As heard by The Blue & White. Illustration by Jiaying Geng After a brief hiatus, Blue & White  Campus Gossip is back with a vengeance.  … AND WHO LET THIS DOG OUT?  In an effort to rebuild trust with the student body, Public Safety has been spotted tabling outside of Lerner, proudly displaying a trench-coat-clad hounddog mascot. While the intent seems Sherlock Holmes-esque, this reporter can’t help but note that the execution lands closer to the neighborhood flasher in a furs

Traversing the horror of the domestic sphere.  By Caroline Nieto Illustration by Isabelle Oh Eleanor Johnson is a professor of English and Comparative Literature and the author of four books, the most recent of which, Scream With Me: Horror Films and The Rise of American Feminism , was published just last month, on September 30th. Throughout her time at Columbia, Johnson has taught about the earliest depictions of horror in popular literature, specifically in her course “Hist

The birth, death, and resurrection of Gutzon Borglum’s angels. By Natalie Buttner  Illustration by Audrey Wang The ornate facade of St. John the Divine is populated by a lavish community of statues. Angels, apostles, patriarchs, and prophets wrapped in gray robes are frozen in place, enacting the more theatrical moments in Holy Writ. The style is inconsistent, indicative of a diversity of sculptors and visions for the Cathedral. The arched doors are centered on a marble statu

A healthcare horror story. By Iris Eisenman Illustration by Isabelle Oh On a dark and stormy night, a Barnard freshman takes the treacherous journey across the vast expanse of Broadway. Every step is a gamble in her pink fuzzy slippers on the slick brick paving. Nevertheless, she persists, midnight munchies guiding her path. Will she ever arrive at JJ’s pearly gates? It is possible that no woman has ever walked this far. Shuffling past the half-living spirits floating in the

The Song of Sigaween . By Schuyler Daffey Illustration by Isabelle Oh Sing to me, O Muse , of that night of horrors, of the perilous pregames and dastardly downtown frat events endured by our heroine this All Hallows Eve. Sing of the many foes encountered, the vast sums of money spent on tickets, the mystery bruises that bloomed overnight on our heroine’s ankles. 9:47 p.m.:   Sing to me,  as our heroine heads to the pregame 30 minutes behind schedule. Once there, she realizes

Wisdom from the ghosts of Butler Stacks. By Luke Zinger Illustration by Lilah Chen NINTH FLOOR STACKS, BUTLER LIBRARY. It’s almost midnight on the night before a midterm worth 45% of your grade. You’ve consumed nothing but Blue Java hazelnut coffee and a stale slice of lemon loaf since 11 a.m. Out of the corner of your eye, you start to see strange words swimming around your field of vision, appearing on the walls, on the arms of the chairs, and on the table you’re working on

Making sense of Manhattan-Project mythology. By Jack Bradner Illustration by Em Bennet Three yellow triangles imprinted on a black circle universally indicate nuclear radiation. On a haphazard walk across 114th Street, I doubled back to take a second and then a third look at the “FALLOUT SHELTER” designation some five stories beneath my room in Carman Hall. I had two initial, instinctive reactions. I was reminded of America’s nuclear history and at the same time recalled Fall

Dialogues with the deceased. By Lucy Mason Illustration by Jiaying Geng On September 16, 1776, following a disastrous defeat at Kips Bay, the Continental Army retreated in shame to the hills of Harlem Heights, today called Morningside Heights. As the Redcoats closed in, these American revolutionaries launched their first notable assault. Although the skirmish was a far cry from a divisive victory, it was recorded with ample patriotic vigor as an important turning point for wa

Worshipping our dark (roast) Lord.  By Maia Zasler Illustration by Justin Chen Double, double toil and trouble, latte burn and mocha bubble. All hail coffee, our dark Lord !  Dearest Fellow Worshipper,  There is no escape from the alluring powers of Keurig grounds or the mystical steam of the French press. If you just thought to yourself, Who, me ? I don’t drink coffee!  while a self-satisfied smile settled on your face, I’ll be the first to break the news: The sentiment appl

