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This magazine is just the beginning of all the incredible stories waiting to be told on our campus about how students, staff and faculty have shaped and continue to shape our university identity.

When I immigrated to the United States, I was only a few months old. My parents and I weren’t running from civil war, religious persecution or a violent dictatorship. My dad had gotten a job offer and he, my mom and I were following the opportunity.

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I would not consider myself a religious person. Honestly, I don’t understand how anyone could think of me as religious. So when I ask friends for class notes because I've missed a lecture due to a religious holiday, I always get weird looks.

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Accessibility on campus is something most students don’t think about. But for many students with a disability, accessibility barriers can limit their full participation in university life and hinder academic success.

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I try to constantly remind myself that I owe my parents everything. Every time I have to call customer service for my mom or translate a paragraph for my dad, I remind myself that I would not have any of the opportunities I do if not for them.

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Don’t talk to me about the weather, trivial, pointless, utterly disinteresting weather. How disgustingly impersonal, how socially dead. Instead Tell me what traumatized you as a child. I’ve always hated moms that manage sports teams—

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despite this transaction feeling abstract, it feels vaguely like you’re fulfilling your responsibility to something larger than yourself – you are keeping the machine going and keeping yourself accountable to it.

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Whitewashed is a weird thing to be during a generation gap, especially when you’re from a small town. All my life, I’ve struggled with looking Indian but “feeling white,” as if skin colour had a direct correlation to personality.

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Lately, I have seen cultural diversity — at least, cultural diversity that applies to me — being promoted through young rappers in music videos as they integrate puns about Dimple Kapadia into socially conscious lyricism.

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Like many kids of immigrants, I have two names: my name in Chinese is ??, which if read aloud, sounds suspiciously like my English name, Helen. I'm not sure which one my mother decided on first — my Chinese name or my English name.

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