Shortly after Nina Davuluri was crowned the first Indian-American Miss America on Sept. 15, Twitter and the blogosphere erupted with racist and xenophobic comments. “#if you’re Miss America, you have to be American,” said one tweet.
I was on my way to school, carpooling with my friend Sheridan and her mom Sharon, who drove a green Ford minivan. We stopped at a light right next to a pole with one of Shepard Fairey’s “Obey” stickers plastered on it.
Some 45 years ago, there was a famous case of two children—a brother and sister—who stuffed their instrument cases with clothes and pooled their money for a train ticket to New York City, where they found shelter in the Met.
Django and Broomhilda share the quintessential cinematic kiss and ride off into the sunset—it’s the expected superhero film finale. The plantation has been blown up in a spectacular show of classic Tarantino violence, ending slavery as we know it in this imagined world.
The New York City Opera, the 70-year-old company originally stationed at Lincoln Center, declared bankruptcy on Oct. 1 after failing to reach its fundraising goal of $7 million, devastating the city’s classical music community. But why should you even care?
“We’ll figure it out,” my dad said after an arduous conversation during a car ride home about the logistics of applying for financial aid at Columbia.
When I was six years old, for a few glorious hours, my hair looked just like Matilda’s.