tell her the things we never would have been able to. I do not remember this man’s name or what he looked like. What I will never forget, however, is the comfort and reassurance that he was able to give my family.
I never understood the phrase “it takes a village” until I found myself surrounded by my village. Two years after we adopted Kalkidan, the same year that Ethiopia shut down its borders to international adoption, my family moved across the country to upstate New York.
The experience of leaving behind a home and learning to love a new one will never grow easier, but I treasure the friends I made in New York—just like I treasure the little girl I came to call family—and those I’ve only met in passing moments, all of whom have shown me that the world may be a unpredictable ball of land and water, but still, despite it all, there is connection to be found in the most surprising of places.
By Kayla Cortez
The Weight of Uncer t aint y: How Trump’s Administration is Impacting Tufts Students
January 20, 2025, not only marked the first day of Donald J. Trump’s second term as President of the United States, but also ushered in a wave of executive orders signaling the administration’s top priorities. These sweeping policy shifts target immigrant protections; diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives; and federal funding, jeopardizing the arduous efforts made for equity and inclusivity at elite universities. For undocumented and first-generation students, these policies are more than mere passing controversies or abstract debates; instead, they are lived realities that impose obstacles, reshape aspirations, and replace optimism with uncertainty.
Against the backdrop of red hats and fascist salutes, the college experience for undocumented and first-generation students can often feel less like a pathway to opportunity and more like a tightrope walk through an increasingly hostile national climate, political uncertainty, and financial instability. With federal protections waning and institutions facing mounting pressures to comply with restrictive policies, crucial questions arise: will Tufts yield to political pressures that marginalize their most vulnerable students? How are students responding to this new reality?
At the forefront of the Trump administration’s agenda is his commitment to reshaping immigration policy. The executive order “Protecting The American People Against Invasion” revokes past immigration policies, mandates stricter immigration efforts, expands detention facilities, and eliminates federal funding for “sanctuary” jurisdictions. Amplifying this order, a directive by the acting secretary of the Department of Homeland Security revoked 2021 protocols put in place by the Biden administration that deemed schools as “sensitive” areas for Immigration & Cus-
toms Enforcement and Customs & Border Protection procedures. Biden’s guidelines required immigration enforcement to consider the activities taking place at locations like schools, hospitals, and places of worship and how enforcement in these locations would impact community use of essential services. Explaining the recent rescindment, a DHS Spokesperson wrote, “This action empowers the brave men and women in CBP and ICE to enforce our immigration laws and catch criminal aliens— including [murderers] and rapists—who have illegally come into our country… Criminals will no longer be able to hide in America’s schools and churches to avoid arrest.” Other measures include increased visa vetting and restrictions, enforcement of border security, limiting birthright citizenship, and the passing of the Laken Riley Act, which requires the DHS to detain undocumented migrants accused of crimes like shoplifting or larceny.
As immigrant enforcement efforts intensify under the Trump administration, the emotional and psychological toll on the approximate 400,000 undocumented students and 1.9 million first-generation students attending higher education in the U.S. becomes increasingly evident. Dr. Helen B. Marrow, a Tufts sociology professor specializing in race, inequality, and the impacts of immigration policy, shed light on how these policies do not solely disrupt the individual but also trigger widespread consequences for students, their families, and entire communities.
“Many immigrants, especially undocumented ones, may pull inward out of fear and anxiety, and this negatively affects their ability to do basic things like go outside, work, or run errands,” she said. “But there are also a host of what we call ‘chilling effects’ that extend outward to affect people in their social networks, too—for example, when immigrant parents may keep their US-born citizen children from going to school, attending an afterschool activity, or seeing the doctor because of fear of being apprehended en route or while there.” This fear and anxiety in immigrant families ultimately ripples out to the providers of these essential resources, including teachers, doctors, and social service workers. “Some immigrants will go without services and benefits they need,
and are often legally entitled to receive,” Marrow explained.
As the Trump administration continues its crackdown on immigration, it has also addressed other key aspects of higher education. On January 27, exactly one week after President Trump issued his first series of executive orders, the Office of Management and Budget released a memo instructing federal agencies to pause and review their financial assistance programs, including loans and grants, to ensure they align with President Trump’s priorities. Following contention from colleges, the OMB clarified that their statements would not impact student aid programs. Two days later, the administration rescinded the memo in a brief two-sentence directive.
Despite the rescission, institutions are kept on edge as the president continues to threaten suspension of funds in response to actions the administration deems disruptive. On March 4, President Trump exacerbated these concerns with a post on Truth Social. “All Federal Funding will STOP for any College, School, or University that allows illegal protests. Agitators will be imprisoned/or permanently sent back to the country from which they came. American students will be permanently expelled or, depending on the crime, arrested. NO MASKS!”
