Ethan Hodgman (COL' 14)

Oh hey! How are you? Oh…right…yeah I’m Ethan. You’re Jenny, right? What? How did I know? Oh…mutual friend…class…facebook…you know how these things are. Wait…just a sec…could you do me a huge favor and talk to me in public so it looks I’m adjusting well to college?

I know you have History in, like, 5 minutes in ICC 105 or…ugh…something like that, but just gimmie a minute.  Just enough so that if people walk by us they’d think, “Oh…that guy is talking to a reasonably attractive girl and she doesn’t seem visibly uncomfortable. There’s probably nothing wrong with him.  I should totally reevaluate the instinct that tells me to wait until he’s in the elevator before I walk to the common room.”

How about I walk with you to…whatever building your class is in, if you even have class now…and you can make your decision then? Or not, we can stay here too…yeah, whatever’s fine with me too. Haha definitely…what?

So, ugh, what’s your major I guess?  Yeah…I figured…oh hey…it’s Hoya Snaxa! Haha, I get it! It’s like saxa but there are snacks in it so it’s called snaxa…do you get it?  Haha me too. That’s crazy.

So like, how do you like Georgetown so far? Oh yeah everything’s great, it’s great…except for the football team haha. That’s a reference we’re supposed to make now, right? What? They’re ok now? Shit.

Look…people! Quick, sit next to me…oh shit oh shit oh shit here they come…HAHAHAHA, I know, Hoya Snaxa! Snacks! I know, it’s hilarious…ok they’re gone. That was awesome.

Wait…what time is your class again? Well you might as well just stay out here so more people will notice us. Can you believe those people back there? They totally thought that we were, like, having a legit conversation. I bet next time they see me, they’ll be like, “oh there’s that guy who was talking to that girl. Maybe we should go up and talk to him about college stuff like term papers and sexiling and DPS and stuff. DPS haha…we hate them, right? Haha yeah…they are terrible.

Oh…you really have to get to class? That’s cool I was gonna maybe head down to the Leavey Center to the bookstore and then go to the credit union and Vital Vittles since those are all in the Leavey Center where I go and do my student activities. Okay, well here’s my number in case you want to text me or whatever.  Yeah…no I actually gotta go but it was good talking to ya. Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime…I mean you’re not too far away…Harbin 525….what? Never mind.

Student Whose Roommate Just Walked In On Him Masturbating

I’ve been dating the same guy since first semester freshman year and, while I really do love him, lately things have been getting a bit stale. He hasn’t done anything wrong I just don’t feel the same passion I used to. The little things that I used to love about him (like the way he laughs) now just annoy me. Is this a sign of a problem in our relationship or just a natural development after 3 years of dating? I don’t want to ditch someone I love for no reason but I also don’t want to end up stuck in a loveless relationship. What should I do?

-Baffled in Burleith

Dear Baffled,

Oh hey! Wow! [Slams laptop shut.] Whoa! Back already? [Hunches over in chair.] I didn’t hear…I thought you were supposed to be meeting with your study group for another hour. Oh…you finished early? That’s cool. Cool. Yeah I didn’t expect you back for another hour. Yeah, I was just, uh, I mean I didn’t expect you back so soon. I just….well, this may look weird, I guess. Well, it isn’t actually…you see i was just changing pants at my desk here and that’s why, uh, yeah man I really didn’t hear you at the door there.

Dear Student Whose Roommate Just Walked In On Him Masturbating,

I’m having a dilemma picking my classes for next semester. I need a class to satisfy my History requirement, and I’m trying to decide between a class that I’m genuinely interested but is going to be very difficult, and one that I couldn’t care less about but I’m sure will be an easy A. I know college is supposed to be about exploring your interests, but I’m a pre-med student so I really can’t afford the damage to my GPA. Have any advice?

-Confused in Car Barn

Dear Confused,

You really should’ve knocked man. Really should’ve knocked. Not that it matters or anything man ‘cause I was just changing or whatever but it’s just courtesy, you know? I just…I can’t believe how quiet you were in the hallway. I mean, you had to get out your keys and unlock the door and everything. I didn’t hear a thing, dude. You’re like some kind of ninja or something. It’s almost like you did it on purpose. I mean I know you didn’t but it’s almost like that. But yeah man it’s not like it’s a big deal it’s just something I noticed. I mean I wasn’t doing anything I wouldn’t want you to see I was just surprised that’s all. You walking in kinda surprised me since I had just been changing and everything. Really didn’t expect that. I already had my boxers on so it’s no big deal but can you imagine if you had walked in a few seconds earlier when I didn’t have them on yet because I was changing and everything? Man that would’ve been really embarrassing!

