PAIGE CHRISTINE ABESSINIO ’26 I didn’t try cake until I was seventeen years old in a hospital. e big day was scheduled to be November 4th, 2024, and I was entirely petrified. ere were two ways this experiment could play out: one, I could go into severe anaphylactic shock as my throat closes or two, I could be completely fine. For context, I have had severe food allergies since the moment I was born: milk, eggs, and sesame (in order of discovery). Milk was definitely the most startling, as my mom attempted to wean me off breastmilk, and, shortly aer one sip of regular formula, my six-month-old self started developing neon red hives around my mouth and projectile vomiting everywhere. Needless to say, my mom was petrified, but thankfully, the doctors realized it was just an allergic reaction (sorry for the scare). en, similarly, at 13 months, I was fed an egg noodle and, once again, I got hives and threw up. And finally, I found out I was allergic to sesame at 18 months aer my dad fed me some hummus. At this point, my parents were fed up with the constant ER visits. So yes, milk, egg, and sesame. ose three food ingredients will forever be engraved into my soul. My allergies were always the first thing anybody really knew about me. During Back-To-School nights, I was introduced as the “daughter with severe food allergies,” as my mom handed my teacher a giant plastic container including Oreos (yes, Oreos are dairy-free), dark chocolate chips, and a box of Enjoy Life cookies so I wouldn’t be excluded during in-class birthday celebrations. Or at my job, when I can’t ever just grab something for lunch, instead, all my coworkers watch me eat a sunbutter and jelly sandwich with lightly salted potato chips every single shi. Growing up, this didn’t really bother me cause it’s all that I knew; subbing vegan cheese or soymilk in every recipe, making sure the ice cream shop had sorbet before going, or just eating plain bowtie noodles at every holiday, it was all I knew. And also, you would not believe the number of times I’ve been asked: “Does vegan cheese taste like real cheese?” Guess what, I wouldn’t know! Because of these bothersome diet restrictions, spring break always consisted of either Disney World or my grandparents’ house (also in Florida). Our trips were basically copied and pasted every year. We frequented the same few restaurants: e Crystal Palace (a Winnie the Pooh-themed buffet), ESPN boardwalk restaurant (which has since sadly closed, RIP), Cape May Cafe, Via Napoli, and Be Our Guest. We would hit our favorite rides, eat dinner, and then fly back home. at was pretty much it. ere was no more magic in these trips, just a change of scenery that I could easily eat at, and Mickey ears. Lunch was also an annoyance, since my school has a buffet-style cafeteria where students are not allowed to bring their own food. I was frequently spotted (and stared at) waiting outside the kitchen door for the lunch staff to hand me my single slice of vegan pizza and saran-wrapped salad consisting of lettuce, carrots, and cucumbers that I would soon douse in olive oil and salt. Deep down, I knew that nobody truly cared about the way the cheese looked on my pizza, but for some reason, I just couldn’t shake the fact that I was just ever so slightly different from everyone else. It wasn’t like I couldn’t live my life normally; I could, but I definitely wasn’t the same. I think my overall hatred for eating in public is just a personification of my apprehension of the Epi. I always made sure to advocate for myself since I was horrified, and I mean HORRIFIED, of having to use an EpiPen. at little needle in its bright yellow tube haunted my first 17 years of existence. I mean, I wasn’t even scared of needles; it was more just the thought of an allergic reaction so severe that it came down to using the epinephrine as a last resort. So when I was around 11 or 12, and my doctor recommended that I do a food challenge for baked milk or egg, I literally laughed. ere was no way that I would ever put myself at such a risk for no reason. Last August 20th, 2024, my family went out to dinner for my dad’s birthday. We chose this restaurant because it was well known for its allergy accommodation and a
vegan dessert. We got there, my dinner was great, and then I ate dessert. It was a blueberry crumble with vanilla ice cream. I don’t doubt it was vegan; however, I was not informed of the sesame in the dessert because, in about a minute and a half, my throat was closing and hives were popping up all over my lips. is was my first sesame reaction since I ate hummus when I was a baby, so none of my family predicted how severe my reaction would be. e drive to the ER was taking forever, and I felt my throat getting worse and worse, and I just ripped my EpiPen out of my bag and stuck it right through my jeans. My first thought was: “at was it?” I could not believe how stupid I was for denying the food tests all these years because of my irrational fear of the Epi. Fast forward three months to November 4th, 2024; the big day! I sit in the tiny little hospital room with my itty-bitty piece of non-frosted egg cake. I just remember staring at it and thinking how much this little cake has metaphorically controlled my life. All the parties, dinners, and playdates I was too embarrassed to attend were all personified into this little cake. I took a bite and guess what? Absolutely nothing happened. I passed with flying colors. And, I could finally say, that yes, vegan cake doesn’t taste too different from regular, it’s just the consistency is slightly off. My ability to overcome the treacherous Epi has created a new life for me. I have truly never felt more liberated than when eating dairy and eggs. For example, I tried McDonald’s for the first time, and I nearly shed a tear eating my tiny little cheeseburger. Ironically, it wasn’t even that great, but I just felt so normal, like I was finally experiencing real life with real food. I wasn’t embarrassed to eat, and no one noticed I was any different. Without my ability to overcome my irrational fear of the EpiPen, I don’t know if I would have had the audacity to do Carnegie Mellon’s six-week pre-college program or apply to colleges over 30 minutes from my hometown. My life was so constrained by my inability to attempt the food test that I was le feeling ashamed of anything I ate. So, if you have something that is annoying, restricting, or cumbersome, take a chance. Cause what do you know? It might just be a piece of cake.
