Cady is a fourth year majoring in Media Studies and minoring in English. Her time is usually spent showing off photos of her dogs like a beaming mother, listening to music that's way too good to sing along to (but doing so anyway), or trying to think of that one word for that one thing... Solving crossword puzzles and smelling flowers are some of the little joys she finds in life.
When I was learning to read, my mom would curl up with me every night to recite a book. As my tired eyes scanned each line, I attached words on the page to sounds spoken, enraptured with it all.
It’s perhaps an understatement to say that my favorite pair of shoes—a black toe-loop pair of Birkenstocks sandals—is well-loved. Their rubbery bottoms, once textured with prominent zig zags, now glide precariously under each step.
Editor's Note: Iris stands in solidarity with the APIDA communities at U.Va. and beyond. We are heartbroken by the act of hatred in Atlanta that took eight lives on Tuesday, March 16th, 2021, and send our deepest condolences to the loved ones of the victims.
When someone asks, “How are you?” what do you say? Maybe you bare your soul, laying out your triumphs and trials to a perfect stranger. Maybe you brush past every mishap, replying with only the highlight of your day. Or, if you’re like me, perhaps you rely on an old standby. If “How are you?” is Pavlov, I am its dog.
As we tried to come to terms with the quarantine and all it brought crashing down on us (farewell, UVA friends and life), we started cobbling together our recommendations for what to watch and read and play. Some of us had big lists, some small. Some of us had a lot to say, some of us little. That’s kind of how it’s all been.
In hindsight, it probably smelled like burnt rubber early on. We were jet-lagged, though, and wet from splashing in the Irish Atlantic, so our senses were dulled. I leaned my head against the cool window of the van, focusing my eyes in and out on the water droplets that clung to its surface.
In this February season of saccharine serenades and pink paper hearts, the term “love language” seems to pop up everywhere. Just as banner ads dare you to discover your own love language through quizzes, media organizations dissect the theory in articles about millennial dating. I’ve taken time to consider what my own love language might be.
I’ve never really felt ashamed to sing. My mom sang to me as a kid, and I remember quietly humming along to her rendition of "She’ll Be Comin’ ‘Round the Mountain” nightly. Alongside her soothing voice, I lullabied myself to sleep. I have the same habit as my mom, singing mindlessly while doing various tasks.
As October rolls into motion at UVA, I’m reminded of all the reasons my heart soars when the seasonal clock strikes fall. Yellow leaves on Rugby Road outline the branches they dare to escape from, and Lawn rooms stacked with firewood hint at wiggling toes against crackling fireplaces.
In fifth grade, as I sat at a lunch table eating with my classmates, a boy at the table over called me “freakishly tall.” When I reached seventh grade, I towered over even my basketball teammates. As a freshman in high school, I was frequently asked by adults what year I was in college. Suffice it to say, I’ve always been tall.