Over the past few years, VII has built an impressive resume both at Stanford and his native Chicago — one that speaks to an artistic spirit and skill beyond his years, fueled by a dedication to his craft and a relentless pursuit of new creative avenues. You may have seen him performing at Blackfest in 2018, where he opened for 2 Chainz; he competed in the Stanford Concert Network’s Battle of the Bands in January of this year, and he was featured at Kairos’ Wine & Cheese night in November. Maybe you’ve heard the two mixtapes he dropped on Soundcloud this summer, in addition to Marketable Melancholy.
“STANFORD THREATENS LIMITS ON NUMBER OF CS MAJORS,” the sensationalist all-campus email newsletter The Fountain Hopper (better known as The FoHo) alerted readers in fall 2016, during my freshman year. There wasn’t a lot of substantiating evidence beyond the fear mongering title, and the information was later revealed to be false. Nevertheless, a panic ensued in my freshman dorm, although most of my friends were a ways away from even thinking about declaring.
This is not what a Stanford education is supposed to look like, I remember thinking. It was only my third week at the University when my entire freshman dorm had marched off to the annual Fall Career Fair held in White Plaza. I wandered through its rows aimlessly, unsure of what I, without a single grade on my transcript, was meant to offer the nicely dressed recruiters, waiting eagerly for me behind their well decorated booths. The thought of my summer internship or first job had barely crossed my mind; as for me, school had just barely begun.
Last April, Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg sat, sweating, before a Congressional panel. Under scrutiny was how a British political consulting firm had gained access to the private data of more than 50 million Facebook users while, in the meantime, Russian operatives leveraged the platform as a tool to interfere in the election of a U.S. president.
What the fuck did we just do? Sophia Sterling-Angus ’19 remembered thinking to herself, staring at the numbers on her laptop screen last fall. 13 hours prior, she and Liam McGregor ’20 sent a survey called “The Stanford Marriage Pact” to around ten Stanford email lists and group chats. Around a hundred questions poked shamelessly at students’ intimate values, ranging from “How kinky do you like your sex?” to “Are you comfortable with your child being gay?”
“I lost the Google!” my 80-year-old grandmother once told my dad over the phone. “I turned on my computer, and it was gone. I don’t know where it went.”
On March 7, 2007, Philip Zimbardo used his last lecture at Stanford to declare that he’d left his most famous experiment behind. Capping off a discussion of the 1971 findings that made him a public figure, movie character and textbook staple, the renowned psychology professor told the audience he was ready to start probing acts…