#manhattanville

[newyorkthegoldenage]

West 134th Street under the El, 1944.

Photo: André Kertész via the National Gallery of Art (U.S.)

[robstephenson]

This week, as part of my Every Neighborhood in New York project, I visit Manhattanville. 

In the early 19th century, Manhattanville was one of several small villages that dotted the landscape north of the city center at Manhattan’s tip. The village was situated in a deep valley at the mouth of Harlem Cove along either side of Bloomingdale Road, the well-worn Native American path that would eventually turn into Broadway. Manhattanville’s prime riverside location and proximity to another important and rapidly growing village, Harlem, made its development inevitable.

 The former village has its own unique, distinct history and was once a bustling center of industry full of breweries, slaughter houses,  dairies and car manufacturers.

Now Columbia’s $7 billion starchitect designed new campus is radically changing the face of the neighborhood

In the newsletter I take a look at the former breweries, do a deep dive on a pastry incident that had the neighborhood children licking whipped cream off of Broadway and answer once and for all the question “are Nerds vegetarian”?Spoiler, they are not.

To read/see/hear more about Manhattanville, or other neighborhoods in NYC, you can subscribe to (or just read) my newsletter here: MANHATTANVILLE

[vintagepipemen]

Dr. Howard Hyman, Manhattanville College, 1984. 

[richardswiftmdnyc]

BUCCAL FAT REMOVAL SPECIALIST

BUCCAL FAT REMOVAL SPECIALIST

When we refer to buccal fat, the term buccal means that we are discussing the cheek area that surrounds the mouth. According to Dr. Swift, the top surgeon for buccal fat removal Brighton Beach has to offer, often times patients will want to bolster the area of the upper cheek, either using facial fillers like Juvederm or Restylane, or even sometimes by using a fat transfer procedure. This is often highly effective and can add the appearance of more prominent cheek bones for a patient, while giving the appearance of a slimmer more well contoured lower cheek — but it is only temporary and for many patients it isn’t ideal because it increases the overall size and ratios of the face. In recent years, many doctors have learned that by using Buccal fat removal New York patients will actually create an even more slimming effect and can do so permanently, although the cost of this would be the need for surgery.

[educollegecounselors-blog]

College and University International Student Recruitment: A Guide for Educational Institutions

Importance of International Student Recruitment

‍ Enhance Diversity

‍ International student recruitment is essential in enhancing diversity in college and university campuses. A diverse student population enriches the learning experience for all students, promoting a global perspective that is critical for success in today’s interconnected world. A diverse student population also helps create a more inclusive and welcoming campus culture.

‍ Increase Revenue

‍ International student recruitment also increases revenue for educational institutions. International students pay higher tuition fees than domestic students, making them a significant source of revenue for colleges and universities. According to the Institute of International Education, international students contributed over $40 billion to the US economy in 2019.

‍ Expand the Institution’s Reach

‍ Recruiting international students also expands the institution’s reach beyond its local community, creating opportunities for global partnerships and collaborations. This exposure can attract potential research opportunities and investments.

‍

Guide to Effectively Recruit International Students

‍ Define Your Target Market

‍ The first step in international student recruitment is to define your target market. Identify the countries and regions that align with your institution’s academic programs, mission, and values. Consider factors such as language, culture, and lifestyle when defining your target market.

‍ Develop a Marketing Strategy

‍ Once you have defined your target market, develop a marketing strategy that aligns with your institution’s goals and values. Consider utilizing various marketing channels such as social media, email marketing, and search engine optimization (SEO). Ensure that your marketing materials are culturally sensitive and resonate with your target market.

‍ Provide Student Support Services

‍ International students face unique challenges when studying abroad, such as language barriers and cultural differences. It is essential to provide support services that cater to their needs, such as language programs, cultural orientation, and immigration support.

‍ Develop Partnerships

‍ Develop partnerships with local businesses, community organizations, and alumni associations in your target market to increase your institution’s visibility. This strategy can help build relationships that lead to international student referrals and collaborations.

‍ Streamline the Admissions Process

‍ Streamline the admissions process for international students by providing clear and concise instructions on the application process, requirements, and deadlines. Consider offering online applications and accepting electronic transcripts to make the process more convenient for international students.

‍ Offer Scholarships

‍ Offering scholarships to international students can be a powerful recruitment tool. Scholarships can attract top talent and promote the institution’s commitment to diversity and inclusivity.

‍ Conclusion

‍ College and university international student recruitment is essential in enhancing diversity, increasing revenue, and expanding the institution’s reach. To effectively recruit international students, educational institutions should define their target market, develop a marketing strategy, provide student support services, develop partnerships, streamline the admissions process, and offer scholarships.

‍ By implementing these strategies, educational institutions can attract the best talents from around the world and enrich their campuses with a diverse student population.

‍ FAQs

What is the benefit of recruiting international students?

Recruiting international students enhances diversity, increases revenue, and expands the institution’s reach.

How do I define my institution’s target market for international student recruitment?

Define your target market by identifying the countries and regions that align with your institution’s academic programs, mission, and values.

What support services should educational institutions provide to international students?

