Postscript

The first time I ever went to a funeral was to mourn a person I never met. I went because my friend, and roommate, asked me to. She’d lost someone close to her, and though I didn’t know the person who had passed, I’d heard stories of the person she was.

As Halloween fast approaches, I enter a strange period where I feel split into two selves, torn between the past, characterized by innocence, and the mysterious and seductive future.

Last year, I participated in my first medical brigade. Our large, stark white bus pulled into the compound, its bright blue sign reading “Medical Brigade.” As the gates opened and we stepped off, the space—reminiscent of a public school—had been transformed into a makeshift medical clinic for the day and the week ahead. I took my first steps off the bus, and as I looked up, my heart sank.

We often categorize ourselves as either dreamers or realists—a debate philosophy has wrestled with for ages, without resolution.

Every social event I’ve attended in the last few months has been plagued by one question in particular: “Ella, what are you doing after you graduate in the spring?”

We’re two weeks into September, a month which, for many, stands as the beginning marker of their time as a Queen’s student.

This past year, I found myself struggling with a dilemma many young artists face: the struggle between creating art for social and financial recognition versus the pure joy of creating for its own sake.

The last time I visited the Philippines was in 2008. I was five years old and have little to no recollection of my stay. I have slivers of memories of the trip—getting my nails painted by my ninangs (godmother), singing karaoke with my family, and walking a cute aso (dog).

In every role I’ve embraced during Fall Orientation—from being an incoming student, to a ConEd Orientation Leader “Teach,” Head Teach, and now, Orientation Roundtable Coordinator, one undeniable truth prevails—there’s a transformative magic to Fall Orientation that brings forth one’s finest self.

Despite openly talking and feeling comfortable with my bisexuality for two years, last June was the first time I’d ever been to Pride.

After a long and strenuous exam season, I kicked off my summer vacation in a place many of my peers might consider a nightmare: a kindergarten classroom.

Asbah and Cassidy are still hopeful about journalism.

I’ve never been a religious person, nor a superstitious one. I’ve never found myself convinced by the realms of faith or magic.

Many of us are familiar with the Latin expression carpe diem, which translates to “seize the day.” Sometimes, I feel as though I’ve spent my entire life chasing the future, forgetting to live in the present and seize the day.