“SURROUND SOUND”
by Austin Torain, 2024, Senior Colloquium Winner
“…all we owe anyone including ourselves is to show up with kindness and a desire to understand.”
Growing up, I was surrounded by music. My mother played the clarinet when she was in middle school, and to this day she can light up the dance floor like nobody else. My father was in our church choir and would constantly fill our home with singing. So of course, my sister and I inevitably followed in their footsteps when we saw how beautiful it was to not just hear music, but to create it and share it with others. It was magical to watch the way music connected people, and I have tried to carry that magic of music into everything that I do.
I joined the choir at my church when I was in the 4th grade, and I joined my middle school band in the 6th grade when I first picked up a trombone. Like my mom, I had also been gifted with the ability to nail a two-step whenever I heard a good song, so in high school, I joined a hip-hop dance group. For me, music was never just music. It was an extension of my soul, and I loved being able to create and experience music with people who loved it just as much as I did. It always made me feel connected to something larger than myself.
When I came to Wake Forest, it was in the middle of a pandemic. The world was still moving, but people had begun to stand still. We were confined to our dorms and interacting with people was seen as a risk of safety. So while feeling disconnected from the greater community, I decided I would keep doing what I had been doing in high school. I started walking around campus with a speaker in my backpack in the fall of 2020, and it did exactly what I hoped it would do. It made me and a few others around me feel like there was belonging in a time of isolation.
Wake itself was a pretty isolating place for me in the beginning. There were not too many people who looked like me, and it was hard to make it feel like a place I could call home. Somewhere that I was safe to be my authentic self. So I turned to the one thing that had always brought me connection, music. When I first started walking around campus with a speaker in my backpack, I got a lot of stares and a lot of hate for it, but as a Black man on campus, I already felt those stares every time I stepped into a classroom. I figured if people were going to know me, I wanted to be known for something more. My intentions behind the speaker in my backpack started as selfish. It was a way for me to feel like I was somebody, and then I had a conversation with Ms. Harriett in the Pit.
I figured if people were going to know me, I wanted to be known for something more.
Ms. Harriett works at the salad and fruit stand in the middle of the Pit. She and the other Pit and Benson workers have allowed me to feel that sense of community that I was so desperately starving for. Away from home and isolated from others, the workers in the Pit were a form of constant connection for me, and they loved the speaker. Most of the workers being Black and old school, it felt like I was home at a cookout every time I went into the Pit. I remember walking in one day playing “Candy” by Cameo and Ms. Sonny at the front started dancing, so naturally I joined her. This connection that I was longing for, I had started to find it most unconventionally.
To be surrounded by music and people who loved music has always brought me peace, so I joined Momentum Crew, a hip-hop dance group at Wake and I joined the Spirit of the Old Gold and Black, the marching band at Wake, and I found my people. I started to find my people all over Wake. I found them at the WakerSpace. I found them in my scholarship groups. I found them in the middle of the quad while I was playing “Lovely Day” by Bill Withers.
In the past few years, I have wrestled with one question a lot, “What do we owe other people?”. That person who sits next to me at 9 am every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday has stopped attending class. One of my club members has not been to a single practice all month. A stranger is walking down the same grocery aisle, and they drop their wallet. Okay so in some cases what we owe people is a little clearer than others, but I think ultimately all we owe anyone including ourselves is to show up with kindness and a desire to understand.
We all struggle. You never know what is going on in someone’s life, so why not extend just a bit of kindness?
We all struggle. You never know what is going on in someone’s life, so why not extend just a bit of kindness? It takes minimal effort to check in on someone. It takes minimal effort to meet someone wherever they are in their feelings. And it takes minimal effort to be an ear or a shoulder for someone. My general rule of thumb is that if my music makes one person feel a little less alone on this campus, then I will keep doing it. We all just want to feel like we belong.
As humans, we desire to feel connected. Connected to our environment. Connected to those around us. Connected to something larger than ourselves. We desire to be seen and heard, and ultimately, we wish to be understood. Most people spend their lives hoping that they will not just be tolerated but truly accepted by those around them. Connection was something I craved, but in most places I looked, I found nothing. In most places, I felt like I would never truly belong. But I found a sense of belonging here.
2024 Senior Colloquium Runners-Up & Honorable Mentions
WHATEVER IS TRUE
by Christa Dutton, 2024
Seek the truth and report it.
That is the first principle of journalism I learned in the Introduction to Journalism class here at Wake Forest. In many ways, my life, and especially my college years, can be summarized as a pursuit of truth.
As a little girl, I was drawn to stories about uncovering the truth. My favorite movie was Harriet the Spy, a story about a young girl who carries a notebook with her everywhere and writes down what she observes. In elementary school, when my class got to go to the library, I always brought home Nancy Drew. Eventually, the librarian begged me to try a different series. But instead of becoming a detective or spy, I chose to study journalism at Wake Forest.
“Seek the truth” isn’t just a challenge posed to journalists but it is a challenge to all of us when we enter the university. You have come here to study a discipline, and I hope you only care about what is true about that field. Scientists, economists, and mathematicians do not care about fake theories. Even as creative writing students craft their fiction, they are highlighting truths about the world.
“Tell the truth” is a simple demand but not an easy one. In fact, it is only becoming harder. I began my time at Wake Forest in the fall of 2020 when the truth was under immense attack in the United States. Misinformation about the COVID-19 pandemic was rampant. Our country was reeling from intense polarization. Americans were trusting the media less and trading in the truth for lies crafted to make them feel more secure and empowered. In November of 2020, President Joe Biden secured the presidency, and former president Donald Trump denied the results, despite there being no evidence of widespread election fraud. Two months later, supporters of Trump and the wider political movement he represents, raided the U.S. Capitol Building. Live on television, I watched as Americans attempted to violently undermine our
democracy. Meanwhile, I was just getting my start as a student journalist at the Old Gold & Black, where my job was to tell the truth.
