Staff Writer

As a second-year student, my schedule is pretty packed yet exciting. This is a day in my life here at Assumption. A typical day for me starts at around 9:00 when I wake up for class. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I have psychology and philosophy in the morning. If it’s a Monday, I have to work later in the afternoon, then head to the library to do my homework.

On the other days, I meet with my friends for lunch and afterwards go straight to the library or the gym. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I have my philosophy and political science classes. After my first class of the day, I head to the PAWS office to work on graphics and planning G-boards and events.

After my last two classes of the day, I either eat dinner and head to philosophy club if it’s a Tuesday. On Thursday ‘s I head to an E-board meeting at the PAWS office, then head to Provoc!

If I have down time, I’m usually doing homework with friends, or going to the Starbucks down the street as I do enjoy the occasional side quest!

At the moment, I’ve been applying to internships so I work on writing cover letters and reviewing my resume.

Weekends are usually the calmest days I have. I try to go to the gym in the morning. After I work on more homework. I also enjoy reading.

Right now, I’m reading a graphic novel about Bernie Sanders!  I also lounge in my room and draw, watch tv, and watch movies. I recently watched Iron Claw, which was very beautiful and emotional. I tend to watch Sex and the City and Seinfeld on a loop!

I tend to have varying average days, but I love the variety of my schedule as well as the spontaneity of what I do in my free time!

Staff Writer

Six months ago, I was researching American universities from my bedroom in India, nervously typing emails to strangers on LinkedIn. Today, I’m writing for the campus newspaper. The journey from “international student applicant” to “actually surviving here” taught me more than any orientation program could.

Welcome to the international transfer student experience.

Transferring to universities is challenging enough. Doing it across continents? That’s a whole different adventure. Here’s everything I learned the hard way so you don’t have to.

Finding Your People (Before You Even Arrive)

Here’s my secret weapon: I started building connections months before setting foot on campus. I’m talking full-on LinkedIn and Instagram detective work: finding alumni, current students, staff, even professors, and sliding into their DMs or sending emails. Did I feel awkward? Absolutely. Was it worth it? Completely.

People actually remember. I’ve had multiple moments on campus where someone says, “Wait, you’re the one who emailed me over the summer!” It breaks the ice instantly. Don’t wait for the community to find you, go find it yourself, even from 7,000 miles away.

Getting Lost (Literally)

Nobody warned me how big the campus would feel. For my entire first week, every time I left my dorm was an adventure in the wrong direction. I’d confidently walk to what I thought was the library, only to end up at the athletics center.

Definitely locate your academic resources early: the library, TFAC, CDIC, and Plourde Recreation centre etc. Here, asking for help isn’t weakness, it’s smart.

Finding My Place at Assumption

What surprised me most about Assumption was how quickly it started feeling like a community rather than just “a campus I attend.” The smaller class sizes meant professors actually knew my name by the fourth day. The Chapel offers quiet spaces for reflection that helped when homesickness hit hard.

I got involved with The Provoc, CAB, and the women’s weightlifting club, and it was the best decision I made. Whether it’s cultural organizations, academic clubs, or just intramural sports, there’s space for everyone, I promise.

The Assumption community is tight-knit enough that you’ll start recognizing faces everywhere, but diverse enough that there’s always someone new to meet. That balance made the transition so much easier.

Home Away From Home

Time zones are brutal. India is 10.5 hours ahead, so my morning coffee happens during my family’s dinner. But I’ve built my own Worcester survival kit: a growing list of spots in the city that feel like home, whether it’s a particular coffee shop or a quiet corner in the library.

I call my parents and friends whenever I can, updating them on everything: making my first snowman, acing a presentation, or yes, getting lost on campus again. Those calls keep me grounded, reminding me that home isn’t gone, just far away.

Here’s what I’ve learned: it gets easier. Not perfect, but easier. You’ll stop getting lost eventually (mostly). You’ll find your people. You’ll build a life here while keeping your roots strong back home. And yeah, you’re doing something brave. So give yourself credit for that. To my fellow international students: we’ve got this. And to everyone else reading, say hi to us. We might look like we have it together, but we’re all just figuring it out, one lost walk across campus at a time.

Staff Writer

It was Thanksgiving Eve of 2013, and my family and I were cleaning and cooking endlessly to prepare for the grueling task of hosting our family to one of the most labor-intensive holidays of the year. After a long day and night, my sisters and I finally sat down to relax and watch some TV. In the dining room, the table was set with pristine china plates set in a perfect circle, each accompanied with silverware and crystal glasses and floral cloth napkins.

