Shiny Chandravel, Assistant Opinions Editor  People ask me where I’m from all the time. If you look anything like me, they ask you too.  I think people expect me to tell them my exotic stories of living in the Indian subcontinent, stories they’ve seen in movies like “Slumdog Millionaire” or in Nick Jonas and Priyanka Chopra’s viral wedding video. But the truth is much more anticlimactic. I’ve lived in Richmond my whole life, born and raised.  I’ve learned to meet people halfway with my response: “I’m from here, but my parents are from India.” For a long time, that response did the trick. It equally satisfied their curiosity, my heritage and my stubbornness to be truthful to the city I’ve spent my life calling home.  I was recently asked this question again at the hospital where I work. In my rounds, I met an older patient who, like many before him, asked me where I was from. But when I gave him my usual response, I was thrown off when he pressed his investigation.  “What do your parents do?” he asked abrasively.  I responded that my dad worked in a pharmacy while my mom was a stay-at-home mom. Hearing this,

Maya Kamat, Contributing Writer The first time I learned CPR, I was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with my peers in a dimly lit classroom as an earnest gym teacher played a video about Automatic External Defibrillators (AEDs) and chest compressions. I was watching the video intently when my friend tapped my shoulder. “They take your shirt off to put on an AED?” she said with disgust. “I would rather they just let me die.”  I remember feeling distinctly horrified. Why would she say that? How did we get to the point where the female breast had become so sexualized that women are uncomfortable with receiving life-saving care? I don’t remember what I said to my friend then, but I would say this — with the way people treat female bodies, they probably would have let her die.  Women are 27% less likely than men to receive basic CPR in out of hospital cardiac arrests, according to a 2024 study. CPR can nearly double a person’s chances of survival. All 50 states as well as D.C. have good samaritan laws that protect bystanders performing CPR. And yet, women across all racial backgrounds are consistently less likely to receive this life-saving care. As an

Kylie Grunsfeld, Staff Columnist I was sitting in the Student Commons a week ago when someone stood up and started shouting. I didn’t hear much of what came out of their mouth, but I didn’t need to; my mind had already gone to the worst possible place. I was bracing myself for what feels more and more inevitable with every day — a mass shooting at our very own school.  Any chaos or disruption in a public place or any loud, sudden noise triggers the fear that lives perpetually inside me. In every classroom, I map out my theoretical escape plan. In every movie theater, I take note of the exits. In my own bedroom, I wonder how quickly I could spring up and block the door with my heavy wooden furniture.  It’s extremely unfortunate that these are things a college student must take into consideration. A mass shooting could happen anywhere at any time, but shootings at college campuses often dominate the news; it’s only natural a student would be on edge.  In the past few years alone there have been major shootings at the University of Virginia, Brown University and Old Dominion University, the latter occurring only last

Emma Conroy, Contributing Writer You don’t own a single song on your phone. Not one. That precious playlist you’ve spent years curating? Rented. Your “Spotify Wrapped,” telling you who you are based on what you listened to? That’s not actualization —  that’s a corporation selling your listening habits back to you as identity. You’ve spent thousands on streaming subscriptions and you own nothing. Your music library could evaporate tomorrow. We are all responsible for  this. We traded ownership for convenience and called it progress. Streaming didn’t just change how we consume music — it stole music from us. It sanitized it, commodified it, optimized it for skip rates and playlist placement. Devaluation of art is just the start.  But in a studio on VCU’s campus, a small group of college radio DJs are staging a quiet rebellion. WVCW, VCU’s internet-only radio station, is one of the last places where students still spin physical media like vinyl records and CDs. Every week, these DJs make a choice about how to broadcast. Some, like Eric Wiggins, stream from the catalog VCU has provided with digital uploads. Others, like Alexis and Lana Waters, refuse to play anything that isn’t physical media. The format