I walked into AHS with a red backpack and a dream of becoming a writer. At the time, this seemed more like wishful thinking than possibility—I was shy and awkward, one more freshman floundering in a sea that never changed its pace. I could step into the shadow of J-building and vanish completely, a total and irrevocable eclipse of identity. And yet I hoped that my time here might yield something substantial, that if I searched the halls of AHS hard enough, I might discover some spark of self encased in the bricks and mortar.
For a period spanning a quarter of your life, four years isn't a terribly long time. Even now, I remember it only as a series of disjointed recollections, bits and pieces of memory that have stuck, for whatever reason, like a reel of film jumping around to those few scenes that stay at the back of your mind. All those unproductive project sleepovers, pizza boxes piled high and empty around us. Writing my first article, then another, and another. Nerves shot over Sadies and the unanswered “what if?”s that followed. Staying up late with friends, laughing hysterically over things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.
But it wasn't all fun and games—far from it. There were moments of unendurable loneliness. Days when I longed to transfer somewhere, anywhere, where nobody knew my name. Times I was certain that I'd bolt right after graduation, tearing across the parking lot with the sound of freedom ringing in my ears, and not a soul on earth could ever make me look back.
And then I look at you, and I remember the time you kept me running around that track, or told me I had potential, even if I didn't see it, or baked me the most delicious brownies for my birthday, or wrote encouraging comments on my essays, or hugged me as I cried and gave that whispered promise, “Don't worry, I'm here for you.” You, my friends, my teachers, my fellow Pow Wow members, my classmates. You, who smile and wave in passing, in and out of the classroom, who've brought me happiness with every waking day and rare comfort at all hours of the night. You, who never fail to remind me that when everything seems like it's going wrong, something is, in fact, going right.
I know I may seem detached and emotionless at times, but it's only because I'm afraid of losing you. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the concept of “goodbye,” to understand that I might never see you again, or worse, to accept it. I want to take you for granted, to wake up every morning and know, beyond a shred of doubt, that we’ll spend the day laughing and eating lunch together and taking long walks home. But I know our days are numbered. And as June 11 approaches, looming menacingly on the horizon, I find myself treasuring every shared moment, longing to wrap up all these memories of you and keep them forever, because it’s all I’ll have left.
How is it that a school with 4000 people, a place swelling with the perpetual ebb and flow of daily life, can feel so small and personal at times? How is it that the tiniest gestures of kindness, the acts so easily overlooked, have the power to turn my perspective around and give my life renewed meaning?
I've been lost and found, and now I'm waiting to lose myself again. In a few weeks, I'll be making my way across the graduation stage; in a few more months, I'll be making my way across the country. But before we part ways for the last time, I want to say thank you for everything you've given me. That I can be here now, writing this—I, who not so long ago, genuinely believed that I had nothing worthwhile to say—is a testament to your unwavering love, support, and encouragement. And that’s something I will keep with me, always, no matter how much time and distance separate us.
I will leave AHS with a red gown and a dream fulfilled.
For a period spanning a quarter of your life, four years isn't a terribly long time. Even now, I remember it only as a series of disjointed recollections, bits and pieces of memory that have stuck, for whatever reason, like a reel of film jumping around to those few scenes that stay at the back of your mind. All those unproductive project sleepovers, pizza boxes piled high and empty around us. Writing my first article, then another, and another. Nerves shot over Sadies and the unanswered “what if?”s that followed. Staying up late with friends, laughing hysterically over things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.
But it wasn't all fun and games—far from it. There were moments of unendurable loneliness. Days when I longed to transfer somewhere, anywhere, where nobody knew my name. Times I was certain that I'd bolt right after graduation, tearing across the parking lot with the sound of freedom ringing in my ears, and not a soul on earth could ever make me look back.
And then I look at you, and I remember the time you kept me running around that track, or told me I had potential, even if I didn't see it, or baked me the most delicious brownies for my birthday, or wrote encouraging comments on my essays, or hugged me as I cried and gave that whispered promise, “Don't worry, I'm here for you.” You, my friends, my teachers, my fellow Pow Wow members, my classmates. You, who smile and wave in passing, in and out of the classroom, who've brought me happiness with every waking day and rare comfort at all hours of the night. You, who never fail to remind me that when everything seems like it's going wrong, something is, in fact, going right.
I know I may seem detached and emotionless at times, but it's only because I'm afraid of losing you. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the concept of “goodbye,” to understand that I might never see you again, or worse, to accept it. I want to take you for granted, to wake up every morning and know, beyond a shred of doubt, that we’ll spend the day laughing and eating lunch together and taking long walks home. But I know our days are numbered. And as June 11 approaches, looming menacingly on the horizon, I find myself treasuring every shared moment, longing to wrap up all these memories of you and keep them forever, because it’s all I’ll have left.
How is it that a school with 4000 people, a place swelling with the perpetual ebb and flow of daily life, can feel so small and personal at times? How is it that the tiniest gestures of kindness, the acts so easily overlooked, have the power to turn my perspective around and give my life renewed meaning?
I've been lost and found, and now I'm waiting to lose myself again. In a few weeks, I'll be making my way across the graduation stage; in a few more months, I'll be making my way across the country. But before we part ways for the last time, I want to say thank you for everything you've given me. That I can be here now, writing this—I, who not so long ago, genuinely believed that I had nothing worthwhile to say—is a testament to your unwavering love, support, and encouragement. And that’s something I will keep with me, always, no matter how much time and distance separate us.
I will leave AHS with a red gown and a dream fulfilled.
]. It’s hard to wrap my mind around the concept of “goodbye,” to understand that I might never see you again, or worse, to accept it. I want to take you for granted, to wake up every morning and know, beyond a shred of doubt, that we’ll spend the day laughing and eating lunch together and taking long walks home. But I know our days are numbered. And as June 11 approaches, looming menacingly on the horizon, I find myself treasuring every shared moment, longing to wrap up all these memories of you and keep them forever, because it’s all I’ll have left.