It’s a scenario that is all too common: You finish your meal in the Dining Commons and pick up your plates and cups. As soon as you enter the dish drop-off area, you are overcome with the thick and suffocating smell of who-knows-what. With a low droning sound, the conveyor belt rattles against tipped-over cups. The sides of the belt are splattered with sauce, milk, yogurt, coffee and sticky fluids; crumpled tea bags, pieces of food, stray forks and soggy napkins litter the space. Accidents happen, but this is a disaster on its own level.

When it comes to putting the knowledge that we’ve gained into practice, especially in an academic setting, the most effective method is not always clear.

For a platform that markets itself on building connections and sparking inspiration, Instagram isolates and exhausts its smallest and most vulnerable creators. 

By destroying the visibility needed to survive on the platform by demanding that users follow trends just to be seen, the platform crushes creators’ efforts to reach new audiences and share their work. Instagram’s algorithm also rewards content theft in the form of video reuploads.

Opening a play — or any literary work — that was written hundreds of years ago can be a tremendously daunting task. The English language is incredibly dynamic and has evolved so much over the centuries that old texts might seem indecipherable through a modern lens. However, by reading these texts in their original forms, we can better appreciate the artistry of their creators and gain insight into the past.