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Articles by Kate Casper
Everything I know about love at the University of Notre Dame
1. You can find love at the bar (Newfs) Everyone above the age of 55 tells you, “You won’t find love at the bar,” but they’re wrong. You can find love anywhere — in the supermarket, on the metro, at a beloved South Bend establishment with all the lights down and “Everytime We Touch” by Cascada playing.
Nightmares about California
Now that it’s not completely taboo to talk about where this next chapter of our lives might take us, I’ve begun trying on the phrase, “I’m moving to Northern California,” trying to see how it feels. And it feels good; it feels warm; it feels rainy; it feels very, very far away. I’ve also begun trying on the idea of becoming a San Francisco Giants fan, although I know I will always love the Nats more (and I will always look god-awful in orange).
Bring back desperation
Two days straight of “Short Skirt Weather™” plus a post-spring break glow has led me to the following three goals for my next (last) nine weeks of college: 1) Go on a small but meaningful apology tour, 2) Cancel all resentment for fellow flawed human beings and 3) Bring back desperate energy.
Now that I’m not in love with anyone
Now that I’m not in love with anyone, I admit there are a few perks. For one, less time spent talking to a boy means more time spent dancing with Claudia and Emma at Newf’s during closing time (with Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” playing and all the lights on). The dance floor clears as people scramble to order Ubers or look for their coats, but we’re in no rush.
COIN was a band
I found the band COIN right when I needed them — when I was 14 and helpless and felt almost entirely alone in this world. I’d blast COIN songs with my chords in, kicking rocks and plucking dandelions and tearing leaves to shreds on long walks home from school. I was an angsty high schooler with lots of friends, but a persistent lonely gaping feeling. Call it “Growing Pains.” Call it a COIN-shaped void. The truth is, I was never alone when I was with COIN.
It really doesn’t matter you went to Notre Dame
Now that I’m almost out of here, I figure it’s probably time I tell you it doesn’t really matter that I went to Notre Dame. This isn’t to say that I don’t count my lucky stars every day that I wound up here, in a place like this. This isn’t to say that I haven’t met some of the most brilliant, kind people here. This isn’t to say that I don’t love it here or that I don’t cry on command when I link arms with my peers to sing the alma mater at the end of a football game or mass.
The Casper tell-all special
I call this the “Casper Tell-All Special,” even though I don’t intend to tell you anything (at all). What I will tell you is that I saw my first love at my hometown bar last Wednesday, and it got me thinking. It got me thinking that he looked exactly the same as I remembered him, only this time we weren’t 19 and 20; we were 21 and 23, and I didn’t feel anything for him like I used to. It was liberating and sad, like a Little Death. I didn’t even say hi to him; I didn’t need to.
Breaking up with forever
According to Snapchat, we can be best friends forever for $5.99. I don’t think we’d even have to do anything. I think we’d just have to pay $5.99, and then — eternity. The cost of forever, in this case, is the price of a cappuccino — and isn’t that just heaven? Speaking of heaven, there’s this song I love called “in heaven all the first kisses last much longer than a night,” by quinnie. I used to listen to it all the time over the summer on the walk home from O’Shag to Crossings.
On the first day of Nashville
What no one tells you about the senior fall break to Nashville is that a lot of your time will be spent on the rooftop of the Jason Aldean bar dancing with people you already see every weekend in South Bend. The Jason Aldean bar will feel a lot like Newf’s, only if Newf’s were towering over Broadway and vodka sodas went for $13 each, not $5 (so basically not like Newf’s at all). I guess the one Newf’s-y element is that everyone will be there, and the lights will be flashing different colors.
UNTITLED
The best concert I ever went to was the one I went to last weekend. I remember the room tasted as fresh as cardboard, and although I was only one Liquid Death in, I felt as high as a kite (Liquid Death is mountain water, by the way, and no, I was not doing drugs). I was seeing COIN at the Byline Bank Aragon Ballroom (if you don’t know COIN, then you’re not cool, and you should probably change that, and if you do know COIN, then I guess I love you forever).