Educational institutions should provide support services that cater to international students’ needs, such as language programs,

[9jacompass]

Apply Now: Manhattanville College President’s Scholarship 2023-2024

Apply Now: Manhattanville College President’s Scholarship 2023-2024

Manhattanville College President’s Scholarship 2023-2024: So many students are longing for financial aid and supports that help them to further their educational career. Manhattanville College is offering President’s Scholarship for international undergraduate students who wish to enroll in a degree program at the University. This scholarship applies to incoming first-years or transfers who will…

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 2: Hera, Goddess Of Childbirth]

A/N: Enjoy Chapter 2 a little early! See you on Sunday for Chapter 3 🥰

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.4k

Tagging: @arcielee @huramuna @glasscandlegrenades @gemmagirlss1 @humanpurposes @mariahossain @marvelescvpe @darkenchantress @aemondssapphirebussy @haslysl @bearwithegg @beautifulsweetschaos @travelingmypassion @althea-tavalas @chucklefak @serving-targaryen-realness @chaoticallywriting @moonfllowerr @rafeism @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @herfantasyworldd @mangosmootji

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

You are buzzed at a private party in the Rainbow Room of Rockefeller Center, Midtown, February 1966, chandeliers and candlelight, pink and red hearts made of paper hanging from shimmering strings and littering the floor. Your roommate Barbara Nassau Astor—yes those Astors, Astor Avenue in the Bronx, Astoria in Queens, “the landlords of New York”—brought you along tonight, and the chance to be swept up into her glittering existence is precisely why your father sent you to a school like Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Barb knows people who know people who know other people and every single individual in that grand design is wealthy and worldly and could possibly lead you into the generous arms of your future husband. You are from Tarpon Springs, Florida, heiress to a sea sponge fortune, and your father nurses powerful ambitions of intermingling his blood with the Northeastern elite.

You scan the selection as you sip your Pink Squirrel. You could marry a doctor and sit in the living room waiting for him to come home at 9 or 10 or 11 p.m., fix him a Whiskey Sour or a Sazerac, listen to him bemoan the complexities of nerves and veins before accompanying him to bed and repeating the whole process the next day. You could marry a lawyer or an advertising executive, and your fate would be much the same. Your own parents are partners in life and business, but you have seen enough to know how rare this is. These men of the Rainbow Room, 65 floors above icy streets radiant with headlights, want a wife whose hands will stay manicured and idle: nannies will tend to the children, maids will clean the house, mistresses will massage the knots out of the muscles of his back. And you—a relative upstart, new money among ancient bloodlines—will have no right to demand otherwise.

A man interrupts your reverie. He wants to know about the pendant you wear around your neck. You sigh before you turn to him; you resist the instinct to roll your eyes. And then you see him. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with a curious intensity and a teasing little smirk, an Old Fashioned in his grasp like molten gold. You don’t know it yet, but he is a senator from New Jersey, very recently elected, victorious yet still hungry. He steals the oxygen out of your lungs. He drowns you in the amber-musk warmth of his cologne.

“It’s Athena,” you say, touching your fingertips to the silver medallion self-consciously; and you are rarely self-conscious. The black polish has been scrubbed from your nails and replaced with a soft, shimmering champagne. You spent two hours this afternoon having your hair painfully teased and arranged into a Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo.

“Goddess of wisdom.”

“And war and peace. And math.”

“Math?” He is intrigued.

“That’s what I’m studying at school. Math.”

“And yet you are not disinterested in the humanities. You know Greek mythology.”

“Well, Tarpon Springs has a lot of Greeks, and that’s where I’m from, so.”

“Studies math. From Tarpon Springs, Florida. I’m learning everything about you.” He smiles, this magnetic stranger who has captured you like a moon lured into a planet’s gravity. He swallows a mouthful of his Old Fashioned, moisture glistening on his lips. “Do you like Greek food?”

You can’t seem to follow his words. Blood is rushing into your face, hot and dizzying. “What?”

“Greek food. Have you tried it? Hummus, tzatziki, gyros, spanakopita, horiatiki, baklava.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve had it. It’s great.”

“My family owns a house on Long Beach Island,” he says casually. “We eat a lot of Greek food there. You should join us for dinner sometime soon.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Very soon. Maybe this weekend. Are you free?”

No, you’re not; but you’ll cancel plans until you are. “Um, okay. Sure. And who…sorry, I might have missed it, but…who are you…?”

“Aemond Targaryen.” And he shakes your hand like you’re someone who matters. “I’m a senator. I’m trying to end the war.”

With him, you could be a part of something magnificent. With him, you could help save the world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Asteria is the goddess of falling stars, but the home of rising ones. On the north end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey—only 100 miles south of the sleek bladelike skyscrapers of Manhattan—lies the sprawling Targaryen estate. The nine-acre property features one main house and another three for guests, a swimming pool, a tennis court, a ten-car garage, a boathouse, a pier, and an ample stretch of beach that abuts the Atlantic Ocean, open water with nothing interrupting the infinite, miles-deep blue from the East Coast to the Iberian Peninsula. It is the first week of July, 1968, and your 23rd birthday. You are lazing in a lounge chair on the emerald green lawn and eating your third slice of melopita, a cheesecake-like dessert made with honey and ricotta. It originates from the Greek island of Sifnos.

“You two can’t murder each other while I’m gone,” Aemond says. He’s sitting between you and Aegon. His stitches have healed, the worst of his pain has subsided, his poll numbers have only improved since the assassination attempt. He has a glass eye that he can insert for public appearances, but he dislikes it; at home he wears a leather eyepatch that still unnerves the children. Tomorrow, Aemond is flying to Tacoma to campaign ahead of the Washington State Convention on the 13th. Most of the family will be joining him, with only three Targaryens remaining at Asteria: ailing Viserys, useless Aegon, and you, officially too pregnant to travel by plane. You are wearing a floral, flowing, two-piece swimsuit. The sun is blazing in a clear sky. The record player is piping out Time Of The Season by the Zombies.

Aegon waves a hand flippantly, then adjusts his preposterously large blue-tinted plastic sunglasses; he is shirtless, flabby, very sunburned. “I’ll barely be here.”

Aemond looks over at him, amused. “Oh yeah? And what pressing engagements do you have to attend to? I’d love to know.”