In early February, The Chronicle of Higher Education released polling results from approximately 100 university presidents on whether they believe Trump’s administration is waging war on higher education—94 percent of presidents agreed. Such strong sentiments come in the wake of the administration’s two executive orders on January 20 and 21 aimed at eliminating “illegal” DEI mandates and programs as probable violations of civil rights laws. The first, “Ending Radical and Wasteful Government DEI Programs and Preferencing,” cracks down on the federal government—shutting down DEI offices, banning DEI hiring processes, and remov-
ing DEI-related content from public platforms. The second, “Ending Illegal Discrimination and Restoring Merit-Based Opportunity,” extends these measures beyond federal agencies, restricting DEI measures for businesses, non-profits, and schools. The order instructs the attorney general and secretary of education to investigate non-compliance institutions and advises that universities comply with the Supreme Court ruling in Students for Fair Admissions, Inc v. President and Fellows of Harvard College, which struck down racebased affirmative action in most college admission processes. Investigations can target universities that simply promote DEI, potentially conflicting with a university’s freedom to foster diverse ideas and expression on their campuses.
Tufts University has long expressed support for DEI practices in their admissions, hiring processes, and campus culture, proclaiming these measures as a part of “the university’s legacy of diversity and inclusion.” In 2021, a team of assistant/associate deans of Diversity and Inclusion collaborated with a committee of staff, faculty, and students, to create a 56-page diversity, equity, inclusion, and justice strategic plan to guide the institution toward becoming a “truly anti-racist institution.” Years prior, in 2019, Tufts University joined more than 160 colleges and universities in opposing Donald Trump’s rescission of the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program.
In a written statement to the Observer, Monroe France, the vice provost for Institutional Inclusive Excellence, clarified Tufts’ plans to maintain their commitment to inclusive excellence. He elaborated, “Developments in Washington have caused concern for some of our students, and we are taking a number of steps in response. Most importantly, we have been reaching out directly to potentially impacted students, and that work is ongoing. Additionally, the university has made available to potentially impacted students updated information regarding resources that are publicly avail-
able to them through external immigration law and advocacy groups.”
France noted that students with concerns should contact the Dean of Students Office and that the Office of University Counsel has informed the appropriate offices of procedures regarding immigration status and increased enforcement that aligns with university policy and laws. “We have made no changes to our websites or programming at this time. Meanwhile, we are monitoring the administration’s orders and ongoing court challenges to them,” he wrote. “As guidance becomes clearer, we will take steps to ensure our programs and practices support our mission and comply with the law.”
Beyond Tufts’ administrative efforts, Tufts United for Immigrant Justice stands on the front lines of student activism and advocacy. Tufts UIJ is a student-led organization that fights for immigrant rights and strives for equal opportunity for undocumented Tufts students. On February 12, Tufts UIJ took to their Instagram to respond to the Trump administration’s executive orders. They commented, “These orders pose a major threat to all members of immigrant communities in the United States, from foreign nationals to birthright citizens. We are angered at the active threat towards members that contribute to the strong social fabric of our communities: friends, families, coworkers, mentors, and more.”
The club then reaffirmed their commitment to fostering a safe community for affected Tufts students and allies. “...[W]e will continue to be a safe space for the immigrant community and allies alike,” the post read. Tufts UIJ efforts often work in tandem with other agencies to advocate
mechanical engineering. “...[B] eing a first-generation Caribbean in college, there was already a small community of us here and it took me a long time to find that community,” Davis said. Yet, after discovering his own community two years into his college experience, Davis described the lingering divides that make it difficult for first-generation students to feel fully integrated. “...[T]here’s still the divide in the community where if you can’t hang with the white people you are truly stuck to only finding a community within your own race, and if that doesn’t work you are truly by yourself,” he said.
tions between students, he says scrolling on the app can prove disheartening with other students’ hateful rhetoric.
Given this climate, Davis believes Tufts has a responsibility to take a more proactive stance in supporting students. “I would like to see Tufts promote our identity centers more, but also speak out on what their thought process is when it comes to new laws Trump might pass and how that might impact policies they have in place here, so we know they are with us at every step and also what they are going to do to continue to support us even if they have to change something,” he said.
Davis also expressed concerns about how the Trump administration’s recent policies have heightened uncertainty for the future of his legal status. “I feel an added stress to my workload because, although I have all the documentation to prove I have dual citizenship, I’m worried that Trump is going to find a loophole in it all,” he said.
Victor Aguilar, a Chicano graduate student in child Studies and human development and graduate assistant at the Latinx Center, shared similar sentiments about his experience being first-generation. He detailed how his transition to university was fraught with significant challenges—immense loneliness, the absence of authentic Mexican cuisine, and purchasing his first winter coat during his junior year. Aguilar also expressed his deep inner struggle with accepting that his family, due to their immigration status, would be unable to attend his
Aguilar is worried about the uncertainty the future holds for students like him. “ICE raids are very immoral and unethical,” he said. “This has been a historically huge issue for the United States of, how does it treat its immigrants? What rights do immigrants have?”
