Author Archives: Molly Ruffing

I’m not going to stop paying you

eading Luther Abel’s “What in the World” column last week, I had many thoughts — one of which I feel obligated to respond to as the current editor-in-chief of The Lawrentian. In the most recent edition of the column, Luther writes, “Most campus jobs exist only to exist. […] For that matter, Lawrentian staff don’t need to be paid. Campus jobs are created not because the roles are necessary, but because it’s included in financial aid packages as an offset for ludicrously high tuition.”

Let’s talk about counseling

Counseling Services could quite possibly be the greatest resource available to Lawrentians and could also be considered the one that is talked about the least. Approximately one-third of Lawrentians utilize Counseling Services in some capacity but, yet, it’s still something many of us struggle to talk about. Why? It’s probably tied to shame or, at

Dad, I’m proud of you.

For me, being a first-generation college student has a certain amount of pride in it — it’s pretty damn neat to embark upon the unbeaten path, after all.   But, at the end of the day, it’s also incredibly alienating.   Terms like “imposter syndrome” and “stereotype threat” are often lobbed over to first-generation college

I thought a thought.

I thought a thought once, and I did not know what to do with it. So, I put it away — hid it away for a rainy day. But that rainy day never came — as if, as soon as I had a plan for a day full of clouds and raindrops, the skies were

Love Thy Neighbor

God said to love thy neighbor. This I could do.  Surely, I could love the family living next to mine, the ones who would have a barbeque each Sunday evening. I could definitely love those people and even their little dog too. Even if I never meet these people, I could love them. They looked

Write Drunk, Edit Sober

“Write drunk, edit sober.”  —Ernest Hemmingway Hemmingway advises us to write drunk, edit sober. In theory, this sounds great. When I read it, I envision a night of words flowing from my fingertips as I hold a glass of scotch — yes, the good stuff. I imagine words pouring out of me faster than any

Blue Collar

When I was born, they wrapped me in a pink little blanket and placed a blue collar around my neck. My father’s collar stiffened as he added on more hours, already thinking about the many mouths to feed. My brothers sat at home eagerly waiting for their little sister to come home, each adorned with

To the Monster Under My Bed

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you told me how awful the world was — when you groaned and moaned and told me to hide away like you. I’m sorry I ignored your warning. When I heard your long nails claw at the floorboards at night, I didn’t ask you why — I

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