You take a bite of your melopita and scatter crumbs across the swell of your belly: seven and a half months along. “I’m sure the prostitutes miss him.”

“They do,” Aegon snaps. “I’m their favorite customer.”

“Well you’re a reprieve for them. It’s always over so quickly.”

Aemond is snickering. Aegon says to him: “23, huh? A 13-year age difference. She could almost be your daughter.”

“And 17 years younger than you. She could definitely be yours.”

“That’s how Aegon likes his girls,” you say. “Too inexperienced to recognize end-stage degeneracy. Still stumbling their way through Shakespeare for English class.”

“Why can’t she stay at the brownstone?” Aegon asks irritably. Aemond owns a historic townhouse in Georgetown for when Congress is in session, though he’s rarely been there since he announced that he was running for president.

“Because Doxie is here to make sure she’s taken care of,” Aemond replies. Eudoxia has been the head housekeeper of Asteria for decades, a formidable battleaxe of a woman who speaks very little English and has a seemingly endless supply of patterned scarves to wrap around her ink black dyed hair. There currently aren’t any permanent staff stationed at the brownstone, and Aemond does not trust strangers. “And because my future first lady is hosting a tea party on the 10th.”

“A tea party!” Aegon gasps, mocking you. “Surely that will patch the wounds of our troubled nation. She’s an inspiration. She’s motherfucking Gloria Steinem.”

“She’s Aphrodite,” Aemond says, beaming with pride, his remaining eye fixed on your belly. He’s lost one piece of himself, but in a month and a half he’ll gain another. “Goddess of love.”

“There must be a more appropriate mythological character. Medusa, perhaps. Lyssa was the goddess of rabies, Epiales was the goddess of nightmares.”

“Aegon, I had no idea you were so…” You search for the right word. “Literate.”

“Io was turned into a cow.” He grins at you, toothy, malicious.

“She’s also one of Jupiter’s moons,” Aemond muses. He draws invisible orbits in the air with his long, graceful fingers. “Beautiful, celestial, pristine…”

“A satellite,” Aegon says. “Mindless. Aimless. Going wherever she’s told.”

Aemond insists as he twists the bracelet around your right wrist, a delicate gold chain he bought during your honeymoon in Hawaii: “Aphrodite.”

“Didn’t she fuck around with, like, everyone?”

“Maybe you should be Aphrodite,” you tell Aegon.

Mimi appears, tottering across the lawn with the straps of her sundress sliding off her shoulders and her Gimlet sloshing precariously in its glass. The children are playing in the surf with the nannies and Fosco, who is entertaining them by diving for seashells and delivering his treasures into their tiny, grasping palms. Criston is supervising from the sand, though he steals frequent glimpses of Alicent as she feeds a wheelchair-bound Viserys—much diminished after a number of strokes—his own slice of melopita, one careful, patient spoonful at a time. “Can we…” Mimi bursts out laughing and almost falls over. She claws her way upright again using the back of Aegon’s chair. “Um…I was thinking…”

“What?” Aegon asks, annoyed, avoidant. If they’ve ever been happy, it was a transient epoch that came and went long before you joined the family. It was before the asteroid killed the dinosaurs.

“We should go back to Mykonos. We had such a nice time in Mykonos. Didn’t we? Didn’t we just adore Mykonos?”

Aegon sighs, glowering out over the ocean. “Yeah, we sure did. Ten years ago.”

“Exactly!” Mimi gushes, oblivious. “When can we go? Next week? Let’s go next week.”

“Mimi, you and the kids will be in Washington, remember?” Aemond says. Alicent will have to be her handler; usually it’s your job to make sure Mimi is ready for photos, eats enough to stay conscious, doesn’t trip over her own feet, doesn’t talk too much to the press.

“Washington?” Like she’s never heard of it.

“The state. Not the city. For the convention.”

“Oh right. Right.” She gulps her Gimlet. You could set your watch by Mimi’s drinking. Tipsy by lunch, drunk at dinner, crawling on the floor chasing the dogs around by 8 p.m. The Targaryens keep a drove of Alopekis, small and white and foxlike. “Well…maybe some other time.”

“After the election,” Aemond says with an abiding, encouraging smile. He tolerates Mimi because he needs her: happy wholesome family, American Dream. Down at the water’s edge, the nannies are giving towels to Fosco and the children as they scamper out of the frothing waves, Mimi’s five and Helaena’s three: Daphne, Neaera—no one can ever seem to spell her name correctly, least of all the six-year-old girl herself—and Evangelos.

Mimi departs, on the hunt for a fresh Gimlet. Aegon reaches into the pocket of his swim trunks—Hawaiian print, royal blue—and pulls out a joint and a Zippo. He sticks the joint between his teeth and goes to light it.

“No,” Aemond says immediately, yanking the joint out of Aegon’s mouth and stomping it into the earth. Then he points down the beach towards the sand dunes. “You know journalists will sneak around trying to get photos. You know we’re never truly alone out here.”

“They can’t tell what I’m smoking!”

“Don’t argue with me.”

“You know there are teenagers getting their limbs blown off in Vietnam right now? I think society has bigger problems than me smoking grass.”

“And yet to solve those bigger problems, I have to win in November. And the suburban housewives will not vote for me if they think I support legalizing marijuana. Trust me, I know. I’ve met them.”

“I wouldn’t want those people’s votes,” Aegon says derisively.

“You’d rather Nixon get them?”

Aegon doesn’t have a speedy rebuttal this time. He contemplates the Atlantic Ocean, the wind tearing at his hair.