Aguilar expressed concerns for how the current political climate is affecting student comfort with racist and discriminatory language, especially on sites like Sidechat. Although Sidechat is an anonymous campus app meant to foster conversa-
Although the current political landscape remains unquestionably dire, Professor Marrow provided an optimistic perspective shaped by history’s lessons on resilience. “While enforcement efforts like what we are seeing now do tend to generate intense fear, anxiety, and depression, they also simultaneously tend to generate anger and awareness, and to spur people into political action,” she said. “In past historical moments that parallel this one, a surge of immigrant consciousness, activism, and voice tends to follow.” Her sentiments now ring true. On March 10, anonymous students painted over pro-Trump rhetoric on the Tufts cannon, expressing their disdain for ICE and borders, as well as their support for the “Land Back” movement. This resistance reflects the unyielding spirit of undocumented and first-generation Tufts students as they continue to fervently challenge unjust systems and demand change. Utilizing barriers as stepping stones for growth, these students embody a resilience that not only amplifies their voices, but also reshapes the campus environment around them.
Reflecting on the impact of student activism, Aguilar encouraged future firstgeneration Tufts students to take initiative. “Don’t be afraid to be trailblazers,” he said. “Don’t be afraid to come here and demand change or try to make change. Bring your ideas, bring your motivation, bring that spark of change that probably got you into this school.”
Was It All Just In My Head?
Trapped in the Tufts Cycle of Overthinking
By Ela Nalbantoglu
I’ve always lived under stress. It’s fine . I’ve always over-analyzed every minuscule thing that has happened to me. It’s fine . I’ve always asked myself: why did I say that? Did they misunderstand me? Did I do anything wrong? In the alternate reality that is inside my head, small moments have always led to the worst-case scenarios.
Overthinking is second nature not only to myself but also to my peers. And that inner voice that doubts all my actions and words has only gotten louder since coming to Tufts. I hear it when I get ready in the morning, when I sit at the Sink midday, and when I lay down to sleep at night. It’s there when I wave at someone I’ve met before, only for them not to notice, leaving me standing awkwardly with my hand up, convincing myself that everyone around me just saw that embarrassing interaction. College was supposed to be the time I became careless and free. However, I care more about how I’m perceived, what I say, and what I do now more than ever before.
The causes of overthinking at Tufts can be broadly divided into two categories: academic and social. These spheres are deeply intertwined as students experience both simultaneously.
Class environments at Tufts, despite being portrayed as ‘inclusive,’ often reinforce a sense of exclusivity or inaccessibility. In simple terms, the idea of easing the anxiety we have about answering questions or being
able to ask ‘dumb’ questions without being judged isn’t realistic. I have had experiences where I’ve felt like I was judged for asking a simple question in an introduction class. An introduction class. This is only amplified by the diverse backgrounds students come from; some have been homeschooled while others attended private boarding schools, resulting in varying levels of prior knowledge. When I took Introduction to Environmental Studies, my first-ever environmental studies class, I was intimidated by those who seemed like they already knew everything about the importance of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change. I, on the other hand, was just a sophomore who had recently discovered her passion for environmental studies. I overthought the answers I provided when I was called on. I felt targeted, as if everyone knew that I didn’t know anything. I knew this was, i n part, just me overthinking, but I also knew that other factors reinforced it. It wasn’t all in my head.
It would be reductive to just talk about one class and label Tufts as ‘overthinking-inducing.’ We have a very flexible, open-ended education— Tufts is our oyster. You could take the class ‘Dinosaurs!’ while majoring in philosophy. You could do yoga, study the arts in Berlin, navigate the tricky seas of computer science, or force yourself to endure the trauma (or so I’ve heard) that is organic chemistry. My point is, you can do anything. And
while that sounds great, maybe even a perfect slogan for Tufts academics, it also poses an undeniable risk: providing young adults countless options with no direct guidance. It’s hard not to get overwhelmed by the endless choices: the courses to take, the majors to pursue, the RateMyProfessor reviews to analyze. The very lack of structure that grants us freedom paradoxically traps us in a cycle of overthinking.
What if you don’t have it figured out by the end of sophomore year because you spent freshman year taking niche liberal arts classes unrelated to your major? What if you overworked yourself in your first semester because that’s what high school taught you to do? The pressure to make the right choices never really fades. Sure, we have academic advisors. But ultimately, everything is up to us. And that leads to bigger questions: when will I finally have life figured out? Do my majors have a ‘direction?’ I still don’t know. But I’ll let you know when I do.
On top of the stress of making choices about one’s academic pursuits, the social scene at Tufts can be a major source of overthinking. Here, everyone’s involved in something. And if you’re not doing anything outside of class, it can feel like you are not accomplished enough. With more than 300 student organizations, there’s a club for nearly every interest or quirk you can imagine.
But that doesn’t mean there are no barriers to entry. If you don’t get into the clubs you want, you start questioning your own worth. You begin overanalyzing social interactions with club members, networking opportunities, and even casual club meetings. The very thing that was meant to foster connection can, instead, fuel that cycle of overthinking. Outside of extracurriculars, interpersonal relationships—particularly friendships (see “From Dorms to Dating Apps” for romantic relationships)—at Tufts can foster a sense of insecurity, leading to overthinking. Numerous friend groups exist, creating a landscape of social cliques. While this might
initially seem beneficial, it also makes it difficult to form new connections.
You have class friends, but you don’t see them outside of class. You have club friends, but you don’t meet them outside club meetings. Instead of putting yourself through endless icebreakers with potential new friends at Tasty, glossing over awkward silences, and answering the same repetitive questions, you default to spending time with the people you already know.
