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Few websites can claim to be the subject of all of the following: intense criticism on social media platforms, a Beyoncé lyric, privacy leaks and hacks, and a prolonged discussion on the treatment of sex workers.
Last August, during the thick of NSO, two white male students broke into another student’s apartment and refused to leave. The victim spoke on the condition of anonymity, but her story reveals a malignant societal truth that also infects campus life at Penn: white privilege exists unchecked.
Google “Professor Herman Beavers,” and you'll easily see all of the different roles Dr. Beavers plays at Penn: professor of English, Africana Studies, and Theatre Arts, faculty director of Civic House and the Civic Scholars Program, mentor, writer, and community leader, to name a few. Dr. Beavers specializes in American and African–American literature, poetry, jazz, and the study of writers such as August Wilson and Toni Morrison. He is a lifelong lover of literature and a thirty–one year faculty member at Penn. Street sat down with him in late July to discuss his upcoming course, “African–American Short Story in the 21st Century,” his experience teaching African–American literature at Penn, and where we can and should go from the moment of “anti–racism.”
Hector Cure (C ‘22) looked out over the Pacific Ocean from the pristine sand of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. It was a clear afternoon in mid–March as waves crashed and friends chatted behind him, happy to get away from the slushy, grey winter that drags into spring in West Philadelphia. Like many undergraduates, Hector and a couple of friends were on a spring break trip for the week. At the time, coronavirus cases in the U.S. were slightly over 500 and Coachella had just been postponed. About a week earlier, the U.S. saw its first coronavirus death.
Justin Horn (C ‘20) was standing in the back of the room at Joe Biden's campaign headquarters in Philadelphia, suspense gripping him, as he watched the Vice President’s team receive some race–altering news. Philadelphia’s long winter was melting away on the early spring night, the office packed shoulder to shoulder with enthusiastic Biden staffers, eyes glued to the news. Beto O’Rourke just endorsed Joe Biden, as did Mayor Pete Buttigieg and Senator Amy Klobuchar, shortly after dropping out of the race for President. The once twenty–eight candidate Democratic primary field was narrowing down to just one, and Justin was watching it happen in real-time.
“This will pass over soon. We’ll be able to hang out like normal by July, and we’ll definitely come back to school in the fall.”
He had written that paper. In his own words, of course. No cheating involved. He was a diligent worker and a smart kid who never even needed to cheat. Why would he? He had made it to Penn on his own, after all. Nevertheless, as the young, doe-eyed Penn freshman, Rick Krajewski (E ‘13), stood in front of his professor, he was being accused of plagiarism. To make matters worse, Rick knew he was being singled out as a Black man. The professor just assumed Rick couldn’t have written a paper that good.
The phrase “we live in unprecedented times” has become both a cliche and an understatement to describe the COVID–19 pandemic. There have been more than 2.5 million cases in the U.S., and communities of color are particularly vulnerable: Black, Native, and Latinx Americans are at much greater risk to contract and die from the virus relative to their populations. But for Natalie Shibley, instructor for Penn Summer I course HIST 560: Race, Gender, and Medicine in U.S. History, the disproportionate impact of the virus on people of color is far from unexpected.
On Monday morning, June 1, Lexi Lewis (C '23) left the quiet cobblestone alleys of Penn’s campus, alone. The outdoor diners and open air store fronts that usually mark early June in Philadelphia were shuttered as she passed 30th Street Station, the glittering Schuylkill River, and Rittenhouse Square. Side–by–side with Lexi, Philadelphians streamed toward City Hall, breaking the city's eerie COVID–19–era silence for the first time in months.
In the event of nostalgia–related emergency, press play.
Annabelle Williams is a writer. But just about everyone else in her life came to realize that before she did. To Annabelle’s father, she was the “most adult child” he had ever met, constantly clinging to books and absorbing bits of new information. Annabelle’s mother wrote about her “unquenchable desire to read, at all times, in all circumstances.” (She also shared a picture of young Annabelle hula–hooping while reading The Iliad). It’s a mystery how she started out as a Wharton student, when Annabelle has been a writer since she was 12 years old.
Laura Ng didn’t cry once during nursing school. No tears during her first year and a half of professional nursing, even in an emergency department. But on one of the first days COVID–19 cases started to ramp up, she worked a 16–hour shift: her ER was short–staffed. After getting home, she showered and used the bathroom.
Quarantined hundreds of miles away from Philadelphia, I meet Andrew Guo (C ‘21) in front of Van Pelt for a tour of Penn’s campus.
As many students have returned home following Penn’s decision to move all classes online for the semester, the Penn community can feel farther away than ever. But this hasn’t stopped groups of students from coming together to advocate for their peers and community members amidst the coronavirus pandemic.
The Tiger King series is undoubtedly the universal quarantine past–time, but watching con men with five teeth attempt to murder each other can get disheartening, at least for me.
Reality in the United States today is drastically different from the blissful ignorance of a few weeks ago when COVID—19 seemed—and was—an ocean away, a danger desensitized by distance. Now trapped in quarantine, people have inevitably been turning to screens to pass the time, oscillating between news—reading, binge—watching, FaceTiming, social—media—scrolling and even Tik—Toking. Life in the real world may be on pause, but the online world seems to be operating as usual, if not hyper—actively.
As far as motivational mottos go, “We need TV now more than ever” is pretty bleak. But it’s true. We’re social distancing, we’re self–isolating, and we’re working from home. That leaves us with a lot of free time to do whatever, as casual as that sounds. Sure, you can read, or pick up a new hobby, or try to exercise, but we all know what you really want to do is watch Netflix. So, if self–improvement isn’t your thing, here are some ways you can kill time while locked inside. Just don’t watch Contagion.
Right now, many of us are championing WFH, or work from home status. Some of us now have the luxury of extra downtime, which means, now more than ever, it’s easier to crack open a book and start on that New Year’s reading resolution we have been putting off. A good book can allow us to escape and ward off the climate of anxiety we are currently facing. Movies like Contagion and World War Z are good if you like confronting doom headfirst, but nothing can transport you to another world, sans travel bans and toilet paper shortages, like the dog–eared page of a new novel.
Walking down 34th Street from Walnut to Ludlow to Market to Powelton, I was thoroughly disoriented once the “Giant Heirloom Market” sign disappeared behind me. Last semester, my friends and I decided to try Sabrina’s Café, a raved–about brunch place near Penn. As we walked, I left all navigation up to my friend, wary of my ability to direct us anywhere beyond Penn’s campus. New to Penn and new to Philadelphia, I was unaware that walking a few blocks northeast of the Quad would place us directly into Drexel territory.
Gavin O'Connor, C'86, has a thing for sports. Not only was he on Penn's football team back in his salad days, but he's since gone on to direct films like Miracle, about the US hockey team's eponymous "Miracle on Ice" in the 1980 Winter Olympics, and Warrior, in which Tom Hardy and Joel Edgerton portray brother MMA fighters. The greatest departure from O'Connor's groove may be The Accountant, in which he directs Ben Affleck playing an autistic hitman who spends his days as a CPA.
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