CAMRYN JO AITKEN ’26 I’ve always thought of myself as a spectator. I was comfortable staying in the background and letting things happen around me. I didn’t question much—I just assumed everything would keep going the way it always had. Life kept moving, and I moved with it. A lot of my time was spent in my car. I felt most like myself there. It held all these little things that probably don’t mean much to anyone else—trinkets, Polaroids, random stuff—but to me they meant something deeper. ey were reminders of moments, people, and places that mattered to me. at was all just part of my life, until it suddenly wasn’t, when I was in a car crash back in August. If you asked me how it happened now, I honestly couldn’t tell you exactly. Something with the early rush on I-95, the sunglare, and jersey barrier close to my right. I remember the impact and thinking that this was it. All of my moments have led to this, some little swerve leaving me dead. But, I was still there, flipped over in the middle of the highway. I remember me just sitting there aer it happened, in complete shock, no idea what had really happened. I remember the man in the truck before me staring at me, jaw dropped, like he had just seen an alien walk the earth. I feel as if nothing happened for a while, no one was coming, and I was there alone on display. Mostly everything now is a slight blur, but I remember someone unbuckling me, asking if I could move, and then climbing out of the windshield, and walking out like I had only just experienced a simple fall. When I finally looked back, I took in what had actually happened. It felt like my worst nightmare—causing a huge traffic delay, my car in the middle of it, and people sitting there and staring at me. And I was there thinking they were probably annoyed that some idiotic teen who can’t drive had made them late for work. Everything I had kept inside that car was also scattered across the road. And, somehow, the thing I was most worried about was asking the nurse whether someone could grab my Polaroids or the flower crown on whatever was le of my dashboard when I had just rolled my car. Later, in the hospital, I kept waiting for something bad to show up on the scans. I remember the long hours waiting, convincing myself that if I looked fine on the outside, something had to be wrong internally. I imagined what it would be like, the doctor coming back and telling me I had some brain bleed or something waiting to take me out in a few hours, and that would be it. But the scans came back clear. ere was nothing wrong with me at all. inking back to that day, I probably didn’t take it as seriously as I should have. I mean there were no signs that anything physically bad happened to me, but my parents were treating me like I needed to be wrapped in bubble wrap. I wanted everyone to forget it, to drop the fact that I quite literally had almost died. However, it obviously wasn’t as simple as this. I had to accept that it had affected other people besides myself, and that I had to move forward with it. I realized that once you slowly begin to confront something, you start to get used to it, and it becomes more comfortable over time. It just sort of turned into a thing that had happened. It became lighter. Before I knew it, my cousin was asking what song I crashed to, or I could joke with my friends about making this speech into slam poetry about the impact.
Even with the accident, driving is still one of my favorite things to do. I’ll take any excuse to get behind the wheel, even if it’s a 35-minute trip to meet my friends for coffee. Don’t get me wrong, it took a while to get back on the highway, and I still have to pass that god-forsaken barrier with the traffic cone now in front of it that warns people “hey maybe don’t hit this” every day to school and back. For some reason, I thought I could never move past that moment, and all the memories in that car were gone with it, destroyed in a matter of seconds. inking about this now, this seems like a silly worry. Life didn’t stop aer that day, even as some may have changed. I kept creating more memories. I like thinking that nothing is ever really gone—it just changes with you. And maybe that change isn’t too bad. It takes time, but things surprisingly find their way of working out. Perhaps some things need to be le behind, or accepted for as they are. at doesn’t mean they didn’t happen, or that they didn’t have meaning or value in your life. ey still matter for what they were, even if everything around them looks different now. So, to my parents, I’m sorry for scaring you guys. And to my sister—and that the only Polaroid lost in the crash was the picture of us—I’m sorry about that too. And to everyone else, wherever life may take you next, or if it ever feels like a little bit too much at times, always remember to just keep driving. ank you.
CATHERINE ANNE BARR ’26 If you know me you know I have a strong love for nature. All my life I’ve had the gi of growing up on farms with all kinds of fruit trees including apple, peach, pear, and cherry, the most cherished being the line of apple trees along the back lane of my grandparents’ farm. ey have been the center of my favorite family tradition for decades. My dad has taken care of the trees since he was in college pruning them in late winter and spraying them in early spring every year. Since my sister and I were old enough to walk every time the seasons changed from winter to spring, our dad would drive us around the trees in his truck to set up mason bee hives to pollinate the apple blossoms. e fresh autumn days with the sun setting into the cornfield next to the treeline as we collected apples return to me as some of my most comforting memories. I miss the days of being younger, carelessly sitting in the tall grass between the trees while my dad did most of the work or running around with my sister trying to avoid being stung by bees that had gotten to the apples first, all the while the sun was shining in my face. Once the apples were all in bushels our family would load them into the bed of the truck and take a trip to Bauman’s near Boyertown, Pennsylvania to make them into apple cider and sometimes apple sauce or apple butter. When I was younger much more of my family joined in, arriving in multiple cars to a tiny parking lot and crowding around the truck to help dump the apples into a conveyor belt to be pressed. When the cider was ready my grandparents would hand us half and whole gallon jugs to line up on a sticky metal table. Taking turns, we would fill as many bottles as possible and load them back into the now empty apple crates. As we got older the trips mostly turned into it just being my sister, my dad, my grandparents and I, sharing many laughs and happy memories. One of the best parts of Bauman’s was the apple cider slushies and the drive home stopping for dinner with my grandparents. Getting to have enough apple cider to last through the winter and more to share with friends and family has brought me so much joy year aer year, being a symbol of the holidays and of memories of loved ones. However the past few years the apple trees have not been producing enough to make anything more than a pie or maybe one small cider run if we are lucky. e weather has been tough on them in recent years and many of them are very old trees, maybe they are taking a few years of rest aer so many years of generous production. Whatever the outcome of the trees may be, I will always be grateful for the time I’ve spent with them alongside my family, just as I will always miss the carefree days of sitting in the grass between the trees. As we grow and change it is important to be appreciative of everything we have, especially elements of our lives that care for us or make us happy, as well as every opportunity we are presented with.