Out of nowhere, a crash and a bang was heard from the dining room. We all ran to the room to discover that our 2-year-old Labrador Retriever, Shannon, had hopped up on the table, breaking everything in her path. My sisters and I responded with a mix of shock and laughter, eventually having to face the difficult task of breaking the news to my parents, who were both at work. My parents had the same reaction, as we never could’ve predicted that our well-behaved dog would do something so silly and senseless. Luckily, we had back up plates and cups to compensate for the plates and cups that fell victim to my dog’s actions.

Needless to say, our entire family was thoroughly entertained when we told them the story over Thanksgiving dinner. Of course, we forgave Shannon, as she was still little, and it was funny!

Ever since this incident, it’s been a treasured and funny memory in my family, especially since Shannon passed away in 2020.

This Thanksgiving, take some time to remember the positive and hilarious memories you share with your loved ones. Happy Thanksgiving!

Opinion Editor

Lucky enough to grow up in a big family with some even bigger traditions, for me as a kid every season meant something special. From St. Patty’s Day at our favorite Irish restaurants to birthday dinners at The Chateau and everywhere in between, quality time and traditions doing the things we love has always mattered the most. One of these traditions being apple picking in the late Summer and early Fall, I personally have a strong opinion to the fun and enjoyment of this Autumn tradition. Something my family would share with one another years on end, I think of the activity in an entirely positive light, as some of my most fond memories have been apple picking growing up.

Personally tending to go to the same farm every Fall, Parlee Farms, this underrated yet very popular spot not far from the Massachusetts-New Hampshire border is where our fun always began. The most practical location for my family with my Aunt, Kathleen, living just minutes up the road, while we weren’t accustomed to the area too closely, being a family originating from the Boston and South Shore, this farm would bring about so many childhood memories.

Still to this day remembering the feeling of getting off the highway onto that long road lined with trees beginning their foliage and a car packed of my aunt Dottie, my grandmother Jean, my brother Tommy, my cousin Josephine, and my mom Jean, the calming feeling of seeing the farm appear out of nowhere in the distance would always excite us. In the air the smell of apple cider and cinnamon donuts from their large country store, as we would pull up into the large rock parking lot, in all directions there were pure smiling faces. Including our own as well, after an hour ride to the farm, the liberating feeling of leaving the cramped, yet enjoyable car grew even more once we got in line for the tractor trailer. Buying tickets and waiting for the next ride out to the rows of apple fields in the distance, the anticipation of the tractor trailer as it came around always excited us as kids.

Finally exiting the short but sweet ride and walking down the paths onto fields of what felt like endless apples, each with a sign marking their specific type, we would chase one another throughout the lanes like an endless game of tag. Jumping up as high as we could to grab apples off of trees and taste them, comparing one others like we were A-tier food critics, there was so much fun in these moments. Taking a step back from the business of our lives and sports to just spend some simple moments together, the joy on all of our faces during these days is something I will always remember.

And to finish off our day grabbing a treat from the country store, whether it be a bag of freshly made apple cider donuts, a signature of Parlee farms, or an apple fritter sundae, each of us would head back to the car happy. A day well done and a day well spent, these Autumn afternoons are one’s I will never forget. Truly a joy to be a part of and a lot of fun, apple picking truly is one of my favorite Fall traditions, second to none.

Staff Writer

i am a leaf

fallen

from my tree of life

a mere leaf

falling

a tiny little leaf life

floating

in the wind

God has set the world on fire

see how brightly the trees burn!

O God, set me on fire!

let my little leaf life

burn brightly too!

until all that remains

are fallen ashes—

tiny tiny specks

decayed, dry, disintegrated

and empty, naked branches

that shiver guiltily

in the wind

there is nothing

that speaks more profoundly

in the whispers of the world,

nothing

that flies more freely

in the wind,

than the refreshing scent

of death

Opinion Editor

Jan. 13, 2006 is a day that will go down in history. Not only Friday the 13th, but the day that I, Daniel Griffin, was born. Jan. 13, 2006 would mean even more to me than just my birthday growing up. The date would eventually drive my selection of jersey numbers throughout my athletic career. The number 13 is something that I hold dearly and will never let go of.

Ever since I was a child, admiring the look of the dignified number one standing closely with the unfaltering support of the number three behind it, the number 13 has always, and will always be, MY NUMBER. The number, that has been MY number since I was a child, the number that was on my first toy race car, and the number that is on every piece of paperwork that ever exists about me. The number 13 is the lucky one for me.

The number 13 is the one I choose when all else is uncertain. The number 13, to me, is more than just a number. It’s a friend. It’s familiar. It’s security. It’s nostalgia. It’s confidence boosting. It’s family. The number 13 is what I feel like God blessed me with, and what I will always carry with me. It’s what my family and friends know me as, and numerically the place where I am at home.

The last number I ever wore in my baseball career and the first number I ever placed my young and ambitious eyes on, number 13, the greatest number to exist, will always be the number that persists.