Dear Student Whose Roommate Just Walked In On Him Masturbating,

I’m beginning to worry about my roommate. I know there’s nothing unusual about partying and drinking in college, but I think he may be going overboard. This past weekend was the 5th time this month he couldn’t remember anything from the previous night when he woke up in the morning, and hearing him run to the bathroom to throw up has become a weekly occurrence. I’ve even caught him drinking alone during the middle of a weekday afternoon, but when I confronted him about it he just blew me off as being “too uptight.” How can I talk to him about my concerns without making him mad at me or just getting ignored?

-Nervous in New South

Dear Nervous,

Oh, yeah….no I guess sitting down at my computer is a kinda weird way to change. I was just sitting down at my desk to check something. I was just about to, uh…I was waiting for an email. What? Oh…the lotion? I was, uh, well, actually I have this rash. It’s on my thigh…but I…well I just figured it might need to be moisturized. Yeah, I was just, uh, rubbing it onto my leg when you walked in. Haha I can totally see how that might have looked weird from the wrong angle or something. But yeah, I was just rubbing it onto the rash, you know? I’m…well, I’m sure it’ll be fine I just wanted to make sure it didn’t get all dry and itchy or anything. Huh? Your shirt? Oh..sure…sorry about that. Was about to give it back to you anyway. Just wanted to check out the design so I, uh, yeah I just laid it out on my lap here. Pretty cool, man. Yeah, the Beatles are sweet. Awesome shirt. Well..here it is. Sorry, I…uh…got some lotion on it.

Professor Phillip Grant

Mostly, I’m at a loss for words and I stare at them baffled for what feels like hours before tossing out a perfunctory, “Oh there’s probably some anarcho-syndicalist anti-capitalist book burning somewhere on K street.” But the look of disappointment in a young radical’s eyes cuts right to my core. I can practically hear them screaming inside, “Has he even been to a riot in the last ten years?” I keep meaning to get out more, but these days with all the post-structural patriarchy on campus, I barely get outside of Healy gates.  

Well, no more. The old Phil is back in action. 

It started last weekend when I got a call from an old friend. At the time, I was lambasting several homeless people for their refusal to embrace their good fortune as social castoffs, but when I saw a call from my old riot buddy Rick coming in on the line I dropped the homeless guy I was berating for being male and answered my phone.  
“Phil, you absolutely have to come meet me. I came across just the cutest little riot and you’re going to love it,” he said.  

“I’m already there,” I replied. 

Half an hour later I found Rick in a small, dark back-alley that reeked of human excrement. Such a hidden gem! It wasn’t like those mainstream, socially-reinforcing riots they have on Capitol Hill these days, with their corporate shilling and signs made with industrial markers. Those are blood signs! You can tell that these so-called “protesters” practically plan these “riots,” if you can even call them that, and they not only feel false and contrived, but they also probably reinforce gender inequality somehow.  

No this little shindig was more like it how it used to be back in the good old days when people would drink kerosene, piss on a straw effigy and then light the sucker. And oh how we’d dance around it for hours, nearly blind from the exhaustion, MDMA and unadulterated lab-grade ethel alcohol we’d stolen.  

I hesitate to tell you too much about this real find. It’s something you’ll just have to see for yourself. It’s simply adorable. It practically screams 19th century fringe Russia. From the filth on the ground to the shopping carts filled with a veritable treasure trove of found objects to be reincorporated into tools to smash through heteronormativity, right down to the tramps dressed elegantly – perhaps almost too elegantly – in plastic bags and bandanas. So authentic!  

In fact, it was so authentic that I don’t even know what they were rioting about. A few of the men were screaming about something, but it was all just too much for me to take in so I just smiled and felt a warmth of condescending commiseration wash over me before Rick and I decided to head home and guilt trip each other over our own inherent privileges. A wonderful evening all around and I absolutely insist you check it out. It’s absolutely to die for. 

I remember when we first met at Rhino’s like it was just yesterday. I thought it would be like any other night. Never in a million years would I have expected to knock back a couple tequila shots and go home with the first girl too drunk to stand.