AMAL PRIYADARSHI BHATTACHARYA ’26 I was almost killed by a monkey. Most of you here have at least heard some part of this story, but because it’s one of my favorites I want to tell it again. Picture this, it’s just another lovely aernoon in West Bengal, India, in the year 2019. One of my best friends and I are hanging out at the park, enjoying a lovely day off. Unfortunately, our moment of bliss was rudely interrupted when I saw the sudden look of abject terror on my friend’s face, mid-sentence. When I turned around to look at where he was staring, I was similarly shocked to see three huge, dare I say gargantuan, monkeys strolling down the street towards the entrance of the park. We immediately ran and hid behind the base of a large banyan tree next to the swings. Now you might be wondering, why were we so afraid of a few monkeys? Well, let me be clear, these monkeys were ginormous, tremendous, and humongous, as large in stature as a semigrown man, and their exact species is apparently prone to stealing babies. We call them hanuman. eir species are named aer a monkey demigod that could carry an entire mountain in his palm. Of course, we were far from babies at this point in time, and the monkeys probably couldn’t carry an entire mountain, but the fear persisted. So, we stayed hidden behind that tree for as long as we could. Aer a few moments of silent argument and deliberation with my friend, I decided to take a peek and see what was going on. From our position the one and only exit was to our right, and the back fence of the park was about twenty feet behind us, far from the shelter of the banyan tree. I also saw one possibly devilish baby-stealing simian guarding the entrance. A second was nearby patrolling the fence. We had no way out. e third was nowhere to be found. e concepts of a plan were churning in my mind, when I turned around to recount my reconnaissance. I didn’t get a single word out, and I saw my friend’s face contort into a half-silent shriek. Suddenly, a weight pushed down on my back, and I toppled over, as a loud screech broke through the air. en, I heard two other similar sounds and felt two whirls of movement fly over my head. e next thing I know, my friend was dragging me out of there. He had a manic look in his eye as we jumped on to our bikes and fled the scene. e elusive third monkey had stepped on my back before running past us to leave the park, and the other two had followed. I was, of course, completely fine, and I walked out of the park that day with the most prized story in my collection. ough my friend would disagree with some of the facts—he says the monkey missed me by about half a foot. I say I still look over my shoulder to see if the murderous primate will come back to finish the job. It’s really just potato, potahto. But the complete facts, murky as they are, are not my main takeaway from the incident. Walking into the park that day, I had never expected to even see a monkey, much less become well-acquainted with its foot, but it still happened, and I don’t regret it at all. at one memory became a defining moment in my life. It created a story and that is invaluable. e stories I tell people are more than just fun facts. ey are windows into my life, and without them, no one would really know me. Funny memories, moments that you know will always stay with you, last longer than just an instant. Memories are our greatest inheritance. ey go with us everywhere we go, and leave a part of us behind for other people to see. e memories we make last beyond our individual experiences. Stories become the memories we have of each other. I wouldn’t give up my monkey story for the world, but in a way it’s become more than just my own. I hope it’s brought you all as much joy as it has to me.
STUART BLAND ’26 I should start this speech by saying that I am standing up here today because I was desperate to prove something the summer before my junior year. Not to a college, not to my parents, but to my Google calendar. I was convinced that the true measure of a high schooler was how much free time they could eliminate, so I decided to take a job as a Kumon tutor. For those of you in the audience who are unfamiliar with Kumon, it is a learning center for children in grades K-8 to learn valuable reading comprehension and math skills aer school hours. e type of kids who come to Kumon is a wide variety, as there are 6 graders who are learning calculus, but also special needs children who are just learning to read. I, however, took this job without knowing what the pay is. Aer my first paycheck, I learned I was making $7.25 an hour. I had no idea that getting paid that little was even legal before that day. When I told my parents, they did not offer me sympathy but a lesson: always ask what you are being paid before you take a job. You may be asking yourself why $7.25 an hour matters so much. Well, it’s because I am worked to the bone. To explain it best, I will use a metaphor: the other Kumon tutors and I are like parts of a car, such as the wheels, the engine, or the gas tank. e tutors move this metaphorical car. e kids are the gas pedal. And then there’s my boss. You can think of her like a backseat driver who is giving you instructions and commands, whether it’s the driver’s fault or not. ere is never a moment when I am not doing something. ere are no breaks allowed, and you have to at least look like you are doing something, or my boss will find multiple things for you to do. While grading five packets of homework, I will also have to teach a kid how to do long division and pen-pace the kid next to them on their own packet. Occasionally, she will walk by the table and ask me if I am checking each of the kids’ problems to make sure they are right, to which I respond Yes. e real answer is no because it is humanly impossible to do all of those activities at once, but my boss does not seem to grasp that. I dread the day that a kid decides to tell on me, but for now, it is an unspoken agreement that we have with each other. Now, let’s get on to the big question: why can’t I just quit? I 100% would have, except on the first day of my job, my boss held me back and directly told me that I am not allowed to quit just because I have other commitments, such as school and sports. So, I was trapped in a tough situation: face my ultimate fear of my boss and quit, or tough it out and stay. I choose to stay partly because I am a little scared of my boss, but mainly because I made a commitment. And with staying came the many stories I get to tell my friends about the kids I work with. One sweet soul would simply curse me out when the math did not agree with him. Another, in a moment of pure rebellion and angst, refused to do his math packet, bolted from his chair, and ran out of the building. I sat there as a stunned 17-yearold who did not know what to do in that situation. My boss then turned to me and asked me to go find him. I vividly remember thinking: I am not paid enough for this and I also don’t remember signing up to be a bounty hunter either. en there is my tormenter, the person put on this earth just to spite me. His routine consists of walking into Kumon, taking the homework packets out of his bag, and then proceeding to throw them at my desk, occasionally hitting me in the face, like a missile. He will then stand by my desk, breathing heavily and watching my red pen, asking, “Are you done yet?” every 45 seconds. I have now learned the true meaning of biting one’s tongue. It is not just an idiom; it is an act of self-preservation, or, otherwise, keeping me from getting fired.
