VOL. CXXXVIII No. 0

THE STUDENT LIFE

What’s happening at the 7Cs? Editorial note: The shorts below are intended to complement articles to ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱę ȱ Ĝ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱŘśǯȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ interviews to develop these stories ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ Ȧ Ȧ Ȧǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ¢ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ŝŝŚȬŜŖŞȬ ŜŖŗŞȱ ȱ ǯ

Oldenborg razed Construction crews finished demolition at Pomona College’s former Oldenborg Hall site in August, in preparation for the construction of Pomona new Center for Global Engagement (CGE), which is slated to house Oldenborg’s renowned programming. Oldenborg was home to daily language tables, the Foreign Language Resource Center and Pomona’s language resident program, which housed around 130 students. The lot is currently empty ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ě ǯ

PO-union negotiations Contract negotiations between Pomona College and the UNITE HERE Local 11, which represents Pomona’s dining service employees, began this week. The previous contract expired on June 30. The contract between Pomona ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ when the college faced backlash this spring for terminating Frary Dining Hall cook and union leader Rolando “Rolo” Araiza. Since Araiza’s termination, the Claremont Student Worker Alliance has been petitioning Pomona to rehire him.

PO dining plan changes Pomona College Dining Services unveiled changes to its Pomona Dining Plan starting this fall, including the addition of meal equivalency at Cafe 47 and new restrictions on cross-campus meals and meal swipe timing. The changes come after discussion among the Student Facilities and Campus Services Advisory Com-

CLAREMONT, CA FRIDAY SEPT. 11, 2026 VOLUME CXXXVIII NO.0

ȱ ȱ ȱŖ ȱ Ƿȱ ȱ¢ Ȃ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ highlights from last semester and previews of what’s happening this fall. This is a special edition: While TSL publishes ten weekly issues each semester, this year the new Editorial Board has brought back ȱ Ȭ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ Ĝ ȱ issue of the semester on Sept. 25, and check out tsl.news/apply to explore opportunities to get involved.

Ĵ ǰȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ǰȱ the Vice President of Facilities and Campus Services, over the summer. Some Pomona students, especially those with dietary restrictions, have expressed concern over the changes.

form at rallies and meetings. The case is still under review at the LA County District Attorney’s Ĝ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ is not aware of a deadline for its decision, the Claremont Courier reported in July.

Homicide of Diego Rios

PO-CGU partnership discussions

Investigations into the homicide of Diego Rios, which gar ȱ ę ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ the 7Cs last spring, are ongoing. While experiencing an apparent mental health crisis, 30-year-old ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ Ĝ ȱ Joshua Orona and corporal Benjamin Alba. After being tased and held face-down in prone restraint by Alba, Rios fell unconscious and was later pronounced dead at the hospital. The LA County ȱ ¡ Ȃ ȱ Ĝ ȱ ȱ his death a homicide in February. In the months following the incident, Rios’ family and many Claremont community members advocated for transparency, accountability and broader re-

Negotiations between Pomona College and Claremont Graduate University (CGU) regarding a potential partnership are ongoing. Pomona College President G. Gabrielle Starr announced last December that the college had entered exclusive negotiations with CGU regarding a prospective arrangement between the institutions, which ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ resources with the graduate institution to help it repay its outstanding debts. Earlier, in April 2025, CGU announced to its community that the school was pursuing a partnership in ȱ ȱę ȱ ǯȱ

OPINIONS

SPORTS

“What distinguishes the political life of 2026 from that of 2024 is not the presence of political conviction in one and its absence in the other, but the collapse of an extraordinary sense of collective possibility that had made Palestine the organizing principle of campus political life,” Lina McRoberts PO ‘27 writes.

On Saturday, Sept. 5, Claremont-Mudd-Scripps unveiled the new Sports Bowl facility, with the Stags defeating the University of Northwestern (Minn.) 19-14. The new $30-plus-million facility includes a multi-purpose football, lacrosse and track stadium, as ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ and a golf practice facility.

The student newspaper of the Claremont Colleges since 1889

New CMC president William Dudley began his tenure as the sixth president of Claremont McKenna College (CMC) in July, succeeding President Emeritus Hiram Chodosh. After Chodosh announced his planned departure from the position last spring, a months-long presidential search followed, with Dudley named as his successor in December. Dudley served as the president of Washington and Lee University for nearly a decade starting in 2017, and before that, was a professor and provost at Williams College.

Scripps centennial Scripps College began its yearlong centennial celebrations this May. Programming including an all-day women’s leadership summit (Oct. 10) and more events, exhibitions and performances are set to take place until May 2027. Ellen Browning Scripps founded the college in 1926, the second-oldest undergraduate institution in the Claremont Colleges consortium.

SPECIAL PROJECTS ȱ ȱ ȱ ŘŖŘŜȂ ȱ ę ȱ tion ended in a confrontation with the Claremont Police Department (CPD), after being followed across the 5Cs by Campus Safety. TSL conducted an investigation into Pomona College and Campus Safety’s relationship to CPD.

INDEX: News 1 | Arts & Culture 3 | Opinions 5 | Special Projects 6 | Sports 8

News

PAGE 2

SEPTEMBER 11, 2026

Meet TSL’s fall 2026 editorial board KAHANI MALHOTRA Despite the raging humidity, you may have felt a breath of fresh air move through the Claremont Colleges campuses this week as Claire Welch SC ’27, Madeleine Farr PZ · DQG 1DGLD +VX 32 · R΀FLDOO\ NLFNHG RͿ WKH VHPHVWHU DV 76/·V IDOO editorial board. 7KH WKUHH KDYH ELJ SODQV WR UHYLtalize key parts of the newspaper: they launched new journalism ethics workshops, prioritized training for 76/ VWDII E\ SXVKLQJ WKH UHJXODU publication cycle back by one week and brought back a pre-COVID-19 tradition of publishing an “Issue 0.” 7KH WKUHH HGLWRULDO ERDUG PHPEHUV also said they are focused on building writer retention and mentorship opportunities this semester, as well as long-term relationships with groups across the campuses. “It’s really cool to see it all coming together,” Welch said. “We’re really hopeful that a lot of the changes that ZH·UH PDNLQJ ZLOO KDYH ULSSOH HͿHFWV in the future.” Welch was born in Hong Kong, and was raised near the University of Hong Kong (HKU) campus. She said her experience watching HKU students be arrested and jailed during the 2019 pro-democracy protests deeply shaped her appreciation for student journalism and a free press. “[People] should know what

happens to communities when there isn’t press, when there isn’t freedom of speech,” Welch said. “It is important that we have spaces like this.” :HOFK LV QRZ VHUYLQJ DV 76/·V HGLWRU LQ FKLHI DIWHU ÀYH VHPHVWHUV of writing and editing for the arts & culture features and columns sections, as well as serving as managing editor of arts & culture and opinions last semester. She said she hopes to increase access to press opportunities at the 7Cs, particularly because the colleges don’t have an R΀FLDO MRXUQDOLVP SURJUDP “It’s really upsetting that there LV VXFK D KLJK ÀQDQFLDO DQG VRFLDO barrier to getting into journalism,” Welch said. “Something that I want to leave my mark on is … giving people the space and resources to be journalists.” Farr, born and raised in BrookO\Q 1HZ <RUN LV DOVR LQ KHU ÀIWK VHPHVWHU DW 76/ KDYLQJ VHUYHG DV copy editor, copy chief and news editor before becoming managing editor of news and sports this semester. She said she resonates with the job RI QHZVSDSHUV WR FDSWXUH WKH ´ÀUVW draft of history,” and appreciates KRZ 76/ KDV EHHQ GRLQJ VR DW WKH Claremont Colleges for 137 years. “[Our] archives go back so long — I don’t know if there’s a more comprehensive story of the institutions that make up the consortium,”

Farr said. )DUU VDLG VHUYLQJ KHU ÀUVW IHZ weeks as a managing editor has already opened her eyes even wider to all the moving parts that go into publishing the paper each week. “I’m realizing how much more WKHUH LV WR OHDUQ DERXW 76/ DV D whole and its entirety and all the pieces that make it,” she said. “It’s really [working on] Ed Board that allows you to understand the full extent of what people do and how much they care.” Hsu is entering her sixth semester at the newspaper as managing editor of opinions and arts & culWXUH %RUQ DQG UDLVHG LQ $XVWLQ 7; the English and art history major never planned on getting involved with student journalism. ´, GLGQ·W FRPH LQWR 76/ ZDQWLQJ to do journalism really, and then I got sucked in, [and] part of the reason is because I really love research and learning about research.” Hsu VDLG ´76/ KDV PDGH PH XQGHUVWDQG college more and understand the purpose of research and academia … it’s a way to have what you study and care about exist in the world and in real life.” Following her love of research, Hsu has been an editor for special projects, features and columns; she has also written for almost every section. She said she loves feature pieces in particular because they

shed light on stories that may otherwise be overlooked. ´)RU PH WKH MRE RI 76/ DQG RI these sections is not to just [rewrite] press releases or [be] longer writeups of the events calendar,” Hsu said. “It’s to put into writing what won’t exist elsewhere.” )DUU DGGHG WKDW 76/·V ZRUN LV a part of a broader landscape of student journalism in Claremont. “I want to debunk the myth that we are constantly competing with other publications,” Farr said. “We really appreciate the diversity and

vibrancy of the amount of publications across the Claremont Colleges, and we’re just happy to be a part of that, and to encourage discourse with our peers.” :HOFK VDLG KHU WLPH DW 76/ KDV shaped her years in Claremont — and her life — immensely. ´:RUNLQJ DW 76/ PDNHV PH D EHWter person,” Welch said. “It makes me a more thoughtful person, it makes me question what I hear around FDPSXV LW PDNHV PH ZDQW WR ÀQG RXW what my friends or what my acquaintances are up to … it feels like a gift.”

Claire Welch SC ’27, Madeleine Farr PZ ’27 and Nadia Hsu PO ’27 are taking the reins as TSL’s editorial board this semester.

