Juniper Road, where I’d driven my green Jeep to a party north of campus. Where, as the car passed a huddle of Frosh-O students, my friend Hannah had leaned out the window and yelled, “God loves you even if you’re gay!” Where I, 21 years old and with one foot out of the closet, had felt embarrassed and exhilarated. All that on Juniper Road.
How is it that a young woman who used to walk five miles roundtrip to campus to avoid sitting on a dirty Boston bus found herself participating in a sport where competitors cover themselves liberally with chalk, baby powder and toaster pastry crumbs to make their lifts?
The last time I saw my father, he looked as I had seen him countless times, dressed in a crisp blue shirt, red tie and black dress pants, looking “so fresh and so clean, clean.” (He prided himself on sprinkling his every day vernacular with hip hop lyrics.)
Friday, January 18, 1980, The Observer did not feature a Molarity cartoon. Instead this notice appeared. “MOLARITY ORIGINALS DISAPPEAR.
In 2009, I ate Thanksgiving dinner at a small Chinese restaurant. It was an unceremonious experience completed by the token fortune cookie, whose paper contents I still have. The fortune contains, like most good ones do, a typo, though it’s a subtle one: “Everything will now come your way.”
A phone conversation with a friend of a friend in Philadelphia changed the way that I can help people in Haiti, but it all started when a young American man on a bus in Costa Rica changed healthcare all over the world.
Over the years, Lula’s was called “the community living room” and “the gateway to South Bend,” and “the place in Michiana where people come to try to save the world.” Lula’s embraced open-mindedness, encouraging its customers to sit, talk and stay awhile.
It was on a hot, muggy, August afternoon that we found it. My friend Spencer and I were exploring a stretch of the stream that ran behind my house, under an overpass, and down through a residential neighborhood.
A few days ago my son said something inappropriate to his little sister. She tattled. I yelled. His father asked, “Where did you learn to say that?” “Where?” “Who taught you to say those words?” “Well, who was it?”
The collegiate culinary experience trails possibly only airline food (when airlines served food) in public disparaging. Notre Dame’s two dining halls are no exception. But one ND tradition did cut the mustard: Circus Lunch.
Although there is an “all you can eat” mentality inside the dining halls, there is a rule about how many “treats” can be taken outside their walls. But where is the sign with the rule about the trays with the ND logo or a stack of the clear plastic cups?
For Notre Dame students and faculty, achievement at such a high level doesn’t come from a healthy balance of eight hours of sleep every night or ever-flowing fonts of motivation, it comes from coffee.
As the holiday season drew near, I knew my caloric intake would soon skyrocket. Visions of gingerbread and pumpkin pies and full-bodied red wines danced in my head, so I knew I had to prepare.
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 54th strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. Jim explains the relationship between God, mankind and bacon.
A cold and frustrated freshman discovers the endless wonders of brunch and community at North Dining Hall.
Two patients. Two illnesses. One problem.
If you ask Notre Dame football fans what smell they most associate with a game day walk around campus, brats would probably take the cake, so to speak. I don’t eat brats. Or hot dogs. Or sausages. Or those steak sandwiches sold by the Knights of Columbus that people wait in an endless line for on South Quad.
Letters from readers
A list of the winners of the 2013 Young Alumni Essay Contest, sponsored by Notre Dame Magazine.
America has long provided a home to the immigrant brave — and has benefited from those seeking a better life. This is still true today.
Alumni activities: delivering flowers; airing podcasts; starting a charity; running an art gallery.
I love food. The truth is, I’ve never met a meal I didn’t like. I’m a human billy goat, and unless I know for sure something will kill me – like yellow-cake uranium or a mystery fungus or the tendons in a chicken leg – I’ll probably enjoy it.
John Dowd’s evocative work has earned him the title of the “poet painter of Provincetown.”
I was 22, and we were sitting on the front porch of our hotel looking toward the wide West Texas plains. The storm that was gathering seemed more storm-like, the lightning more vivid, more crudely yellow than anywhere else I’d ever been.
When I was little, God had a beard. He wore a blue robe, his hair grew thick as jump ropes and he was very, very old. When I learned someone named Mary was God’s mom, she confused this picture, so at first I didn’t care for her much.
Creative works by Notre Dame people
We are a restless generation. We do not have the patience to let our existential crises simmer until middle age. At 25 I found myself, like many others, a winner of the Millennial Trifecta —college graduate, unemployed, living at home.
7:30 a.m. is way too early to be answering the phone on a Sunday morning. I hear my sister’s voice on the other end of the line: “Mom has something to tell you.”
On my second day of kindergarten, at a school named for a species of tree, I discovered that our teacher, Miss Appleby, presented a Best Napper Award every week, and that the child who earned the most weekly napping awards was then presented with the Best Napper of the Year Award in June, on the last day of school, in assembly, before the entire school, which went from kindergarten to sixth grade, and contained some two hundred students, none of whom, I determined immediately, would outnap me.