Two courses I took my first year at Wake Forest convinced me to join the newspaper. The first was a seminar instructed by the terrific librarians Rosalind Tedford and Hu Womack. The class was about mis- and disinformation on the Internet. We learned how to wade through fake news to find the stories that were trusted. Seeing how misinformation was harming communities, especially ones in news deserts, made me want to be a part of the solution to publish more trustworthy journalism.
Secondly, I took a writing seminar with Professor Phoebe Zerwick, director of the journalism program and adviser to the Old Gold & Black. In this course, we read Professor Zerwick’s award-winning series published in the Winston-Salem Journal called “Murder. Race. Justice: The State vs. Darryl Hunt.” The series led to Hunt’s exoneration after he spent 19 years in prison for a crime he did not commit. Professor Zerwick’s work showed me what the truth could accomplish. It could change lives. It could set people free.
Over the past four years, the thing I will remember most about being a student journalist will not be the stories I’ve told. Although there have been some big ones. I will most treasure that I learned how to embrace the slow, sometimes difficult process of uncovering the truth.
Getting to the truth requires listening and watching and waiting. It’s slow. It’s the opposite of the immediate gratification we’re all wired to want. To seek the truth while reporting a story, your mind must always be alert. You must have your ear to the ground, listening to what people are saying and what they’re not saying. That’s sometimes just as important. You have to
ask tough questions. You have to read long documents that no one else bothers to read. You go to public meetings that no one else has time to go to. And you do this again and again and again
until you have a story. And that story has a life. It has consequences. People make decisions and form opinions based on the truth that you tell them.
Searching for the truth has taught me to be patient. And curious. And disciplined enough to piece together data, evidence, and observations. It’s taught me to keep an open mind and to be committed to inquiry, a process which our world needs more of as misinformation continues to pollute our public forums.
Being a student journalist has also taught me to be humble. You must always remain more impressed with what you don’t know than what you do. You also must be humble enough to acknowledge your errors when you make them. Earlier I mentioned how the American public is trusting the media less. Trust, however, must be earned.
I’ve also learned that honesty can be difficult. The truth about this university hasn’t always been flattering. As an institution, we’ve made our mistakes. An independent student press brings those injustices to light and holds the powerful accountable so that this university can be a better place. That’s the key. We tell the truth to document history but also so that change makers can do what they do best, make constructive change.
Life is disguised as a quest for many things. Power. Money. Status. Love. Happiness. My observation is that life’s real quest is for truth. You can say that you are searching for happiness, but ultimately you are searching for an answer. You really want to know if it’s true that the dollar amount you daydream about will actually make you as happy as you think it will. You are searching for what is most true about yourself and the world we live in.
I challenge you all to go on a search for the truth. The truth is valuable in its own right, but the journey to get there will also edify your mind and your character. What are the fundamental truths you believe about yourself and the world? Have you ever searched for them?
I promise that the pursuit will mold you into a person who thinks more critically and cares more deeply.
Earlier I mentioned two courses at Wake Forest that got me into journalism. Well, there’s actually a third course that also inspired my interest. It’s one that might surprise you — Introduction to the Bible. In that class, we read a verse that says: “…whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable — if anything is excellent or praiseworthy — think about such things.” This verse became a guiding principle in both my work and my life. Many aspects of our world are not praiseworthy, but I challenge us to think about how they might be redeemed. As I wrote in my last letter from the editor in the Old Gold & Black: “This is what journalism is all about — reporting what’s true in hopes of creating solutions toward a more admirable, excellent world. That world isn’t here yet. In the meantime, we tell the truth.”
THE ELEVENTH HOUR
by Jae Canetti, 2024
I’d like to begin with a disclaimer that the following is a reflection, not advice. With that said, let me tell you about what I learned from getting deported.
In January of 2022, I was supposed to study abroad in Santiago, Chile. But when I arrived, I got pulled aside by border control. The local government had made a clerical mistake regarding my vaccination status, and I was falsely accused of being medically unfit to enter the country. From there, I was detained, my passport was confiscated, my request for safe passage to the American embassy was denied, and after eleven hours, I was deported back to the United States.
That was one of the scariest days of my life, but I want to underscore the silver linings from my experience. First of all, I learned that being in diplomatic trouble in a foreign country is the fastest way to learn a new language. Again, reflection. Not advice. But second, and more importantly, I experienced eleven hours in pure limbo, stuck in an airport with no way out. Every assumption I carried in my everyday life–including the privilege of safety–had gone up in smoke. And ironically enough, despite the chaos and fear consuming my immediate future, never in my life have I been so present.
The clarity of living in the moment was incredible. I watched Wake Forest staff and faculty go to war for me, both on-site and in the study abroad office, and I’ve never felt such heartfelt gratitude for a group of people. I listened to people speaking around me, noting the unique inflections of Chilean Spanish that, despite my seven years of classroom Spanish, you can’t learn until you just witness it for yourself. I ate a sandwich that was incredibly average, but that day, it tasted so beautifully average. And as I ate that beautifully average sandwich, I had a thought. What if uncertainty is the blank canvas for joy?
Think about the last time you tried a new food, and your eyes lit up as it hit your taste buds–or when a new song came on the radio and after a few seconds, you knew you’d have it on repeat for a month. How you have that comfort movie you’ve watched 28 times, always wishing you could erase your memory and watch it for the first time again. Rarely do our most euphoric moments come from a repeated experience, when we’re mostly certain of a positive outcome. That unbridled, unfiltered joy comes from not knowing what’s in store. That new dish could’ve made you gag. That new song could’ve… made you gag. But that’s the point. You took a step into the unknown, and that elation you felt was a manifestation of watching your world of possibilities expand right before your eyes.
