“Wise Wasian Women Give You Life Advice” is a biweekly column by Irene Kim and Josephine Buruma, where they review—and advise on—the many troubles of first second-year life. Read to reminisce, commiserate, and seek enlightenment. Reach out to them with your issues, qualms, and general maladies at irene.kim.irk24@yale.edu and josephine.buruma@yale.edu!
Oh, the horror… The same guy who asked for my Snapchat as we queued for the Holiday Dinner coat check is now interviewing me in the Bass Lower Level rooms, asking why I feel a burning passion for slide deck creation and IPO modelling. How to cope with this unfortunate power dynamic? It offends my deeply egalitarian distaste for faux-hierarchies, and I fear it may prohibit my entry into the world of undergraduate consulting.
Heard. The we’re-all-in-this-together mindset that seemed to emanate from freshman year—as disingenuous as it may have been—was a source of comfort that has since been pulled out from under us. The power trip that some of our sophomore brethren appear to be taking on as a result of their rise to middle management positions in certain campus groups is disconcerting, at best. Our advice is to ignore their feeble attempts at a quarter-life power grab—it says more about them than it does about you. Stroke those egos, pitch those decks, and think not of what you can do for YUCG, but what it can do for you!
Class of 2026, I yearn for you… The absence of the seniors has been particularly felt this past week: from my hallway crush who never knew my name to that Whiffenpoof with the falsetto of an angel, I’m adrift in this campus lacking requisite authority figures. As much as I love the current upperclassmen, they don’t quite fill the hole that the Frocos, distant idols, and otherwise ineffable seniors left in their wake. How do I recover from this loss and make my peace with a life of parasocial Instagram story watching?
We very much feel your anguish. As dear as the ’27 and ’28s are to our hearts, there is ultimately no match for the seniors who graduated when you were a first-year. I’m sure even they would agree that nobody will be able to replicate the utter awe the twenty-two-year-olds who seemed to know and do it all generated for your bushy-tailed freshman self. But perhaps that speaks not to their own coolness but to your budding maturity: instead of searching for their replacement, we suggest you look inward and become the seniors the COVID-generation children will admire. And for now, the social media posts of our newly-minted consultant or investment banking analysts will have to suffice.
Frenetic energy abounds… I’m deep in the pits of an unrequited love, and it’s slowly but surely tearing me apart. I’ve been leaving for my 9:25s in a full beat every morning for hope and fear that I might run into him as I trek up Hillhouse Avenue. Every meal I agonize over which dining halls to patronize, trying to calculate the likelihood that I might find him in Trumbull versus Stiles at any given moment. This crush is soul-crushing—how to deal?
We suggest that you put this excited energy to use: limerence and infatuation are no match for the prospect of productivity. Instead of spending your time primping and preening, direct this attention to the prowl! Get rid of this inertial daze and take some action: follow that Instagram, go to that club event, and scout for him on your next night out. Who knows, maybe one day this frenetic energy will turn kinetic…
Oh my, a mini-me… I met a freshman on the first day of my East Asian Literature seminar. She began to ask me a series of seemingly innocuous questions–where are you from, what are you studying–and revealed that she, too, was a prospective EALL major. I was more than happy to oblige, delighted to try my hand at playing the benevolent sophomore sage. But her line of questioning soon took an eerie turn. “What exact classes did you take your freshman year?” “What are you in right now?” “Section C, did you say?” I was horrified to discover throughout the week that she had registered for every single one of my classes, including a few that I can’t even recall mentioning. Should I be flattered, or start sleeping with one eye open?
We say: watch your back! We foresee this devolving into a Black Swan-esque showdown, but this time Mila Kunis is exactly one year younger than Natalie Portman and Vincent Cassel is sadly nowhere to be found. This campus ain’t big enough for the both of you.
Irene Kim