But in this part of the speech, I must pivot to offer an apology to the teachers at Tower Hill with my newfound knowledge of what it is like to actually be a teacher. To every teacher in the room, please accept my deepest regrets: 1. For all of the times I have asked if my test has been graded yet, as if my knowledge of the grade will somehow change the score, I am sorry. 2. I apologize for all of the times you have explained a concept in multiple different, distinct ways just for me to nod my head and then still get the answer wrong. 3. I apologize for underestimating you all. It took me getting paid the same as my morning coffee and being cursed out by a 10-year-old to understand the genuine essence of teaching. To be a teacher is not just a job. It is the act of spectacular, perpetual courage. It is the daily choice to create a better tomorrow, one disruptive, difficult generation at a time, so thank you. We oen tell ourselves that meaningful work must be a grand pursuit, something that we will be recognized for or that is perfect. But, the truth that I uncovered, slumped in the plastic Kumon chair I sit in aer school, is that meaning is oen hidden inside the things we “hate.” Unfortunately, Kumon is still not my favorite place to be aer a 7-hour school day, as most of the time, I am tired and my patience is thin. But what I have learned is that passion doesn’t always soar; sometimes it is the quiet triumph of what happens when no one is watching. I learned that the truest form of satisfaction does not come from things that give us ease, but from the very difficult things we work towards. So, if there is anything to take away from this speech, it is this: do not take the job that pays you $7.25 an hour. But most importantly, we oen spend our lives running from the things that are difficult and drain us, when sometimes you must do the draining work in order to fill the well. I urge you all to choose the messy, hands-on, impactful work because when you learn to love the place where you sometimes lose your mind, it is the place where you truly find your meaning. ank you.
JAMES EARL BRINSFIELD ’26 Sports have always been a part of my life. Growing up, I tried just about everything—soccer, baseball, basketball, lacrosse—along with more individual sports like running and swimming. What I’ve always loved most is the moment when all of the practices finally pay off. In swimming, it’s looking up at the scoreboard and realizing you actually went faster instead of slower—which, trust me, doesn’t always happen. In cross-country, it’s crossing the finish line, still standing, and somehow running a personal best. ese are individual sports where the stopwatch tells the story, but what keeps me coming back are the teammates who make all that hard work and pain worth it. Swimming has been a big part of my life for years. I swim year-round, which basically means a lot of early mornings, countless laps, and smelling like chlorine 90 percent of the time. But what stands out isn’t just the practices or the races—it’s the people. ere’s something about being on a pool deck with your teammates, cheering until you lose your voice, that makes all the hours of training worth it. Swimming may look like an individual sport, but behind every swimmer is a team of people supporting you, pushing you, and making you laugh when you need it most. And it’s not just in competitions that they’re there: during practices they help you make it through until the end, even if it’s shaming you for skipping laps because you “had to use the bathroom.” Cross-country has given me the same kind of experiences in a different way. It’s not exactly the most glamorous sport—you spend your aernoons running in the sun, sweating, and sometimes questioning why you signed up in the first place. But the friendships I’ve made from cross-country are some of the strongest I have. ere’s a bond that forms when you’ve survived long runs, tough workouts, and even sometimes muddy races together. Some of my best memories from high school come from running, not necessarily because of the races, but because of the people I ran them with. What I’ve learned from both swimming and running is that being part of a team is one of the most rewarding things you can do. A team gives you experiences you can’t really get on your own. You celebrate together, you fail together, you laugh together, and make it through brutal practices and training sessions together. And in the end, those shared moments are what stick with you. As I look back, I realize that sports have taught me more than just how to swim or run faster. ey’ve taught me discipline, resilience, and how to keep going when things get tough. But most importantly, they’ve taught me how valuable it is to be part of something bigger than yourself. Because whether it’s in a pool, on a cross-country course, or anywhere else in life, the best experiences come from the people you share them with. So, if there’s one piece of advice I can give: join a team, any team. You’ll get faster, stronger, and your mom or sister may complain about how bad you smell but you’ll also get memories and friendships you’ll never forget. ank you!
CONNOR GODFREY BUCHAN ’26 To live a life worth remembering, it is imperative to play it safe, take no risk, and seek shelter well within the protective walls of your comfort zone. For the first fourteen years of my life, I clung to this misconception as a lifeline, viewing opportunity as a trap that would derail my meticulously craed plans. I would stick to the script, clinging to what I was good at in academics and extracurricular activities. However, in middle school, I met someone on a mountain trail whose name was Risk. e hike up Mount Morgan in New Hampshire began much like the other mountains I have climbed, such as Mount Major, with little deviation in the trail. We would take one path to the top, enjoy the views, and take the same path back—quick and prescribed. Later, we arrived at a fork in the road. On the right lay a continuation of our path, rising predictably to the peak—an easy victory. On the le lay three sections of an unassuming wooden ladder, nailed into a tower of rocks rising high above the trail. Naturally, I proceeded right until my uncle called my name, motioning to the ladder. He explained the path on the le would not only provide more of a challenge, but also would offer unique scenery. A thousand what-ifs clouded my mind as I begrudgingly stepped onto the first rung, hearing the creak of the wood beneath me. But I kept pushing ahead. When I had to transition from one ladder to another, I stretched my body so far that I thought I was going to rip apart, while thoughts of falling never le my mind. Coming out of the cave, the view was marvelous with trees and hills spanning far into the horizon. is is the exact moment I realized that nothing worth attaining comes without risk. When freshman year arrived, I decided to apply this lesson to other areas of my life, signing up for activities I’d never participated in before. I had never played in a band, but was drawn to the possibility of being a great percussionist, risking not only free time, but also testing my ability to balance academics and extracurriculars. Running is one of my favorite activities, but as of high school, I was bored with it, and wanted something new. I tried shotput, drawn to its raw strength and ability, facing my fear of failure and the opinions of others to chase this goal. Lastly, everybody advised me not to take Mandarin, as I had been studying Spanish for the previous eight years. However, I was drawn to the distinct culture and writing style of China, risking my grade point average and parental opinions in order to delve into a fascinating new world. As I studied Mandarin, I started to see the characters as tiny works of art with each stroke packed with meaning and history. It challenged me to think differently not just about language but about communication itself. In short, risk does not prevent success; rather, it is the path to it. While not every leap is wise, it is important to weigh the pros and cons of every situation. e leaps I’ve taken have shown me new views that I wouldn’t have experienced if I had stayed on the comfortable trail.