The author H.P. Lovecraft once said, “The oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” Sitting in that airport without a passport, it dawned on me for the first time what it really meant to face the “unknown.” And it was really, really scary. But over those eleven hours, appreciating the minutiae of every detail around me, that fog of mystery became a friend, reminding me to keep my eyes on right now.
I never did end up making it back to Chile. In a glorious twist of irony, after being deported because their government lost the records of my COVID vaccinations, I caught COVID on the flight home. Then, the next morning, I woke up to a furious Whatsapp message from the Chilean health ministry demanding I send my location immediately, as an officer had discovered that I was missing from my quarantine. They apparently never received word from the immigration authorities that I had been sent back to the U.S. So, for several hours, I was simultaneously deported from Chile and also a fugitive in Chile. At this point, I decided it was best to go back to campus for the semester, and I made it back to Winston-Salem just in time to evacuate from the Weaver fire.
Since the deportation incident, I’ve striven to embrace the integral role the unknown plays in my life. I’m a math major, meaning that I literally have a degree in finding the unknown–and despite that, the more advanced I get, the more I realize it’s really about accepting that you’ll never find even a fraction of them. In the process of getting that degree, I let a few too many assignments slide up against the deadline, but when I’ve found myself staring at that blank screen in the eleventh hour, I’ve unearthed forces of creativity that I never knew I had. I’m going on to work in climate technology and sustainable development, fields fundamentally rooted in total uncertainty that also don’t really exist in American academia yet. My pursuit of ways to study these disciplines led me to semesters in Copenhagen and Venice and to attend the UN climate change conference in Dubai, all of which were shots in the dark that compelled me to face that foggy future head-on. And on that journey, I took a leap of faith and realized a dream of mine by becoming a coach of a semi-professional baseball team in Italy, learning to transcend language barriers and cultural norms for the love of the game.
I’ve been led down an incredible, winding, unpredictable, but certainly unique road through my four years at Wake Forest, and I’ve loved every step of it. But just like everyone else here graduating with me, I have to go out into the real world now. The little Wake bubble inside this gated campus is about to burst for us. And right now, the world we’re heading into is more unstable and unpredictable than we’ve ever known. What happened to me in that airport as everything I thought I knew evaporated is happening to us all at a global level, over and over again. Between pandemics, politics, the climate, and more, it can feel like there’s no telling what tomorrow will bring. But at Wake Forest, we’re endowed with the spirit of Pro Humanitate–to step into an uncertain future and welcome its ups and downs, because to serve humanity is to be willing to test the untested. Through this institution, its curriculum, its opportunities on campus and abroad, its people–we’ve been trained to step into uncertainty, time and time again.
So, I’ll leave you with one piece of advice at the end of this reflection. Maybe don’t actively try to create chaos, but if you ever find that it comes your way in the eleventh hour, embrace it. Sit with it, be present to it, and examine the beauty in it, because if you do, you just might unlock horizons you never thought possible. But if you can, do it without getting deported.
SILVER LININGS
by Jimena Elmufdi, 2024
As a visual learner, I’m always looking to capture experiences in some observable way. I like to think that hoarding thoughts is both my blessing and curse. If I drew out my overall experience at Wake Forest, it would probably look like a graph with off-the-charts highs and lows. I’m sure many others would agree with this visualization because, as much as we want to romanticize our college years, they can be shockingly harsh. Especially for those of us terrified of having a blank slate and who had no clue who we were or who we were supposed to be.
Curious to see my four years laid down on paper, I began to draw out my graph, carefully trying to categorize these substantially high and low peaks that so distinctively marked my college journey. I walked through each semester, noticing how different they were. Each fall and spring with nothing in common but repeated weather patterns. At first glance, my graph was just that; big accomplishments and humbling crashes. Reading my name for the first time on a print edition of the Old Gold & Black and completing my first all-nighter for my Astronomy midterm which introduced me to my Red Bull intake limit. Yet my comprehensive experience at Wake was much more than these monumental steps along the way. The things that made my time here memorable were all the small peaks and dips in between that I had obviated during this run-through of my Wake Forest trajectory. I could leave this campus with a list of memories that played the leading characters during my life as a student. Or I could dig a little deeper, embracing the fringe details which carried the same weight as a single big achievement.
I walked into campus for the first time as a shy eighteen-year-old girl from a small town in the Dominican Republic. My perception of Greek life came from corny American movies. Having fast-food restaurants at arm’s reach felt exciting, and wandering the aisles at Target on University Parkway was like heaven on earth. I must admit it still is. It only took one of these small things to make me smile. But, at this starting point, I also had a very primitive vision of what life should look like. I oversimplified, boiled down, and condensed everything into big-picture scenarios. To me, life was one big book with four or five main chapters. Things like graduating from high school, graduating from college, finding a job, starting a family… a typical coming-of-age film, you know, the drill. I was convinced that the only things that mattered were the titles of those chapters. How many milestones did you reach, what substantial challenges did you overcome, and how many people validated these goals? Who did I make proud?
And most importantly, what’s next? It took me four years at Wake to begin to modify this flawed point of view. There is one big issue with this life scheme that I had envisioned. If you get too fixated on one type of outcome, you miss out on the other things along the way that are equally if not more meaningful than that outcome you praise so much. To feel satisfied with the absence of perfection, to stop being enveloped in the thought of impeccable scenarios, meant that I would learn how to deal with the uncontrollable. As cheesy as it sounds, I became hyper-aware of opening my senses to the small, nice things in life. So, Wake became my testing ground. I learned to see angular beauty in Scales, a building that very often gets misunderstood. I found satisfaction in finding the perfect table at ZSR, the ones on the sixth floor right by the windows that look out into Davis Field. I savored the rush of every touchdown, three-pointer, goal, and home run at sporting events because I’m such a fan of being a fan. I learned to observe, appreciate, and pick up on the peculiar traits of art teachers, the ones who have been teaching the same art class for years and find satisfaction in very mundane objects like a perfectly sharpened pencil or a monosyllabic name that sounds artistic. I eagerly waited for the magnolias to bloom on the lower quad because you can’t have Reynolda Campus without its iconic white flowers. And the list goes on, small details that pick you up from a bad day and make you enjoy the winding, steep road that is your early twenties.