“It’s hot as hell,” Aemond says to you, gathering up the newspapers he’s been leafing through, never not thinking about the election, never not strategizing. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

As you accompany Aemond towards the main house—and of course you follow him, always, anywhere—Alicent waves you over to where she and Viserys are sitting to wish you a happy birthday again. From this vantage point, you can just barely spot Otto and Helaena strolling through her garden, a jungle of butterfly bushes and herbs. The stricken Targaryen patriarch beams at the swell of your belly. Viserys likes you, you are his favorite daughter-in-law, though perhaps this is not so lofty an achievement. Moreover, he likes that you are carrying the child of his decent son. Aemond has already decided on the baby’s name: Aristos Apollo. If it is in fact a boy, you suppose you’ll call him Ari, but he doesn’t feel real to you yet. He belongs to Aemond, to the Targaryens, to the nation, but not quite to you. He is more myth than flesh.

“Nothing is more precious than children,” Viserys tells Aemond, raspy and frail. “I would have had at least five more if I could.” Alicent bows her head, an acknowledgement of her failure in this regard. Viserys expects it. You and Aemond politely avert your gazes.

“Thank God for this baby,” Alicent says. “After the year we’ve had? That the whole world has had? We all need something to be grateful for.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, smiling. It must be the promise of a son that has made his maiming go down smoother, and maybe it is his soaring poll numbers too, and maybe it is gratitude that he escaped with his life, and maybe it is even the fact that he has you.

But long after dusk when you’re getting ready for bed—slathering yourself in Jergens, stepping into your chiffon nightgown—as you pass through the sliver of light pouring out of the bathroom, you catch a glimpse of something that stops you. Aemond is standing in front of the mirror with his hands on the rim of the sink, his eyepatch slung over the towel rack, his voided eye socket exposed and gory and irreparably wounded. There’s something in his scarred face that you can’t recall ever seeing before. There is a seething, secret, animal rage. There is fury for everyone who has ever denied him anything.

You remember who you were before you met Aemond at the Rainbow Room in Manhattan at a party you were almost not illustrious enough to attend. You wore your hair long and loose, you downed shots, you smoked, you swore, you slept through class almost every Monday; and then you packed all of this away in your allegorical attic and became someone who could stand beside a senator, and then a candidate, and then a president, someone who could tip the scales of fate.

And you think as you lurk unnoticed in the doorway: Maybe he’s been hiding parts of himself too.

~~~~~~~~~~

July 10th, 10 a.m. He’s snoring on a couch in the living room, the one patterned with sailboats. He’s hugging his acoustic guitar like a child clinging to a teddy bear. Sometimes he plays it for the kids: Get Rhythm, Twist And Shout, Stand By Me, You Can’t Hurry Love. That’s about the extent of his involvement in their lives. He has a law degree from Columbia that his father bought for him. Aside from a brief and disastrous stint as the mayor of Trenton, he has never been gainfully employed. You pour the cupful of ice cubes you collected from the freezer all over his bare chest.

“What the fuck!” Aegon screams as he startles awake. “What is wrong with you?!”

“The guests are arriving in two hours. And you’re going to help me host.”

“I’m not slobbering at the feet of those manicured elitists.”

“It’s easy to say ‘vive la révolution’ from your family’s mansion that you reside in as a professional failure.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m so worthless. If only I spent more time hosting tea parties.”

“I can’t small talk with governors and congressmen, so I have to charm their wives instead. That’s how it works, you idiot.”

Aegon rolls off the couch and rubs his forehead, wincing, hungover. In the dining room, Eudoxia is readying cups and plates, polishing silverware, folding napkins. The caterers will be here soon, and there are also three dishes that you made yourself: stafidopsomo, a bread with raisins and cinnamon; rizogalo, Greek-style rice pudding; and baklava you spent hours chopping walnuts for. At least one show of domestic prowess is an expectation, two is impressive, three is above and beyond, something for the other political wives to chatter about. You know the importance of making a good impression on them. They are as much a part of their husbands’ careers as the speech writers, communication directors, fundraisers. “I need a Bloody Mary,” Aegon groans.

“You need to pull your goddamn weight. Everyone else is working to get Aemond elected. Your five-year-old kid is out on the campaign trail and you can’t walk around with a tray of hummus and mini spanakopitas? Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious,” he says, standing with some difficulty and then shoving by you. “Fuck off, Miss America.”

“Aegon!”

But he’s padding off towards the kitchen with his bare feet, tiki print boxer shorts, bedraggled hair. You follow after him in your spotless white heels and sundress patterned with common blue violets. Your earrings are pearls. You’ve wrangled your hair into a tidy French twist. Aegon is getting a pitcher of tomato juice out of the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka from a cardboard Apple Jacks box. He keeps booze and pills hidden everywhere; you’re always stumbling across his caches.

You open your mouth to unleash something hurtful, something hateful, but then you feel the cold flare of liquid on your thighs as the ocean breeze gusts in through the windows. My dress, you think, alarmed. What did I spill on it? One of the ice cubes you threw at Aegon must have caught on the skirt somehow and melted. That’s your first guess, and it is welcome; water doesn’t stain, and you aren’t sure if you have another outfit that is both formal enough and will still fit you. But when you reach down to touch your leg—now the liquid reaches your knees—your hand comes away red.

You look up at Aegon. He’s staring back at you, thunderstruck, horrified. His Bloody Mary ingredients are now forgotten on the countertop. He shouts for the housekeeper: “Doxie?!”

There is indistinct, cantankerous Greek grumbling in return.

“Doxie! Call an ambulance!”

“I don’t understand,” you say to Aegon, bright clotless blood dyeing the whirls of your fingerprints. I ruined my dress, you think nonsensically. “It doesn’t hurt. Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Don’t move, don’t do anything, just wait for the paramedics.”

But the edges of your vision are going dark and hazy, and the room spins like a flipped coin. Your knees and ankles fold, bones turned to paper. As you drop, Aegon dives for you. You clutch at him, but there’s nothing to grab onto, no suit jacket, no tie, only skin that glows with sunburn. “If I don’t wake up, tell Aemond—”

“You’re not dying, bitch. My luck’s not that good.”

But his eyes are panicked; and they are the last thing you see before you black out.