ISABELLA LEYTON • THE STUDENT LIFE

FROM THE SPRING

The other side of Pomona College’s gubernatorial debate: Sitting with the students JOELLE RUDOLF On April 28, eight candidates ȱ ěȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ the largest California gubernatorial debate yet — a spectacle students likened to a political sitcom. With antics like Chad Bianco accusing his opponents of “lying to these kids,” or Katie Porter hanging her head in ȱ ¡ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ě ȱ the audience a candid look into the orderly disorder of state politics. “It felt like a ‘Veep’ episode but, nonetheless, certainly made me ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ǰȄȱ Ĵ ee Oak Jarvis PO ’28 said after the conclusion of the debate. With mere days until primary ballots are sent out on May 4, Tuesday’s debate gave candidates a chance to distinguish themselves in the closely contested jungle primary, wherein the top two candidates — ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ Ĝ ȱȯȱ ȱ advance to the November election. After frontrunner Eric Swalwell dropped out of the race following sexual assault allegations, former ȱ Ĵ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ Becerra, who had been polling in the low single digits, received a ę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ Billionaire entrepreneur Tom Steyer and former congresswoman Katie Porter accompany Becerra as the top

Democratic candidates, while Republicans Steve Hilton and Chad Bianco continue to lead the polls. Student and faculty support were central to the debate, the first event of its kind hosted at the Claremont Colleges. The proceedings were moderated in part by Pomona politics professor Sara Sadhwani and showcased student questions and commentary throughout. Students also performed soundcheck, ushered guests and comprised the majority of the audience. 5C students, many of whom are eligible to vote in California, initially took their seats in Bridges Auditorium hoping to gain clarity ahead of the primaries. However, Jarvis said he left feeling “discouraged” with his options. “There just seems to be a general theme of uncertainty about who the future leader of the state is,” Jarvis said. He noted how the large number of candidates and lack of clear frontrunner at this stage in the race made Tuesday’s debate all the more important. “While it’s cool that there’s a diverse array of candidates, it’s a Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ¢ȱ split votes,” he said. ¢ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ to hear the candidates’ stances on

prominent issues like immigration, ȱ ȱ ě ¢ǯȱ ever, with candidates frequently ȱ ȱ ě ȱ ȱ ȱ over one another, viewers learned more about candidates’ personalities than their policies. ȃ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ is stop Steve Hilton’s daddy, who endorsed him,” Becerra said in response to a question about the rising cost of healthcare, alluding to President Donald Trump and his recent trillion dollar Medicaid cuts. After this comment, the debate devolved into minutes of ěȬ ȱ ǯ Porter interrupted Bianco to probe for his thoughts on her single-payer healthcare proposal, to which he responded, “If you want socialism, go somewhere else.” “I thought we had rules here,” current Democratic candidate and former Los Angeles mayor Antonio Villaraigosa said to the moderators, sounding frustrated. “We’re not supposed to go back and forth. I thought we had like 45 seconds apiece.” When the stage eventually settled, the moderators gave student ȱ ȱĚ ǯ Pomona’s debate featured three questions from students, covering issues from the economy to

U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Ryan Kossarian PO ’27, Kloi Ogans PO ’28 and Dante Gilbert PO ’27 each approached the mic stand to address the candidates from the audience. “Wow, that was a bit of a mess,” Kossarrian said. He then asked how the candidates plan to address the rising cost of higher education and the declining job market as governor. To this, Villaraigosa and Superintendent of Public Instruction Tony Thurmond expressed discontent with the current price of college tuition. After the debate, Kossarian shared in an interview that he originally wanted to ask about housing ě ¢ǯ “My question was something completely different than the question they made me ask,” Kossarian said, referring to his communication with CBS California, who sponsored the event. “They made me rewrite it. They gave me a script.” Gilbert, who asked the last student-led question of the night, shared similar dissatisfaction ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ę ǯȱ Hailing from Minnesota, Gilbert originally intended to ask about each candidate’s proposed policies on regulating ICE in California.

The California gubernatorial debate, hosted by Pomona College on April 28, left students with more questions than answers.

JOELLE RUDOLF • THE STUDENT LIFE

When it came time for the debate dress rehearsal, though, Gilbert said their script was also involuntarily Ĵ ǯ The new script “made [my question] a lot less powerful,” Gilbert said. Gilbert’s question was restruc ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ Ȭ ȱ ȱ that prompted “yes” or “no” responses. It was reworded to broadly ask whether candidates would support assault charges against ICE agents, accomplishing little ¢ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ¢ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ Democrats said they would support such charges, while the Republicans disagreed. ȃ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ positions on ICE would have been more interesting, more reassuring, ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ¢ȱ ȱ topic right now,” Gilbert said. “I think it dumbed down the question a lot and made it less useful for people to know who they’re voting for.” Gilbert found CBS’ student selection and question revision processes confusing. They thought this lack of ¢ȱ Ě ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ overall shortcomings. “Did they actually want our questions, or did they pick us for demographic reasons, or were they interested in the themes of our questions but knew they would change them later?” Gilbert said. “I’m curious about that process and how that ę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ the whole thing.” Other students said they left the debate feeling worried about the future of California. The night made Kossarian doubt whether he is going to cast a vote at all. “These people are not interested in us. They’re interested in themselves and their careers,” Kossarian ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ tion to what himself and many other Californians are looking for in their future governor. “When I walk out on the streets, I see empty businesses; I see a bunch of apartments being built. I want homes,” Kossarian said. “That’s what I’m interested in, I’m interested in actually helping Californians. They’re not, so I think any vote that I would make is in vain.” In a free-for-all primary that has seen scandal and upheaval across the political spectrum, Tuesday’s debate did little to help Pomona student voters with the calculus of their decision. “I don’t know who I’m voting for,” Jarvis said. “And there’s a general feeling among my peers, who are from California, that they also don’t know who they’re voting for.”

;MVQWZ ;\I‫ٺ‬

Editorial Board CLAIRE WELCH, Ȭ Ȭ MADELEINE FARR, ȱ NADIA HSU, ȱ

TSL’s Editorial Board consists of the editor-in-chief and two managing editors. Aside from the editorial, ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ Ě ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ Single copies of TSL are free and may be obtained at news stands around campus. Multiple copies may be purchased for $0.47 per copy with prior approval by contacting editor@tsl.news. Newspaper theft is a crime; perpetrators may be subject to disciplinary action as well as civil and/or criminal prosecution.

FLORIA AUERBACH ȱ

MELINDA QERUSHI Graphics Editor

AUDREY GREEN Opinions Editor

ADAM AKINS ȱ

TAHI WILTON GEARY ȱ ȱ

AVA FLEISHER News Editor

JUN KWON Opinions Editor

OTTO FRITTON ȱ ȱ

NICHOLAS STEINMAN ȱ

KAHANI MALHOTRA News Editor

TALBOTT CHESLEY Sports Associate

CHARLOTTE RENNER ¢ȱ

BIANCA MIRICA News Associate

ZACHARY LEBLANC Sports Editor

CELESTE CARIKER ȱǭȱ ȱ

JOSEPH WOO CHAN ¢ȱ

PATRICK MCDOWELL ȱ

JAKE CREELAN Sports Editor

SARAH ZIFF Photo Editor

CORINA YI ȱǭȱ ȱ

JESSICA LEVIN ȱ

GABRIELLE RICCIARDI Photo Editor

SIENA GIACOMA ȱǭȱ ȱ

EVELYN HAO ȱ

PJ JAMES Graphics Editor

ANANYA VINAY ȱǭȱ ȱ

ILA ASSEGAF Special Projects Editor

ROCHELLE LU ȱǭȱ ȱ RIYA SAINI ȱ

SEPTEMBER 11, 2026

Arts & Culture

PAGE 3

WHAT MAKES US HUMAN

0MZM IZM Å^M \PQVO[ )1 KIV¼\ ZMXTQKI\M KIRA HELLER

What does it mean to be human? This is a question I’ve never thought to ask because, growing up, I didn’t have to. As a child, my understanding of human nature was simple. Being human looked like my mother’s effortless kindness towards strangers, my dad’s endless curiosity about the world and my brother’s unwavering admiration for me. As I got older, classes, history books and relationships complicated that picture. In the past few years, ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ has forced me to confront humanity’s complexities head-on. The more AI learns to replicate abilities we once considered uniquely human, the more urgently we are forced to ask what being human actually means. Now that machines can create art, write essays and even act as therapists, one question keeps resurfacing in my mind: What can humans do that AI can’t? In 2025, Lilly Endowment Inc. donated $50.8 million to the University of Notre Dame to develop the DELTA network, “which will provide practical resources … to help navigate challenges posed by rapidly develop-

ing AI.” This network is based on the DELTA initiative, a faith-based ethical framework created by researchers at the University of Notre Dame’s Institute for Ethics and the Common Good. DELTA proposes ę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ can’t replace: dignity, embodiment, love, transcendence and agency. Although DELTA’s framework is rooted in Christian beliefs, I’m ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ can reveal beyond their religious context. They provide a useful framework for my own argument: AI may be able to replicate individual human abilities, but that is not the same as experiencing the full complexity of human existence. ȱę ȱ ȱ ǰȱȃ nity,” says that “every human possesses inherent worth,” and that a person’s value is not related to their status or economic productivity. At the ripe age of 19, I’ve spent a lot of time measuring my worth by productivity: aiming for a well-paying ǰȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ for extracurriculars that will look good on my resume. I constantly have to remind myself that college is also about discovering what I enjoy, not simply preparing to enter the

workforce. AI doesn’t erase dignity, but it reinforces a culture that rewards scale, speed and efficiency. This has become strikingly apparent in the workplace as companies have begun implementing AI optimization and workforce automation to increase production, creating an unrealistic standard for human production. AI may pressure humans to work harder, but DELTA’s dignity principle reminds us that being human is more than job performance. “Embodiment” reminds us that humans can have embodied physical experiences, something ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ via bountiful writing or elaborate ¢ǯȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ I recalled times I laughed so hard I could barely catch my breath, or the swell of both pride and relief ȱę ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ my lines perfectly in a school-wide skit, after having rehearsed for days. ȱĚ ȱ ¢ ȱ ¡ ȱ are essential to life’s meaning. As technology continues to cap ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ at home, it’s easy for these moments of presence to pass us by. AI can generate ideas and information, but

it can’t replace the experiences of physical joy, anxiety or exhilaration that make you feel truly alive. “Love” is the human quality that I identify with most. I feel the most alive, the most human, when I feel ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ¢ȱę ȱ love and heartbreak, I felt intensely connected to my emotions, stuck for weeks in an exhausted body and reeling mind — an unfortunate but necessary experience for personal growth. It was because I felt everything so deeply that I was ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ ěȱ ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ DZȱ ȱ ¢ȱ friends and family, in the strangers I passed on the street and exchanged smiles with, in simple acts of human connection. AI can imitate empathy, but it doesn’t experience the vulnerability, grief or joy that make love such an intense and important experience. AI serves to expedite problem-solving processes, and the ups and downs of love are not problems that can be easily solved, nor are they a process to be sped up. Sometimes, the process is in itself the purpose. The “transcendence” quality goes hand-in-hand with love. I interpret transcendence as the ability