ADAM XIANG CAI ’26 Dear Eiichiro Oda, Hello, how are you doing? My name is Adam Cai. I’m a senior from Tower Hill, and I’ve been a huge fan of yours for the past four years. I’m writing this fan letter to you to express my gratitude and appreciation for writing my favorite anime, One Piece. To say you’ve been a big part of my life would be an understatement. Since I read One Piece, it’s inspired my passion to write and tell stories in ways I can’t even describe. Now, I know I’m probably never going to meet you in my lifetime, given that you live in Japan and probably don’t even speak English… (and I don’t know how to speak Japanese) but if I ever did meet you, I know exactly what I’d say to you. It’d be a long speech, far too long to deliver in one letter, so I’ll opt for a short story instead. It’ll start with “Once upon a time” and end with “An interesting story, don’t you think?” Once upon a time, I entered high school as a nervous freshman, unsure of what to do with my life. I had no passion, no drive, had subpar grades, and prioritized live-streaming Minecra on YouTube to zero viewers rather than studying for a math test I had the day aer. I spent this time of my life clueless of what to do with my future… but my parents already knew. From the day my parents immigrated to the United States, my life’s journey was already mapped out: Dr. Adam. Pretty catchy, huh? ey always believed medicine was the safest route to success, and had sacrificed everything to help me pursue an education they were never offered themselves. And I seriously considered this line of path… until I bombed my Biology test. Not just one, but multiple of them. To this day, I still think Biology has by far been my worst subject. Week by week, test aer test, I slowly realized that my parents’ dream, my future of being a doctor, was completely out of the cards. Aer all, I never even wanted to be a doctor!! Let alone fail another Biology test. It was by far my least favorite subject. So I was at a loss. What am I supposed to do now…? Go back to my YouTube career?? at ship has sailed man!! But while I was in this confusing time of my life, I decided to watch this show called One Piece. It was the show that you made, and you wrote a character named Monkey D. Luffy, a pirate sailing the seas to chase his dream of finding the “One Piece,” a legendary treasure hidden in the world. Despite ridicule from everyone around him, telling him to be a marine instead, he decided to ignore it all and pursue his impossible dream of becoming a pirate. It’s silly to say, but when I watched this show, I saw a part of myself in Luffy. Since I was an itty bitty boy, my dream was to be a writer, just like you. My passion was to create stories that moved and inspired people. But along the way of pursuing the medical field, I forgot those dreams. Over time, I tried to be the person I thought other people wanted me to be rather than the person I actually was. In my mind, I felt like I had to become someone impressive for my parents— someone with a PhD or that made 200k a year. Most of all I felt like I had to not be a waste of my parents’ time. I didn’t want to be a disappointment to their dreams, even if it meant letting go of my own. But when I found your show, when I watched Luffy’s adventures, I realized something. I’d rather disappoint my parents for a couple of years than disappoint myself for the rest of my life, since I knew that if I hadn’t at least tried to follow my dreams to become an author, then I’d never truly be happy.
Honestly it was good that I gave up being a doctor. Given my knowledge of Biology, if you were on an operating table and saw me, I’d probably be the last thing you see. Anyways, you not only inspired, but reignited my passion to be an author again, and that is something that I truly couldn’t be any more grateful for. It’s an interesting story, don’t you think? Mr. Oda, from you, I learned one valuable lesson. One that I’ll tell everyone around me. To free yourself. To take to the seas. To chase your dreams like a pirate, searching for a legendary treasure waiting to be found. Because when I picked up my pen aer watching your show, I was no longer an unsure boy that didn’t know what to do with his life, but I was Monkey D. Luffy, ready to sail the seas, find legendary treasures, and write the next chapter of his life. Sincerely, Your biggest fan, Adam
ALLISON NANCY CHI ’26 At 11 years old, most kids learn leadership through sports. I learned it through pretending to be an 18 year-old college student in a mobile game. Rise of Kingdoms is a real-time strategy game in which players choose a historical civilization to build and strengthen, forming alliances and competing with other players around the world in large-scale battles. While originally playing because of my interest in historical commanders like Richard the Lionheart and Belisarius, whom I affectionately call Beli, I quickly fell in love with the game. I spent hours every day learning every mechanic of the game and watching videos on the best builds for commanders and civilizations, eventually progressing to joining the main alliance of the kingdom. Fun fact, I played the game so much that I could recognize any commander based on the lines they said when you dispatch them from your city. But as I looked at the R4 and R5 tags next to the names of my alliance leaders, I realized that I had higher aspirations: I wanted to be a leader in my kingdom. In Rise of Kingdoms, being an officer isn’t just a title—it’s a full-time job. In fact, it’s such a full-time job that I knew someone who quit their actual full-time job to play the game. You have to manage diplomacy with rival kingdoms, organize alliance events, and keep hundreds of adults from breaking out in anarchy when a war starts at 2:00 a.m. I knew I could do it. I had the strategy, dedication, and the passion. ere were just two problems: One, the average ROK player is old enough to have kids who could be my siblings. And two, players spend hundreds to thousands of dollars a year on upgrading their accounts. I, on the other hand, was eleven and broke. So, the obvious solution was to lie about my age and lean into the persona of an 18 year-old college student with student debt. My plan worked splendidly. Of course, I still had to put in the hours to prove my loyalty and dedication to the alliance, but aer a month I got promoted to R4. I had officially made it. en, during the biweekly alliance event Ark of Osiris, a problem arose: Discord voice chat. As a squad captain, I was responsible for the movement of 15 other players—most of whom were likely sitting in their offices halfway across the world, expecting to hear the voice of a tactical genius. Obviously I couldn’t talk or else they would discover my true identity, but I could still lead through action and in-game chat. So like any clever strategist, I told my teammates my mic was broken. And somehow, no one ever questioned how my “mic” was broken for the next few years of my officer career. But, I eventually outgrew the game. As fun as it was coordinating midnight rallies or negotiating treaties with strangers on the internet, I realized I wanted to lead in a world where the stakes were real—and where victories actually mattered. roughout high school, I discovered my passion for literacy and global poverty awareness, and I began leading in my own community. I taught language arts classes of more than 15 students in the Wilmington area. I lobbied Senator Coons and Congresswoman McBride’s offices in support of foreign aid as a e Borgen Project Regional Director. In those meetings with congressional staffers, I expected to feel like that eleven-year-old again—the one who was too young and ‘just a kid.’ But as I spoke about the impact of the International Affairs Budget on global poverty, the staffers saw more than just some teenager. ey saw an advocate with a command of the facts. I didn’t need a voice changer or the excuse of a broken mic. For the first time, I stopped trying to sound like an adult and started focusing on sounding like myself, someone who actually cared about a real-world issue. And I found that when you speak with conviction, people will stop looking for a reason to dismiss you and really listen to you.