No group actively looks for new friends. Nobody wants new people, you tell yourself. Everyone already has friends. You scroll and see people posting photos from a pregame for yet another frat, looking happier than ever. You start overthinking and idealizing those ‘unattainable’ friend groups that you see on social media, getting blinded by the false realities. Everyone has their lives together, everyone has their friends together. You feel insecure, as if you are not enough. As if you’re the only one struggling to find their place in the social scene of Tufts. You consider making new friends, but what would you even do if you had to start over?
As someone who forced herself out of her comfort zone to become more extroverted, I can tell you it’s worth it. It took countless Sink stops, the courage to join in on conversations, and refusing to stand awkwardly when my friend greeted someone I didn’t know. But I’ve met so many people I otherwise wouldn’t have.
Did I overthink throughout the process? Absolutely. Did I hyperventilate at night, wondering if people found me weird? Of course. I spent so many nights scared that the new friends I had made were judging me. But why did I convince myself of that? Beyond just my own insecurities, the social scen e at Tufts played a role; the rigid friend groups and the unspoken conformity wouldn’t leave me.
Many groups within the school also have subconscious biases against each other. It’s simple social psychology. You think your in-group is better than your
out-group. Americans and international students rarely mix. Non-Greek life students don’t understand Greek life students because why would they participate in something so dated in a school as liberal as Tufts? We all come from immensely different experiences, and those backgrounds shape how we behave and perceive the world. And yet, we judge each other for it, fully aware that we are fueling our own anxieties in the process. The fear of being judged lingers like a shadow you can’t shake.
You overthink how you present yourself—how you speak, how you act, what you wear. You want to express your own style, but you also don’t want to be too trendy. At the same time, you don’t want to be too basic. It’s a constant cycle of second-guessing, curating your image to fit some unspoken standard— until you eventually lose yourself in the process.
So what now? How do we get out of this cycle of demoralizing ourselves through constantly overthinking and second-guessing? As an (almost) twenty-year-old, I still haven’t figured it out. However, I believe it is possible to minimize its effects. How? Well, I don’t think there’s just one way. A good starting point is ignoring your doubtful inner voice. At the end of the day, everyone has their own lives to manage and their own anxious inner voices to ignore. You can take control of your overthinking.
I’m aware that this is easier said than done—it’s impossible to just shut your brain off or completely change how you perceive and think about things. But it’s a process, and it starts with acknowledging that some things that happen in your life are out of your control. It’s taking the first step to breaking the cycle of spiraling into a dystopian worst-case scenario.
Chipping Of the Paint: The Tradition Behind the Tufts Cannon
essay stand out, one feature continually appeared: the Tufs cannon. It wasn’t just a footnote or a fun fact; it was the most talked-about tradition on campus, and for good reason. It perfectly captures the spirit of Tufs: students are encouraged to leave their mark on their surroundings, literally and fguratively.
To outsiders, painting the cannon may seem like petty vandalism, a collegesanctioned act of rebellion, but instead it acts as a testament to the self-expression, collaboration, and spontaneous creativity that diferentiates Tufs from other college campuses. For example, at Harvard, a wax coating covers their statue of John Harvard to protect its surface from grafti, and until now the sundry acts of vandalism haven’t permanently afected the statue. At Tufs, however, leaving the grafti up represents a meaningful philosophy: that students should have the freedom to leave their mark and to engage in campus life in ways that are dynamic, expressive, and ever-changing. Tere are no ofcial rules about the cannon issued by Tufs, except
not to paint the surrounding lawn and trees. Everyone seems to abide by the same unspoken code: whoever paints it at night must stay to ‘guard’ it until the next morning if they want their work to last. Tis collective agreement isn’t enforced by any authority but the shared values of the student body, reinforcing a sense of belonging and unity at Tufs.
Te beauty of the tradition lies in its ephemerality. Nothing painted on the cannon lasts very long—a few days at maximum. In the past year, the cannon has featured Tufs Racing one night and an advertisement for the TEDxTufs Club the next. Each new layer is both a statement and an acceptance of inevitable impermanence. Te fast-paced nature of college means that experiences, friendships, and challenges evolve quickly, but the tradition of the cannon reminds students that even in transiency, there is signifcance. While everything around students may be changing, this never does.
Tanushree Taparia, a freshman at Tufs, recalled her frst time painting the cannon with the Tufs Hindu Student Association. Meeting at one in the morning with bright blue, yellow, and orange
spray paint, they covered the cannon in a ‘Happy Diwali’ greeting. “It was such a cool tradition to take part in,” she said. “It was a way to bring my culture into one of the most visible spaces on campus. Tufs is so diverse, but sometimes you don’t always see that represented in the everyday environment.” Te feeting nature of the paint didn’t bother her; in fact, she saw it as part of the beauty of the tradition. “For those two days, every time I walked past the cannon and saw my handiwork and my initials, I felt part of something bigger,” she said. “Even if it’s gone in a few days, for the few moments it was there, it meant something.”
