My Sun career comes down to this: 800 words and then I’m finished, done for good. What that means I don’t know, but it does leave some room to be creative. No matter what I've written, there will be no worrying about firing or suspension, no need to take angry calls and no requirement to respond to livid e-mails. There will be no looking back.

I’ll start by noting that the very fact that you’re seeing this column means I’ve moderated a bit. There are many things I would have loved to have written but, if I did, this would be in the trash and instead you’d be taking in some wisdom from the College Exchange. Thus, in the spirit of getting this printed, I’ve forsaken some of that wiggle room.

As Malcolm X strolled onto Cornell campus 47 springs ago, you could just imagine the resolve in his eyes. He was here to debate James Farmer, head of the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), on the topic “Separation vs. Integration.” The question was simple. Should blacks in America continue to push for equality in society or should they remove themselves from it completely? Farmer argued to keep up the fight, Malcolm argued against. For anyone sitting at the debate it must have been not only intense but eye opening. They were witnessing two major figures in our country debate an issue both salient and close to their hearts. The arguments were strong and not held back. It was an intellectual slugfest of the highest order. It was here.

The buzzer slid across my head with sickening efficiency. Row after row, the hair separated from my scalp, effortlessly floating down to the floor. The bathroom was small and contained: a shower to the left, a mirror straight ahead. The image reflected was of a “streamlined” me and my good friend Mike, standing there with the buzzer in hand.

Mike was grinning. He loves this stuff. Buzzing heads is his thing. I’m the latest victim. My brother is next and on the way. He’s got an afro. I’m afraid that when he sees me, he’ll have second thoughts. But that’s the least of my worries right now.

The rest of the hair comes off. We decided on the shortest cut: a number one. The length is so short, it’s shocking.

As the great Calvin Coolidge once said, “No person was ever honored for what he received. He was honored for what he gave.” Thus, in a shameless grab for some honor I surely will not be receiving upon graduation, I’ve decided to give in a big way. No, I can’t promise a free car or 16 million rupee, but I think I can bestow upon you something close in value: A Survivor’s Guide to Cornell. Yes, I’m sure it has been done before, but still, I would feel selfish keeping to myself all the knowledge I’ve accumulated over the years. Anyway, here it goes:

Once, for me, nobody came anywhere close to Mo Lewis. That’s right. Mo Lewis. Former hard-hitting outside linebacker for the New York Jets. Today Mo’s retired, but, in his prime, he sure could put a lickin’ on anything dumb enough to run in his direction.

I spent many a Sunday with Mo and the Jets as a kid, I witnessed his ascent to football greatness and his descent into its loathsome counterpart — the total obscurity of professional sports retirement. No matter, I was always in Mo’s corner. Fully and unquestioningly, I was in the tank for this guy big time.

The fountain of youth has captivated the imagination of humankind for ages. The Greeks wrote of it, Ponce De Leon searched for it and David Copperfield claims to have found it. No matter when, no matter where, we, as a species, have always dreamt about that magical elixir that can lengthen our lives.

ISTANBUL — In an undeniable milestone for the civil rights struggle earlier this month, Barack Obama was elected President of the United States of America. His victory was much more than just a triumph for equality, but, there’s no denying the symbolic importance it brings in that respect. For years, activists in America have fought, and sometimes given their lives, in pursuit of making the promise outlined in our Declaration of Independence, that all are created equal, a reality instead of just a guideline. When our 44th President took that stage in Grant Park, the promise never looked so valid.

ISTANBUL — In a painful fashion the chants rang out. We couldn’t fully understand what they meant but it was clear from the posters that every mention of the ABD (Turkish for USA) was another shout against our country. This scene unfolded at start of a surreal week, one which will be difficult to forget.

We heard the chants in the Turkish capital of Anakara. After being promised a free bus ride and a new look into Turkish politics, I joined two friends and a number of Turkish students on a trip there last Saturday night. Our buses boarded shortly after midnight and off we went, headed to a mass protest against the government.

ISTANBUL — Meet Kadir. He is dynamic, Kurd, fluent in English and walks around with the Hebrew ‘‘Prayer of the Way’’ wherever he goes. Kadir and I had met before, but when I saw him displaying the prayer I was a little bit shocked. This was Turkey, after all, and while I had expected to be intrigued, I never anticipated anything quite like this.

The prayer had come from a journey this past August to Israel and the Palestinian territories. It was clear that Kadir had been moved by his experiences and was eager to talk. Once we started, it was difficult to stop.

ISTANBUL — It’s Sunday morning. I’ve been sleeping for the past eleven hours and wake exactly how I feared — hurting all over. This is a product of my own doing. I’ve grown up my whole life watching football and have always had a burning desire to play. When the opportunity came along, albeit in Turkey, there was no chance I was turning it down.

My first practice started a bit shaky — “Stretch your calves, Aleks!” yelled Jokson, the burly team captain leading stretches at the center of our circle. As I repositioned my legs, the whole team went up in fits of laughter, thoroughly enjoying their leader’s elementary English. “Hello by the way,” I thought after this fine introduction, “My name is Alex, pleased to meet you!”