A lot of us like to ponder about the past. How we wish it were better, like having freshman year so viciously robbed by COVID, but this also falls into the ‘uncontrollable’ category I mentioned before. By this Christmas break, I was already being bombarded with the overarching question about the culmination of my college career. Often getting the ‘what would you tell your freshmen year self?’ or ‘What did you wish you knew in August of 2020?’ To my surprise, my mind was blank. Not because my experience had been perfect but because seeking perfection is the one thing that I had intentionally worked on letting go. Strangely, I realized that walking into Luter Hall that gloomy January morning as a clueless freshman was absolutely necessary. Letting go of preconceived limitations gave me room to grow, to wiggle uneasily into myself and it is one of the reasons you see this version of myself standing before you today.
THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE PAST
by Tahjanee Givens, 2024
The grounds of this campus and the walls of Wake Forest are full of stories. When I was a child, stories represented places I would disappear into to escape from reality, while later, stories embodied a way for me to feel connected to something larger. They allowed me to appreciate the role of the past, and the sacrifices my family members made that permitted me to attend this esteemed institution. Storytelling has been a part of my life, but coming to Wake, I didn’t know what my story would be. Unfortunately, I have to say that my story by itself is unremarkable and actually has a comforting flavor of mediocrity in the grand scheme of things, but the power of storytelling doesn’t come from detailing one life but from capturing a commonality where there appears to be none.
Walking on the Quad on a quiet night and looking at Wait Chapel, I know that I am walking in the footsteps of so many before me, soaking in a sight that so many have appreciated before my time. So I present my Wake Forest experience not only as my own, but also as one of my favorite literary techniques, that of intergenerational storytelling. I mention this because the story I found to be deeply intertwined with mine was that of the first Black student to attend undergrad at Wake Forest, Dr. Edward Reynolds.
It was my in Race in America politics course with Dr. Tess Wise that I considered what the context of race at Wake was like in the past. For the final project, I focused on integration at Wake and the stories of ethnic-racial minorities over time. Unfortunately, I cannot share all of the rich history I read and learned, but speaking with Dr. Reynolds one spring afternoon was one of my most formative Wake experiences.
Born in Ghana decades before I was born in the United States, Dr. Reynolds grew up in a family where an appreciation for education was deeply rooted and their presence had already graced the walls of revered educational institutions like Oxford University. Though it seems highly unlikely, despite the distances in time and space, there were many similarities and continuities between our experiences.
We both knew Shaw University, an HBCU in downtown Raleigh that I would revel at as a child with its tall buildings, and it being the first university in the United States Dr. Reynolds attended after being shuttered out of Wake for a year as integration was delayed. We were both familiar with the mid-length, and for those who know, quite frankly boring drive between Raleigh and Winston-Salem. He knew, and I had to learn, that East Winston-Salem felt like a place worlds away from the gates of the campus I call home. These gates that have created a Wake Forest bubble that feels so far detached from any reality I have ever known.
Dr. Reynolds and I recognized that African-American students, like myself (descendants of enslaved peoples), faced unique challenges on the campus. African-American students faced additional resistance against their integration into the student body, as well as the undermining of their success, leading some to be pushed out of the university during Dr. Reynolds’s time (and the time that has passed since). African-American students also face a current erasure as being deemed “acultural” despite our culture gifting Wake its legacy, with someone as treasured as Dr. Maya Angelou. Dr. Maya Angelou who was memorialized on this campus with a dorm named in her memory, only for her name to be collectively mispronounced by a student body of over 5,000 as “an-jel-oo”, thereby distancing this community from the profound impact of her legacy.
When speaking with Dr. Reynolds, we also reflected on a deep appreciation for the Black staff who have encouraged us and rooted for us each day because our success here meant to them greater success for the Black community, and I know that we carry the weight of their hopes with us too.
I learned that Dr. Reynolds and I belonged to the same fraternity. Where he served a pivotal role in integrating the first fraternity on campus, the same organization where exactly sixty years later, I served as the Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion chair leading archival events to understand our history. A history that showed, despite integration, not long ago, the same organization enjoyed parties with confederate flags and notably less diversity.
We understood that there was also beauty to this Wake Forest experience. The time spent with professors during office hours who taught us the importance of critical thinking, the community members who became our family away from home, and a friendly smile when walking around the campus became a part of the Wake Forest legacy we have left behind. Each and every one of us is a living legacy of all those we have interacted with, the classes we have gone to, our first dorm room freshman year that was a haven, and the stories we will tell about this university when we leave. So what does a Wake Forest legacy mean to me? Well, what does a Wake Forest legacy mean to you?
Carrying on a legacy was something I was reminded of when celebrating the Golden Deacs at their 50-year pin ceremony or at the Service of Remembrance for Deacons gone too soon. Carrying a legacy means realizing the contributions of our story, the stories of your friends, and reckoning with the times that we as a community fail to speak up and turn a blind eye to injustice. It also means honoring students who display acts of courage to amplify the voices of students of color, the voices of queer students, the voices of students with disabilities,
community members and so many others. A legacy means knowing the value of the story you tell.