Everything I’ve been thinking about that I’m not afraid to publish
“If you opened other people up, you’d find landscapes,” is something I wish I came up with myself. I didn’t. I stole it. I don’t even know where it’s from, just that I heard it in a class once and wrote it down (so now, it’s mine). I thought about the idea of opening other people up — not in the scary, surgical, frog-dissection type of way — but in the normal way. With questions. With answers. Perhaps you’d find landscapes. I like to think landscape is a fancy word for graveyard.
Thanks for nothing, Ticket Office
I don’t know what I was expecting when I called the Ticket Office. Probably just a polite: “Hush child, you’ll be okay. You’re a senior, and you just messed up. Don’t worry. We’ll get you your season tickets.” Instead, I was told “Katherine, you’ve called 3 times today, and the answer is still the same. You missed the waitlist deadline.
To the ones that make it all worth it
The last few months of your senior year felt like dramatic irony — knowing your days were numbered and mine weren’t, and those BP pews we christened, those hallways we passed through, would soon be filled by new girls (who aren’t named Katie or Helen or Elizabeth or the countless others who have made this all worth it). It’s not like anyone had any say in the matter. Graduating was sort of what you had to do.
The semester of suffering well
I wish someone told me it’s allowed to suck when you’re crying in front of CJ’s or at the Grotto or in LaFun or in a very public spot of North Dining Hall. It’s allowed to suck, and you’re allowed to hate everything, and yet, it’s also allowed to be a blast — when you’re dancing in someone else’s dress, flirting with a friend’s RA, going home with the girls and sleeping on their couch, calling it the best sleep of the semester. The truth is, it’s allowed to be whatever it needs to be.
How to not hate yourself
The thing about hating yourself is you rarely know it’s happening. It might come out during moments of ultimate shame and embarrassment—that time you lashed out for no reason or turned in your 7th late assignment of the semester (because 11:59 p.m. is pretty much the same as 12:02 a.m. which is also pretty much the same as 12:20 a.m. with a note of apology to your favorite professor).
Vignettes from an incredibly average, occasionally beautiful life
1. Strangers on a train I sort of felt like I was running from something (my grades), or maybe running to something (my parents who would inevitably ask about my grades), but I swear there’s something so lovely about it. Running. There’s something so lovely about being caught between places, watching the world tick by, preferably in a cushy chair on an overnight train next to some boy from Granger who feels like a stranger (but also feels like your best friend).
H-E-A-V-E-N
Sometimes, when I’m with my dad, he calls it heaven: “H-E-A-V-E-N.” He spells it out, sits with every letter, tells me “This right here is heaven” — heaven in our drives home from church, heaven in the mundane walks with our dog, heaven in the times we sit and chat about life. I can’t even begin to tell you what it’s like — this heaven which occasionally lingers between us, this heaven which we seldom call by name.
An unhinged recap of Junior Parents Weekend
Junior Parents Weekend felt a lot like “A Christmas Carol,” the way I encountered all my favorite ghosts in one night (at Newf’s): Ghost of Notre Dame Past, my ex-best friend (spotted at Newf’s); Present, my current best friend (also spotted at Newf’s); and Future, all the people I had no idea existed (thought they were also maybe possibly spotted at Newf’s). The truth is, it wasn’t pleasant having to introduce my parents to all of these characters at once (at Newf’s).
Falling in love for dummies (an ode to singleness)
A lot of my single friends don’t like being single. In fact, they hate it. Whenever they complain, I try to tell them “It’s good for you, stick with it,” like singleness is some trendy new workout plan. I try to remind them of the joys of the single life — those chance encounters in the middle of the dance floor, the excitement and potential of meeting a perfect stranger (in class, at the gym and in the wee hours of night while scarfing down cheesy garlic bread from Blaze).
