In last night’s Saturday Night Live cold open, three teenage girls chatted over Signal. They gossiped (“Did you guys see what Jessica wore at school today? Oh my God, she is such a pick-me girl”). They teased one another (“Hey, it takes one to know one, Bannessa!”). They did what teenage girls do. And then:
“FYI: Green light on Yemen raid.”
Yep, SNL entered the Signalgate chat.

The start of spring semester is a hopeful time on college campuses. Students fill the quads and walkways, wearing salmon shorts or strappy tank tops. Music plays; frisbees fly. As a career academic, I have been a party to this catalog-cover scene for more than 30 years running. It looks made-up, but it is real. Every year in the United States, almost 20 million people go to college, representing every race, ethnicity, and social class. This is college in America—or it has been for a long time.

If not for the open casket, Ayn Rand’s funeral might have been confused for a party. On March 8, 1982, hundreds of admirers lined up outside a funeral home on Manhattan’s Upper East Side to pay their respects to the author and philosopher, basking in their shared love for the queen of selfishness. Inside, a phonograph played jovial turn-of-the-century tunes—Rand called it her “tiddlywink music”—at high volume.

The door rattles. Blast of pain, and past
the pear-white chill of the birth ward bustles
this odd shadow down my legs and away.
Wet hair styled stiff by the minute’s ladle—
you are here and growing to the naked eye new
dizzy space in your lungs. Rigging the topsail
nailsbreadth at a time. Your nails
clear and tiny, row of ellipses erased.

At 5:41 p.m., Holly texted me, Leftover kale salad from dinner, already dressed, you want?
A follow-up text: Also one corn dog but assume you pass on that 😋
I’ll take both, I texted back.
Awesome, now? she texted.
I replied with 👍👍, rose from my desk, walked from the back of my apartment to the front—I was renting the first floor of a house on the east side of Madison—and stepped outside.