For the past four years, I must admit that I have felt a bit invisible on this campus. I was inspired by Dr. Reynolds’s story, and that is why I have reminded myself that though I feel small, unremarkable, and invisible, without sharing these stories, Wake will remain firmly planted in its past. These stories have taught me that you do not only need to be the first to shape the legacy. That though you may be the second, third, fourth, or even twelve thousandeth person to do something, and are walking in the trodden paths of others, your story matters because it is still a part of something larger. You make the decision of whether you uphold the gates that have pushed others out or dismantle the barriers that have silenced others for far too long. I am proud that I, too, am a part of this complex Wake Forest story. We all have the choice to make small impacts that weave together the fabric of our community and we all have a choice to advance a better Wake Forest legacy.
THE FIVE SENSES
by Brianna High, 2024
Coming to Wake Forest from a small town in rural Southern Maryland, I was unsure of what to expect. My parents would drop me off, move me in, and then what? I suppose this leaves us with the classic advice that everyone gives you when you go off to college: try new things. So, I did. There were so many new things to experience, and my senses went into overload. As I reflect on my past four years at Wake Forest, I remember seeing the color of the leaves change during each Fall in the Forest, hearing “O Here’s To Wake Forest” at football games, tasting Pitsgiving food after waiting in line for forty-five minutes, and smelling the laundry room of Taylor Residence Hall every time I would walk by when I lived there my first-year… but to confidently say something that I remember feeling is a bit more challenging. Feeling… anxious? Joyful? Homesick? Curious? Of course, the feeling would have to be something unique to Wake Forest, give justice to its charm, and appropriately represent its students.
Pro Humanitate, literally translated “For Humanity,” and the motto of Wake Forest University, is all around. It is in the literature that I have read for my Feminist Philosophy class, such as Audre Lorde’s The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House, in the biomedical science research that occurs at Wake Downtown, in the talent of the artists and musicians that zip around Scales, and in beloved events like Hit The Bricks and Wake N’ Shake. And yes, you can see Pro Humanitate. This includes its engraving on the university seal outside of Reynolda Hall that students strategically avoid stepping on and its etching on the beautiful stone arch that rests on steps leading up to the Quad. We argue that we see it in action, too, but one of the most special things about Pro Humanitate is being able to feel it.
I have had the privilege of serving as a Student Adviser for three years and as Co-Chair of the Student Advising Leadership Council in my senior year. Oddly, New Deac Welcome Week
and the first week of classes of the Fall semester make me feel like a first-year student again. I listen to their accounts of the new things that they have seen, heard, tasted, and smelt, but most of my monthly check-ins center on what they have felt. There is the familiar excitement of first
meeting friends that they had spent all of the past summer texting with, planning Halloween costumes with people on their hall, and enjoying a class that they were hesitant to take. Not unexpectedly, there is the stress of balancing midterm assignments with their social life, logging onto the registration portal to see the classes in their plan that have filled for the Spring, and drifting apart from the friend group that they had made during the first week of classes.
For all of the highs, which include small things like a productive study session in the atrium of ZSR, there are lows. When these lows begin to build up is when you can really feel them. The same day that you feel overwhelmed following a test that you anticipated would be much easier becomes the same day everything on the Pit menu seems unappetizing, on top of being the same day that you find out that your crush now has a girlfriend, and this is somehow also the first time in the whole semester that you have ever had to wait for a communal shower to open. From first-hand experience and word from the three classes that follow me, these are the days when you feel that you most need Pro Humanitate, and from the people that you meet on Wake’s campus, these are the days that you receive it. These are also the days when you note that someone else needs Pro Humanitate, and these are the days that you give it.
Your roommate noticed that you seemed down and brought you a treat from the POD and a classmate who had a similar reaction to the test asked you to grab lunch and study the next day. Pro Humanitate––the kindness and desire to leave the world a better place––does not cease on your better days, though. It lies in friends congratulating you on securing the internship that you have been interviewing for and in small adventures around Winston-Salem “just because.” On
Wake Forest’s campus, Pro Humanitate extends beyond your friends; it is in professors who have noticed your excellence in the classroom and invite you to do research with them the following semester, in faculty members from the Office of Academic Advising notifying you when a class that unfortunately filled now has a new section available, and in the staff that greet you with a warm smile as they keep the buildings and grounds clean.
As Civil Rights activist and former Wake Forest professor Maya Angelou once said, “People will forget what you said. People will forget what you did. But people will never forget how you made them feel.” The colors of the leaves changing, “O Here’s to Wake Forest,” Pitsgiving food, the Taylor Residence Hall laundry room, and Pro Humanitate: some of the things that I have seen, heard, tasted, smelt, and felt while at Wake Forest. When we look back at our time at Wake, we will surely remember many of these things, and these things will be what we recount when seeing former classmates and describing our college experience to our children. As time passes and we forget the formulas that we learned in class, I hope that we do not forget how we felt and the power that we had to make others feel through our embodiment and cultivation of Pro Humanitate. I hope that Pro Humanitate is not something that we leave behind in the past four formative years, but rather is an attribute and a commitment carried on in our legacies and that guides our pursuit of a better world.
A TOUR
by Rachel Peterson, 2024
The best part of my week is when I give a tour of Wake Forest. It is an hour spent answering questions about academics, social life, and “where is the forest?” I revel in the fact I get to take prospective students around a place that has truly shaped me. I get to look at Wake with fresh eyes while still reflecting and sharing the experiences I have had. At the end of my tours, I always share the lesson I have learned while being a student here. I have learned how to be comfortable in the uncomfortable. On the tour, I do not have time to share with them how I got there, so let me take you on a tour of that journey, a journey which I believe will resonate with my fellow graduates.