‘Ciao’ means hello and goodbye
I broke up with Rome a little over a month ago. It was amicable really, the type of breakup where you suggest you “stay on good terms” and see if you can “make it work in the future if the timing is right” because “we have the rest of our lives to figure it out.” The way I left that city in a sleepless haze, lugging suitcases packed with mementos (hot priest calendars, counterfeit AS Roma gear, too many sweaters) was heartbreaking, but somehow empowering.
Ciao means hello and goodbye
I broke up with Rome a little over a month ago. It was amicable, really, the type of breakup where you suggest you “stay on good terms” and see if you can “make it work in the future if the timing is right” because “we have the rest of our lives to figure it out.” It was heartbreaking but somehow empowering, the way I left that city in a sleepless haze, lugging suitcases packed with mementos (hot priest calendars, counterfeit AS Roma gear, too many sweaters).
Roman holiday (minus Audrey Hepburn, plus a little something sweet and cold)
For breakfast, I order a pastry and “un cappuccino” from Cafe Settimiamo across the street from Guarini, and I chug it on the way to my favorite class (which I rarely prepare for). And in my favorite class which I rarely prepare for, we’ll read a William Carlos Williams poem called “This is just to say.” And I’ll think about every word: “The plums…Which / You were probably / Saving / For breakfast / Forgive me / They were delicious / So sweet / And so cold.” And I’ll think about those plums.
The alcohol-free article
In a niche cocktail bar in Venice, we fit right in — in our post-Flixbus outfits, still shivering from the chilly walk/run to our establishment of choice on Fondamenta Frari. Fife and I found Il Mercante by chance through a fateful Google search: “Cool speakeasy Venice.” We spent two hours there and too much money. And we loved it.
We spent a lot of freshman year crying alone in our dorm rooms
There was this girl in my poetry class during my freshman year. She was a senior. She was sophisticated and cool and unlike me in every way, except she also had brown hair. She wrote poems about things I didn’t understand like buckets of beers at CJ’s and postgames at Crossings. But she also wrote about things I did understand like the first snowfall of the year, the way the snowflakes catch the light from the golden dome and twinkle like stars or like glitter (or both).
My brief stint in someone else’s shower
In a shower in Munich, stuck in a beer-fueled post-Oktoberfest daze, the shower water went from BP-communal-shower hot to arctic-tundra cold in a matter of seconds. So, naturally, I decided to flee the scene.
I want to know you right this second
Call it my cute, American ignorance, but I really believed Italian grocery stores would accommodate my need for ready-made vodka sauce. I really believed I could walk into Fantasia on Via di S. Giovanni and purchase a jar of that heavenly mix of onion, basil, tomato, garlic, parmesan and — you guessed it — vodka.
Not to be dramatic
In my castle made of Scotch Tape and digital photographs of high school memories and broken Christmas lights and piles of graphic tees my mom is begging me to donate, I decide: It’s probably time to leave the country. It’s not that I don’t love this place, where every photo is a reminder of “something we once knew” and every Gildan T-shirt graphic is literally disintegrating.
My semester of shame and embarrassment (in the spirit of Joe Brainard’s “I Remember”)
I remember almost missing my flight back to South Bend at the end of Winter Break. I was still in line for TSA 10 minutes before the plane took off, and by the grace of God, I made it (I really shouldn’t have made it). I remember that plane ride back to campus — I usually feel so cool traveling, but that day, I was just hungry and sad. So when we landed, I immediately booked it to the Chicago O’Hare Airport bathroom so I could power-cry for like 30 minutes.
In a niche coffee shop in Vienna Original
In a niche coffee shop in Vienna, I fit right in, wearing my favorite sweatshirt with the watercolor fish and some orange converse sneakers, the ones owned by every self-proclaimed “Indie Kid” I’d ever met. I plugged my half-alive phone into the wall, sipped on a honey lavender latte and began politely eavesdropping on the two 20-somethings to my left, C.P. and Eric (or something like that).
