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Donald Trump (W ‘68) is back in office. For some, it’s a sign of the end of democracy. For others, it’s a long–awaited opportunity to reassert a nationalist agenda. But beyond the polarization—the sensational headlines, partisan battles, and congressional gridlock—there are quieter consequences unfolding in classrooms, dorms, and visa offices.
Washington is known for power suits, not power silhouettes. It’s a city where the most daring fashion choice is not wearing Allbirds to brunch. It is a town of navy blazers, sensible flats, and men who dress like their mothers still buy their Barbour jackets.
Questions about pragmatism have, for a long time, plagued the humanities. Fields such as English and fine arts have historically been intertwined with the “starving artist” trope—the image of someone willing to give up their financial wellbeing for the pursuit of creative passion. Meanwhile, internet videos of graduates of New York University’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study have recently gone viral, with users mocking the practicality of their self–designed humanities majors. In response to BA concentrations such as “Art as a Social Mechanism” and “Care Politics,” some social media users commented on the unemployment and debt that the graduates would face, while others simply called NYU Gallatin a “clown school.”
It’s getting late in the evening, but Aaron Jones (C ‘25) has a ways to go before he can call it a night. He’s rehearsing and re–rehearsing every move in the dance studio until each step, twirl, and gesture is etched into his memory. Aaron isn’t the only one toiling away. As a new member of the band Penn Sargam, Raghav Gopalakrishnan (W ‘28) is knee–deep in the process of adding his clarinet to the group’s rendition of the latest pop hits.
It’s 1 a.m., towards the tail end of what began as a normal house party. As the night goes on, most stream out one by one, going home to finish their readings or simply head to bed before the next day’s classes. The chatter dies down, the room empties out, and only a few stragglers stick around, tapping their feet or making idle conversation. The room is cast in shadow, with a solitary blue lamp and the glow of a TV playing “Crazy Realistic Trip Visuals 4K,” the only source of light in the increasingly desolate venue. Through it all, there is only one constant: the DJ standing under the stairs, twisting the knobs, hunched over his decks in furious concentration. The size of the crowd is immaterial, the lack of lighting a mere distraction. In his mind, all that is solid has melted into air—only the sound remains.
Students taking a class taught or organized by Mathematics and Electrical and Systems Engineering professor Robert Ghrist—who goes by prof–g—often encounter a unique type of tutor. It is available 24/7, not bound by a strict office hours schedule or a reticence to answer emails late at night. It never runs out of practice questions or examples. And it is always able to get back to you in moments, even if dozens of students are asking it questions simultaneously.
“I probably wouldn’t be married if I knew I was going to have health insurance. That’s not because I don’t love my partner and [don’t] want to spend the rest of my life with him. It’s because I didn’t want to actually take part in this institution,” says Miranda Sklaroff, a Ph.D. candidate in political theory at Penn. Sklaroff knew she and her partner wanted to have kids. But she had concerns about healthcare, which she wasn’t sure Penn would provide. “It was just something we had to do.”
When Steph—a mother of three in Philadelphia—visited a new private school with her eldest son, she noticed crosshatched calculator holders hanging on the classroom doors filled—but not with dedicated number crunchers. They were for smartphones. Now, a few months into the new school year, these high school students know the deal: There will be no phones in class.
One of the most important members of the Penn Curling Club is Luke Krier’s (C ‘27) mother. Without an eligible driver for the competing players last season, Krier stepped in, ensuring that the team could attend bonspiels, or curling matches, with other schools across the Northeast. Flying in from Minnesota, she drove the team up to ten hours to other universities in a rental car. As an “honorary member” of the team, according to several of its players, Krier stepped away from her accounting position in the thick of tax season to help the team thrive.
On Sept. 13, the Philadelphia Historical Commission (PHC) voted 9–0 to approve the creation of the Washington Square West Historic District, spanning 26 blocks between Walnut and Lombard Streets and 8th and Juniper Streets. Nearly 1,500 residential, commercial, and religious properties fall within the boundaries of the new district, the largest in the city.
Philadelphia’s bike infrastructure has long been a contentious issue. Ask any cyclist, and they’ll relay stories of weaving in and out of bike lanes due to stopped vehicles, dealing with aggressive drivers, and navigating streets littered with potholes and broken glass. But on Oct. 24, Philadelphia’s City Council unanimously passed a bill that expands and increases fines for vehicles in bike lanes and could mark a turning point in protecting cyclists.