The first stop is my first-year dorm room in Babcock. Picture this. It is a hot day in August. I just watched my parents drive away headed back to Maine. I do not know anyone. I am over 1,000 miles away from home, but that is not the hardest part. It is Covid. I must get a new mask from the tears streaming down my face. My door is closed to the hallway. I am lucky just to have a roommate. Unfamiliar faces, or half faces, walk by on campus. We cannot smile at each other. We cannot be in groups. We cannot eat inside. This was our first day in college in 2020, but we persevered. Classes were held online but that meant a shared bond in breakout rooms over the fact that none of us knew what we were doing. Our one home football game seated six feet apart was the highlight of the semester. We knew that was not normal. “Normal” was a thing of the past. We learned that the “unprecedented” happens and we have no choice but to adjust. This is one of the first times I became comfortable with the uncomfortable.
Next stop, our dining hall, the Pit. I love the Pit. I am one of the lucky students who has both the “I heart the Pit” t-shirt as well as socks to match. I wear them with pride. The Pit represents social changes that happen in college. After the first semester at Wake, friend groups switch. Greek life creates new cliques. However, the Pit is the place where we all find and share common ground. I get a meal with friends from sophomore year once a month instead of once a week as we used to, but I also reminisce on who we once were and who we have become. The Pit is not just a dining hall, it is a place where I look back on all the people I have met, the deep conversations I have had, and the laughs shared. The Pit has stayed constant in our Wake lives as we have grown into ourselves. This is another instance where I became comfortable with the uncomfortable.
Our third stop is very exciting. Carswell Hall. Wow. Take a deep breath in of the stale air that has lingered in this building for decades. Carswell is special to me for a couple of reasons. First, everyone has a course that makes them want to cry and scream. Carswell held that class for me. Astronomy. You would think a class about the world, planets, and stars would elicit a different response, but I can assure you tears were shed. When I went to my advisor to figure out my options, I was told that this academic mountain would still be there next semester and I would have to climb it at some point. So, I laced up my L.L. Bean boots and went back to Carswell. I also went to Olin Physics Lab numerous times for help from my Professor and the CLASS office to work through my test anxiety. I did learn a lot about the stars and can tell you the order of the planets, but the most useful lesson I took away from Astronomy was that I will not always ace everything. In fact, I did struggle, but the world did not end. Actually, Astronomy showed me it continues to orbit around the sun. This is one of the other times I became comfortable with the uncomfortable.
Let’s go downstairs to a hidden gem in Carswell. The studio. The studio sits typically vacant of people yet filled with equipment. This studio represents the crisis students have as they figure out what they want to do in the future, and the work it takes to get there. I have made short videos since I was eight. It is truly incredible when I think about where I have been and where I am now. My film classes in Carswell pushed me to see movies through an analytical lens and write screenplays that are more nuanced than a common cliché. I could not just turn in the first thing I shot but had to spend hours and hours editing just one minute of a film. Sometimes you must put in a lot more work for something that seems insignifcant. We learn to persevere and to cope in order to achieve. Again, I became comfortable with the uncomfortable.
Carswell has seen me at my best and at my worst. If the walls could talk, they would probably tell me to leave and never come back. So let’s move on to the final stop of the tour, a bench in a corner nook of the Upper Quad. Sit with me. See the trees with remnants of toilet paper blowing in the wind. Smell the Subway wafting over. Look at the chapel standing tall. This is mother so dear. Wake Forest has educated me on who I am as a person, on what I want to do, and on the way life changes. Wake Forest has shown me that it changes fast and unexpectedly but that is okay. It is okay to be excited, nauseous, or even a combination of both, but I know how to sit with my comfort in the uncomfortable. If you can learn to do that, is there anything you cannot do? Thank you, Wake Forest, and thank you for listening. This tour is complete.
BETWEEN TWO HEMISPHERES
by Claudia Rafa, 2024
Now and again, you may encounter assertions that classify individuals as either left-brained or right-brained. This contention suggests that the left half of your brain is generally responsible for attention to detail and analytics, whereas the right half governs imagination, intuition, and creativity. This dichotomy is often oversimplified to insist that left-brainers are more proficient in logical fields, whereas right-brainers are better suited for the arts. My pre-med friends; however, would vehemently denounce this misconception. They would explain how our brains are complex and interconnected systems whose hemispheres work together and rely on one another. As a double major in Finance and Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies, I wholeheartedly agree.
My mom was an English major in college and my dad, a chemical engineer. As such, I have sat through many a dinner discussion weighing the merits of a humanities degree against a bachelors of science. I have heard both cases, and yet, I see no value in the argument. The only success is making the other side feel small, unimportant. This time spent arguing over the competitive worthiness of these educational paths could instead be spent offering insightful perspectives to enhance the knowledge of both sides, or simply enjoying each other’s company over a Sunday dinner.
The corpus callosum is a broad band of nerve fibers that connect the left and right hemispheres of the brain, playing a crucial role in facilitating communication between the two cerebral hemispheres. At Wake Forest, I see the corpus callosum in my walk between Tribble and Farrell Hall. Tribble Hall hosts the Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Department on campus. Within its walls, I have had the pleasure of examining feminist theory, women’s history, LGBTQ+ studies, and delving into the intricate tapestry of intersectionality, unraveling the
nuanced connections between gender, race, class, and other social categories. While I cherish the opportunities for creative expression, I feel I have learned most from the challenges to my binary thinking. I have always maintained that Gender Studies is the best destination to develop critical
thinking skills, because while it may be difficult to learn new information, it is exponentially more difficult to unlearn and reteach information that we have been socially conditioned to believe since birth. Studying WGSS has taught me to search for the nuance in subjects we believe are black and white, a lesson I carry with me on the eight minute walk across campus to Farrell Hall.