Te cannon existed long before the painting tradition began. Te Tufs cannon is a replica of the deck cannon on the USS Constitution, also known as “Old Ironsides.” Originally, Te Navy gave Tufs the cannon as appreciation for their help in restoring damage to the USS Constitution. To save it from degrading away in city storage, Emma Gray-Francis, then president of the Medford Historical Society, coordinated with the U.S. Navy Department in Washington, D.C. to ofcially release the cannon to Tufs University in 1956.
Regardless of its actual origin, however, a story is ofen told on campus tours that the cannon was meant to commemorate Tufs’ win over Harvard University in the frst football game they played, and thus the cannon strategically points in the direction of Harvard. Whether or not this is true doesn’t really matter—Tufs has always had a strong sense of identity, built on camaraderie and shared humor. Te Tufs-Harvard ‘beef’ is, of course, entirely one-sided, and I don’t think Harvard students ever thought there was any competition. But more than competition, it’s about community, giving Tufs students something to unite against.
Despite the legend, the cannon represented Tufs’ military presence and their fnancial support for the nation’s armed forces. In time, the meaning of the cannon changed from honoring war to refuting military history on Tufs’ campus. When the Vietnam War brought on a series of protests across campuses nationwide, Tufs students protested the cannon’s presence, believing that it glorifed the Vietnam War. Consequently, the university removed the Tufs cannon from campus in the late 1960s and the cannon remained in storage. It was reinstated in 1977, two years afer the end of the Vietnam War.
Many accounts trace painting the cannon back to 1977 when Imelda Marcos, the frst lady of the Philippines, visited Tufs. Students erupted in campus-wide protests against the Marcos regime’s role in political corruption and human rights violations in the Philippines and painted the cannon in dissent of the Fletcher School’s acceptance of a grant from the Marcos family.
Since then, student activism has always found a home on the cannon’s surface. It has been painted in support of racial justice movements, LGBTQ+ rights, climate action, and international causes that resonate with Tufs’ global-minded student body. In 2018, Filipino students repainted the cannon in honor of the original Marcos protest, linking the past and the present in a continuous dialogue of resistance.
Te cannon, for all its whimsy, is also a barometer of campus tensions, a place where political and social discourse unfolds in bright acrylic strokes. Many acts of vandalism have crossed the line from play-
ful to malicious in instances where ofensive or hateful messages had to be swifly painted over. In 2023, the Africana Centre welcomed new Black students to campus by painting the cannon, but controversy erupted when racist grafti flled with “messages invoking anti-blackness” appeared on the cannon. Tis “attack on the Black community,” as said in a statement by the Tufs Pan-Afrikan Alliance, was a stark reminder that while the cannon is meant to be a space for free expression, it is also a space where the boundaries of that freedom are tested. Most recently, the phrases “MAGA!” and “Tufs heart Trump” were painted on the cannon on March 9, 2025, leading to widespread campus outrage before the paint had even dried. Te cannon was immediately painted over by another group, and the design never truly saw the light of day. Tis instance is an example of the back-and-forth tensions for which the cannon becomes a forum.
In an age where much of student life has migrated online, where campus debates ofen unfold in Twitter threads and Instagram story reposts, the cannon remains stubbornly analog. And yet, social media has found a way to integrate itself into the tradition. A particularly striking or controversial painting might go viral within the Tufs community, circulating in group chats and on Sidechat, fuelling discussions that continue long afer the paint has dried. Tere is also an Instagram account dedicated to the cannon: @tufs_ cannon.
Te cannon at Tufs serves as a rare space for free expression wherein students do not need approval from administrators, social media algorithms, or external authorities. In an era where free speech is increasingly under threat with police cracking down on protests, facial recognition and video evidence being used to identify and take action against demonstrators, and universities facing outside pressure from benefciaries to regulate political expression, the anonymity of painting the cannon ofers a layer of protection against prosecution. Tere is no digital footprint— unlike on social media, where posts can be fagged, accounts can be banned, and personal identities can be tracked, the cannon exists outside of these systems, preserving free speech.
But this very anonymity has a fip side. Without accountability, the anonymity of the cannon can be used to platform hate speech. Te same freedom that allows students to voice political dissent without fear of repercussion also means that people can spread hate without facing any consequences. Te lack of rules and supervision blurs the boundary between free expression and ofensive rhetoric. Hence, the cannon’s role as a public platform is akin to a double-edged sword, refecting both the power and the perils of unregulated free speech. Despite this, the cannon’s continued existence is crucial in a time when speech, protest, and dissent are met with increasing suppression.
Te Tufs cannon is more than just a campus landmark—it’s a living, growing record of the students who have passed through the hill. It’s a tradition that captures the ever-changing but steadfast spirit of the university. In a world where free speech is increasingly scrutinized and protest is ofen met with resistance, the cannon remains one of the rare protected spaces where expression is truly free—for better or for worse. Te cannon serves as a reminder that activism does not always need an ofcial platform; sometimes, all it takes is a can of spray paint and a cause worth defending.
My Year of Stress and Trepidation
By Mansie Bennett
Freshman year was a hurricane that none of my prior experiences could have prepared me for. Beyond the drama and cliques and gossip, there was the melancholy and ambivalence that settled into my bones—a sense of lostness that I couldn’t quite place.