I remember the way the soft light hit your stiff, sequined tube dress with a cheap imitation Ms. America sash hanging nonchalantly off your shoulder. I remember how you coyly looked up at me with those big brown eyes and softly cried, “Oh my god that’s sooo funny! Hey, you’re cute! I can’t believe I’m not even DRUNK yet. I’ve had, like, so many shots.” Even then, I knew I wanted to take you home and fill your heart with the joy that comes only from Celine Dion’s “The Power of Love.” But I was afraid you would think I was moving too quickly. So I bit my tongue and held back my iPod as we made our own sweet music that night and then stayed together out of sheer laziness and desperation for another year.
Last week, as we sat awkwardly in that Starbucks while you regaled me with tales of how fat you were getting, shoveling coffee cake into your mouth, I realized in a sudden epiphany that there was only one way I could truly demonstrate the bottomless depths of my love – 23 tracks of the smoothest crooners from K-Ci and Jojo to Boyz II Men. Anything less would just seem trite and manufactured.

Anyone can walk into a store and pick up a ring or put a giant bow on a Lexus. Shit, even inbred retards can make a mix CD, but it takes that special someone – the one you were meant to settle for – to lovingly offer up the underwhelming repetitive simplicity of back-to-back Seal songs.
I know I’m a hopeless romantic, but I can’t help myself.

Sometimes when I’m at work I fantasize about sauntering past the vanilla incense and Yankee Candles burning like the fiery passion within me, and softly, ever so softly, pressing play as the booming voice of Tony Bennett accompanies my gentle, casual swagger towards to you — your eyes filling with gratitude and tears streaking the excessively applied mascara and clown-like blush. And then I think of all the years we’ll spend together; of all the nights we’ll awkwardly make love, starting and finishing before Kelly Clarkson can even complete her moving tribute to enduring love.
Marie, I guess what I’m trying to say – what every cell in my body is aching to make clear – what my voice longs to cry out through hackneyed and lazy writing is: you’re the one that I want. Woo. Woo. Woo.

Bret Stevenson

As my semester abroad nears, I find myself eagerly anticipating the new friends, classes, and experiences that await me.  I have always dreamed of immersing myself in a culture other than my own, to learn simply by living amongst the people I have spent so much time learning about.  It is truly the opportunity of a lifetime, sure to be full of enriching experiences at every turn.  That’s what I said on my application, anyway.  Really I can’t wait to pass out some historic, culturally significant gutters.

I have a one of a kind opportunity to wake up to the dulcet tones of a foreign tongue wafting through the air as I pick myself up out of a puddle of my own vomit, and I’m gonna take advantage of it.

Though I’ve spent many a night semi-conscious in some Burlieth back-alley, nothing can compare to what I will learn from peeling my battered, vomit-caked body out of a quaint trash-strewn sidestreet only steps away from a bar near the Louvre or the Colosseum.  As I wonder where I am, my foggy memories will slowly remind me that I spent the night pissing on buildings more historically significant than anything I’ve pissed on in the U.S.  The thought of wallowing in a regurgitated pool of the world’s finest cuisine within crawling distance of some of its finest art and architecture is almost too inspiring to put into heavily slurred words.

As much as enjoy my time here at Georgetown, I can’t help but think my life abroad will allow me to truly fulfill my potential.

As I stumbled home from Rhino last weekend, the stabbing pain in my liver let me know something was missing.  While there’s no denying the warm, nauseous feeling you get plastering your usual spot on the sidewalk with vomit, I needed something to jolt me out of my cultural complacency.  I can think of no better way to do this than to apply that same coat of vomit to some of history’s most significant avenues.

Smashing your head on cobblestone streets is great no matter where you are, but it is only once your blood has pooled at the base of brilliant fountains that you can truly appreciate how connected we all are.  The beauty of art surrounds us every moment of our lives, but it is not until that art has fractured your skull that you truly realize how powerful it can be.

I expect to come back from my time abroad a changed man.  Blacking out in such a culturally-stimulating environment is an experience you just can’t forget.  Just as I plan to leave my bile-based mark on Europe’s most cherished locations, it surely plans to leave its bloody cobblestone-indented mark on me.  I can hardly wait for the moment I arrive on foreign soil and can celebrate the joyful diversity of life by drinking myself to death before the age of 21.

Marissa Moore, GW Student

UGHHHH, I can’t take it anymore. Those Georgetown students are such a bunch of out-of-touch trust-fund babies.  They’re so wrapped up in their own little world that they can’t even realize how fucking empty their preppy little lives are. Oh, by the way, do you think I should go with the Dolce and Gabanna or Chanel handbag today? Oh, the Prada one, yeah that one is way cute but I had that 2 weeks ago, that would be so tacky, that would be something a Georgetown slut would do.