The number of Danny Griffin, Dan Marino, Wilt Chamberlain, Paul George, James Harden, and many more. My number, their number, our number sits in the hall of fame of numbers. Producing the best and making the best, I believe that number 13 is the best because it comes from the best.

Though it may be seen as bad luck, though some believe if you choose it you might get bad luck. To me, number 13 is all the best of luck, and something, someone, that will never, ever give up!

Staff Writer Abroad

I rise well after the sun in my single at the Villino Dufault, an adorable building perched atop a small hill, a building just tall enough to catch some rays of light as they creep down to wake the ground from its cool slumber. It’s about fifty eight degrees in February––warm enough to go out with long sleeves and no jacket.

I make my five minute walk to Dolce Voy, a place to get some caffè è dolce with a friend or two. On the way back, I stuff a €4,00 receipt for my cappuccino and cornetto into my pocket. If we’re lucky, a cat may approach us––otherwise, he’ll timidly watch us carry out our morning small talk. I punch in the code for the gate and walk in, maybe greeting an Assumptionist tending the garden on the way back into the Villino.

We talk or read together in the community room where our meals take place until class begins. Oftentimes classes can take place on-site, in a church or historical location, but today we’re reviewing in our small classroom in the cold basement. We listen to our professors, whether they have a thick accent or not, lecture on the wonders and heritage of Rome, and by the time class is over, it’s time for lunch. I greet Lucia, the cleaning lady, on the way out of the Villino as she hums a lovely little tune to herself.

Several of us explore the city together, looking for new food or places to visit. We walk a few minutes to the metro station and hop on a train, sometimes knowing exactly where we want to go, sometimes not. We find lunch somewhere, navigating the Italian menus with words unfamiliar to most Villinians––spaghetti alle vongole or a pasta arrabbiata, to try something new, perhaps choosing to savor an occasional glass of wine.

After wiping the plate clean with a piece of bread, we pay the bill and walk around the streets, either hunting for a museum or just wandering into a random yet extravagant church with paintings by Raphael or Filippino Lippi, or sculptures by Michelangelo or Bernini. We marvel at these works of art, analyzing scrupulously the elements of each work and trying to assign them to a time period––or even better, a specific artist.

I always look for the organ in the church, or I try to read some of the Latin inscriptions as a supplement to my independent study. Me and a couple others say a quick and private prayer, while the rest of the small group respectfully wanders, oftentimes looking up with gaping mouths in awe––a look that marvels over the intricate ceiling frescoes or coffering, a look of awareness that somebody spent hours refining the most minute detail in that room.

After our little excursion at a church or museum, we return, sometimes preferring the bus over the metro; it all depends on CityMapper’s suggestion backed by its navigating information beyond our immediate grasp––soon enough, we’ll know the city well enough to not need the app.

We walk back from the bus or metro stop into the Villino, some of us choosing to relax in our respective rooms, others to read on the terrace if it’s not raining. A slight breeze nudges the

drying clothes on the racks as our eyes pass gently over the fluttering pages of our books. Oftentimes, we put the books down and tell jokes, others, we make fun of the weird bird calls, and others still we walk to the railing and soak in the view until dinnertime.

Then (usually at precisely 19:26), I’ll march down to the basement dining room to claim my seat, following the savory scent that wafts up all four floors of the Villino. The assigned weekly student servers will gently place our meals, cooked by either chef Monica or Giampaolo, on the table. We tease each other through our primi, wiping our plates clean with pieces of bread. By the second course, the food brings the conversation to an end. We eat at our own pace––some of us savoring smaller bites, others ravenously tearing through the delectable meal.

After dessert, the assigned clean-up crew sings over the sink, yells through a steaming-hot rack of plates, gossips putting them away, complains over trash duty, and smiles, silently sweeping.

The day is over––I read in my dorm, journal about the day’s adventures, and say a little prayer before bed. I often marvel at the incredible experiences I’m having, all thanks to the opportunity Assumption gave me; that after even a month of staying here, of having some space to appreciate the beauty of everything I work so hard for in Worcester, I’ve learned so much about myself in the context of the world.

I always remind myself that I may never get this chance to explore myself not just intellectually, but a bit more pragmatically; it makes me want to find myself in every place I visit––in the churches, the museums, the panoramic views. To read the world as if it were a book, to glean from it everything I can, to find a sense of community and belonging even in a foreign place, it’s more powerful than I had anticipated.

I hope that anyone reading this would consider studying abroad as a formative experience at a crucial point in his or her development as a human being. Studying abroad embodies the spirit of the Catholic liberal arts education that Assumption strives to provide, and unquestionably it is worth overcoming all the perceived barriers and obstacles that we imagine prevent us from leaving the comfortable bubble we find at the small Worcester campus.