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Letter from the editor

By Maddie DeBlizan On Jan. 5, I stepped off a New York City-bound plane and caught a turbulent taxi ride to 10 Hanover Square in lower Manhattan. I didn’t know a soul. I clutched my handheld alarm in my coat pocket the entire ride, just as my grandmother had instructed — just in case the taxi driver turned out to be a serial killer. The following four months, I waffled between sheer wonder and utter fear. But that’s how New York City works: one second you’re on top of the world, and the next second you’re clutching your personal alarm in your coat pocket, or stepping in dog poop with your brand new shoes, or running from a bearded man who is fast-approaching you with a sign that reads “free hugs”. One time, a woman next to me on the subway candidly reached into her bag and handed me a… Keep Reading

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