PJ JAMES • THE STUDENT LIFE

to experience awe and appreciation. When I view the most ordinary, mundane parts of my life with deep appreciation, I feel like I’m living life the way it’s meant to be lived. While I was recovering from hip surgery during my sophomore year, I began to cherish small moments of joy that I had previously overlooked: a beautiful sunset, a dog rolling around in the sun, an old man reading a newspaper in the park. I felt this great appreciation for life because instead of searching for a way to feel happy, I slowed down and ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ AI is designed to provide answers, ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ȱ the unknown. My initial question: What can humans do that AI can’t? The last DELTA value, ”Agency,” seems to offer the clearest answer. Agency is not simply the ability to make a choice, but the ability to choose guided by a distinct worldview and set of values. I’ve been shaped by the people around me and my personal experiences, leading me to value individuality, diversity and compassion ȱ Ĝ ¢ǯȱ AI can recommend steps to take, but it doesn’t have an inherent set of ǯȱ ȱ ¢ȱ Ě ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ instructions built into it by humans. While humans are flawed and capable of making harmful decisions, ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ě ȱ ȱ ȱ choices and taking accountability. AI can produce a decision based on input, but it cannot truly own that decision. This is why I believe important decisions that require context and empathy, such as in the criminal ȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱę ǰȱ should remain in the hands of or be thoroughly overlooked by humans— not because humans are always right, but because moral responsibility requires an agent capable of making and owning a choice. ȱ ȱ ȱ ě ȱ ȱ necessary reminder that being hu ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ another, to our bodies, to love and to questions larger than ourselves. It is ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĝ ȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ tasks, and it is not about immediately ę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ In a strange, unexpected way, AI has made me appreciate humanity. It has forced me to confront human contradictions and not ignore them. Humans are imperfect, messy, emotional and often irrational. Yet those very qualities, the beautiful messiness of being human, are what no machine can ever replicate. Kira Heller SC ’29 is from Oakland, CA. She keeps a running list in her Notes app of people’s answers to the light, decidedly non-existential question, “What do you think the meaning of life is?”

LOOKING FOR NEW YORK

1[ Q\ ÅVITTa \QUM \W JIV +MV\ZIT 8IZS¼[ QKWVQK KIZZQIOM PWZ[M[' ARIANNA KAPLAN If you’ve been to the south end of Central Park, chances are you’ve seen the iconic carriage horses. Maybe you’ve even ridden in one on a family trip to New York, eager to partake in an activity that’s widely seen as emblematic of the city. Soon, however, you might not be able to take a carriage ride at all. Following the collapse and death of a carriage horse in early June, and the tragic death of an eighteen-yearold tourist after falling out of a runaway carriage only weeks later, New York City citizens have renewed a Ȭ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ carriage industry. Horses have been part of city life since the 1800s, used both as a means of transportation and for construction projects. The carriage horse tourism industry grew in the 1860s, peaking a century later in the 1970s and 80s. By then, horses were used almost exclusively for tourism, and the industry ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ of Central Park, where tourists can pay a city-regulated price of $72.22 for a 20-minute ride. Since the 1860s, animal rights activists have fought to regulate and ban carriage horse tourism, a push which regained popularity in the 2013 mayoral election cycle, and again in the 2025 one. The current movement advocates for Ryder’s Law, a legislative bill that would phase out and ban horse-drawn carriages. The majority of New Yorkers are against the industry, with a 2025 poll ę ȱŝŞƖȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ of Ryder’s Law. Despite this, it is still hard to imagine New York without the animals that have shaped much of its history. Why do we still have the carriage industry at all? I did a lot of loitering ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ǯ Walking around, it’s clear that some drivers lean into the nostalgic image of the carriage rides to draw in customers, draped in bowler hats and suspenders. The carriages have an old-world feeling, with plumes and decorated tack designed to catch the eye of tourists. This aesthetic is entirely at odds with the athleisure-clad park patrons walking nearby. Tourists seem drawn to the sense of romanticism: a quaint image of gliding through the park that has

ARIANNA KAPLAN • THE STUDENT LIFE

been popularized by films like “Barefoot in the Park” (1960), whose opening scene features Robert Redford and Jane Fonda taking a carriage ride in Central Park. This ę ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ like it, play into the romantic idea of the rides as nods to a past time of sentimentality and casual luxury. That feeling of romance is squashed by the reality of having ȱ ȱ Ĵ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ in the late 19th century, the use of horses across so many industries produced 100,000 tons of manure a year that piled up in vacant lots around the city, and over 15,000 horses died per year due to improper conditions. Conditions were so poor that the Department of Sanitation was created to handle the carcasses on the streets, and an inlet in Brooklyn was named Dead Horse Bay for the bodies dumped there by the nearby horse rendering plants — a far cry from the glamour of being pulled in a cart along a scenic bend in the park. Returning to the present: At the end of the day, standing by the mouth of the park on Central Park West and 59th St, you can follow the horses down to their stables on West 52nd Street and 11th Avenue. You can watch as they take to the streets of the city, weaving through

ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĝ ǯȱ Ȃ ȱ jarring to see the horses, dressed up in period regalia, making the same left turn down 53rd Street as the Citi Bikes and taxis (which are almost all hailed through Uber). Seeing the old world clash with the new in ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ worrying — for the horses’ sake, if for nothing else. “Just because something is a vestige from the past doesn’t mean that it is worth continuing into the present, especially as authenticity becomes a false seal to stamp over unsafe conditions for both animals and people alike.” Concerns surrounding horses sharing the street with cars are not unfounded. In January, a carriage horse named Destiny bolted into ȱ Ĝ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ a taxi, a Parks Department vehicle, and four cars. Having horses on the streets is not only unsafe for humans, but also raises husbandry concerns over the treatment of the animals. If the horses are being mistreated, is that another reason to end the industry? I wanted to see where the horses lived and how they were being treated, and so I visited Clinton Park Stables a few blocks from the park on West 52nd St. Two large entrances yawn towards the street.

Here, the horses and drivers enter, the tacks get removed, and the horse is led onto a steep ramp to the stalls above. Many windows are boarded shut, and only the front-facing windows were cracked open for ventilation, though they only opened halfway. The scene was depressing — to think the horses reside here after working nine-hour days. They get a mandated 5-week vacation on a farm every year, but besides that, there isn’t much time for them to just be horses. Talking with friends, most people agree that the horses are probably mistreated. However, walking around the park, most of them look visibly well-cared for. I saw a few who looked uncomfortable, but for the most part, their coats were shiny, and their weight looked more or less acceptable. The breeds were also correct for working animals: smaller Quarter Horses, taller Morgans, heavier Draft mixes. If the horses had been clearly emaciated, it would have been easier to write ěȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ¢ǯȱ ȱ ȱ again, no one wants to take a ride from a visibly mistreated horse. Following the recent death of 18-year-old Romanch Mahajan after a runaway carriage horse incident a month prior, I wanted to get some of the drivers’ perspective on their

own industry. Once he sensed that I wasn’t about to hurl animal abuse allegations at him, one driver let me stroke the velvety nose of his horse Jack while I asked whether he thinks his industry ȱ ȱ Ĵ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ cent growth of pedicab tours will be a replacement for the horses if they vanish. People come to the Central Park carriage rides for the horses, not for the bikers, he said. He laughed at the idea that the new bike tours would steal his business, even though they drive faster, are adorned with Ě ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ple take carriage rides for the piece of ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢Ȃ ȱ Ĵ ǯȱ Indeed, seeing spots of manure on the ground now feels like a rare easter egg of a past era. In a city so starved for animals, it feels nice to see a piece of history, even an imagined one, among us. However, the horses are dying. ¢Ȃ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ invasive plants in Central Park, and holding onto a piece of the past just because it’s nostalgic isn’t ethical anymore, not when the city moves too fast to contain it. The park has outgrown its capacity to safely house these animals, and we need to see beyond our own nostalgia and put ȱ ȱę ǯȱ Just because something is a vestige from the past doesn’t mean that it is worth continuing into the present, especially as authenticity becomes a false seal to stamp over unsafe conditions for both animals and people alike. The Central Park Conservancy released a statement citing seven horse-related incidents in the park in the last 13 months, and a call to pass Ryder’s Law to end the carriage horse industry once and for all. ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ Ĵ sweet to see the horses go. I grew up riding. I love seeing the animals in a city so hungry for connection. But our tolerance for antiquity is changing, and maybe it’s time for the horses to retire, too. Arianna Kaplan SC ’27 is a recent ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ living NYC-adjacent, and is determined ȱę ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ city in the world.