Phantoms of gender By Tierney Smink Illustration by Em Bennet Now, it’s a given. As you walk into the classroom, you shut the door behind you.  This seems obvious, keeping the door shut to facilitate learning or mitigate distractions. But for the first few weeks of Spanish this year, the class was a door-open, welcoming place in the hallway. Before we knew it was haunted.  It’s a haunting both physical and metaphorical. I walk into the classroom casually, almost forgetting th

The tale of a freshman seeking fellow Humanities majors . By Ana Sorrentino Illustration by Iris Pope It was in my second week at Columbia that I began to notice a foul scent stubbornly clinging to the air. It lingered in the halls, followed me into the elevators, and coiled itself between the crevices of the stacks. I told myself it was only my imagination. Perhaps I was still getting used to life in a new city. But the more it remained, I began to realize that this was diff

Revisiting the erotic thriller.  By Neda Ravandi Illustration by Justin Chen In July I was obsessed with James Spader. Houston heat meant long, sun-soaked afternoons, which I’d spend on my bed, laptop open to a sketchy movie site when the humidity got too unbearable for tanning by the pool. So, my Halloween began in the summer, when I watched David Cronenberg’s Crash,  a decision prompted not by an interest in cars or stomach-churning violence, but more so James Spader. After

A drunken ethnography. By Selma White-Pascual Illustration by Kathleen Halley-Segal I clutch the gate next to me for balance as I shove my sweaty feet into a pair of six-inch heels I’ve just pulled out of my now deflated bag, perched atop a little ledge. Also on the ledge: a sultry perfume I’ve chosen for the night, makeup to retouch my face, banana blossom leftovers from Thai Diner on Mott Street, and the loose 20 dollar bill I’ll be using tonight. I’ve exchanged my trusty s

Media we think you would enjoy — but likely not as much as The Blue and White Magazine Maya Lerman , Editor-in-Chief: José Donoso, The Obscene Bird of Night . Speak No Evil  (2022). The Descent (2005). Lost Highway (1997). Doechii, “Spookie Coochie.” Chris Brown , Managing Editor: Over the Garden Wall  (Max).  Shaun of the Dead (2004) . Geese, Getting Killed . Dave Lubar, In The Land of the Lawn Weenies and Other Misadventures . “The Creeps,” Adventure Time  (Hulu). George Mu

As foretold by The Blue & White . By Hannah Lui Illustration by Em Bennet Aries: This autumn you may realize you’ve outgrown people or behaviors from your past. These changes may feel uncertain, but you will come into your own and settle into new routines. Watch the sunset from Riverside Park sometime this month. When it gets dark out, find a leaf on the grass and literally turn it over.  Taurus: Get that money up! The stars say it’s a prosperous season ahead. Let good things

Maya: I think my Managing Editor is trying to kill me.  Chris: Don’t mind that. Fall is a season for change, but rarely is it associated with firsts. While the leaves are changing and preparing to drop, it’s an exciting time of renewal for The Blue & White . New writers, new illustrators, and for the first time we’ve finally decided to come out of our early fall hibernation and celebrate Halloween.  M: I don’t remember writing that. But perhaps I’m jumping to conclusions—my m

By The Blue & White Staff Illustration by Isabelle Oh Goldfish Have Teeth Every Friday after school Tim ushered the family into his bedroom to take our pick from the pet shelter. He presented his stuffed animals to us in a row, sometimes sorted by genus, other times by temperament, but never without some organizing principle. If my gaze lingered for more than a second, Tim would wrap his sticky kid fingers around mine until I was firmly grasping the adoption leash, still coa

By Eva Spier Illustration by Derin Ogutcu The Columbia students who dare stray into the Russian department—further than the mandatory two-year language requirement—gather in single-digit numbers in Hamilton classrooms to revel in declensions and verbs of motion. Every two years, these students are offered a literature seminar devoted to foundational scary stories in the Russian tradition, conducted entirely in Russian. I wade through these texts with my classmates under the g