~~~~~~~~~~

Arteries of cement, bones like lead, heavy eyelids opening to reveal strange white walls.

Am I dead?

But no: you hurt all over. Heaven isn’t supposed to hurt. There are needles pierced through the backs of your hands, a splitting rawness in your throat.

Was I intubated? Did I have surgery…?

You try to sit up. The pain is blinding; the severed and sutured latticework of your abdominal muscles is a pit of glass. You gasp, moan plaintively, fumble for the nurse call button on the wooden nightstand.

“Will you stop moving?” Aegon says as he walks into the room. He’s slurping on a straw that pokes out from a Dairy Queen cup. The fluid inside is clumpy and red. Instantly, you think of blood, and a wave of nausea punches through the shredded gore that was once your belly. Aegon flops down into the salmon pink armchair beside the bed and props his combat boots up on the ottoman. “They sliced you up like the Black Dahlia. You’re gonna rip your stitches.”

“They did a c-section…?”

“Yeah, you had some kind of uterus…thing. I don’t remember.”

The baby?? Is the baby alright?? “An abruption?”

More slurping. “No…I think it started with a P.”

“Previa?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You remember waking up a few times: on the kitchen floor as men were lifting you, in an ambulance as the siren shrieked. Someone said you were being taken to Mount Sinai in Manhattan. And that makes sense, that would have been Criston’s plan. Mount Sinai is one of the best hospitals in the country. You look around the room for a bassinet or a crib. Instead you see a wheelchair and a myriad of flower bouquets; word has already gotten out, and so the customary well wishes are pouring in. Lady Bird Johnson sent bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas; Abigail McCarthy sent lilies of the valley; Muriel Humphrey sent roses, traditional, safe, uninspiring; Pat Nixon sent blood orange gladioli. Mrs. Wallace, newly deceased, neglected to call a florist. “Where’s the baby?”

“He’s fine. He’s downstairs in an incubator.”

Ari, you think, though he still doesn’t seem real yet. “What…?”

“His lungs are underdeveloped. But the doctors think he’ll be alright. You want a Mr. Misty? There’s a Dairy Queen like two blocks from here.”

“No, I don’t want a Mr. Misty,” you say, incredulous. “I want to see the baby.”

“Well they can’t move him and they can’t move you, so you’ll have to wait.”

“I’m going to see him—” You swing your feet off the bed and feel daggers, fire, a splintering like someone has taken a hammer to your bones. You almost scream; it takes everything in you to choke it down and only gasp as your flesh becomes an inferno. I want a joint, you think randomly, an urge you’d believed you had exorcised from yourself, an archaic relic of a past life.

“Told you,” Aegon says smugly.

You lie panting, helpless, glancing at the phone on the nightstand. “Aemond knows?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve called everyone. He knows.”

“Good. So he’ll be here soon.”

“Sure,” Aegon says, perhaps a tad noncommittally.

“Okay.” You’re still trying to catch your breath. Tacoma is a six hour flight away. Even if Aemond doesn’t leave until morning, he’ll be here by sundown tomorrow. “You can go now.”

“Go?!” Aegon exclaims, then laughs, one of his reckless, taunting cackles. “Oh no. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You definitely are.”

“No, I’m not,” he insists, grinning. “For once in my life, I’m the person who’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. I’m the honorable one. The sacred heir of the favorite son has just been born, and the blessed mother has been sawed in half like Saint Simon the Zealot, and where is Aemond? Where is literally everyone else? Across the continent shaking hands and forcing smiles to win him the great state of Washington. I’m not going home. I’m collecting every second I spend here like coins from a slot machine. I won the jackpot, babe. No one is ever going to be able to call me the family fuckup after this.”

The pain is horrible, insurmountable; you can’t think through it. You close your eyes and try not to sob, to wail, to split yourself open in body and soul. I can’t let him see me break down.

“What’s up?” Aegon asks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I want a Mr. Misty. Go get me a Mr. Misty.”

“Okay,” Aegon says doubtfully. “What flavor?”

“I don’t care. Not red.”

“They have orange, lemon-lime, grape—”

“Just pick one!” you shout, tears brimming in your eyes. Get out, get out, get out.

“Calm down, psycho!” he yells back, heading for the door.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, you snatch the call button off the nightstand and press it frantically until a nurse arrives. You get more morphine and sink into a stillness like deep water, down, down, down.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s dark outside, stars and a crescent moon. On the television is grainy footage from the Battle of Khe Sanh. American soldiers younger than you are dragging their wounded brethren to a Chinook helicopter for evacuation: bandages, burns, missing limbs and faces. Aegon had dozed off in his chair—assisted by an ample amount of Vicodin, surely—but is stirring awake now. He blinks groggily at the screen.

“It’s so fucking awful,” you say, and Aegon’s eyebrows shoot up; it’s the first time you’ve ever sworn in front of him. You trained yourself to stop when you met Aemond. “30,000 Americans dead, God knows how many Vietnamese peasants, Buddhist monks setting themselves on fire, and for what? So we can say we did everything we could to stop communism? So we can humiliate the Russians? There is no liberation of Vietnam. All we’re doing is making those people hate us. And we’re destroying ourselves too.”

