Young Affection

To love a love like never before

Is with you a lifetime in its ripest form

Young affection has never felt so fine

In days, through years, adoration mine

Off the Radar: The Experience of Off-Campus Students

IMG_3935.JPGOn average, 90 percent of freshmen live on campus, yet by senior year, the amount declines to 30.2 percent, according to King’s housing director, Jonathan Sheaffer.
“College is like the one weird time of your life, where your entire community lives in close proximity to each other,” Sheaffer said. “So when you’re on campus, you have thousands of friends within a few minutes of you. So, I think a lot of people feel that pressure to stay in community.”
As an incoming freshman at The King’s College, there is the difficulty in deciding where to live. With the aspect of the campus housing system, students voiced their concern with the individual houses’ expectations.
Levi Kinzer, a 24-year-old student who moved off-campus after his first semester at King’s, shared his opinion of the house system.
“I think it’s really good for the first-year, incoming freshman, and then I think it actually acts against its purpose to create community,” Kinzer said. “Because then people start only hanging out with those groups, so it polarizes rather than unifies.”
The president of the House of Ronald Reagan, Phillip Reeves, shared that the house system is “the backbone of the school.” Reeves believes students’ desire for off-campus living is motivated by cost.
The contrasting prices are seen with Kinzer’s experience. With two roommates, he splits a three bedroom apartment on 67 Wall St. and pays $1,570 per month. His recent realtor certification motivated him to move out of student housing. With his knowledge of Manhattan’s pricing for apartments, he thinks the school is “making money off of people.”

Living off-campus gives students more independence to save money with fewer roommates and to choose where they live and who they live with.
Tanner Sanderford, a 20-year-old sophomore, lives in a spacious Crown Heights apartment with two roommates. He only pays $1,160 each month, in addition to having his own bedroom, and his roommates share a bedroom for $700 each.
“You’re going to have more money, more space,” Sanderford said.
Personal space is not a luxury on-campus students can afford, and sometimes as many as three people are housed in a studio apartment. This gives students less privacy, on top of the mandatory rooms checks that all on-campus students are required to schedule.
“There is something about someone coming into your space and making sure you meet these requirements,” said Nicholas Bruno, who is a junior trying to move off-campus. “King’s tells you, ‘You’re going to be an adult with these responsibilities; however, we’re going to check up on these responsibilities and punish you if you don’t do them.’”
With on-campus living, students have to follow a list of rules, enforced by an honor code. Sheaffer believes the desire for independence is a large factor for people to move out of school housing.
“I think the big reasons are money and independence that people want to move off. Independence factor is big because being a school, we can’t get around the fact that we have to have rules, and a big one for a lot of people is no alcohol on campus,” Sheaffer said. “I talk to a number of students every year, who are moving off because they want to, and I think, in a healthy way, they want to make their own decisions. They want to do the things they’re allowed to do, and student housing has limitations on that.”
Accommodating these rules is more challenging, being a student over 21 years old. Bruno pointed out that his experience, as a 24-year-old, with the honor code system is at times constraining, since even the law allows him to do these things.
Kinzer also shared his frustration with this intrusion, due to the house system.
“It’s terrible. I got lectured about consuming alcohol by an 18-year-old. They have their little house month. Get out of here. Get out of here,” Kinzer said.
With flickering candles and a glass of wine in hand, Addison Huntington-Bugg understands this pleasure, as it is own of her past-times in her off-campus apartment.
“I think the honor code is more of a reason some move off campus, but people may blame it on the houses because they are the ones facilitating honor code conversations,” Huntington-Bugg said.
The King’s College already allows students to be in New York, but off-campus living allows students to be New Yorkers.

Personal Essay

Two weeks ago, my friend asked for forgiveness. He asked again and again, dedicating one apology to each of his lies, yet this memory was too crisp in mind from months before. My body’s weight felt heavier, and I could not understand how I had invested years with this person, and he had no sincere regrets, after stringing lies into each of our conversations. I struggled between my instinctual forgiveness and putting a boundary between me and his dysfunction. I pondered, at what point, one should let go for their own sanity or if people deserve endless chances. That was the fifth time he had promised change, yet each time I felt like my forgiveness could change him, as if he needed someone to be there.
Everyone deserves forgiveness, yet it seems unclear how many chances a person deserves and, at what number of chances, I lose myself. Karen Horney, a psychoanalyst who questioned Freudian views and believed anxiety was the introduction to destructive behavior, spoke of self-evasive people, explaining their traits as compliant, apologetic, and self deflating. She continued how they often are drawn towards a self-expansive person, who desires triumph and self satisfaction. I question whether this means someone like myself, who endlessly forgives, is a self deflating person, longing to please the self-expansive person. In my previous experiences with my friend, I was quick to forgive because I feared that if I took too long recovering from his betrayal, he would be the one to walk away. Horney makes it seem, as if too much forgiveness shows a lack of respect for oneself. On the other hand, the Bible preaches of the importance of forgiveness. In Luke 17:3-4 it states, “If your brother or sister sins against you, rebuke them; and if they repent, forgive them. Even if they sin against you seven times in a day and seven times come back to you saying ‘I repent,’ you must forgive them.” Although forgiveness may be different than allowing that person to stay in your life. I can accept that someone made a mistake; however, I wonder if the Bible intends for the betrayer to be left behind. In addition, if I continue a pattern of forgiveness, it may show the manipulator how easily I am to be taken advantage of. I notice people who give no second chances are colder, yet also free of dysfunction. They are almost an example of the self-expansive person, and they get what they want. They are people that would not only ask for forgiveness, but would also make their own decision of how the feud should end. Whereas, if people are more passive about decisions, they are not putting themselves first. Although, there is a certain satisfaction in knowing one’s own personal kindness. When I forgive someone countlessly, I am pleased that I did everything I could; I am just unsure, if it is unhealthy to keep someone in my life who continuously hurts me. In addition, if one demands respect from someone by avoiding these situations, it seems as though that person may attract healthier relationships in the future. One thing I try to consider is how many chances that person would give me. Surely the self- expansive person would not be made a fool, if the situation was reversed.
Two weeks ago, I decided on forgiveness, yet he had already grown tired of the words “I’m sorry.” Somehow, I was left pleading for his forgiveness, since I questioned his disloyalty. People will always see the world from an advantageous viewpoint, and I wonder, if the self expansive person originates as self evasive and merely tires of being pushed around.

