I first trod this hallowed, squirrel-occupied ground at the tail end of the summer of 2020 (no pun intended) as an anxious and overwhelmed first-year. The weather was hot, and the air was ripe with the threat of COVID. The very first English class I took at the College of Wooster was called “Is a Picture Worth a Thousand Words?” Although it was a 200-level class that felt very challenging to me at the time, it was one of the most rewarding classes I have ever taken. It changed my whole approach when it came to combining creativity with analytical writing and made me a much more confident writer, as well as a more confident person.

Fast forward two years. This semester, for me, has been another one that has changed my whole outlook when it comes to being an English major, and a college student in general. Before I returned to college to embark on the arduous journey that is my junior year, I lived a relatively isolated existence. This all changed when I moved into my first single room on campus. I know what you’re thinking—how can you become less isolated if you’re living in a single room? I have a simple answer: living alone has made me more comfortable with and confident in myself. This is the semester where I finally grew brave enough to venture out into the world after two years of anxiety holding me back. I’ve made really awesome friends (some of whom are sitting by me as I type this) and had really great experiences. Oh, and not to mention, I’ve become a more fearless writer. I would have never written a blog post like this before this year, where I open up about myself and what’s affected my writing. I liked to keep my feelings closed off, unless I could turn them into some sort of cleverly crafted, oblique metaphor. Now, I’m learning to be open, and I hope that that growing willingness to incorporate my personality and feelings into my work will come through in my final essay.

The air in the cottage bloomed with the floral smell of cleanliness that in recent years had become unfamiliar. My housemates and I had just arrived home after another day of no sunlight, spent toiling away down in the mines.

Grumpy, arguably the skeptic among us, had a look of malice in his eyes. “Somebody broke into our house!”

While the others paced frantically around, surveying the newly polished wooden floors and dust-free countertops, looking for empty spaces where treasured objects used to be, I wondered how guilty a burglar must feel in order to feel the need to clean a house after breaking into it.

“Everyone! Come quick! Look!” My inner monologue was interrupted by Doc’s commanding tone, reduced to a whisper. Doc, with his upright rigid posture and eyes that peered right through you like the sun through a window, thought of himself as our leader. It made sense that he was the first one to find the girl.

There she was, bereft of consciousness, sprawled out across a bed much too small for her, arms and legs hanging haphazardly over the sides. Her skin was porcelain, her hair the hue of the coal we spent our long days searching for. I knew before she spoke a word to me that I had found the woman of my dreams.

Later, she introduced herself to us as Snow White in her tranquil voice that could only be compared to the coo of a dove in its softness. As we all sat around the kitchen table, she stood at the stove and made us a delicious soup for dinner. Between chopping the garden vegetables and stirring the broth, she regaled us with tales of growing up as a princess. In my mind, this was the only past that could befit her radiant beauty.

That night, as we all sat and ate, I decided that this woman was my future. We would move into our own cottage, where she would make her delicious soups for me alone, and every night, I could hold her milk-white body as she drifted off to sleep.

I am fascinated by the way women’s beauty is portrayed in fairy tales. Women are constantly objectified in an unsettling way, and this story was inspired by that.

My favorite film of all time has become even more interesting to me after looking at it through a gender studies lens.

I first saw Harold and Maude when I was in middle school, probably around thirteen years old. As a young outcast, it immediately spoke to me, with its friendship between a young man who’s obsessed with death and a 79-year-old woman that’s full of life.

Maude is a character that lives outside the bounds of what is expected for women. She’s loud and full of personality. She bends and even breaks the rules many times. For example, she gleefully goes on a high-speed police chase after stealing a small tree from a street corner that she wants to plant in the woods. The way she lives perplexes most of the people around her because she isn’t the traditional, passive old lady that needs help crossing the street.

Harold, as a man, is expected to appear strong and stoic, and get married to a nice young girl. He rebels against this notion of masculinity by displaying his emotions in dramatic outbursts where he fakes his own demise.

I had never thought of this film through this lens before, and I feel that doing so gave me a new understanding of it.