“I didn’t know you cared about the war.”

You look at him, mystified. “Everything I do is about the war.”

“But you never really talk about it.” Aegon yawns and stretches, reaching up towards the ceiling. “You talk about Chanel dresses and tea parties.”

“Well yeah, because it’s…it’s unseemly, I guess. For me to speak on the war. Me specifically.”

He snorts. “Because you’re a woman? Who told you that? Aemond?”

You hesitate, watching the television again. Now there are napalm bombs incinerating villages and rice paddies. “I had a boyfriend before Aemond, you know.”

“What, in kindergarten? Chasing each other around the playground? Illicit snuggles beneath the slide?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “A real boyfriend.”

“No way. You did not.”

“I did,” you insist, smiling a little. “We met at a party my freshman year of college. He was at NYU studying…oh, I always forgot, that was one of our jokes. It was either archaeology or anthropology. I actually thought I was going to marry him for a minute there.”

“Scandalous.” Aegon is gazing at you with his murky blue eyes, grinning, playful. “What happened?”

“He had a moral crisis about poor kids getting shipped off to Vietnam to be slaughtered while he was tucked safely away in his ivory tower. So he enlisted, and honestly it was shocking how quickly I started to forget about him. We exchanged a few letters, it didn’t last long, I think he was forgetting about me too. But he ended up getting killed in action in October, 1965. His old roommate told me.”

Now Aegon is thoughtful. His crooked grin dies. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s his parents I feel bad for. He was an only child. I heard his father drank himself to death.”

“You’ve been carrying a story like that around with you and you never used it? Not in an interview or an article, not at one of your asinine little tea parties?”

“I can’t,” you confess. “Aemond doesn’t want me to. He doesn’t like to be reminded about…you know. That there was someone else before.”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles, combing his fingers through his disheveled blonde hair. “As if Aemond was a virgin when you met him.”

But it’s not the same. It isn’t to Aemond, and it wouldn’t be to the rest of the world either. It is your eternal disgrace. It is something you will be expected to atone for until you’re in the grave. “Give me a joint.”

Aegon is amazed. “What?”

“I know you have some, you always do. I want one. Give it to me.”

“You smoke grass?”

“I used to. Then I gave it up. But I’m making an exception.”

He gawks at you for a while, then slips a joint out of one of the front pockets of his green army jacket. He places it between his lips, lights it with his little chrome Zippo, and inhales deep and slow. Then he offers it to you.

“I don’t want herpes.”

Aegon laughs. “I don’t have herpes. I swear.”

“Not yet, maybe. Give it time.”

“Are you gonna smoke or not?”

You take the joint and fill your lungs with earth, floral notes, a tinge of spice. It’s been years, but it comes rushing back in an instant as the high hits your bloodstream: calm quiet weightlessness, a sense of wellbeing that fills the honeycomb hollows of your bones. “I need to see the baby.”

Aegon stalls. “The doctors were really insistent that you stay here.”

“And all the sudden you care about rules.”

He considers this, drumming his palms on his thighs. His jeans are ripped; he’s biting his lower lip. Then abruptly, he stands. “Alright.” He grabs the wheelchair and pushes it up against the bed. “Let’s go.”

You take another drag and then discard the joint in your empty Dairy Queen cup. You throw off your blanket and try to touch your bare feet to the cool linoleum floor. It hurts, it feels like razor blades, but you keep going. Then you remember you still have one IV in the back of your left hand. “Wait, how am I going to…?”

“You’re in luck. I am well-versed in needles.” Aegon holds out a palm. Nervously, you give him your hand. He peels off the medical tape, takes a moment to examine the vein, then slides out the needle so smoothly you don’t feel it at all; it barely even bleeds. He balls up a Kleenex from the box on your nightstand and secures it to the wound with the same strip of tape. “You’re welcome.”

“Junkie.” You try to lower yourself into the wheelchair and a yelp rips from your throat.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Aegon says, but not quite unkindly. “Here.” He leans down in front of you. Too desperate to be prideful, you link your arms around the back of his neck. Aegon’s shaggy blonde hair tickles your cheek; his hands skim gingerly to settle on your waist, steadying you without too much pressure. He helps you into the wheelchair, where you collapse gasping and sweating bullets.

“If you ever mention this again, I will guillotine you.”

He winks. “Relax, little Io. I never kiss and tell.”

“I’d assume you’re usually too plastered to remember the details.”

“Be nice. I could roll you down a staircase.” But he doesn’t; he rolls you into the hallway instead.

The lights in the corridor are dim for night, for dreams. You see a few nurses shuttling in and out of other rooms from a distance, but none seem to notice you and Aegon. He steers the wheelchair into the elevator and you ride it down two floors, then cross another hallway and pass through a set of doors. There must be a dozen incubators, half of them occupied. The nurse on duty—currently cradling a tiny infant in her arms, a girl judging by the pink hat, and feeding her from a bottle of formula—gapes at you.

“Ma’am? You aren’t supposed to be—”

“Shut up,” Aegon tells her, and the nurse doesn’t say another word.

Aegon pushes the wheelchair down the line of incubators until you reach the one with a name card labelled Targaryen, Aristos Apollo. And there he is: unmistakably fragile, impossibly small, blue veins like a roadmap beneath translucent skin, tangled in tubes and wires. In his sleeping face you don’t see Aemond or even yourself, but rather an inexplicable familiarity. You feel like you’ve met him before. You feel like you’ve known him all your life.

You press your hand to the clear, domed wall of the incubator; shadows in the shape of your outstretched fingers fall over Ari’s face. “He’s real.”

“Of course he is.” Aegon is watching you; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, a blur of blonde hair and high cheekbones. When you turn to him, he immediately looks away.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing.” But his voice is distracted, bewildered, like someone fumbling for a light switch in a dark room.

