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It’s a Sunday morning, and the weather is perfect. The air is crisp, but the sun is still blazing on. Locust Walk looks more tempting than ever. It’s a beautiful day—so beautiful that the thought of ever leaving this place is unfathomable.
It’s what you’d expect from the university named Playboy’s top party school in 2014. A makeshift rig of colored lights. Sugary sweet, barely–tastes–like–alcohol jungle juice pouring from a Gatorade cooler. A song blaring from buzzy speakers with the bass cranked all the way up (probably “No Hands” by Waka Flocka Flame, “Mr. Brightside,” or that remix of “Heads Will Roll”). A booze–fueled, nearly wasted mass of bodies, jumping in unison, letting go of their inhibitions to the tune of a Friday night frat party.
Ed. note: On Aug. 29, the Sept. 7 move out deadline for the UC Townhomes was pushed back to Oct. 8 after the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development agreed to extend the complex’s affordable housing contract. This is the second time that the owners of the townhomes have received a contract extension from HUD.
This year's class is keeping it local. Meet ten Penn seniors who are living and working in Philly after crossing the stage.
I napped in the basement of Van Pelt Library. I ate in the Biotech Commons. I cried in Harrison College House’s 23rd floor lounge. And once this almost nomadic daily routine concluded, I started panicking about where I inevitably needed to go next—my old Rodin apartment.
Enter any intro–level Wharton entrepreneurship class, and you’re drilled with the legend of Warby Parker. In 2010, four Wharton MBA students were awarded $2,500 from the Venture Initiation Program at Wharton Entrepreneurship—they then founded an eyewear startup that eventually grew into a market–altering powerhouse now valued at $6 billion. Since then, the story of Warby Parker has been passed down through generations of Whartonites, told and retold within the startup community. From all over the world, Elon Musk wannabes flood to the Wharton School to pursue the prospect of replicating this dream themselves.
On a brisk morning in February 2022, Michael Cogbill was mounting a campaign. The 32–year–old union organizer knocked on hundreds of doors in North Philly to collect signatures that would secure his spot on the ballot for Pennsylvania’s 3rd Congressional District in the May primary. In Philly’s unpredictable winter weather, the task proved easier said than done, but conversations with eager voters kept Cogbill hopeful.
We walk side by side down winding paths past new and familiar tombs, ignoring the bitter cold and enjoying the scenery around us. We turned right as we entered the gates, took the grass–covered, once–clearly–marked brick path right again, then circled past the manor and looked out onto the river. While I love The Woodlands in all its seasons, I’ve always been partial to seeing it as it is now, in early spring, with the company of a friend. The grass was green, the forsythia yellow, the sky grey, and The Woodlands Cemetery, a blend of colors, was the picture of beauty. Here, joggers shuffle past tombstones that have guarded the land for centuries while the Schuylkill River drifts past the dog walkers, picnicers, and students just as it passed Woodlands visitors in the 1800s.
More restaurants, more impact, and more of Philly, all for under $15
Takeout boxes, streeteries, Grubhub, Uber Eats, home–cooked meals, grocery store delivery—all of us have had to adapt and innovate food habits in the wake of the COVID–19 pandemic, and restaurants have certainly been no exception. From adapting their business models to focus on takeout, to changing their hours to deal with staffing shortages, to constructing outdoor huts to accommodate more outdoor dining, to even closing their businesses for good, adaptation has been the name of the game for restaurants in the COVID–19 era. But even as restaurants are going back to “normal,” owners are still being affected by the altered realities of the industry—and shifting their business models accordingly.
Student election periods each year are clogged with bold posters, colorful chalk murals covering Locust Walk, and temporary Instagram profiles, all imploring students to exercise their better judgment and perform their campus civic duty. From eager first years to seasoned professionals, Penn Student Government (PSG) hopefuls campaign zealously, each sharing their own particular vision of undergraduate life.
COVID–19 stole a lifelong dream from Nicholas Anane (C’ 24), who has wanted to attend college at West Point since middle school. But after contracting COVID–19 in March 2020, he has suffered from long–term symptoms that made enlisting no longer an option. Instead, he came to Penn.
As you scroll through your Instagram feed, in the stream of pictures from sorority formals, aesthetic weekend excursions to South Street, club event notices, and perfectly manicured photos posted by official Penn accounts, you come across a long caption under a photoshopped image of Amy Gutmann. If you’re familiar with the content of @pennmemes, you know you’re about to be launched into the head of the anonymous person who graces your feed a few times a week with relevant memes—and occasionally, a long stream–of–consciousness caption.
“Are bookstores even a thing anymore?” says my Social Psychology professor, apropos of nothing, in the middle of a lecture on social cognition. Long gone are the days of couches in Barnes & Noble and Kanye West rapping “we met at Borders.” Even further in the rearview mirror is a distant era when a romantic comedy like You’ve Got Mail could be powered by the David and Goliath struggle between a mega chain bookseller and a beloved, independent local bookstore. Maybe that’s because it feels like Goliath wins every time.
“If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love actually is all around.”
We often don’t think of love as a radical act. From varying depictions of love in cheesy early 2000s rom–coms to the complex love we hold for our friends, our family, or even ourselves, love is something that is shared with another. But what does it mean to have love for a community—to practice love and care through advocacy and collective action?
You’ve probably heard of University of Pennsylvania Robert Mundheim Professor of Law Amy Wax (or “‘Racist’ Penn Law Prof,” according to a recent Daily Beast headline). If you haven't, she’s pretty easy to find—and she may have publicly disparaged your identity.
When the national anthem plays before its first exhibition game of the season against East Stroudsburg on Oct. 30, instead of standing for the national anthem, most of the Penn men’s basketball team remains still and seated. All but three players sit solemn on the side benches, eyes gazing down. This was not a spontaneous decision, but a planned, deliberate message of activism spearheaded by players. It was also just the beginning—for the rest of the season, critical and approving eyes alike would not only be on the team's game, but on its collective decision to sit in the moments leading up to tipoff.
In a remote corner of Penn Park, a woman sits in the dirt, warmed from the sun despite the November chill, digging into several beds of fresh vegetables: cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, okra, bell peppers, and more. Wedged between a wide field of grass and an orchard, the farm is secluded, but the surrounding city is a constant presence. Every once in a while, a train rumbles by loudly, making it difficult to talk without raising your voice. Nonetheless, a feeling of calm lingers amongst the dirt and produce.
Confusion. Chaos. Miscommunication. When Penn students test positive for COVID–19, nothing about the isolation process is clear.
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