Arts & Culture

PAGE 4

SEPTEMBER 11, 2026

OFF THE SHELF

K-Ming Chang reinvents Asian American narratives CORINA YI

If K-Ming Chang’s short story collection “Gods of Want” were a pop ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ Ȭ ȱ models springing to life, ghost-cousins, shape-shifting daughters making love to each other, nameless widows and nine-headed birds. If you’re into the kind of fabulist grotesque that blurs the line between rot and beauty, the ordinary and absurd, Chang’s stories are for you. Her ȱ ę ȱ ¢ǰȱ ȱ surreal worlds and subverting folkloric conventions. It’s theatrical, comical, ěȬ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ Chang masterfully blurs the line between realism and surrealism, collective memory and pure imagination, which makes her work feel generative and wholly her own. I ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱę Ȭ year roommate and close friend Zoe Dorado recommended her books to ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ that struck me was the number of references made to piss, feces and snot. One user on Goodreads even goes as far as to note, “The author seemed to be trying as hard as they could to be ȱ ȱ ȱ ěȱ ȱ ǯȄȱ But this is what I love so much about her work: She doesn’t shy away from Ȃ ȱ ¢ȱ Dzȱ ǰȱ she zooms in. “Gods of Want” was published in 2022 and is divided into three sections: “Mothers,” “Myths” and “Moths,” which together encompass 16 stories. Each weaves together narratives of

PJ JAMES • THE STUDENT LIFE

womanhood, Asian American identity, family lineage and queerness. While this collection is often described as fairy tale-like, operating under dream logic, Chang clearly rejects the notion of a fairy-tale ending for immigrants. During a panel ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ Chang described her work as “inauthentic storytelling” — the idea that ę ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ authentic testimony. It made me think: How do we even define the Asian American ¡ ǵȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ǰȱ ȱ queer experience? If there’s anything we can take away from Chang’s writing, it’s that Asian American ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱĚ ǰȱ haunted basements, lesbian sex and playful nonsense as they are inter-

generational trauma, various ethnic foods and a diasporic longing for the homeland. Asian American stories are often expected to follow formulaic narratives that deal with trauma and triumph for a certain Western audience. This isn’t to say writers like Amy Tan — author of canonical books like “The Joy Luck Club,” a realistic, conventional depiction of Asian American experiences and struggles — don’t capture complex lived experiences in their own right. These stories are illuminating and wonderful, but what Chang does is ¢ȱ ě ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ grant story on its head, reinventing its possibilities in her signature style. In the opening story, “Auntland,” Chang recounts tales of her aunts

through a list poem — aunts who coexist in reality and imagination. The narrator recalls an aunt who “went to the dentist and asked to ȱ ȱ ȱ ȄDzȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ “failed her immigration test because she named Colonel Sanders as one of ȱ ȱ ȄDzȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ cut people’s earlobes and wiped her ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ǯȱ ȱ is one of my favorite stories in the collection because of how campy and bizarre it reads, and yet it’s still a family story meant to be taken at least somewhat seriously. ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ tion is Chang’s creation of women and girls as messy, contradictory embodiments of desire and power — as are the relationships they have with each other. Her mythmaking is ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ Dzȱ men are always secondary to the story, and I often forget they exist on the page. Yet she doesn’t seek to sanctify or immortalize women — they are friends, lovers, enemies, bullies, strangers, kind, detestable, smart, brutal, funny, destructive, charming. In “Mariela,” for example, two childhood friends swap body parts, and the story comes to a point of tension when the narrator’s friend ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ěȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ give them to her. In “Xifu,” the nar Ȃ ȱ Ĝ ȱ Ȭ Ȭ ȱ ȱ about all the ways she could kill her. The stories in this collection insist on the inheritance of memory. Chang’s writing is embodied, blending corporeality with very mat-

ter-of-fact judgment, observation and proclamation. The story “Mandarin Speakers” opens with the line, “When the aliens come, they will speak Chi ǯȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ people speak Chinese. In “Nuwa,” the narrator’s mother tells her, “Don’t whistle at night … The snakes will arrive and wreathe you. They don’t remember us anymore.” In “Virginia Slims,” the narrator recalls her late aunt saying over the phone, “telling lies will hollow out your bones, and ȱ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ¢ Ȃ ȱĚ ǯȄ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ǰȱ ȱ described a reversal of the literary cliché, “show, don’t tell,” as a fundamental function of mythmaking: “tell, don’t show.” She explained that when you tell a story to friends and family, you don’t describe what the room was like, what color the walls were. You just tell the story how it is, from start ȱę ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ £ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ formed. Chang discusses mythmaking as shared storytelling rather than belonging to one person, introducing ę ȱ ǰȱ ǰȱ ȱ endings. It forfeits singular authority, ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ to be copyrighted or claimed. Chang invents worlds where suddenly everything seems permeable and alive. Where, as one of the characters in the stories says, “every word is strung with want.” ȱ ȱ ȱ ȂŘŞȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ

A GIRL’S GUIDE TO TERRIBLE MEN

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Eldest daughters famously take after their fathers. I don’t know exactly how true that is, but I do know that ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ę ȱ thing from mine: a deep and incurable love for cinema. Our father-daughter bonding routine has mostly consisted of endless movie nights, something that we began right after my 14th birthday. On one particularly memorable night, he chose “The Godfather.” Initially, I was intimidated by the almost three ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ I sat down and the opening credits began, I was hooked. Released in 1972 and directed by Francis Ford Coppola, “The Godfather” begins a trilogy widely considered among the greatest ever ǯȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ¢Dzȱȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Corleone — the youngest son and eventual heir. Coppola expands the Corleones’ story from a traditional crime narrative into a compelling family drama and a tragic exploration of inherited power. ȱ ȱę ȱę ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ family business as a reluctant outsider, and ultimately succeeds patriarch Vito as the new Don, gradually adopting a world governed by loyalty and obligation. “The Godfather Part II” is about decay, contrasting young Vito’s rise with Michael’s rule to show how the meaning of power changes across generations. Michael uses the authority he inherits to control the family itself. “The Godfather Part III” is about punishment: an older Michael tries to legitimize the Corleone name and buy his way into redemption, only to discover that guilt cannot be

laundered. ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ě ȱ now. But at 14, my critical framework was slightly less developed ȱ ę ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ to Al Pacino. I don’t remember thinking, “What a fascinating portrayal of moral corruption and dynastic masculinity.” I remember thinking, as many teenage girls before and after me probably have, that Pacino had one of the most devastating faces ever put on screen. This initial portrayal of the pro ȱ ȱ ȃ ¢ȱ Ĵ Ȅȱ ȱ why Michael works so well as a character. He doesn’t begin as a terrible man –– quite the opposite. Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Dzȱ ȱ is responsible, observant and removed from his family’s business. Yet despite his good looks and initially good intentions, Michael eventually turns to crime, using family responsibility to justify each violent act. This ultimately destroys the very thing his father tried to protect. By “The Godfather Part II,” he has become colder than his father ever was. Michael has the name and the empire, but Vito built power because he had once been powerless. His son uses power because he cannot imagine living without control. Coppola’s representation of ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ Ĵ ǯȱ The future Don inherits his father’s belief that family must be protected at all costs, then takes that belief to its most frightening conclusion: everyone he loves becomes someone he must control. “The Godfather” is about what men pass down to men: names,

PJ JAMES • THE STUDENT LIFE

businesses, violence, codes of loyal ¢ǰȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ so obsessed with fathers and sons, it’s almost funny that my father felt it right to pass it down to his daughter. Watching this trilogy as a woman, I never saw “The Godfather” as just a boys’ movie. I was amazed by the incredible cinematography and infatuated with Al Pacino, but I also noticed how easily the women on screen were disregarded, even when they were the ones asked to carry the family’s emotional weight. What we inherit from our fathers is not always what they intend to teach us. My father may have shown me a story about male power, but he also gave me the conę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ asking whether it was meant for me. I could admire Coppola’s portrayal of masculine power while

ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ that makes such power possible. The role of women in the world of “The Godfather” is best revealed through Michael’s wife, Kay Adams. She represents the ordinary life Michael once claimed to want, yet her marriage never grants her ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ę ȱ ę ȱ ends with Michael closing a door in her face: Kay is close enough to legitimize him as a respectable family man, but never close enough to know the truth. In “The Godfather Part II,” however, she makes the one decision Michael cannot reverse: By ending her pregnancy, she refuses to give him another son to inherit his violence. For once, the future of the Corleone dynasty does not belong to the Don. In the Corleone world, men are ȱ ě ȱ ¢ȱ Ȃ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ women are rarely given the dignity

ȱ ȱ ě ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ expected to care for and forgive the family, to uphold it and its image without question. All in the name of this holy ideal imposed on them by their fathers, brothers or husbands, who rarely ask what this devotion costs. “The Godfather” is the tragedy of a man who gets everything he was taught to want and loses everyone he claimed to protect, but it is also the tragedy of the women around ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ his appetite for power. Michael may inherit the Corleone name, but his authority rests on a domestic world built and sustained by women, one he neither originates nor knows how to preserve. “‘The Godfather’ is the tragedy of a man who gets everything he was taught to want and loses everyone he claimed to protect, but it is also the tragedy of the women around ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ his appetite for power.” At 14, I learned that I could admire Michael Corleone as a character (and Al Pacino as a face) without admiring the world he creates. Though it may come as a shock to those who dismiss women’s interest ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ do not need to see ourselves at the ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ǰȱ nor do we need men to validate our reasons for loving it. A genre dominated by men does not have to also belong exclusively to them. Bianca Mirica PO ’29 loves gangster movies and crime dramas and has endless ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ to put into writing.

AUDREY BETWEEN FRAMES

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Oftentimes, the most nightmarish moment in a thriller is not when the multi-limbed monster or contorted white-faced woman emerges. Instead, that moment comes shortly after: The protagonist runs to someone, frantically explaining this horrible thing they saw, and as they stand there breathless, the other Ȃ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ patronizing disbelief. I have a deep-seated fear of being perceived as unreliable — of knowing something is true, and being unable to convince anyone else of it. That torturous reality, of being seen as fundamentally nonsensical, is at the heart of “The Boroughs.” This ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ě ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Mathews, highlights how people are particularly vulnerable to being perceived as unreliable when they reach old age. Horror has historically provoked fear using the tangible and the supernatural: monsters, hauntings and bloodshed. Recently, the genre has turned inward. The psychological ǰȱ ę ȱ ¢ȱ ǰȱ tion and grief, has paved the way for the horror and thriller renaissance ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ǯȱ For the curmudgeonly protagonist Sam Cooper, the unreliable label materializes shortly after his daughter admits him to a seemingly quaint retirement community, the Boroughs, in the middle of a New Mexican desert. What makes this community peculiar is that the founders seem to have discovered immortal-