Why we stay // The Observer
I’m sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs on Fieldhouse Mall, watching seas of accepted students wearing Notre Dame drawstring backpacks on their tours. They’re walking past landmarks like LaFun and Stonehenge, places that are now just pitstops on a tour, but might very well become their stomping grounds in only a short time. I love watching them gaze around the quad, wide eyes fixed on current students like me … girls still in their pajamas at 2 p.m., writing Observer articles just for them.
March of the Titans
I’m in the ACE building, and I promise I’m the least productive person here (besides the guy who’s been napping for the past hour next to a box of Girl Scout Cookies). I’m surfing through my high school newspaper archives, reminiscing about those simpler times at my alma mater, T.C. Williams High School. And, while a part of me really wanted to go to the hockey game tonight because I love hockey (boys), I’ve decided there’s no place I’d rather be than here.
For the Outsiders
I remember it clear as day: The grass was yellowing, becoming more straw-like, and the fireflies by the creek were nowhere to be found, probably hibernating or doing whatever fireflies do when summer ends. Practice had just ended and the moms were too busy shepherding groups of girls into heavily bumper-stickered minivans to notice me shuffling around in my soccer cleats, searching for Anna’s bandaid.
You’re so vain, you probably think this column is about you
I think most of us spend our teenage years into our twenties wanting to belong to someone, cycling through crushes, collecting prospects like pokemon, hoping maybe somewhere in the chaos of hook-ups, homie-hops, flirtationships, and other entanglements, something beautiful will happen. We go to parties looking for partners, light candles for future lovers, and craft perfect endings for imperfect nights.
Here - The Observer
What would you fight for? I started off my Winter Break losing brain cells.
Nutrigrain bars and my era of absurdity
Anyone is welcome to submit Letters to the Editor, guest columns, quotes, cartoons, comic strips and poems to the Viewpoint Department of The Observer. Items submitted by members of the Notre Dame, Saint Mary’s and Holy Cross community will be given preference for publication. The opinions expressed in the Viewpoint section are not necessarily those of The Observer. Columns, Letters to the Editor, poems, comic strips, cartoons and quotes are commentaries.
Kill your darlings: Notes on letting go
Anyone is welcome to submit Letters to the Editor, guest columns, quotes, cartoons, comic strips and poems to the Viewpoint Department of The Observer. Items submitted by members of the Notre Dame, Saint Mary’s and Holy Cross community will be given preference for publication. The opinions expressed in the Viewpoint section are not necessarily those of The Observer. Columns, Letters to the Editor, poems, comic strips, cartoons and quotes are commentaries.
The grass is greener where I am now
Today, I want to be anywhere but here. Specifically, I want to be in Annapolis, Maryland, rolling around with friends on some grassy hill outside of the State House, discussing John Locke’s social compact over ice cream. The grass is soft and lush, and the sun is tucked behind a few trees, casting spiky shadows over our bodies. We browse the used book selection at Old Fox Books & Coffeehouse where I buy a memoir and a lemonade.
The funk is necessary
Anyone is welcome to submit Letters to the Editor, guest columns, quotes, cartoons, comic strips and poems to the Viewpoint Department of The Observer. Items submitted by members of the Notre Dame, Saint Mary’s and Holy Cross community will be given preference for publication. The opinions expressed in the Viewpoint section are not necessarily those of The Observer. Columns, Letters to the Editor, poems, comic strips, cartoons and quotes are commentaries.
Fall is here, but I swear, summer is forever
Perhaps the start of fall isn’t marked by last Thursday’s Autumnal Equinox at 9:04 p.m. Eastern Time — maybe it’s the August 30 return of the Pumpkin Spiced Latte to Starbucks, or the day the box fans start to disappear from dorm room windows. Maybe it’s the first chill of fall you feel on an overcast day on campus or the slow, painful retirement of your flip-flops. However you define this shift, it’s happening, and everyone’s feeling it.