Looking back, that eleven-year-old posing as a college student didn’t realize she was learning one of the most important lessons of her life. Leadership has nothing to do with age. It has everything to do with passion. Everyone always says high school students are the “leaders of tomorrow.” But if you’re willing to follow your passions, why not lead today? ank you.
RYAN MICHAEL COYNE ’26 Every August, my family celebrates my dad’s birthday in Ocean City, New Jersey. No matter how busy our schedules become, with summer plans piling up and everyone running in different directions, we always find a time to sneak in this celebration, whether it’s on the actual date or a few days later. e day begins early, before most people are even awake, as we take a bike ride together down the boardwalk. On our le, the shops slowly start opening, their shutters rolling up, the smell of fresh coffee and donuts driing into the cool morning air. On our right, the sun rises over the ocean, casting streaks of pink and orange across the water. e air is still crisp and quiet before the beach fills with families, umbrellas, and the chatter of summer crowds, creating a peaceful moment to start the day. e salt air breeze and the repetitive sound of our tires rolling over the boards are senses so familiar, setting the tone for a day so routine and special. Aer our ride, we head off the island to our annual jetski spot, where we circle the bay right outside the Tuckahoe Inn restaurant, racing and laughing as we spray each other with the waves we kick up. I wasn’t allowed to drive the jetski until I turned 16, which meant for years it was just my mom and dad taking turns in the driver’s seat with me and my brother in the back 2 seats. I always wanted to go with my dad because when he was driving we spent more time in the air than on the water. I held on for dear life in the back, squinting my eyes as I got sprayed like a sprinkler, trying to act like I wasn’t terrified. When we returned to shore, and swapped drivers, my mom’s rides were a lot safer. A little too safe in my opinion. No air, no speed, she just drove like we were on a scenic tour of the bay. By noon, we head back home just in time for my aunt, uncle, and cousins to arrive, and of course, they always bring a giant brown bag of Philly so pretzels. at bag is basically the official signal that the real day has started. e house fills with laughter and teasing the second they walk in. We grab pretzels, talk, and joke around, and just like that, the quiet morning from the boardwalk is replaced with total energy. We then head down to the beach, and as always, turn right toward our usual spot by the water. We set up our chairs, and without even thinking about applying sunblock, we dive straight into playing cornhole, Spikeball, and horseshoes, games in which my older cousin and I proudly hold a back-to-back championship. Between games, we jump in the water to cool off, tell stories that somehow get funnier each year, and watch the sun slowly sink toward the horizon. In this moment, all stress fades away, replaced by the simple comfort of being fully present with the people around me. As the sun sets, we brush the sand off our legs and head to e Tuckahoe Inn, the restaurant where we celebrate this tradition every year. e familiar faces of the waiters and waitresses greet us like old friends, and we always laugh when one of them reminds us that she shares a birthday with my dad. e warm scent of seafood fills the air as we find our table, overlooking the bay that we just jet skied on that morning. Outside, live music dris through the windows, mixing with the chatter of the restaurant and the clinking of glasses and silverware. Many dinner rolls later, we return home to eat cake and to begin our annual fantasy football dra. Every year, without fail, my dad picks Patrick Mahomes with his first-round pick, and even though he has been retired for the past four years, Ben Roethlisberger is always chosen with my dad’s last pick in honor of his team name, “Team Big Ben.” I’m not sure how his strategy works, but he has won the most titles in our league, which has now been going on for eight years. We joke about his questionable picks every year, but somehow his players always come alive in the playoffs and make us eat our words almost every year. e night winds down with more laughter and funny stories, as my aunt, uncle, and cousins finally head home.
is annual ritual epitomizes connection and love, two things that, to me, define what home really is. It reminds me that home isn’t just a place. It’s the people you share your life with, the laughter you create together, and the little traditions that keep you grounded no matter where you are. Even though we aren’t in our usual physical space, we still feel at home in a tradition that has spanned years, one that keeps us coming back no matter what else is happening in our lives. is day helps me remember the importance of family, of showing up for each other, and of the small moments that oen mean the most. It’s about celebrating each other, sharing joy, and building memories that last long aer the sun has set. Every year, I leave Ocean City a little more grateful, a little more aware of what matters, and a little more connected to the people I care about most. I’m thankful to experience this sense of home away from home with my family each summer, and as we all move forward as seniors, wherever our journeys may take us, I hope we can find or create our own traditions and moments that remind us who and what really matters.