I remember the frst day I stepped on campus; my heart was pounding. After a particularly tumultuous summer of trivial fghts with my parents and anticipation of my fast-approaching independence, I had convinced myself I was prepared for college—that it didn’t signify a great shif in my life, but was merely something that I was going to do. Afer all, I was just going to school.
Tat mindset lasted until the moment I watched my family car drive of into the distance from the Campus Center. I struggled to stife the bubbling sense of melancholy and disorientation that built within me, a food of converging emotions that I hadn’t expected or prepared for.
In the weeks that followed, I was overwhelmed with my newfound freedom and the fast-paced nature of college. Tere was something almost addictive about the rush of disorganization and anarchy that took over my life. With each week there was a new piercing I had given myself, a new pile of Redbull cans in my garbage bin, and a new set of random people to meet and grow temporarily close with.
And yet, there was a mundanity to it all: the repetition of asking hundreds of new faces where they were from, what
their major was, and where they lived on campus. Te incessant small talk and feeting encounters were almost dizzying—driving me to introversion more times than not, and leaving me burnt out and with a drained social battery.
It was true that I was battling several things, including the ever-changing social dynamics of my peers, the unanticipated despair of being so far away from my family, and the sense that—despite only being 17—I would never be able to experience my childhood as it was ever again.
I was at the cusp of adulthood, but there was also a sense that I was entirely too young for college and the adult experiences it came with. Troughout freshman year, I was silently mourning the loss of my childhood.
Ten, there was the issue of men. Coming from a small girls’ school, I had rare interactions with men during my high school years. At college, however, they seemed to be everywhere—consuming conversation topics, congregating in large masses at the tables in Dewick, and infltrating my social circles where I hadn’t expected them to be. Living in allwomen’s housing was only a small respite from their looming presence and even more of a reminder that I was no longer in the community of women I had cherished just earlier that year.
Chapin, my former high school, was a K-12 girls’
school nestled in the Upper East Side of New York City. Te school itself was a sort of microcosm—a small community with its own secret language we all spoke through the rolled green skirts and our cultish school song. A large part of my world began and ended with the 62 people that made up my graduating class.
At Chapin, I never truly felt like an ‘outsider,’ and so I assumed that college would be a continuation of this, only on a larger scale. Despite joining in the 10th grade, I was immediately absorbed into the little insular world of that girls’ school, so I never had to worry about how to make friends. I never had to make any real eforts to maintain close friendships, because everyone was always right there—their faces and names easily recognizable. However, coming to Tufs, I was at a complete loss for how to connect with people in what seemed, to me, to be a huge campus. I was completely out of my depths, just barely keeping afoat amidst the constant whirring of new environments and names that I could never quite catch onto. I hadn’t realized how introverted and insular Chapin had made me until I tried—and failed—to replicate the sort of closeness and community of women I had just months prior.
I became a social chameleon, either desperately camoufaging to ft in and fnally fnd the community I desperately sought, or changing appearance and completely fading into the background
as these strange and new social situations disconcerted me.
I had never encountered the severe social drama that seemed so commonplace at college. Te seemingly constant friendship breakups and dramatic spectacles confused me. At Chapin, there were maybe one or two major scandals per year and they seemed so intense that by the time the year concluded, everyone was so thoroughly exhausted that there was ofen a collective decision to move on and never speak of it again. Tere was a taboo surrounding making public the internal dramas of a friend group.
At Tufs, people widely discussed their vitriol for certain individuals, and the gossip and drama were loud and in your face. Experiencing this for the frst time was a culture shock on its own, but it was even more disarming when it happened to my own friend group and later on again in the semester. Gossip was no longer the unassuming chatter that served the sole purpose of chasing away the day’s mundanity, but a social tool and weapon to be brandished.
Returning home for Tanksgiving break was destabilizing. Walking into my house that smelled and felt diferent, I realized there would never be a time again when my family would exist like it had, with all the pieces in the right place. We were never going to live together, all of us, like we had again.
heavily involved and supervening.
Every morning, I woke up at 5 a.m., my classes began at 8:15 a.m., and afer school, I went back home to repeat the same schedule the next day. At college, I chose my own schedule and had extended pockets of free time that I ofen did not know how to fll. I ate at varying
Despite the anarchy of freshman year, I have a deep sense of appreciation for it and an even deeper love for my 17- and 18-yearold self. Te sound of reggae music and the smell of cheap pistachio perfume brings back in vivid color those happier moments of sun and naiveté that were sprinkled amongst those days that were harder to bear—those days when that old dog followed closely. Reading my journal and watching the array of photo-booth video diaries I’d made transported me back to those moments of pure disorder. I can almost see the small, windowed dorm in Richardson with the pink decorations, smell my vanilla essential oil, and feel what it felt like when life and the world seemed to be zooming past me.
As the weeks went by afer break, there was a sense of the dredging slowness of time even as each week was packed with exciting new experiences: collecting the Instagrams of nearly half the freshman class, going to parties with new people every weekend in search of a set of friends that stuck, and trying new things I’d only dreamed of doing while under the reins of my parents.