In Farrell, my learning is denoted by a similarly interdisciplinary approach, combining the teachings of finance, marketing, accounting, and other business disciplines. While I have learned a great deal from building financial models, and developing a profound familiarity with financial markets and institutions, it is the moments of creative collaboration I enjoy most. The entrepreneurial spirit in Farrell is palpable, underscoring the importance of creativity in fostering innovation, adaptability, and a forward-thinking mindset among its students. It is this creative spirit that inspired my friend and other classmates to pitch the idea of a Texas Pete’s Spicy Mayo to the company’s Brand Manager. Having sampled it, I now eagerly anticipate the news of a forthcoming product. In Farrell, students are encouraged to incorporate creativity into their work due to the recognition that logical thinking and creativity are not mutually exclusive endeavors, but rather, symbiotic elements of cognitive prowess. While logical thinking involves structured reasoning and analysis, creativity brings innovation and originality to the forefront. Together, they create a blend that enriches problem-solving, leading to a more holistic and dynamic approach in navigating the complexities of any situation.
During my time at Wake Forest, I have experienced my share of struggles with cognitive dissonance, believing that Finance and Gender Studies were so fundamentally different or incompatible that they were irreconcilable. I struggled to pursue a career inspired by Gender Studies due to a perceived lack of security, and I hesitated to fully embrace Finance, fearing it might compromise an integral aspect of my identity. While there may be obvious disagreements, I found value in learning the diverse foundational insights and distinct approaches to learning between both disciplines. I feel better for widening my horizons, and pursuing both my interests simultaneously, rather than giving in to the feeling of being torn between the two. Beyond the numerous lessons and skills I gained, these four years taught me a profound lesson: the necessity to carve out spaces that align with one’s aspirations and values. I discovered that you must create the spaces you wish to occupy, rather than confining ourselves to preexisting and inflexible categories.
As students, we crave depth and complexity in the characters we read about–a recognition that the human experience is far from monolithic. Our generation is defined by this transformative ethos, by our fervent commitment to breaking boundaries, our unapologetic embrace of individuality, and our fearless pursuit of self-expression. In this milieu, we sit at the forefront of intellectual exploration and cultural evolution. We understand that growth flourishes not in the well-trodden paths of conformity, but in the uncharted territories of diversity and contradiction. As Wake Forest students, we recognize both the privilege and the responsibility inherent in our educational journey. It is our privilege to be part of an institution that encourages us to seek out, embrace, and celebrate the multiplicity of perspectives and ideas. It is our duty and pleasure to leverage this privilege for positive change, to be the architects of our own intellectual landscapes, and to champion the cause of possibility.
A HOLISTIC EDUCATION OF THE PERSON
by Sofia Ramirez Pendroza, 2024
At the conclusion of my first spring in the Forest, I was fortunate enough to attend a small group gathering with Dr. Nathan Hatch on the cusp of his retirement. An adamant pioneer and advocate for simultaneous personal and professional development, President Hatch offered our cohort an afternoon for question asking and wisdom bearing. As the session progressed, I found myself circling back to the same idea of eulogy virtues and what he hoped his would be. For those of you who may not be familiar, eulogy virtues, as taught to me by the wise, warm, and ever hopeful Dr. Michael Lamb, are traits which an individual desires to be remembered by long after their lifetime, or in this case, the President’s tenure on this campus. This idea of legacy extends far beyond the titles one possesses, immensely saturated in the notion of character. I raised my hand and Dr. Hatch’s response was one that encapsulated just that. The truth is that I do not recall the exact words or phrases he uttered in those moments, but I do remember the inherent authenticity in his pro humanitate wish. He did not yearn to be commemorated by various qualifiers of humility, justice, or kindness; instead, he hoped his efforts would allow us to become better people, equipped with morals and positive intentions throughout our four years so that when the time came for us to leave this cocoon of safety, we would be prepared as leaders to improve the world we would be entering through communal flourishing. For me, through this statement, his eulogy virtues were conveyed with unparalleled clarity without him even having to explicitly utter any.
These sentiments led me down a nostalgic, self-reflective rabbit hole. Growing up, I allowed my curiosity to run wild and my dreams and visions to follow suit. For many naive years, I yearned to become an explorer, spending my days outside with my bug almanac until the sunlight disappeared and the mosquitoes begged me to retreat inside. Eventually, the brutal winds and calamities of our world defused my once courageous and hopeful spirits. By high school, I found myself endlessly chasing the next feat: a personal best on the SAT, top ranking in my graduating class, attending a renowned university. I allowed these quantitative values to be indicative of my own self-worth and the monikers associated with them. My personal goals had evolved and in doing so, I grappled with internal turmoil.
My intrinsic inclination and curiosities fueled friction between this yearning for recognition and my intention of becoming the passionate, purposeful person I envisioned for myself. While each dream job from my childhood and marker of “success” down the line was emblematic of what I wanted to become, I inadequately considered and esteemed who I wanted to become.
For President Hatch, the notion of good character represented far more than the traditional emphasis of a college education in which students aim to attain a practical degree to secure a high paying job. Rather, Demon Deacons would receive invaluable schooling which not only taught those critical fundamentals but surrounded them with professors and peers who valued the development of conscientious, caring, and equitable individuals. We are driven by our respective purposes, not just to enter our professions and climb the corporate ladder, but along the way, pave a path for self-improvement with the intent of bettering those around us. There is boundless merit in the way we each conduct ourselves because perhaps we are not yet in stereotypical positions of power, but we each find ourselves within our own sphere of influence in the way we conduct ourselves and the communal flourishing of those around us. Whether this be holding the impossibly heavy Manchester door for a stranger, letting someone take the last parking spot in Q lot during the madness of 11 AMs, or thanking the Pit staff on Pitsgiving, for us, our eulogy virtues for our time on this campus are embodied by these actions and the principles they represent. This understanding is representative of who, not what, I yearn to become irrespective of the title I possess, and I say with confidence that I am not unique in this perspective.