ity through a kind of fountain of youth, a concept borrowed from ȱŗşŞśȱę ȱȃ ǯȄȱ ǰȱ this condition comes at the expense of their residents — more precisely, their memory and cognitive capacities. The founders, a couple frozen in 1940s splendor, deploy creatures throughout the commu ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃȱ ȱĚ ȱ as they sleep. As residents are drained of ȱĚ ǰȱ ě ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ tal decline and symptoms mirroring early dementia, they are moved into increasingly constraining living accommodations within the Boroughs. Concurrently, residents who report these monsters are branded as mad and delirious — the way Sam later is. This branding becomes more extreme the more ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ¢ȱ Ĵ ȱ Sam makes to expose the truth is folded neatly into the founders’ narrative of his mental decline. By the time he escapes the residence to plead with his daughter, the staff has so thoroughly undermined his credibility that she reluctantly authorizes his transfer to the Boroughs’ most restrictive memory-care unit: the Manor. Unfortunately, weaponizing old age is not unique to Addiss and Mathews’ world. The creatures and villainous founders are simply an exaggeration of how the West treats the elderly. I think of my grandma, who was devout, stern and caring. After losing her ability to speak in an accident, I watched as others Ĵ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ stood at the center of a family

she created. Although she slowly learned to speak in broken English again, people still spoke over her, decided what was best for her and, ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ did not come out right the first time, judged that it wasn’t worth parsing at all. This happened everywhere, but especially in hospital Ĵ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ cide for themselves when she was actually in pain, or when she was just “whining.” Seeing her like this revealed something far more unsettling than a failure of communication: the way age and a loss of communicative capacity can strip someone of perceived intelligence and authority, even over their own life. And how horrible it must have felt for her perception to no longer be considered real. This was not a cognitive decline, but a disproportionate, gradual loss of credibility that isolated her. ȃ ȱ Ȅȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ the severity of this all-too-common phenomenon: the way we cast aside the minds we cannot immediately understand and that do not arrive in the forms we expect. Then, our memory of them gives way to who the world insists they have become. While age is often presented as a thief of memory, what becomes increasingly horrifying is that it ¢ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ before we lose cognitive capacities. In grounding its horror in a structural, everyday erasure, “The Boroughs” — conceptually, at least — proves itself a worthy addition to the current psychological thriller

landscape, which tends to pose age as physical decay. That being said, the scripted dialogue was on par with that of “Stranger Things” season five, which is to say it was trite. I blame ȱ ě ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ecutive producers for both. Amid the unfolding secret of their retirement community, there are moments of supposed turmoil ȱ ¢ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ Ȭ ęȱ ǯȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ¢ȱ would shoot out kitschy remarks at one another. ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ě ȱ a quote from a resident, spoken with total seriousness: “Hey, take it down a notch, cowboy.” And that is not the only time someone referentially uses the word “cowboy.” What was supposed to be a community bound together by their sharp minds and commitment to autonomy instead seemed like a group of people entirely unfamiliar with one another — a hollow imitation of the profound isolation the series should have explored. The show’s executional collapse seems to be a symptom of having ȱ ě ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ unable to escape their own worst habits. Most notably, the brothers struggle not to lean on a cliché “Guys, that’s it! I have a plan!” scene — the eureka moment. They frequently reach for the humorous technobabble trope or the one where an everyday object conjures a haphazard epiphany for the character, which have become low-hanging fruit since “Doctor Who.” Perhaps this is why so many

viewers have accused the latest “Stranger Things” season of seeming Ȭ Ĵ Dzȱ ȱ ȱę ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ stale genre conventions. After seeing glimpses of writing reminiscent of this throughout the ę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȃ ȱ ǰȄȱ I braced myself for its eureka moment. And then there it was, a mere four episodes in: Sam and two other residents devised a plan to catch the ȱĚ Ȭ ȱ ǯȱ “All right. New plan. We get it to come to us.” “You mean, like, invite it over to watch the game?” “No. To dinner.” Whoever the culprit, quippy writing was, unfortunately, not enough to distract me from the very real, very terrifying social condemnation that “The Boroughs” depicts: losing credibility before you actually lose your mind. And, oftentimes, this loss of credibility can be the very thing that causes you to lose your mind. Audrey Green SC ’27 is, shamefully, a ȱ ȱ ȱǛ ¢ ǯȱ

PJ JAMES • THE STUDENT LIFE

OpiniOns

SEPTEMBER 11, 2026

PAGE 5

Pomona needs more rigor. The liberal arts are at stake. ALI ALATTAR It was April of 2024 when I chose to attend Pomona College — a choice that, at that point, bore immense symbolism for me. I thought that in choosing Pomona, a lesser-known liberal arts college that advertised a holistic approach to academics and tight-knit classes, I was rejecting the freneticism and self-importance of most other elite colleges. Instead, I hoped to find something grander: something I hadn’t yet comprehended, but something I thought Pomona could help me define. That idealism lasted for about two weeks, until my first ID-1 essay — drafted in a single night and lacking anything close to good writing — was handed back with an A. I realized then that if I skimmed just enough of the class text and invoked just enough buzzwords and politically correct platitudes, I could get an A regardless of what I actually wrote. Little did I know, this philosophy of doing the least and accomplishing the most would continue past my first-year classes to define the bulk of my first two years. All this to say: Pomona has an easiness problem, one that has been the subject of multiple TSL articles over the past decade, in light of national increases in grade inflation since 2005. And Pomona isn’t alone — other schools, like the University of Texas at Austin and Harvard University, have recently gained national attention

for their high distribution of “A” grades, with faculty at the latter voting to institute a cap on the letter in May. In the midst of this trend, I propose my own present-day reading of the issue: I believe that Pomona’s easiness problem is one that actively works against the theory of a liberal arts education heralded in Pomona’s own mission statement. Let me explain. Often secondary in grade inflation discourse is the fundamental question of what academia is for and why its relationship to rigor is important. This is where the theory of a liberal arts education becomes useful. There are several traditions to discuss here — the Aristotelian position is a beautiful one. It argues that education isn’t just about pre-professionalism, but rather self-cultivation. An Aristotelian education thus encompasses several things at once: freedom from desire and from subservience to others, and the practical capacity to live well in the society you’re a part of. Adopting the Aristotelian position, college becomes not just a preparation for work, but also a preparation for life: an experience that should be as formative as one’s upbringing. When classes are made easy, however, this relationship is destroyed. William Schumacher PO ’18 addresses this best in their 2015 TSL article. Schumacher writes that an aspiring student

journalist’s time “is probably best spent working for TSL,” but if their “academic work is too arduous,” they “wouldn’t have the time to do that.” What Schumacher overlooks is that time devoted to pre-professional, resume-bolstering activities diverts time away from the critical academic study that helps students contextualize what any of the things they do mean to them in the first place. According to Pomona’s mission statement, the college both works to identify and address the intellectual passions of its students. A departure from classwork, I’d argue, does not provide sufficient time to address. To continue Schumacher’s hypothetical, a journalism student could devote most of their time to TSL, but TSL is by itself not sufficient to answer the more fundamental questions that should precede, or at least accompany, such devotion: Why is journalism important? What kind of journalism is important? And is journalism itself my true vocation, or merely an expression of a much broader passion? The student interested in journalism also needs, in the course of their life, to grapple with other non-pre-professional questions, like: Why is life important? What is my relation to the world, and how do I participate? Pomona has the intellectual resources to help this type of student answer these questions

ANDREW YUAN • THE STUDENT LIFE

— courses from media studies to political philosophy and ethics — with brilliant professors. However, it lacks the ability to attach real consequences to ignoring these resources. This kind of failure at academic institutions can be detrimental to one’s life both during and after college. A 2024 study concerning the factors that contribute to a quarter-life crisis posits that “75% of adults between the ages of 25 and 33 experienced a quarter-life crisis,” induced by “uncertainty in their career choices, love relationships, and life accomplishments.” These uncertainties are ones that academics could have helped individuals prepare for, or at least consider, early on. That is not to say Pomona

doesn’t have challenging classes. For example, Professor Julie Tannenbaum’s Wellbeing and Autonomy, an introductory ethics course, was very difficult for me and fundamentally changed the way I think. Additionally, as an underclassman, my Pomona experience has largely taken place in introductory courses within a particular set of departments. My perspective on this issue is relatively limited. This, however, should not excuse the fact that such an experience is possible in the first place. Academic rigor should be systemic, not partial, intro class or not. If Pomona boasts itself as an institution that advocates for the liberal arts, it should reflect that commitment with unequivocal academic rigor.

Where have all the political organizers gone? LINA MCROBERTS Begin here. When political action disappears, those who once performed it are invariably asked to account for its absence. At the Claremont Colleges, the absence of anything approaching the scale of student mobilization seen in 2024 have become the subject of just such an inquest: Where have all the political organizers gone? The question is not entirely misplaced. Whatever nostalgia has done to the memory of 2024, it did not in ȱ ȱ ě ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ now. Israel’s U.S.-backed genocide of Palestinians in Gaza continues; the Claremont Colleges have refused to ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ęciaries of, weapons manufacturers and corporations complicit in Israeli occupation and apartheid; and the relations binding American universities to capital and imperial warfare remain far from dismantled. The conditions which summoned the mobilizations of 2024 have, it seems, proved rather more persistent than the mobilizations themselves. Where are the students who emptied their classrooms after Pomona College President G. Gabrielle Starr called five police departments to arrest their classmates in Alexander Hall in 2024; who erected a Gaza solidarity encampment at Pitzer later that spring; who occupied Carnegie Hall the following October demanding disclosure and divest-

ǵȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ǰȱ ȱ the Mudders who looked upon the defense contractors waiting for them on the other side of graduation and decided that an engineering education in the imperial core ought not terminate in the service of occupation? For a time, the struggle for Palestinian liberation accosted the colleges at every turn, forcing into view what the university would ordinarily prefer to hold at the serene distance of knowledge production: The same endowment that made institutional life possible also bound students materially to genocide, imperial warfare, ecological destruction, and global racial capitalism. Palestine could not remain an object of humanitarian concern without also becoming a question of institutional complicity. Perhaps the explanation for the change is as simple as its more melancholic observers suppose. Perhaps students have become too timid … too careerist! Too narcotized by the ordinary pleasures and Ĵ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ life; perhaps the political energies of 2024 have at last spent themselves. And what a convenient explanation this is! Endowed with all the sentimental satisfactions of decline and burdened only by the minor inconvenience of requiring political life to resemble 2024 before it can be recognized as political life at all. Yet the apparent retreat from spectacle should not be mistaken

for political disappearance: In January 2025, Claremont Students for Justice in Palestine continued organizing around Palestinian liberation through its People’s University, situating Palestinian liberation with a broader struggle against policing and deportation even after Pomona had revoked the organization’s access to its own Instagram account. At Scripps, the fall 2024 dispute over The Motley’s decision to display a Palestinian Ě ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ě ȱ ȱ ȱ eventual reopening with bare walls, ě ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ on how conditional “student-run” becomes once the students committed the heresy of taking the phrase seriously. By spring 2026, plans to place the coffeehouse under direct administrative supervision prompted workers to strike on Ĵ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ teach-ins on the coffeehouse’s political history. That same March, more than 500 students, faculty, staff and community members would crowd Walker Beach as the Black Student Union demanded that the college substitute enforceable forms of accountability for its customary avowals of commitment to inclusion. If these are the annals of an apathetic student body, apathy has certainly acquired a rather demand ȱ ę ǯȱ ȱ ȱ the political life of 2026 from that of