Anyway, as I was saying, I was at this little champagne-tasting party last weekend over at Georgetown, and they were eating salted sturgeon and drinking 1997 Dom like it was nothing. I mean, we’ve been making due with 1998, and here they are flaunting their 1997 and not even having the decency to pretend they notice we’re in a recession.  That kind of stuff is so gaudy and tasteless.

But, screw them, who wants to be like that anyways? I’m proud of how I grew up. I earned what I got.

Like, my parents didn’t just buy me a BMW on my 16^th birthday. I mean, I literally had to continuously ask my dad for two whole months before he went out and got me a 5 series, a fucking 5 series. I wanted the 7 series with the upgraded stereo, but no, I made a sacrifice for my family. Times were tough at one of dad’s private equity firms and with the summer home and the boarding school tuition, we were barely making ends meet.

Those douchebag Georgetown students probably don’t know what that’s like.  Seeing your parents sitting in the kitchen, not knowing if they’ll be able to take all six trips to Greece this year or be able to send their kids to an overpriced private university that’s worse than their flagship state school. That sort of thing really gives you perspective on life.

Oh and before I forget, we totally have to hit up the Lacoste store this weekend, they have the cutest dresses coming in. We can take the subway there. That reminds me, Georgetown students just fucking walk and take a cab everywhere, while we use that awful DC public transportation system.

Whatever, at least we’re not a bunch of unrelatable assholes.  While they’re isolated in that cutesy Georgetown neighborhood, we wander the hard streets of Foggy Bottom with pride.  Fuck you Hoyas.  Learn how to pretend to have some humility!

Syndicated Advice Columnist Lee Kowalski (SFS '13)

Dear Freshman Losing His Virginity,

I told one of my best friends that I had a crush on him when we were drunk on Saturday and now I really regret it! He’s been super awkward around me and when I text him to see if he wants to grab dinner at Leo’s he always has another excuse. Now I’m starting to worry that maybe I ruined our relationship even though I was secretly hoping he would confess that he had a crush on me too. What should I do to save this friendship?

– Admirer in Alumni Square





Dear Admirer,

Uh, hey, why don’t you take a seat? You want a drink or something? I, uh, wow my throat’s really dry. I’m just going to grab a sip of water. You sure you don’t want anything? You’re really pretty. I, uh, I’m just going to go grab a drink. Did I say that already? Hah, wow that’s so crazy. Wasn’t that party crazy? I had so much beer I’m like completely wasted. I’m seeing two of you. It’s like twins. Hah, I’m just kidding. You don’t have a twin do you? Wow, it’s really warm in here. Do you like Arcade Fire?





Dear Freshman Losing His Virginity,

My “Mathematics in Society” class had a take-home exam last week and the professor didn’t say whether or not we were allowed to collaborate so I assumed it was ok. A couple of us got together and worked on it and handed it in. Now I’m really worried that our answers are going to sound too similar. Is collaborating on a take-home violating the honor code? I don’t want to fail cause of something stupid like that. My parents will kill me.

– Honorable in Henle





Dear Honorable,

Oh boy, hah, this is so crazy. Hold on. Almost got it.  Oh shit. No, it’s fine, I’ve got another one. Oh look at that, it’s banana flavored. Hah, it smells like banana. Wanna lick it? Hah, I’m just kidding. That’s crazy. I, um, I’m just going to go the bathroom. I’ll be right back.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. How does this shit work? “Place applicator side flush with genitalia.”  Jesus, these two sides look exactly the same. Fuck. Uh, “squeeze midsection gently to seal reservoir tip.” What the fuck does that mean?!





Dear Freshman Losing His Virginity,

My roommate and I are not getting along at all. We chose each other through CHARMS, but she and I have COMPLETELY different hours. She said she was a late sleeper but every morning she’s up at 7am to go to the gym and her alarm wakes me up everyday. How can I let her know that she needs to be more respectful of my habits?

–Drowsy in Darnall





Dear Drowsy,

So which way do you want to face? I can do either. I mean, I’ve done both. In my head. Like I’ve practiced. And I’ve watched…educational videos. Yea, uh, cool. Heh. Uh. Heh. Like that? Oh wow, missionary. Kinky. Ok, ok, is it in? Is that it? Do you want lube? I have this bottle here. I, oh, ok, sure. OH MY GOD. OH WOW. I can totally see why people do this in movies all the time. This is great. Oh yeah, sure I can move. Hold on, let me get into a rhythm.