Throughout my time, I have found that those who best reflected these pillars I strove to cultivate were those who tend to our university. My freshman year, I was fortunate enough to meet Miss Tia, a Forest Greens employee. She exuded warmth and generosity, and we quickly became friends and confidants. She was perhaps the first glimpse of these eulogy virtues for me on this campus and ultimately inspired me to emulate her actions to positively impact those I encountered as well. To me, years from now she will be remembered as nurturing and compassionate for all those times she made my sandwiches with her tender love and care, intricately placing each slice of tomato the way she would for her own child.
Within my coursework, these lessons of communal flourishing maintained. In discussing the requirements of a valid business concept, entrepreneurship professors Dr. Greg Pool and Dr. Dan Cohen, ingrained the ideology of a three-legged stool. The pair argued that for an idea to stand on its own, it must benefit all parties involved, a concept deeply ingrained in awareness of our impact on others. And while maybe not everyone pursues their own business venture, our decision making can be thought of in the same righteous, self-aware lens. At their core, both professors represented these traits in the way they held themselves accountable to these principles as educators and friends to their students. They will be long recognized as selfless, mindful, and empathetic.
I stand before you mere weeks ahead of finally actualizing my dream of working in sports, and while the dream began after I abandoned my bug expedition days at the age of eight — with the aim of becoming the next Erin Andrews, that vision has evolved. The goal is no longer to garner fame, but instead to be one of many who pave the path for a better tomorrow for women, especially those of color, in sports who will follow in my footsteps. In a more basic sense, this overarching idea of cognizance is what I believe unites each of us on this campus. I leave better because of the people who proved successful in these aims, and I hope I was able to do the same.
Those four years of deliberate development Dr. Hatch spoke of that spring day have passed, and while that is particularly somber news as a senior, the silver lining is that I am certain our class has successfully actualized his hopes and vision. In this beautiful microcosm of Winston Salem, the holistic education of our person begins but will undoubtedly extend far beyond its reach in each of our respective purposes. Thank you.
I HOPE THE ROAD IS LONG: A REFLECTION ON C.P. CAVAFY’S ITHAKA
by Josephe Wyche, 2024
A tradition that every student knew all too well at my high school was the reading of Ithaka. The headmaster gave the same speech every year, directed at the seniors, and it always centered around a reading of C.P. Cavafy’s famous poem. Ironically, because I had heard it so many times by the time I was a senior, I barely even paid attention to it when it was read, and put no real thought into its meaning. Now, however, as I once again find myself at the end of a chapter, I felt compelled to return to it. It’s about the value of the journey, and the vastly superior richness of the road traveled than of the destination reached. When we near the end of a chapter, we take stock of the experience we’ve had, the people we’ve known, and the places we’ve gone. Now that we’re rapidly approaching the next destination many of us get anxious wishing we could have changed things in classes, relationships, jobs, clubs, or teams. When we focus on this frustration and desire for change we forsake every little moment along the way that made our experience so wonderful and unique.
This isn’t unnatural: the rapid approach of graduation prompts us to reflect upon what we aim to achieve after crossing that threshold; inevitably, new revelations, insights, and perspectives will affect the way we interpret our previous choices. If I was going to end up abandoning the idea of medical school, why did I take biochemistry and get a C in it? I want to start a business now, why didn’t I take more classes to prepare? I just want good relationships and a balanced life, so why did I forgo so many opportunities to connect with others in the name of academic perfection? These may be among the thoughts that cross our minds as we try to reassess their goals and plan for the future. Unfortunately, these new goals and wisdom can
contradict values and aims that we held onto so closely for so long, and can make us feel like we lost something, or wasted our time. This feeling can be painful; the desire for more time, or another chance at that class, that relationship, or that interview can eat at us from inside. I want to dispel the notion that any of those moments were wasted, and show the intrinsic value of the moments that made up our journeys to this point.
These anxieties and fears are what brought me back to Ithaka. Our goals can feel like everything, and the journey towards them can feel more like an obstacle or a necessary evil than anything of inherent value. This couldn’t be further from the truth. For every goal we accomplish there will simply be another that takes its place, and we will be back at the beginning, with a new set of obstacles. First it was succeeding in high school and getting into college, then it was succeeding in college and getting our foot in the door of the next school, job, or whatever it may be. It goes on like that forever. The goal should never be everything because it just opens the door to another goal. The point of the journey is the journey itself, and we ought to enjoy the moment, enjoy the process, and enjoy being together for those moments rather than contextualizing everything we do in reference to a goal or a vision that will vanish the moment we get there. I think that Cavafy captures this sentiment perfectly when he urges that “if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you. Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.” Every changed plan, every moment that seems like wasted time, every failure, misstep, or moment of misplaced trust, these made up the journey. The meaning of the end goal was simply to direct the journey and give us these moments, despite how much we make the journey about realizing the goal.
As I have been reflecting upon my goals and struggling to decide what to pursue next, where to go, and who to become, I have found that I’ve often forsaken the road. What I’ve realized, and what I’ve tried to share here, is that the journey is all there is, and all that we’ll ever truly have. For as goals give way to more goals, and we set out from one Ithaka to the next, the only place we will ever really find ourselves is somewhere in between. As Cavafy eloquently writes, “Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you’re destined for. But don’t hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you’re old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.” In all of the roads to all of the Ithakas that follow, we’d be wise to relish the journey and just be here now. As we all get ready to set out for Ithaka once again, we can’t escape the fact that we have to decide what that is and how we are supposed to get there, but I find assurance in my favorite line from the entire poem, that with which it opens: “As you set out for Ithaka, hope your road is a long one. Full of adventure, full of discovery.” Thank you.
Work Cited:
CP Cavafy. 1975. “Ithaka.” CP Cavafy: Collected Poems.