College also represented my frst taste of true adult-like freedom with only half of the responsibilities. I’d had a very structured life, one in which my parents were
times during the day, sometimes forgetting dinner and real meals altogether. I maintained an even more chaotic worklife balance—taking naps until 3 a.m., then waking up to do homework, only to fall asleep to wake up just hours later for my 9 a.m. classes.
By the time summer rolled around, I was completely depleted. Te intensity of freshman year had almost been too much to handle. Each time I felt I had evaded it, like an old, loyal dog, chaos had a sneaking way of always fnding me—wry and panting, tennis ball in tow.
In replaying those moments, I imagine I am comforting that scared 17-year-old. I hug her and tell her that one day she’ll no longer stay up till 3 a.m. I assure her that one day she’ll fnd that friend group and community she desired. I tell her that freshman year was just what came from the ebb and larger changes, and that there will be a quietness and peace that follows.
The Legacy of Tufts Overlooked Histories
By Eden Weissman
Tisch Library often teems with familiar sights: rows and rows of seemingly endless books, printers on overdrive, and students huddled around a whiteboard or table, trying to cram in last-minute studying. But walk into the main floor of the library this semester, and your eye will be caught by a new addition: six green placards lining the entrance, accompanied by a historical image of College Avenue. Part of the new Deep Roots exhibit at Tufts, which debuted early last November, these materials cast light on the under-discussed lives that are embedded within Tufts’ history.
The exhibit highlights some of the first BIPOC students at Tufts’ various undergraduate and graduate schools, and was created from research led by the Slavery, Colonialism, and Their Legacies Project (SCL). The SCL, founded in 2022, is a joint effort between the Center for the Study of Race and Democracy, the Center for the Humanities at Tufts, and the Tufts Archival Research Center (TARC), to better examine Tufts’ historical relationship with the AfricanAmerican and Afro-Native communities of Somerville and West Medford. The initiative also aims to explore and unpack the university’s broader entanglement with the slave trade and colonialism in Massachusetts. Built upon the research of previous Tufts scholars, exhibitions like Deep Roots are asking us an urgent question: how can elite institutions grapple with the recognition of their painfully unjust pasts, while still highlighting the former BIPOC students who contributed to the university’s history?
The SCL and its programs are grounded in examining both national
and local history in relation to Tufts. John Hannegan, the SCL Project Manager at TARC, said that “In the past year and a half, [The SCL] has been pretty committed to our stated goals of investigating [Tufts’] ties to the slave trade and slavery both in America. [We’ve been] researching the connections between Tufts and the communities around here, [including] Charlestown, Somerville, Arlington, Medford, as well as looking into the long presence of African descendant students on campus, which is what led us to the exhibit.”
Speaking specifically to how Deep Roots fits within the SCL’s history, Dan Santamaria, the Director of TARC, said that while “The [SCL] formally started in Fall 2023… the concept really dates back to around 2016, when there was a lot of activity around public history, and [especially] the history of Black students at Tufts.” Santamaria explained that, at that time, TARC had acquired the papers of Gerald Gill, a former professor of History at Tufts who completed a significant amount of research on Black student life at Tufts throughout the 20th century.
The Deep Roots exhibit is the first to be displayed on campus that uses extensive research from the SCL Project and TARC, although previous exhibits have highlighted similar themes. The Another Light on the Hill exhibit, which was first displayed in 1988 and is now on permanent display in Ballou Hall, showcases Black Tufts alumni throughout the 20th century. For Deep Roots, Hannegan said that “We knew we wanted to do an exhibit that would help launch the SCL initiative to the university at large, and given the connection to Gerald Gill’s work… we
thought it was real easy to highlight some of the research we’ve done in discovering all these additional students of color.”
When it came to synthesizing the research for the exhibit, TARC relied on both in-house materials as well as research completed by students in the Slavery and Tufts Archival Research Seminar. The seminar is part of the SCL’s programming, and is held each semester to give interested students a chance to participate in archival research of topics related to the SCL’s research goals. Hannegan noted how “One of the fruits of the first semester [that] we taught the course was the rediscovery of Drue King, one of the early Black students at the [Tufts] Medical School,” which resulted from a student’s efforts to reconstruct his life during the seminar. “We really wanted to make sure we highlighted that in the exhibit as well.”
The range of showcased students is part of an effort to ensure the exhibit resonates with different parts of Tufts’ student body. “We wanted to choose students that went to different schools at Tufts [as well as] students that represent the broad spectrum of racial and ethnic backgrounds that we’re researching,” Hannegan said. “We highlighted students that are Black, students that are AfroNative, one student [that] came from Puerto Rico. We were really trying to be as broad as possible.”
Jaiden Mosley, a senior who participated in the Slavery and Tufts seminar in Fall 2024, said that it was “the first class I had about Tufts and its relationship to slavery, and also its relationship to the indigenous people of the area, like the Wampanoag.” Mosley explained that each student in the seminar
“the first class I had about Tufts and its relationship to slavery, and also its relationship to the indigenous people of the area, like the Wampanoag.” Mosley explained that each student in the seminar had the opportunity to do further research into former Tufts students that SCL had already identified within the archives. For his part, Mosley focused on the relationship between two of the first Black undergraduate students at Tufts, one of whom, Charles Sumner Wilson, is featured in the exhibit’s placards.