LINA MCROBERTS • THE STUDENT LIFE

2024 is not the presence of political conviction in one and its absence in the other, but the collapse of an extraordinary sense of collective possibility that had made Palestine the organizing principle of campus political life — leaving in its wake a more dispersed politics and, where Palestinian liberation is concerned, a profound pessimism about what collective action can accomplish. The familiar story of decline thus begins by observing, correctly, that the campus has changed, and ends by mistaking an erosion of collective possibility for the erosion of political conviction itself. I belong to Pomona’s Class of 2027, the last graduating class for whom the arrests at Alexander Hall are undergraduate memory. ȱ ȱę Ȭ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱŘŖŘŚǰȱ when 20 students were arrested after President Starr summoned ę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ and sophomores the following fall, when the occupation of Carnegie Hall ended in 12 suspensions and 36 students from the other Claremont Colleges barred from Pomona’s campus. While this history is hardly ancient, four years is certainly enough to turn lived political history into hearsay. This fall, only seniors remain who were students during Alexander Hall; only seniors and juniors were here for the suspensions that followed Carnegie. When my class graduates this spring, the arrests will pass out of firsthand undergraduate memory. One year later, so too will the suspensions. The university, exempt from the four-year graduation requirement, will remember perfectly well. The conflicts of 2024 entered the institutional memories of the Claremont Colleges unevenly, each shaped by the forms of dissent that had most directly tested its authority. The sit-in at Alexander Hall demonstrated how readily force could be summoned against a student occupation but too how quickly spectacular repression could generate solidarity – six days later, some 700 people walked out in support of those arrested. The occupation of Carnegie Hall furnished ȱ ě ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ that followed carried discipline into the material conditions of student life, allowing an administrative decision to determine where one slept, whether one ate, whether one Ĵ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ could return to the community in which one had made a life. What appeared as a retreat from spectacle — the move from police arrest to suspension— was its very ę ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ this intimacy of punishment that made the full reach of institutional power visible. What Pomona acquired from these confrontations was precedent — an accumulating knowledge of what student movements might attempt and what consequences could be brought to bear against them. Just a month after the suspensions, President Gabi Starr was already touting Pomona’s “Year of Dialogue,” a series of

workshops intended to train the cam ȱ ȱ Ě ȱ ȱ ȱȃ ȱ civility and respectful exchange into the fabric of the Pomona culture.” ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱŗŘȱ suspensions, Pomona had apparently determined that the outstanding defect in campus politics was insufę ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ The students, of course, were learning from the same history. The ě ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ well beyond the suspended themselves, as friends and professors absorbed the labor of sustaining those whom the college had displaced. A Ȃ ȱ ȱę ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ we circled Claremont waiting to learn where they would sleep that night; later that week, another friend and I ȱ ěȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ beneath our lab coats before meeting them in College Park between calls with lawyers and friends arranging spare beds. Such is the pedagogical function of exemplary punishment: its object may be particular, but its lesson is general. The lesson need not produce submission to alter political behavior; it need only alter what students understand the consequences of escalation to be, and therefore what forms of action can still appear possible. One must wonder, if escalation had come to signify punishment more readily than victory, what forms of political action could still ȱ ȱ Ĵ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ capable of succeeding? It is hardly surprising, then, that student political life after 2024 assumed an altered form. Teach-ins, vigils, town halls, cultural programming, the defense of institutions like ȱ ¢ȱ ě ȱȯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ discounted — belong to the processes through which a movement reproduces the conditions of its own political existence after repression. What is preserved in such moments is a practical knowledge of defeat: how repression distributes its costs, how those costs are borne collectively, how political relations endure their interruption, and how a movement recovers the capacity to conceive of renewed escalation as something other than the repetition of punishment. So, to the Class of 2030 — you were not here for Alexander Hall; nor were you here for Carnegie and its aftermath. The history belongs to you nonetheless. To enter an institution is to inherit struggles one did not choose, and histories one did not personally witness, along with whatever claims upon the future those struggles left unresolved. That ȱ Ĵ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ it can be made practical — passed through organizations, friendships, records, stories and the instruction by which one cohort teaches another how a struggle survives the passing of its witnesses. Pomona will keep what it learned from us. Whether we manage to preserve what we learned ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ǯȱ Lina McRoberts PO ‘27 organizes with the Claremont Student-Worker Alliance ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ Ȭ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ alphabet.

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SEPTEMBER 11, 2026

Claremont Police Department called on senior graduation party, raising questions around college police protocol NADIA HSU MADELEINE FARR Hours after graduating, members of the Pomona College class of 2026 ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ courtyard of Clark V. Their last night in Claremont began on Pomona’s north campus and ended on Platt Boulevard in a confrontation with the Claremont Police Department (CPD), after being followed across campuses by Campus Safety. Multiple Housing and Residence Life (HRL) student employees commented on the abnormality of Pomona’s response to the party. An anonymous student employee, who will be referred to as HRL student employee A, said they had “never really heard of CPD being called” in this context. Lawrence Stampino-Strain PO ’26, formerly a Resident Advisor (RA) for three years, said the CPD being called ȱȃ ę ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ǰȱ 100 percent. Calling the police…in my three years as an RA, I’ve never seen that.” What students described as a disproportionately punitive response prompted TSL to investigate how Pomona and the broader consortium enforce residence life policies, particularly as they relate to The Claremont Colleges Services’ (TCCS) Campus Safety and the CPD. This investigation, conducted over the summer, entailed nine student interviews, the solicitation of public records and analyses of documents that might further clarify policy enforcement methods, such as Pomona College’s Student Handbook. Seniors gathered in the courtyard of Clark V, a Pomona dorm primarily housing seniors, around 11 p.m. on May 17 with alcohol and a speaker. The celebration had been informally organized by a few seniors, including Emma Trieweiler PO ’26 and Stampino-Strain, ahead of move-out the next morning. The party was “really chill,” Trieweiler said, and “kind of beautiful because our class usually doesn’t hang out all together.” Luke Brown PO ’26, another recent graduate present, described the event ȱȃ ȱ £¢ǯȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ¢ȱ ȱ just all seniors.” By 11:30, Campus Safety arrived. Officers told graduates they were responding to a noise complaint and requested that students turn the music down, which they initially complied with. A July 6 statement from The Claremont Colleges Services (TCCS), which oversees Campus Safety, stated that Campus Safety was responding to “multiple disturbance complaints [...] regarding loud music and alcohol use involving a large group.” Several students expressed confusion as to where a noise complaint could’ve come from, referencing how Clark V is not near residential areas in Claremont, and all Pomona students besides seniors, RAs and those staying for summer campus jobs had

moved out the previous day. CPD, Pomona College and Campus Safety administrators did not identify precisely who had called in or received the noise complaint in correspondence with TSL. Students turned the music on again, and Campus Safety returned to the Clark V courtyard around 12:15 a.m., unplugging the speaker and telling the group to disperse. According to the same July 6 ȱ ǰȱȃ Ĝ ȱ ¢ȱ requested that the music be lowered, and the group briefly complied before the disturbance resumed. An additional complaint was subsequently received through dispatch and the LiveSafe system.” Ĝ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ needed to leave, and that the gathering was “unauthorized,” according to Trieweiler. “At that point, [Campus Safety] was like, ‘You can’t stay here,’ but they gave no clear directions on where we could go,” Brown said. Most students remained in the Clark V courtyard. Shortly after, around 12:30 a.m., Resident Life Coordinator Kimani ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĝcers’ calls for dispersal. Francois was the Administrator On Call (AOC) on May 17, according to Somya Singh PO ’28, a former Zone 98 RA who worked under Francois during the 2026-2027 school year. Francois did not respond to requests for comment. An HRL student employee who requested anonymity, and will be referred to as HRL student employee B, noted that “there are usually a few steps before you go straight to Camp Sec [Campus Safety].” Francois began repeatedly telling students that she would call the police if they did not disperse in 10 minutes, according to multiple students present. Trieweiler recalled Francois saying, “I have to give you 10 minutes” before calling the CPD, supposedly alluding to an existing protocol. Stampino-Strain said he hadn’t heard of such a protocol either, nor had HRL student employee A and Singh. “I have never heard of that [10-minute] policy ever in my life,” HRL student employee A said. “We were never told about police ever being contacted or when to contact police,” Singh reiterated. “That’s never been discussed in our training, so I don’t know where [Francois] got the 10 minutes from.” Students began moving or dispersing, with a smaller group of approximately 70-80 students relocating to the Frary Dining Hall steps around 12:45 a.m. Francois and Campus Safety officers followed them soon after, repeating their intention to call the police. “[Francois] keeps following us, and as [Francois] keeps following us, more and more Camp Sec ǽ ȱ ¢Ǿȱ Ĝ ȱ ȱ ǰȄȱ Jadin Porter PO ’26, another recent