SOPHIE ISABELLE CRAIN ’26 Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take. Please bless everyone, in order to make them happy, healthy, and safe. roughout my childhood, I recited this prayer before bed every night. I didn’t fully comprehend what the words meant at the time, only that reciting them felt like my duty to ensure the world was a safe place for my family. However, one summer evening, despite my continuous prayers, I awakened to a noise outside my bedroom door. “Ma’am can you hear me? I’m an EMT and I’m here to help you.” My mom had found my grandmother lying unconscious on the floor. I was frozen in my room; powerless. One of my favorite people was in danger and I couldn’t help her. I recited my prayer over and over again, as if it could shield her from her pain: happy, healthy, safe. But for the first time, those words felt fragile and ineffective. Just a few weeks earlier, I had signed up for a program to become an EMT. My enthusiasm for math and science, as well as for serving my community, led me to decide that I want to become a doctor, and I wanted to get started as soon as possible! But aer reading the course description, I was unsure. e amount of work felt impossible and the timeframe felt looming: I was utterly intimidated. However, in the days aer the EMTs appeared outside my bedroom door, I wondered if the universe was giving me a sign: maybe it was time to start living the prayer. So, I began. With almost 400 hours of work over the next six months, I learned about the human body, illnesses and injuries that it faces, and the skills needed to provide life-saving care. I learned how to deliver CPR, do a stroke assessment, take vitals, control life-threatening bleeding, and even deliver a baby! Eight months later, I was on my first ride-along. Responding to a call at the local tennis courts, we found an 85 year old man in cardiac arrest, unconscious, bleeding onto the court. anks to my training, I knew exactly how to help this man. But, seeing him unconscious brought me right back to the moment with my grandmother outside my bedroom door. My eyes welled up and my mind fogged over. e words of my prayer echoed in my mind: happy, healthy, safe. “Delivering the first shock now!” Suddenly, his chest rose. With this slight movement, I snapped out of my trance. at little breath gave me hope and clarity: this patient needs me. His friends and family are relying on me to try my best to save his life. I realized, I can help. I was no longer powerless. I rejoined my team and assisted the patient throughout his transport to the hospital. is summer I worked as an EMT and responded to calls regularly. One week, while waiting to check in a patient to the emergency room, I realized something surprising: I hadn’t said my prayer for a while. Now, armed with knowledge, training, and confidence in myself, I am able to take an active role in ensuring the happiness, health, and safety of the world around me. While I may not be literally reciting my prayer anymore, I return to its essence each time I lace up my work boots and put on my uniform. ough my training has given me the tools to act, hope is my motivating force. By holding onto hope, no matter how scary and uncertain times appear, I can be a doctor that supports my patients in all aspects of their health. I will always be that little girl, trying her best to make the world a little more happy, healthy, and safe.
So, here’s my advice for you all: 1. Dive deep into whatever you’re passionate about. Don’t let long hours, difficult tests, or the fear of failure stop you from pursuing what matters to you. Push yourself to do hard things, and live with the discomfort! It is all part of the process. 2. You don’t have to be an adult, travel thousands of miles away, or donate money to make a difference in the world. Look to your local community and find ways to make an impact in the lives of your neighbors. 3. Grow and improve, but don’t lose yourself in the process. Let your experiences challenge and shape you, but always stay grounded in the values that brought you there in the first place. 4. Always stay hopeful and positive. Remaining hopeful is not a sign of weakness, but instead makes you, and everyone else around you, even more powerful and resilient. 5. If you have any interest in healthcare, become an EMT!! is experience has taught me so many things, introduced me to all different types of people, and truly given purpose to my life.
EMERSON GRACE DEBAECKE ’26 Growing up, I had an obsession with puzzles. Now, I’m not talking about putting together a couple puzzles a week, I’m talking about putting so many together that I covered the whole floor of my kitchen (and I have a picture to prove it). I also loved every type of puzzle. Some were only about 300 pieces, while others were over 1,000. My favorites were definitely the 3D puzzles because when I was done, I could actually carry them around with me to show my accomplishments off to my two older sisters. As the youngest child, being better than my sisters at anything was very important to me, but they didn’t spark my love for puzzles; my grandpa did. My grandpa and I had a special tradition of building anything from lego sets to robots every week, and this is when I really started to fall in love with puzzles. e faster we completed them, the sooner we could start another one. My grandpa is my biggest supporter, so when we finished building something, he was more than happy to fuel my love for puzzles even further. We would hang out every weekend, so of course I had to bring him something that was completed and make him proud. Although puzzles were one way my Grampa and I spent time together, we had many other traditions. He took me to the UD ice rink every week for ice skating lessons, took me to my swim lessons, and as I got older, he even drove me an hour away to my swim and lacrosse practices. Another special tradition we had was aer my swim lessons, we would always get McDonald’s. e Happy Meal was my favorite because swimming made me super hungry. Anyone who is a swimmer here knows what I’m talking about. All of these moments spent with my grandpa, although I might not have realized it at the time, have shaped me into the person I am today. Now that I am a senior, our special traditions have changed. Instead of putting together puzzles, I go over to his house for lunch. We always have egg sandwiches, and if you don’t know what our version of an egg sandwich is, it’s an over hard egg with mayo, salt, and pepper on bread. It is SO good. During these lunches, I can update my grandpa on anything from friends to school to sports, and I get to hear about his life as well. Unfortunately, over the years, it has gotten much harder for my grandpa to communicate with us because he has Aphasia, a language disorder. is means he can’t always say what he is thinking, which has made me realize how much I have taken all of these moments with him for granted. For as long as I can remember, my grandpa has always been there for me. Whether it’s showing up to my lacrosse games in the freezing cold, coming to my band concerts, or even waiting for hours at my swim meets just to watch me one time, he shows up. He has taught me how to be compassionate of others, how to have kindness, and how to be determined. Most of all, he has taught me to always be the person people can count on because you never know when someone might need a little extra encouragement. I try to always show up for my friends, because everyone needs someone like my grandpa cheering them on.