Parallel to the rushing traffic of Arch Street is a large stage. A crowd gathers on the sidewalks packed tighter than a tin of sardines. Perpendicular to Arch on 10th Street, which has been temporarily shut down, sits rows of folding chairs. Not a single one is empty. All heads are turned towards the scene unfolding onstage. A woman gracefully dances with two swords. The background music is nearly inaudible over the racket of city noise, but a hushed silence hangs over the engaged audience.
Every year, Street's Dining Guide brings to campus the best new restaurants for those weekends off–campus or roommate date nights. This year's theme is “Home Is Where the Hearth Is.” Street writers travelled to restaurants across Philly reviewing restaurants that serve up culture and comfort with each dish. Between bites, we spoke to restaurant owners and chefs about what it means to build a community around food. From the quintessential Philly classic of Angelo's to new Puerto Rican pop–ups, this collection of reviews captures Philly in all its love and labor.
Now at the age of (relative) maturity, mid–2000s babies have only glimpsed a political world of scandal and the bitter vicissitudes of changing regimes. Through the meteoric rise of Donald Trump, the mixed bag of Joe Biden, and now a tenuous future under either Trump or Kamala Harris, today's youth can’t be blamed for feeling estranged from the political process, as if watching a bad television show with the same sorry cast of actors every year. The response of some to this political circus has been to harbor a sense of doubt about the system, and not participate; others feel the uneasiness and want to do something about it. Most, however, have a certain presentiment about this election: It is pivotal for the direction of the country.
There are beehives on Penn’s campus, but finding them is no easy feat. Past Franklin Field, over a set of railroad tracks, and around the Hamlin Tennis Center, they’re tucked away in Penn Park. Once you’ve made it that far, you’re close, but still, you can hardly notice the bees’ presence. After all, the hives are hidden away in a dell behind thick brush, in an otherwise unassuming wooden shed. But once you trek through the overgrowth and open the door, a new world is uncovered.
If you live west of the Schuylkill River, you’ve (hopefully) heard of Abyssinia, the Ethiopian restaurant on 45th and Walnut streets. In 1983, Red Sea, named after the Indian Ocean inlet separating Eritrea from Saudi Arabia and Yemen, became the first Eri–Ethiopian restaurant to exist in Philadelphia. Twenty years later, Ethiopian immigrant Tedla Abraham took over the restaurant with his former business partner. Since renaming the restaurant and replacing the windows and floors in 1995, Abraham has been serving up farm–to–table Ethiopian dishes, paying homage to the country, people, and food that raised him.
There’s a good chance you’ve already violated the Temporary Standards and Procedures for Campus Events and Demonstrations this semester. You violated section five, clause A when you played “Von dutch” on your WONDERBOOM as you walked across Locust Walk to that 11:30 p.m. pregame; section three, clauses D, E, and G when your consulting club held an initiation event after–dark at The Button without registering with University Life Space and Events Management; section six, clause A, point two when you used spray chalk, instead of sticks, to advertise your a cappella show in front of the high rises.
As a photographer, you dream of getting “that shot.” The shot that will make up for all of the times you took a bad iPhone photo for your friend’s Instagram. All of those hours of practicing composition will be worthwhile for that one photo. The frantic pursuit of “the shot” was on full display in the spin room following the 2024 presidential debate. Fighting through a mob of photographers to photograph former president Donald Trump, a photographer’s hairy arm grazed my mouth and a camera the size of a baby knocked my chin out of view. I stopped to look at the enormous crowd of photographers and journalists around me.
On the afternoon of April 25, the Gaza Solidarity Encampment was set in motion. Earlier that day, a protest—organized by the Philly Palestine Coalition—began at City Hall and marched its way throughout Philadelphia, arriving at Penn’s campus by 4 p.m. It culminated with protesters pitching about 20 tents on College Green, with the support of an organized faculty walkout. The encampment, joining an ongoing international struggle, began.
“I don't really know how to react to people when they say, ‘Oh, I saw that you're endangered.’ It's not a congratulations, that's for sure,” Alan Takashi Riley says.
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