EMMA TRIEWEILER • THE STUDENT LIFE

graduate present, said. According to Trieweiler, Francois had said that if students left Pomona’s campus, they would be out of her jurisdiction. Brown noted that Campus Safety also seemed to ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ěȱ the campus. The group then began walking through Claremont McKenna College toward Scripps College, at which point Francois had left, and the group had thinned to an estimated 20-30 students. By 1:25 a.m. they reached the Scripps Rose Garden, where they were met by several ȱ ¢ȱ ǯȱ Ĝ ȱ ȱ students they had called the CPD. Trieweiler recalls speaking to an Ĝ ȱ ȱ ǰȱȃȁ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ what the dean has told me.” When Trieweiler asked who the dean was, the officer allegedly named Francois. “‘[Francois] has given me orders to call the police department. I have called them; I would run if I were you,’”she recalled. ȱ ȱ Ĝ ȱ ȱ ȱŗDZřŖȱ a.m., according to the police incident report obtained by TSL. When Campus Safety calls the CPD, that call comes in as an “Assist Other Agency” (AOA) call, as was the case in the early hours of May 18. An AOA call requesting ȱ ȱ Ĵȱ ȱ ȱ in at 1:14 a.m. Ĝ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱŗDZŘŗȱ a.m. and on the scene by 1:30 a.m. The incident was marked “closed” seven minutes later, at 1:37 a.m. ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĝcers repeatedly told her and those remaining that they would be arrested if they did not immediately leave. Students present left, as did CPD, and no student was met with punitive action to TSL’s knowledge. Although no one was arrested, the escalation of the gathering to the point of CPD presence provoked TSL to look into the protocols in

place between CPD, Campus Safety and HRL. Pomona’s HRL Policies and Procedures handbook does not mention police protocols. HRL student employees could not recall CPD protocol being mentioned in their training, besides calling the police in case of emergency. “In all my time as an RA, in my six trainings, not one time did they ever mention getting the police involved, unless it’s some horrible thing happening,” Stampino-Strain said. Pomona College Student Handbook’s Emergency and Safety Policies and Procedures notes that police have the “right and responsibility to act in case of law violations” on cam ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ěȬ ǰȱ ȱ that Campus Safety will notify CPD in the case of “more serious cases.” TSL also reviewed memoranda of understanding between Campus Safety and the Claremont Police Department. Memoranda of understanding are non-binding documents that outline agreements and shared intentions between two parties. The California Education Code requires that colleges and universities ȃ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ local law enforcement agencies that clarify operational responsibilities for investigations of Part 1 violent crimes, sexual assaults and hate crimes occurring on each campus.” Campus Safety and the CPD have cosigned three MOUs in nearly five years: one in January 2022, another in July 2023, and a third in July 2025. “MOUs are reviewed periodical ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ Ě ȱ current operations, responsibilities and coordination practices,” TCCS wrote in a Sept. 4 statement to TSL. The 2025 Memorandum of Understanding between Campus

Safety and the CPD states that it aims to achieve the following goals: ȱ ȱ ȃ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ institution property;” to “[enhance] cooperation [between the two agencies]” in providing support to community members who are victims or witnesses to crimes; and to support Campus Safety’s ability to “alert the campus community about crimes of a serious nature that pose a serious or ongoing threat to public safety.” The MOU’s statutory jurisdiction section states that CPD has legal jurisdiction and authority “on those areas of the Claremont College campuses located within the City” to enforce city ordinances as well as state and federal laws. “This authority does not include enforcement of TCC rules and regulations,” the section reads. In its Sept. 4 statement, TCCS elaborated that “The MOU allows Campus Safety to handle most incidents without involving the police department, reducing police presence on campus.” Multiple students present on the night of May 17, including Brown, noted that without outside involvement, the gathering likely would have died down within 30 minutes, and did not pose a serious threat to anyone involved. Students expressed confusion as to why the situation had escalated. ȃ ¢ȱ Ȃ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ěȱ of a clear procedure or …

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After Coop Store backlash, 5C businesses to navigate AI’s growing role MADELEINE FARR OTTO FRITTON On July 16, Pomona’s Coop Store sparked controversy with two promotional Instagram posts ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ intelligence (AI). The posts drew criticism from students and other Instagram users, with comments criticizing the Coop Store for using generative AI instead of commissioning student artists. Within roughly a day, the posts were gone. While the Coop Store is technically operated by the Associated Students of Pomona College (ASPC), ASPC President Malu Estoducto PO ’27 said in an interview with TSL that its management and student employees maintain “relative autonomy” over their operations, including Instagram posts. Estoducto said ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ȱ who made the posts, but that they were not created by a member of ȱ ěȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ in part to the Coop Store’s new management and a potential unfamiliarity with AI perceptions on campus. “I think that’s a big, big part of why there was this disconnect between how ASPC Senate might prefer to do outreach and how Coop Store’s new management decided to go about graphic design [...],” she said. “But we’ve been in conversations with them, clarifying our own take on AI and AI use for ASPC.” The posts and accompanying controversy prompted ASPC to discuss AI use at their senate meeting on Sept. 10. In the meeting, senators broadly agreed that ASPC and the Coop Store should avoid AI-generated promotional materials. Senators did not adopt a permanent policy at the meeting. They

did pass a motion temporarily ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ěȱ from using AI in external communications while they develop a ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ȱ its use. The scope and language of that policy, including how to establish clear standards without policing individuals’ behavior, remains undecided. ASPC is also considering issuing a public statement opposing the use of AI-generated materials. Estoducto said the organization hopes to expand the conversation beyond ASPC and develop a shared approach with Pomona administrators. “We also will look into having larger conversations with the administration about AI use because it is such a hot topic, especially in academia,” she said in an interview with TSL. “I think it’s important to have some sort of co-governance and shared understanding and ethos about AI use.” Although the Coop Store posts in July were quickly removed, their brief appearance reignited recent discussion about AI use on college campuses beyond the classroom. Since July, TSL has contacted managers and employees responsible for dining and retail operations across the consortium to gauge ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ę ȱ into campus businesses. In a statement to TSL, a Pomona College spokesperson said the college is assessing how AI is used across campus as it develops a broader institutional AI strategy aligned with the institution’s mission and values. “One current application is in Dining Services, where an AI-pow ȱ ȱ ȱ ěȱ ȱ food waste through improved production planning,” they said, adding that since its implementation, the college has reported a 54%

reduction in food overproduction. ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Manager Miguel Menjivar said McConnell Dining Hall, the PitStop and Shakedown Cafe do not currently use AI and have no plans underway to introduce it. “Nothing tangible,” Menjivar ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ĵ ȱ Dining Services was considering adopting AI. “We don’t have any considerations about it.” ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ to change the department’s approach to using AI. “We want to be able to meet our customers and get to know them and use that knowledge to advertise whatever we’re going to cook [and] what our menus are going to be,” Menjivar said. “I haven’t found anything that AI can do to replace that.” While Menjivar said Pitzer Dining currently does not use AI, he did not take a stance against the technology, nor did he rule out future use. If a useful application of AI emerged in the future, he ȱ ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ fair consideration, making sure ȱ ȱ ȱ ĵ ȱ Ȃ ȱ policies, just like any other tool. Across the street at Claremont McKenna College, Assistant Director of Alumni and Parent Engagement Nika Wells shared a similar response. She stated the CMC Supply Shop does not use AI to create merchandise designs or promotional materials. She noted that while AI was used three or four times to brainstorm merchandise names, it was not used in any public-facing materials. “We’re open to exploring AI in the future if it makes sense for our operations,” Wells wrote in email correspondence with TSL, “but we don’t currently use it beyond that.” ȱ ĵ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ rent and former managers have

ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ȱ LLM use. Former caretaker Wynne Chase PZ ’26 said the essence of the Grove House is the student-run cafe’s informal, handmade promotional work. Chase has used Notability to create Grove House posters and recalled her coworkers using Procreate, and much of the artwork and signage inside the Grove House has been created by students and staff. Beyond promotional materials, Chase described how the Grove House’s operations are deę ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ the space: drinks appearing on the menu because employees made too much strawberry syrup, playlists changing depending on who takes ȱ ȱ ¡ȱ ȱ ěȱ ȱ improving systems through trial and error. “The main message that I want to get across about the Grove ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ȱ brim with humanity,” Chase said. “It’s so human.”

Similarly, incoming caretaker Lindsey Manugian PZ ’27 voiced their opposition to generative AI and said they plan to maintain the current approach. Manugian cited the environmental and social impacts of AI data ǰȱ ȱ ¢Ȃ ȱ ě ȱ ȱ artists’ jobs and its potential to strip people of their creativity. The Grove House, she said, is built on creativity –– from the cooking, to events, to music and art –– making generative ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ ȃ ȱ ę ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ AI to make any graphics,” Manu ȱ ǯȱ ȃ Ȃ ȱ ę ¢ȱ ȱ to all be designed by people.” Perceptions of generative AI across the 5Cs remain complicated, begging questions about its use not only in classrooms but elsewhere on campus. Discussions within campus £ ȱ ě ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ of how 5C businesses may navigate Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ě ly those decisions may unfold across the Claremont Colleges.

COURTESY: THE COOP STORE

SEPTEMBER 11, 2026

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2. Workplace watchdog 3. [You were right, my bad] 4. Gateway Cities between us and OC, by another name 5. Together, archaically 6. Ĵ 7. State indicating having been tied 8. Their inventor says them with a /j/ 9. __ in life 10. Rashly, maybe 11. Gift-givers of yore 12. Glass and Gershwin 13. The Panchen, for one 14. Follow 19. Like AIDS, but not SIDS 20. Something Tom Brady might give a teammate since he retired 24. Publicizes, as grievances 25. Un chien andalou 26. Pedophile and physicist Schrödinger 27. Outdoor goods co-operative 28. * “Water under the bridge,” with “you” 29. One of millions who routinely makes things worse for other people 30. Lake near Reno 31. Elevate in power or rank 32. Keep 33. Prejudice 37. Plied 38. Essential tool for any cruciverbalist 39. Australian footwear brand 41. Goes back on a deal 42. For the Lord your God is he that ____ with you (Deuteronomy 20:4) 44. 26D response to asking if he believed in a cat being alive and dead 45. Comrade 48. NMSC benchmark 49. Site with many Samoans 50. Partner with Persian in foundation of one country, according to Rahmat Ali 51. Economizations with the truth 52. Vast 53. Ma bonne ____ 54. Eeny 55. It might be Freudian or pink 56. ȱ ǵ 57. Miss in Méx. 59. 2-methyl-1,3,5-trinitrobenzene