Relax, my roommate’s asleep.





Dear Freshman Losing His Virginity,

Help! My parents are cutting me off! They said if I don’t get my grades up they won’t pay tuition next semester. I’m trying really hard, but with so many extracurricular activities it’s hard to keep up with my work, plus I need to have some kind of social life. How can I balance my schedule? And do you know of any available jobs?

–Cut-off in Copley





Dear Cut-off,

Oooh. Oh my god. You’ve done this before. You’re so good at lying there. Oooh. Ow! Ouch. Can you just turn a little? Yeah, sorry, I’m not very flexible. Um, where should I put my hands? Do you… Ouch. Just…just like that. Yeah that’s AMAZING. Oh. Oh. Oh my god. Oh. Bagsfhinkslepsdlfkjsdf. Oh, wow. Phew. That was great. So, uh, what I do with this thing now? Do I just leave it on or…? Put it in the garbage? Really? Gross.

Rick Adams (MSB '10)

There’s been a lot of talk around campus lately about the recent string of so-called hate crimes. Students and faculty alike have been up in arms claiming that Georgetown isn’t a place for hate. And I agree. There’s no place at an academic institution for hate or hateful speech. But I do hope there is a place for love. Love of knowledge, love for your neighbor, love for Christ, and perhaps most of all, love for the vicious, unrelenting assault of homosexuals.

Now, I’m not a bigot. I don’t hate gays. Absolutely not. But I do love kicking the shit out of them. Of course I do. But one man’s hate crime is another’s love mauling. Calling it a hate crime is not only wrong, but it’s dangerous. It brings hate into an equation where there’s only an abounding love shooting straight from my heart.

Frankly, I don’t think people even understand what hate is.

But let me make this very clear right here and now: I don’t hate and I don’t commit hate crimes. I love. I love throwing down with a fairy late a night. I love it. I love everything about it. My chest tightens and I feel all the love I can muster welling up inside as my eyes glaze over. I love feeling the crisp November air cutting at my cheeks outside of Healy Gates. I love hearing the soft pitter-patter of an effeminate man in expensive shoes. I love the sweet smell of perfume from his freshly shaven neck right before I serenade him with calls of “What are you, some kind of faggot? Hey, faggot, I asked you a question. You suck dick?” And oh how I love the dulcet tones of flesh meeting perfectly moisturized gay flesh, reverberating in the air like bells on the Pope’s wedding day. So don’t you dare tell me I commit hate crimes.

Sometimes after I’ve fled the scene, almost ashamed of how much love I have in me, I want to come back and thank the young wayward soul. I want to thank him for reminding me what it is to love. What is to stand triumphantly over a crumpled body, feeling the heat of excitement rush through me, my heart swelling with pride at having vanquished someone of a different perceived sexual orientation. Secretly, I think they know that I owe them everything. That without them, my life would be empty, and I’d be forced to seek refuge in drink and lasciviousness. I need them to understand that I don’t do it because I hate them, I do it because I love assaulting them.

What do you call that shit—symbiotic relationship?  It’s one of those.

In a way, homos and I have a lot in common.  Some people look down on them for sucking dicks all the time, but they love doing that.  They couldn’t live if they didn’t have a dick in their mouths every five seconds.  And I couldn’t live if they weren’t walking around alone all the time for me to beat into a bloody puree.  Lots of people don’t like us doing what we love, but it’s the only thing we have.

So to all the hatemongerers I say, before you go filling the air with your vile, poisonous talk of hate crimes, stop and think for a moment. Try to step out of your narrow, intolerant worldview for just one second and put yourself in my shoes—a proud man who not only likes beating up gay kids late at night but loves it. And love is the closest thing we have to heaven on earth. If you want to take that away from me, I have only one question for you: What are you, some kind of faggot?

Patrick Riley (COL '10)

It has now been nearly two years since President DeGioia created working groups to improve the environment on campus for LGBTQ students. Since then we have won a full-time LGBTQ Center and the string of campus hate crimes has come to an end. However, as I look back, I feel like we’ve failed. We’ve lost most of the joy that came with being gay, the thrill you get when someone discriminates against you and you get to defend your sexual orienation.

