The Missing Ink

An ingenue considers taking the tattoo plunge.

by Tess Dearing The phone was ringing, ringing-please don’t pick up-ringing, ringing – rigid with suspense, I waited. I bit my lip. I was getting cold feet. “Studio Zee.” Low and jaded, a woman’s voice cut across my lingering apprehension. “Oh! Hello!” I fumbled, tossed out my sweetest phone voice. “Tattoo or piercing.” The response was clipped and icy. This was a statement, not a question. She was a bored traffic cop, herding me to the left or the right, and she had answered the. . . Read more
Tess Dearing
The College Dropout

A glitch in the residential system – I switched.

During my Yale admissions tour, forty overeager highschoolers and I were herded through the iron gates of Silliman, arranged in a corner of the Frisbee-dotted courtyard, and regaled with the merits of the residential college system. A couple of months later, in my interview, I cited these merits as one of my primary motives for applying to Yale. I babbled about how I longed for an intimate liberal arts experience in the midst of a research university and described a dream of four-year friendships, fierce. . . Read more
Nicole Allan
The Yale Woman

Searching for a Yale-approved paradigm of the modern woman.

Ken was a handsome executive- type. He drove a red Corvette and took care of Barbie, who arranged playdates for Skipper and Stacey, adored her baby, Polly Pocket, and fussed with her jumpers and up-dos at least three times daily. As a little girl, I modeled my dolls’ family after my real one. My dad is a handsome executive-type, and my mother’s a gem like Barbie, who is fun, helpful, and employed exclusively as a mother. You might call her a “homemaker,” but I prefer. . . Read more
Romy Drucker
Unique New York

Yale Drama grads recreate their bright college years in Times Square.

Costumes that appear to have been filched from a Medieval Times theme restaurant are carefully laid out behind a postage stamp-sized stage. The audience waits patiently, toying with napkins and waiting for dinner to arrive, as the minutes tick away. Finally the house manager takes the stage to introduce the evening’s entertainment. He greets the audience informally and then offers the usual admonition to silence all cell phones: “The actors will kill you if you don’t turn them off.” After realizing that a few of. . . Read more
Summer Banks
Beneath the Beinecke

Hundreds of early editions of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

I stare at the hundreds of early editions of Leaves of Grass. Green spines and brown spines, all with gold-lettered titles rendered in plant-like tendrils, crowd the shelves for yards. I pull down one volume that includes Song of Myself, and find my favorite passage, section six: “A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands…” Quietly at first, I begin to read aloud. Soon self-conscious, I pause to see if anyone is near enough to hear me. No one is; I am. . . Read more
Emily Kopley