A letter to the Claremont community from TSL’s new Director of DEI & Outreach ROCHELLE LU Hi Claremont! We’re The Student Life, the weekly student newspaper of the Claremont Colleges since 1889. You’ve probably seen our name around campus, whether on a physical paper, a newspaper stand, an Instagram post or in a group chat. But even if you haven’t seen or read us before — welcome! We would like to talk to you. TSL is entirely made by students across the consortium, with no out ȱ ȱ Ě ǯȱ ȱ ȱ the people writing about campus are also the people staying up too late in the library, arguing about whether or not the Hoch-Shanahan Dining Commons is the best dining hall, going to club meetings, missing deadlines, discovering new bands, ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ protest, creating art, watching sports games and figuring out what it

means to be a student at the Claremont Colleges. ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱę ȱ¢ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ rough first semester, struggling to locate my identity as an international student in Claremont and wanting to make sense of that experience. I was grateful to have a space where I could develop those ideas as a columnist in TSL’s Arts & Culture section. What began as a desire to express my emotions gradually evolved into using my global identity as a lens through which to examine broader topics: cross-cultural perspectives, ethnic traditions, mental health and interpersonal relationships. That exploration eventually became what is now my column, “Rooted and Restless.” My time at TSL has taught ȱ ȱ Ě ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ working for this student newspaper can be; it’s also given me the op-

portunity to write for a readership made up of friends, professors and members of the broader campus community. This experience has allowed me to contribute to TSL’s mission of painting a full picture of campus life — in a consortium shaped by the countless and varied perspectives and stories that each Claremont student brings. This year, we want our newsroom to look and feel like the campus we cover. That means we want to talk to ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ an article before; the person who ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ¢Ȃ ȱ obsessed with; the person who has always wanted to make documentaries but never had the chance; the person who has an opinion they can’t stop talking about; the person who thinks journalism sounds intimidating. And yes, we want you! TSL is a space for writers, cre-

atives, journalists and all 5C students to come together and create the paper of record for our community. Our goals are ambitious, and so is our team: We aim to hold power accountable, create community, uplift voices and to be a forum for campus discourse. In order to accomplish these ǰȱ ȱ ȱŗśȱ ě ȱ ȱ and a variety of ways to contribute to our mission. You can join a section, write one story, send us a Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ essay, illustrate and create graphic art, join our business associates or pitch us something we haven’t thought of yet. You don’t need to know exactly what you’re doing before you walk through the door; Ȃ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ¢ ǯ We are constantly striving to improve our relationship with the people and organizations that make up the 5Cs. If your club is putting on an event, your com-

munity is discussing something important or there’s an issue you ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ Ĵ ȱ to, contact us. We can’t cover a campus we aren’t listening to. Most importantly, we don’t want to simply write about the 5Cs. We want to make a newspaper with the people who live here. And when we ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ě ȱ to hold us accountable so that we can continue to grow as a newspaper and as a community. So whether you’ve been reading TSL for years or have never opened an issue, consider this an invitation. Come write with us. Come disagree with us. Come tell us what we’re missing. We’ll see you around campus! Rochelle Lu SC ’28 is from Shanghai and Taiwan. She is the DEI & Outreach Director this Fall; she also hopes to continue authoring “Rooted & Restless” in spite of the frazzling whirlwind that is junior year.

FROM THE SPRING

The Claremont Colleges opted into 100 percent renewable electricity. Here’s how student pressure made it happen. MILO SLEVIN LUCY REED Editorial note: This article was first published online on May 16, 2026. The ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ 5C Environmental Justice (5CEJ) Campaign Co-Leads, Sabina Funasaki PO ’28 and Miranda Elder PO ’29, for print on Sept. 11, 2026: Campus Climate Network (CCN), an organization to build more student power on campuses nationwide, hosted workshops and meetings through ȱ ȱ ȱ ěȱ ȱ ȱǻ Ǽȱ

Campaign to help strengthen our grassroots student organizing. This summer, members of the 5CEJ Campaign work ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ Ȃ ȱ Ř ȱ workshop series to begin planning our ¡ ȱ DZȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ other important initiatives like fossil ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ě ȱ this school year will focus on pushing our campuses to increase their reliance on the Clean Power Alliance’s clean electricity by transitioning away from gas-powered on-campus infrastructure.

COURTESY: ANNA FORD, KAITLYN ULALISA, AND SONIA SIDHU

The Claremont OFF campaign began in the wake of the successful anti-fossil fuels student movements before us. These movements fold ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ Palestinian liberation amidst the active investments by U.S colleges in weapons manufacturing and genocide, and were ultimately suppressed and silenced by normalized crackdowns on free speech in higher education across the country. By February 2025, when students founded the Claremont OFF campaign, American colleges had reached paralysis: Administrators had doubled down on restrictive free speech policies and Ĝ ȱ ȱ ȱ taining business-as-usual, instilling a sense of fear and powerlessness among student organizers. Administrative crackdowns, both federal and collegiate, had changed the calculus of student movements, increasing risk, reducing capacity, and shrinking the imaginative bounds of student-driven change. Meanwhile, college administrations increasingly sidelined climate action as the Trump Administration dissolved climate protections nationwide and

ȃĚ ȱ ȱ£ Ȅȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ crises and crackdowns that shifted ȱ Ĵ ȱ ǯ As the founders of our campaign observed the absence of full-time environmental coordinators at ĵ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ǰȱ Ȃ ȱ increasing reliance on unreliable car ȱ ě ǰȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ Colleges’ uncontested fossil fuel complacency, we felt an imperative to hold the Colleges accountable at a moment when accountability was absent. The OFF campaign centered a clear goal: push the Claremont Colleges to recognize and mitigate the consequences of their continued reliance on fossil fuel electricity. And we won. As the co-leaders of the campaign, we want to clarify what this ȱ ǰȱ ¢ȱ ȱ Ĵ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ we got here. Our win is a testament to the power of grassroots student organizing. But despite our excitement that the Claremont Colleges have moved away from fossil fuel-driven electricity, we must recognize that this decision should have been a no-brainer for the Colleges. We must recognize that the Colleges have ignored previous opportuni-

ties to purchase renewable electricity. Most importantly, we must recognize that this is just one step in an ongoing journey toward divestment from extractive industries at the Claremont Colleges and beyond. We will not allow administrators to claim this ȱ ȱę ǯ

Our Win ȱ ȱ ŗŜǰȱ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ Claremont Graduate University and The Claremont Colleges Services, unanimously voted to switch the Colleges from sourcing fossil fuels from the investor-owned electricity monopoly …

CONTINUE READING ONLINE

SportS

PAGE 8

SEPTEMBER 11, 2026

FROM THE SPRING

Pomona-Pitzer welcomes Dr. Danielle Sports roundup Lynch as new athletics director ZACHARY LEBLANC

JAKE CREELAN

ȱ ȱŗǰȱ ȱ ȱ Ȭ ĵ ȱ athletic director, Dr. Danielle Lynch, Ĝ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ £ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ŘŖȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ě ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȄȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱȯȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ ȱȂŘŞǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȯȱ ȱ ¢ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȭ ȱ ǯ ȃ ȱ ǽ Ȭ Ǿȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢Ȭ ȱ ǭ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȄȱ ¢ ȱ ǯȱȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȄȱ ¢ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȭ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ

COURTESY: POMONA COLLEGE

ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ǯȱȱ ȃǽ ȱ Ǿǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱȯȱ ǰȱ ȱ ǰȱ ǰȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȄȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȄ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȭ Ȃ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ £ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱś ȱ ¢ǯ ȃ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ǰȄȱ ¢ ȱ ǯȱ ȃ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱę ȱ ȱ

ȱ ȱ ǰȱ Ȭ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ¢ Ȃ ȱ ǯȄ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ǯȱ Miriam Merrill. ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȄȱ ¢ ȱ ǯȱȃ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȄ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ¢ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱę ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȭ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ

ȃ ȱ ȱ ǽ Ȭ Ǿȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ǰȄȱ ¢ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȃ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱȯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ¢ ȱ ȱ ǯȄȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȭ ǯȱ ¢ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ŘŖŗřȱ ȱ ŘŖŘřǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȃ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱȯȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȄȱ Lynch wrote. ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȭ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȃ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱȯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȭ ȱ ǰȄȱ ¢ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȃ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ¢ǯȄ

In the spring ȱ ǰȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱŗŖȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ CMC sports bowl opens ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ǯȱśȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǻ ǯǼǯȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ ę ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ş ȱ ǯȱ ¢ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȭ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ

COURTESY: CLAREMONT MCKENNA COLLEGE

FROM THE SUMMER

World Cup brings LA local politics to the international stage

NICHOLAS STEINMAN ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĝ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȃ ȱ ȱ Ȅȱ ȮȮȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȮȮȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱŘŖŘŘȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱŘŖŗŞȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ŘŖŘŜȱ ǯȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȭ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ how intertwined international and ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ǯ ȱ¢ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ DZȱ ŗŜȱ ȱ ȱ ŗŜȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱȯȱ ȱ ¢ǰȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱȃ ȱ ȱ Ȅȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ǰȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ĝ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ ȱ ŘŖŘŚǰȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ

ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ŗśŖǰŖŖŖȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǞŜŖŖȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǞŘŚřȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ę ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱŗŗȱ Ĝ ȱ ȱ ȱǻ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ¡ Ǽǰȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ¢ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ Ȭ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ě ȱ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ Ȃ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ǰȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ£ ȱ ȱ £ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ £ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ¢ ȱ ¢Ȭ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ £ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ £ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱǰȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ

ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ £Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ £ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ǯ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ě ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ

ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ŗŞȱ ¡ Ȭ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ £ Ȃȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ ¡ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ǯ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃȱ ǰȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ ȱ ȱ

ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ¢ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ȱ ǯȱ ȱ ȱ ¢Ȃ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ¢ǰȱ Ȃ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ Ȃ ȱ Ĵ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ǰȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ȱ ¢ǯȱȱ Nicholas Steinman CM ‘28 understands the connection between sports and public transit very well, as on rare occasions he has seen soccer fans in real life, but only on the train.

Picture this: students at The Claremont Colleges get unlimited, FREE rides on Foothill Transit! Ride to class, ride to a show, ride to a meal… ride wherever inspiration strikes. It’s all free with the Foothill Transit Class Pass. Get yours with your school ID at The Connection now! foothilltransit.org/claremont

NICHOLAS STEINMAN • THE STUDENT LIFE