Now don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the fact that gay students are no longer being shoved into walls by B-school bros. But I wore a pair of ass-less chaps to class the other day and nothing happened. The professor just smiled at me and said, “Good for you, Patrick,” and went on with her lecture.

I look fondly on the days when we stormed Healy Hall and filled the air above Red Square with our yells. Where’s the tension, where’s the energy? Just a couple barely homophobic slurs, an occasional wide-eyed look, even just hearing a few whispers as I walked by would get the juices flowing.

It’s not that I haven’t tried.  When I was laying on Devon and we were making out on top of a desk in a classroom in the new Hariri Building, someone just poked their head in and asked us if we had reserved the room with the Registrar. And then nobody bothered us when we were groping each other and stripped down in one of those glass-paneled rooms clearly visible from the rest of the building. I could probably walk through there in lingerie without a peep. Goddamnit, ever since Bruno came out people have become so desensitized. Heck, I think GPB even screened Bruno in ICC Auditorium.

I remember when Devon and I felt like social warriors every time we went out in public together. Now I kiss him goodbye before class without the slightest bit of fear. Where’s the fun in love if it isn’t a forbidden love, a giant middle finger to society? How did we go from passionate lovers shunned by society to being as plain as a suburban married couple? What do you have to do to shock people into revealing their deep-seated hatred of homosexuals?

I couldn’t take it anymore, so just the other day, we decided to have loud angry sex right there on Healy Lawn in the middle of the evening. The DPS officer just walked over and politely told us that we were blocking a fire lane and made us move over five feet.

I see the younger generation of activists just sitting around in the annoyingly well-funded LGBTQ center and spending their time debating whether celebrities are gay or not. Sure there’s still a lot of work to be done, and protesting in Washington still gives something to do, but it’s not quite the same. The National Equality March only brought back memories of the good old days. I tell the stories of our struggles, and the underclassmen look upon me in awe, only to go back to planning this weekend’s Pride party theme. Seriously, kids these days are just so spoiled. This year I even went to DeGioia’s office to ask permission for an uber-flamboyant gay pride parade through campus, just to see his reaction. Instead of turning red with rage, he offered funding to help pay for the expensive leather costumes.

I mean seriously, if I wanted to go to a school like that, I would have gone to NYU, or at least Vassar. But, I didn’t, and it was because I didn’t just want to be another gay kid. I wanted to be a rebel, I wanted to show everyone that I don’t fit into your mainstream society. Now Georgetown has taken that away from me. The administration may have given us our freedom, but they have taken away my identity.

But one of the even subtler things I notice these days is just how little we trust each other. What has happened to American society? Used to be you trusted your neighbors. Used to be you didn’t let fear of the unlikely chance that an intruder would enter your home to steal your TV or sexually assault you stop you from keeping your door open and unlocked.

In the great rolling rural fields of the heartland, this may still be the case. But despite the allure of the iconic family farm, simpler life, and luscious virgin farmer’s-daughter, most of us can’t live our lives there. We have to make our modern lives in modern cities, but by doing so, we lose something. And the loss of that something is felt every night right here in the grandest of all neighborhoods in our nation’s capital.

I’m here to say, students, that locking your door at night is a rejection of faith in your fellow man. When we lose that sense of trust, our society becomes fractured. We stop talking to each other. We stop participating in civic activities. And we lose the ability to see the common bond we share as Americans and as human beings, the bond that brings all of us together, the bond of half of us in the small spoon position and the other half of us separated by a blanket in the big spoon position.

When we give up that trust, what we really give up is trust in democracy. How can we rule as one people when we won’t talk to each other and see our commonality? How can we trust the decisions of the people who elect leaders we don’t agree with? When will our fear of one another become so great that we give the death penalty for every crime, regardless of the fact that the guy was really gentle and only put his fingers in there because it was obvious by her not saying no and by continuing to be asleep that she wanted it.

We must strive to come back together. It begins with human contact, a basic need we all have. Reach out and touch someone today. They don’t want you shaking their hand? Find a way to touch them anyway. When they wake up and find you there, they will have a whole new understanding of what they have been missing in life and what needs to happen for our civil society to rebuild itself.

So undergrads, leave that door unlocked and open to a new trust in your fellow citizen. You may think that this small step will have no impact and go unnoticed, but I can assure you I check every door at Georgetown every night and will come in to thank you personally for doing your part. And if you happen to be asleep, I’ll just have to find somewhere comfortable nearby to wait and something to do to occupy myself in the meantime.