[wanderingnewyork]

A No. 1 train runs down Broadway in the Manhattanville Valley, #Manhattan

[catdotjpeg]

Pro-Palestine Columbia University students and local residents held a noise demo during the school's convocation on 25 August.

Columbia University has displaced residents from Harlem to Palestine with its ‘Manhattanville’ campus and ‘Tel Aviv Global Center’ both built on stolen land.

Even after the zionist entity ‘Israel’ has martyred over 186,000 Palestinians, Columbia continues its relentless colonization and financing of genocide. ...Demand Columbia end the displacement from Harlem to Palestine!

-- Within Our Lifetime, 25 Aug 2024

[zet-zets-blog]

Spring 2023- one of the darkest periods of my life. Why didn't anyone warn me of how much of a rollercoaster ride entering your 30s would be?! This was also my last semester in grad school. I did a very expensive and not really worth it (tbh) urban planning degree from Columbia- a university that truly sucks the life out of you. I am describing that feeling here as: imagine yourself living in an ongoing gentrified neighborhood that's OVER policed, a food desert with alot of New York transplants that also happen to be very wealthy and have huge egos. YEAH- that was the start of my 2023.

Broke off my engagement because my ex partner had the audacity to ask me for an open relationship BEFORE our wedding this year?! AND HOOKED UP WITH MY BEST FRIEND IN GRAD SCHOOL literally after a couple of days of us being broken up?! Him and this ex bestfriend were there during the funeral I held for my sister. Sooo, Yeah no...

Ended up starting the year with a broken heart, that's still grieving their sister's death WHILE ALSO writing a thesis so I can graduate my grad program! I honestly cannot emphasize how stacked life felt like during the beginning months of this year. I was in a really REALLY dark place, and its interesting too because these were the moments where I learned SO MUCH about myself and just life and love in general.

Grief has a way of asking you your whys. Why are you living here? Why are you in grad school? Why columbia? What are you doing with your life? Are you even happy? Is that prestige really worth it? What ARE your values and are you living by them? Do you like yourself? What do you truly want? What is life? Like seriously, what is life? Its as if, you had to answer every question all at once or else you just fall in an eternal abyss.

And yet, the journey of grief is SO WORTH IT. The amount of peace you find at the end of that dark dark tunnel is euphoric- A NATURAL HIGH.

Hello dear readers (well whoever you may be!)

My name is Zet, I'm a storyteller that's currently living the 3rd decade of her life in this charming neighborhood called Sunset Park. I LOVE IT HERE! After being surrounded by ivy league kids and out of touch professors I have officially got myself out of the hellhole that is Manhattanville. I'm living in a majority immigrant enclave now, where I can wheel my granny cart to TONS of ethnic grocery stores! I live in this prewar apartment building, where I will need to climb three flights of stairs everyday. Finally living a life where I am completely... alone. I've also become that JOMO (joy of missing out) Tita- I just like smoking with friends at my fire escape, I schedule 10-year plan video-call hangouts with friends that live in other cities. At 30, I am WAAY more reflective, chill and genuinely content with how life feels and looks like right now. <3 It's funny how much can change in just a year. How much CAN HAPPEN within a year. How your life can completely turn a 180, be at your lowest point where you truly let the darkness take over you to a period in your life where you're seeing the magic in life's everyday.

If you would've asked me when I was 16 if I see myself living in this CONCRETE JUNGLE new york city, living alone in a 1 bed apt. , and still pursuing my writing? I would laugh so much and might also tell you to pray for me. Yeah, how can this Palayog girl live a life just like in the romcom movies and tv shows that she grew up watching? It's WIILD! I think I really did underestimate myself back then. You see, I've always felt like I was just existing since I was four. Life has always felt so random and too dramatic that I had convinced myself that I am in just a VERY LONG life simulation. Yet, here I am, existing and thriving, surrounded by so much love and genuine friendships. <3 Still living a full life, working for that true post-colonial world that's driven by community care.

[dreamofstarlight]

If a Kennedy series a la The Crown is made, they need to make sure they don't fall into the trap that The Crown fell into by only showcasing the really well known stories. I want to see Kick and Billy, I want to see snippets of Ethel and Jean at Manhattanville College which leads to Ethel meeting Bobby. The only real issue with something like this is Kennedy lawyers shutting it down....

[yr-obedt-cicero]

I know James and John (Church Hamilton) are often guilty of exaggerating stories they tell in their biographies/memoirs, so I was wondering if you think the story about John sleeping with his father the night before the duel is true? And if so -- why did Hamilton choose John specially to spend his possible last moments with? Like he had other sons! Why John?

No, I'm certain it's at least partly true. Alexander Jr tells a similar tale in a interview;

“On the day of my father's duel with Burr my youngest brother and I were in his office in Pearl Street, having come earlier in the day from the family seat, about a mile above what is now called Manhattanvile.”

(source — Sacramento Daily Union, Volume 1, Number 48, [April 17, 1875])

His “youngest brother” is probably referring to John Church, instead of actually Phil. At this period, Alex is a super old fuck and can't seem to remember things clearly — as he literally calls his eldest brother, Philip the first, “two years his junior”. So it's likely he recalls John being the youngest due to hazy memory.

It does make John's recollection slightly inaccurate, as John fails to ever mention Alexander being present as well. And he wasn't that old when writing the story so he doesn't have the same ancient excuse Alexander does in this case to pardon his inaccuracy. Maybe he just wanted to be the center of attention in the story, or genuinely couldn't remember, I'm not sure.