All roads lead to the Grotto
When I returned to my hometown in Northern Virginia for summer break, I felt a kind of dissonance almost immediately. My first few days were spent taking strolls and drives with friends, meandering streets that once felt so familiar, but now felt so different. My elementary school had been torn down, replaced with the bare bones of some new monstrosity, and the lookout spot that was the centerpiece of my youth was no longer open past sundown.
The scenic drive is always shorter: Thank you from a Gateway 9.0
July 22, 2022 might as well be a national holiday. It was the day Gateway students and transfers received their housing assignments.
Scene Selections: Summer reading
IMAGE SOURCES: BBC, LES ARGONAUTES When’s the last time you read for fun? Yeah. That’s what we thought. But when finals are over and the dust settles, $cene hopes you pick up some summer reading. “I am the Messenger” by Markus Zusak Claire Lyons, Interim Scene Editor Imagine “Taxi Driver,” except it’s wildly optimistic and made in Australia. The premise is hilarious: 19-year-old underage cab driver Ed Kennedy accidentally stops a bank robbery and unwittingly becomes his small town’s vigilante hero.
COIN’s ‘Uncanny Valley’ is surprisingly human
Image sources: COIN Artificial Intelligence meets romance in indie-pop band COIN’s fourth studio album, “Uncanny Valley.” The album has the whim, depth and danceability expected of any COIN project, blending heavy overtones with the distinct groove and flavor the trio is known for. Listeners are taken on a journey of learning, loving, plugging in and disconnecting.
Harmless’ ‘Mr. Baby’ EP: For the hopeful romantics
IMAGE SOURCES: AMAZON MUSIC, TEXTURE FABRIK Nacho Cano, known by the name Harmless (formerly Twin Cabins), just released an EP entitled “Mr. Baby” following a slew of single releases over the past few years. While he is best known for the song “Swing Lynn,” which currently has over 130 million streams on Spotify, Cano’s latest project takes a much different approach lyrically and musically.
‘LP3’: Just the right amount of weird
Image sources: Consequence, BandCamp The Minnesota-based indie pop/rock band Hippo Campus released a new album, “LP3,” last weekend — their first full-length project since 2018.
The best of Notre Dame’s 2022 Student Film Festival Original
IMAGE SOURCES: courtesy of Ted Mandell and the FTT program Notre Dame’s own Film, Television and Theatre students put Sundance to shame with the 33rd annual Notre Dame Student Film Fest last weekend. With a diverse group of work — ranging from documentaries to dramatic shorts — this showcase demonstrates the creativity and wit of the Notre Dame student body.
Leaving the singles bopping and crying // The Observer
In late October, British electropop duo Andy Clutterbuck (singer, producer) and James Hatcher (producer) of HONNE, released their latest album, “LET’S JUST SAY THE WORLD ENDED A WEEK FROM NOW, WHAT WOULD YOU DO?” Following the mid-pandemic release of “no song without you,” this album feels like a lighter, more optimistic companion piece.
‘The Life Ahead’ shows at DPAC
Maggie Klaers | The Observer “The Life Ahead,” screened at Debartolo Performing Arts Center (DPAC) this Thursday, presented by the Nanovic Institute for European Studies as part of their film series, follows 12-year-old orphan Momo (Ibrahima Gueye) and his relationship with his dying caregiver Madame Rosa (Sophia Loren), a Holocaust survivor and former prostitute who takes care of unhoused children.
A Gateway’s Experience Watching 'Rudy' at Notre Dame // The Observer
In high school, everyone knew me as the girl with the Notre Dame jacket. The navy jacket with gold stitching from 1984. The jacket that got me through the limitless walks home from school, kicking rocks like the moody teen I was, just wondering about the future that once felt so distant. But alas, here I am, in Notre Dame, Indiana, the last place I would have expected, fighting for a spot at the university whose namesake, whose letters on the back of my jacket, got me through everything.
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