Manhattan

Lime green light illuminates the top floor of the building across mine. Each apartment is lined with glass, some rooms dim, yet all filled with life—the family who spends their evening watching sitcoms on their leather, plush couch, the girl who’s curtains spark in small intervals—and for moments you can imagine a pale, french model, contorting into different shapes with glossy, parted lips—her features glowing, as a photographer in his Neiman Marcus suit, chants, “Vonderful!” in his German accent. I cannot decide if the most beautiful thing about Manhattan is all the things it has to offer, or what it allows you to imagine at night, as you look at the dazzling city from your own dimly lit rooftop.

Reader, I feel pain every time he exercises his grieved exposures. Whether it is my direction they are headed, I am unsure. It was a most frightful sight, I might tell you. Beginning with sullen eyes, sunken into his being and a mouth clenched within the creases. Do not presume that was the offset of my startle. No reader, it was the feeling his vision projected. It was haunting, and I cannot begin to let myself forget the sight- his amusement at my pure ferocity.  

The world discomforted me last night, yet not he. For he shared his laughter with her, not sparingly, but with correspondence. My features tightened upon abrasion of his exuberance, and I question and how he felt nothing of the sorts. Instead, Reader, he yielded no contempt, in which doomed me for misery. I battled my intended reactions with self conflict. How was I to know how to handle myself, in a room of indifferent strangers. I knew them no more than a tropical tree knows the harsh expectancies of winter. 

Scarlet Letter

I cannot imagine how the spiny spoonfuls must have felt, as they jabbed the back of your throat.

Because while you plead for my hands, silky around your bones,

They only see strangling fingers, patient until your bones crack.

We will always be misshapen through the eyes of their contorted vision.

So my darling, wear my love like a scarlet letter.

Ivy

The flutter of footsteps resonates throughout the hallway, as copper curls bounce furiously beneath the small girl’s shoulders.

“Mommy!” she squeals, followed by a swoop off the ground.

“What about me?” Her father pokes at her disoriented body, which leads to squirms and and exasperated giggles.

Pleads of release are thrown around until finally her feet lay flat on the cool, tiled floor. She continues her pursuit, barreling towards her mother, outstretched arms first with a head thrown back. Her curls giving the illusion of a livid fire on the back of her round head. The girl’s small chest invites harsh contact from her mother’s knee, which inhabits the same height. Upon the force, the once unfastened arms wrap firmly around her mother’s leg.

“Good morning Ivy,” her mother returns, as she brushes her daughters back.  Her daughter looks towards her rejected parent, whose eyes even seem to smile.

With a hand still hugging her mother and one now extended for her father, her spotted cheeks swell with excitement, as she says, “Come on daddy, you can join too!”

 

Sixty days

Sixty days is what it took. 

For my glances to be returned.

For our lips to confess what our eyes couldn’t.

Sixty days is what I waited. 

For your realization of what we had.

To break another’s heart for the interest of our own.

Sixty days is what we had. 

To spend every moment in each other’s arms.

Counting down distance and knowing it was a close friend.

Sixty days is what we spent. 

Our words on paper, traveling miles with messages of our love.

Anticipating every Sunday, for emotions our voices carried.

Sixty days is how long you waited.

With lies so long, they wrapped around each muscle.

Feeding the growth, until I noticed their presence.

Sixty days is what we struggled.

Going back and forth, until we forfeited to each other’s company.

Exhausted of separation, we found our way.

Sixty days is what we enjoyed. 

With shared excitement and patience of a new beginning.

Four acres of happiness, intended for us.

Sixty days is how long we contemplated. 

Thoughts of commitment wrapped around my finger.

But then whether answering a call was worth your time.

Sixty days is what it took to move on.

Disowning the music on the radio, as it mocked my loneliness.

Giving into to tears fewer and fewer times throughout the day.

Sixty days is when I stopped. 

Love was introduced and thoughts of you were blurred.

However, the radio reminded your memory never really faded.

Sixty days is how long that lasted.  

He began to notice my comparisons to you.

I couldn’t help how fondly my memory was brainwashed of you.

Sixty days is what is left. 

By now this pattern is indented into my brain.

Please…..don’t let it repeat.

Broken

How I long to be loved. 

I tear away clothing, searching desperately under each shield of fabric. 

I do this in hopes that maybe vulnerability will lead to deeper affection. 

Yet all I see is bare skin on a rejecting vessel.