Why did Hamilton choose Alex Jr and John to be the last children he spent time with? No one can say for sure. Maybe because Alexander was the eldest son at the time, and John was just nearing his “adulthood” ( He was actually twelve but you were considered an adult by age thirteen to sixteen back then ), also John was the youngest one that would actually remember this moment, since William, Holly, and Phil all would have been younger than ten. So perhaps he wanted to make one last impact on them, or maybe the others were away, or put to bed already.

[chanmer]

15 questions, 15 mutuals

tagged by jennnnn @leftofus ily 

1. are you named after anyone? i truly dont think so and i dont even know where my dad got it but he picked both my first and middle names

2. when was the last time you cried? i cry like every day sdhsfgdfg who knows

3. do you have kids? no and no thanks!

4. do you use sarcasm a lot? ive been know to a time or two

5. what sports do you play/have you played? jen whyd we have the same life i was a cheerleeder at st bernards one year but other than that no

6. what’s the first thing you notice about people? usually something like smile or eyes

7. what’s your eye colour? greeny

8. scary movies or happy endings? scary even though itll keep me up

9. any special talents? i used to play so many instruments i miss them and i also used to paint (jen you still got that mug painting i gave you at manhattanville???)

10. where were you born? long island

11. what are your hobbies? concerts and anything music related, youtube, traveling

12. do you have pets? lucy 💕 my chunky white cat

13. how tall are you? 5'4

14. favourite subject in school? band french and english

15. dream job? i always wanted to be a guidance councilor or therapist but i have enough problems. i guess working with cats but i dont have the nerve to be a vet.

tagging @golddustdyke or @maxidentals i never know what to tag you as, @chewysan @interludesdawn @seungmoes @brianbangs @ambivartence @changbeens and ,.... anyone else who wants to do it, doesnt have to be mutuals!!! 

[tedkennedyswife]

April 1955, ‘Miss Joan Bennett, who was chosen ‘’Miss Bermuda College Week’’ during festivities over the Easter holiday, dances with Bill Dowling of Mount Vernon, at the Windsor Hotel in Bermuda. Miss Bennett is a student at Manhattanville College and her partner is studying at Syracuse University’’. 

[braytorensblog]

Shimmering stories line our city streets, flower petals dance in the wind. Large original Digital ,abstract art Natural, painting of Shakespear Shimmer. This is my artistic conception of what Shakespear Shimmer. When art enters our lives, it will give life a breath. It belongs to abstract art. Bright and clear texture, hazy and elegant artistic conception, every stroke has been well thought out. It also has more features: ●ABOUT THIS PAINTING. ＊Handmade Digital Piece, Unframed/Not stretched. ＊Painter: Brayton T. Northrup (at Manhattanville College) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cn-YKMvu7W0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[educollegecounselors-blog]

The Changing Landscape of College Admissions: How New Behaviors Are Making it Harder to Predict Enrollment

The discourse from The Hechinger Report appraises the shifting behaviors that have rendered the college admissions process an arduous task for colleges and universities. The customary approach of colleges and universities, which depends on years of experience and past data to predict how many students to accept and enroll, is now faltering.

Several factors contribute to this unpredictability in the college admissions process. Firstly, the SAT and ACT tests, which were once an essential source of recruiting for colleges and universities, are now losing their appeal. A new generation of students is choosing not to share their personal information, and fewer students are taking these tests due to the test-optional policies of many colleges and universities. It's like asking someone to share their deepest, darkest secrets without even offering a slice of cake!

Colleges and universities must find new ways to attract students and generate leads. One option is to focus on digital marketing and outreach. Colleges can build  relationships and generate leads through referrals by partnering with community organizations, high schools, and other groups. Additionally, admissions offices can focus on building their databases of potential students through lead generation forms on their website and other digital channels. By expandingtheir reach and leveraging new technologies, colleges and universities can continue to attract students and generate leads even in the absence of traditional recruiting methods. It's like trying to catch a unicorn by luring it with a digital carrot.

Secondly, students are now applying to more schools than ever before. Thanks to the CommonApplication, students can apply to multiple colleges with just one application, and the number of applications sent out by the average student is up from five to six. This means that colleges and universities are receiving 20% more applications, without knowing if the students behind them are serious about enrolling. It's like a game of "Guess Who" but with hundreds of faces and no clues.

In the eyes of the students, after all the hard work that goes into submitting an application, it can be discouraging for them to not receive any follow-up communication from the institution. Therefore, it is essential for admissions departments to prequalify prospective student interest after they apply. Pre-qualification allows admissions departments to identify which students are most likely to enroll in the institution. By reaching out to students who show the most interest, admissions can provide them with the information and support they need to make an informed decision about attending. It's like trying to decipher a secret code, except it's in plain English.

Thirdly, students are putting down deposits at more than one school, making it impossible to know which one they will ultimately choose. Finally, a recent policy change means that admissions offices can now poach students who have already put down deposits at other schools, which further complicates the admissions process. It's like trying to juggle with slippery eels.

Universities need to continue engaging with parents and students. Unfortunately, families can face challenges when trying to contact admissions, billing, and financial aid departments. The college had three online portals, which only made things more confusing. I felt lost and disconnected from the institution, with no clear channels for communication or support. It's like a labyrinth with no exit.

It is clear that colleges and universities need to adapt their approach to admissions to remain competitive and ensure their long-term sustainability. The unpredictability of college admissions numbers is a complex issue with many contributing factors. While colleges and universities can make changes to their admissions processes, the only solution to truly understanding and predicting enrollment numbers is measuring engagement. By tracking student engagement with the college or university, admissions offices can gain a better understanding of their level of interest and likelihood of enrolling. Tools like VisitDays can help colleges and universities measure engagement