Mosley particularly appreciated how Deep Roots foregrounded that sections of Tufts’ campus were the former property of a slave owner, Isaac Royall, in the 1700s. The land that houses the Collaborative Learning and Innovation Center at 574 Boston Avenue, put into use by Tufts in 2015 as part of an expansion of campus, was formerly a part of Royall’s 600-acre slave plantation, Ten Hill Farms. “Not a lot of people fully grasp that [part of] campus… sits on sacred ground for Native Americans, and used to be a slave plantation,” Mosley said. By highlighting individual stories alongside geographic analysis, Deep Roots creates a continuity between the land that Tufts sits on and the students that helped shape campus history.
Elizabeth Strehle, a senior at Tufts who grew up in the Boston area, also noted how the lives that the exhibit highlighted allowed her to get a better sense of Black history within Boston. “I was very impressed by the work that went into [the exhibit],” she said. “I know that archival research isn’t easy, and coming from the Boston area, we don’t really learn a lot about local Black history here. It was nice to read about Black students at Tufts and their contributions to the greater Boston area as well.”
Strehle highlighted one placard in particular that focused on Jesse Gideon Garnett, who was the first Black woman to earn a medical degree from the Tufts School of Dental Medicine. However, “because Boston was so segregated… she wasn’t even able to practice in a hospital, [and] had to do it out of her own home, which I imagine was very exhausting and required a lot of patience,” Strehle said. In telling these types of stories, the exhibit shines light on Boston’s own history of segregationist policies. “Boston is so well regarded for its… hospitals… but there is a very long history of segregation up here as well, and that extends to the medical field, which really still isn’t confronted today.” Garnett’s story shows how D eep
Roots manages to both spotlight the achievements of the first BIPOC students at Tufts, as well as situate their lives in contexts of structurally racist policymaking.
Looking forward, Hannegan said TARC will use a number of different avenues to expand the findings of Deep Roots . “We’re working right now on the digital component of the Deep Roots exhibit that will go up on the website and that will have more expansive research,” he said. “Even since we put the [physical] exhibit up, we have found new information about some of these individuals… that is going to be exciting to be able to share in the future.”
Santamaria added that, in the next year or so, there will likely be a more extensive website online that speaks to the goals of the SCL and some of the project’s findings beyond Deep Roots. Ultimately, he sees the SCL’s research as much needed due to the specificities of Tufts’ history. “Tufts was founded in 1852, which is much later than [other universities in the Northeast] where there’s a very direct, clear connection to the Transatlantic slave trade,” he said. “We… feel like that makes [the SCL] a more compelling project. It’s a more complex and nuanced story to tell.”
I wish I could tell you the color of the swings, the very first that cradled me, how their frames matched the hollowness of my ribs. like my bones were created to soar in that gentle breeze to touch the branches of the eternal olive trees
I wish I could tell you about my childhood teddy, the very first that guarded me, how I named him ‘Fener’ for my love of the yellow canary like he was made to accompany me in my bed, to craft stories as the moonlight spread
I’d tell you if the images were there, if my neurons weren’t in need of desperate repair
But the pages of the book are slowly turning blank; The protagonist in distress and wholly unprepared
I wish I could say Holden Caulfield was wrong, that childhood hangs on like Monet’s lily pond
But the fissure in the brain never mends, the fallen leaf of youth never ascends
I think I could just pretend, spin tales and myths like I do in Keiser’s class Protect the fatal heel lest it sees the end
Nineteen is too young for cognitive collapse
Where are you, Chiron, Obi-Wan, or Iroh?
Where are you, my young Anakin, my little injured crow? Your traces in the rye are fading; Don’t tell me the catcher let you go
Forget. Forget. Forget. An action I know how to perform better than the intake of a minuscule breath, so why is it that I can’t forget you yet?
LACUNA
By Selin Ruso
Your traces in the rye are fading;
Don’t tell me the catcher let you go
Trying to erase you is like trying to erase pen marks on my sheet
I’d have better luck catching the apple before it hits Newton’s head or pressing pause on snowflakes, suspending them in mid-air
The burn on the wall from your first light
The chip on the corner of your ‘best daughter’ mug
How your Boston accent comes out late at night
Won’t Hades give me some water, to sweep it all under the rug?
In the evenings, I lift my gaze asking gods I don’t believe in, for grace Is it possible to let go?
When the child does not free his red balloon, his hand bound tight to the string below?
If he lets go, he has not loved If I forget, did I ever love?
I replay with blurry glasses our memories in my mind
Each screening wears out the film reel
Will it be unrecognizable in time?
I try to escape the theater, my wrists bound to my seat
Undo my ties—I beg you, set me free Come now, clean my lenses for the last time
Better yet, leave—accept this final plea
Let the generals in my cortex sign a treaty I wish not to think of you anymore.
My mother, my father, my childhood, my youth— let me remember those that matter more
Now I can recall, as today’s screening finally ends, the end of that Lamorisse short, and the red balloon’s friends
How Pascal is lifted to the sky, how miraculously the youth ascends
ART BY LEILA TOUBIA
stirring the pot