You’re standing in line at the grocery store with your items in a small basket, and you’ve had a long day filled with classes. Out of habit, you flip out your phone from your back pocket and start...
by Kasina Vaewsorn | Staff Writer | [email protected]
I signed up for the Writing as a Healing Art class (EngCW433) during spring 2018 to rebuild my confidence academically and emotionally, but...
by Patrick Gabbett | Staff Writer | [email protected]
Using the restroom is a pretty simple thing, in theory. Enter restroom, answer nature’s call, wash your hands, if you’re not a disgusting...
Blush and Bronze's Balancing Toner is made completely from vegan and cruelty-free ingredients. Phoenix Kanada | Photo Editor | [email protected]
The issues facing the health of our environment...
I was raised Catholic and attended a strict parochial school, St. Peter’s, in Sacramento with nuns as teachers where we wore knee-length uniforms, prayed every morning before class started, before lunch and even before heading home. We had to wear our hair in a “proper manner”—we had to put our curly hair up in a ponytail—and went to mass every Friday.
Colorado Springs, ca. 1993. Mom is irate. The memory is faint, but I remember her going on about some picture my older sister brought home from her first grade class. It looked like a page ripped out of a children’s coloring book. There was a man that looked pirate-esque with a bird on his shoulder. I remember he had boots up to his knees and a funny-looking hat. He was on a large boat, and there were two more of similar appearance in the background. What was my mother was so upset for? All of her colors were perfectly inside the lines.
On a cold January morning in 2009 I came to City College for the first time. There I met a co-worker who helped me sign up for classes. We decided to take a 9 a.m. nutrition class together. On that first day of class I experienced a range of emotions. I was scared, excited, nervous, proud—proud because it had been just a year and a half earlier that I had decided to not pursue a college education.
Ashton Byers
Staff Writer
[email protected]
Whenever I begin to doubt my reason for being put here on earth, I place my hand over my heart.
Try it. You feel that? We’re alive for a reason,...
November 6 will see one of the most critical midterm elections in American history. You will want to have been there. But in California, there's another day that matters even more. In California, the winner of the Democratic Primary will be going on to win the election, and the day to cast that vote is coming June 5.
We want to maintain the idea that rape is something that happens to those people, who go to those places. We want to imagine “they were asking for it” so we don’t have to think about it happening to us.
While it may seem like ancient history that police were called the slave patrol, the name of the occupation was only changed to navigate post-Civil War politics for the sake of the South’s economy. Their essential role to society never changed. As prison inmates continued to supply a source of forced labor following the abolition of slavery, police continued to supply the inmates. They never stopped being the slave patrol.
Ashton Byers
Staff Writer
[email protected]
I’m lying in the bathtub as I write this. Wrinkled fingertips, I'm reflecting on the quiet moment I have alone. As my son watches a movie in...