ALLISON HELEN DECHANT ’26 When I was three years old, my family moved to North Carolina for my mom’s job. As soon as we got there however, we hardly made it through the door of our new house before realizing that we were now too far away from family, and that the move was a mistake. So, barely two years later, we moved back north to Warwick, Maryland, where we lived with my grandma on a 60-acre farm. We were now as close to family as we could get. To this day, that farm has been my favorite place to live. It wasn’t the movie-version farm where you wake up at 5 a.m. to milk cows and plow fields though. Ours was mostly horses, a few miniature donkeys, and some goats that were more decorative than useful. We lived in the main farmhouse with my grandma, but my aunt lived in an apartment on the property as well. Constantly surrounded by family, the place felt undeniably ours. I have so many memories and first time experiences to look back on from the farm. Learning how to ride a bike for the first time and the pride I felt when I was finally able to make it all the way down our long driveway without stopping, or my dad pulling me behind him in a small trailer as he sped around the entire property on his bike. Or, during our annual summer crab parties where my dad would place live crabs on the ground and threaten to have them chase me and my friends. I remember how my grandma would sit on the front porch and wait for her favorite barn cat to come and be pet by her, and how you could look out the window and always be able to see Oscar the horse, who—unlike the others—was able to roam free and could oen be found in my backyard or in the driveway when I arrived home. When I reminisce on my time living on the farm, my grandma is a constant. For starters, she drove me everywhere: to school, to summer camp, and anywhere else I needed to be. She took me shopping, traveled with me, and never failed to have my needs in mind. Whenever we were asked to draw family portraits in elementary school, I would always include four people: me, my mom and dad, and her. Needless to say, she was an integral presence in my life. Aer five years of living at this place, in 2017, my grandma passed away. It no longer made sense for us to stay there, as the house felt empty in a way that had nothing to do with the actual space. We eventually moved, and I remember feeling heartbroken because it was as if I was leaving a piece of my childhood behind. However my aunt moved into our house when we le, keeping the farm in our family. I was able to visit and continue making memories, and it was the place where I first learned to drive. Within the past month though, my aunt sold the property completely. As I returned to help her pack up the house, I expected my final goodbyes to hurt in the same way it did when we first moved out, but it didn’t. Instead, I noticed that what I missed most wasn’t the house or the land, it was my grandma, and being able to be with her every day. Seniors, as we move towards graduation it is becoming a reality that we will be leaving a place that some of us have called home for over thirteen years. And if this realization has taught me anything, it’s that when I leave Tower Hill it won’t be the classrooms or my favorite lunch table that I will miss most, but my friends, and the people who filled those places with so much laughter and life. Soon, we’ll all be heading in different directions and starting new chapters in unfamiliar places. And while this can feel overwhelming, it’s also exciting. I’ve learned that home is not necessarily a location but the relationships and memories we build and carry with us.
So, as we go off to college in just a few months, I challenge all of us to slow down and not take the time with the people we love for granted. Most importantly though, invest in meaningful relationships and stay close to the people who make saying goodbye to a place so hard.
SAMUEL JOSEPH DESANTIS ’26 Sometimes a song brings you back to a place in time. A person. A special place. A group of people. For me, that song is “Stand By Me” by Oasis. My brother and I have been obsessed with the band for years now and, dare I say, to an embarrassing extent. Despite my friends’ complaints over my unwavering playlists filled solely with the band’s music, I continue to listen without fail. I can recall the countless nights sitting with my brother in front of the TV, scouring through their live performances throughout the years on YouTube, picking and choosing our favorites, losing track of time as the hours flew by. I first heard the song “Stand By Me” in the car with my dad on one of our many morning drives into school. Since then, it’s been a staple on my now solo commutes, or while hanging out with my buddies, who have slowly but surely warmed up to the band. e song is as close as you can get to perfection. e raw and gritty guitar riffs, the lead singer’s unmistakable voice, and the lyrics that just pull you into the moment. is past summer, I was lucky enough to see the band live on their reunion tour with my dad and my brother, and it was, to say the least, amazing. Getting the privilege to see them live was an incredible experience, especially as my first concert. e day of I insisted on arriving hours early, and time seemed to move in slow motion as the anticipation built through the wait in the parking lot, the sound checks, and the opening performances. At last, the band came on stage and the show began. Standing in a crowd of tens of thousands of fans belting out the same lyrics I knew so well was definitely something I will cherish forever. In the blink of an eye, the performance was over, and the lights came up in the stadium. On the car ride back and the days following, we could not get over the remarkable performance of these two men, who were admittedly well past their primes. Now that I look back at the concert, it was more than just great music, it was about time spent with my family that I now hold so dearly to me. “Stand By Me” is a song that I can turn on and instantly be transported back to hanging out with my friends, spending time with my brother, or enjoying music with my dad. I implore all of you to find that song that acts as a teleportation device— one that makes you reflect on the things that mean the most when life seems to be moving too fast or hitting you all at once. During my time at college, and my life beyond, opportunities to sit in the car with my dad, or on the couch with my brother will slowly fade. While simple, this song I love so dearly is a reminder of the priceless time I have with my friends and family. Appreciate the ones around you who mean the most because, in the words of the great Noel Gallagher, “Nobody knows the way it’s gonna be.”
JORDAN EMMA MARGARET DONNELLY ’26 “e customer is always right…” When I began thinking of what to write for this speech, and reflecting on basically my entire life, I decided that rather than sharing a story from a time I probably don’t even remember, I’d share some eye-opening experiences I’ve had over the last few months at my first adulting job, one which I could work year-round that gave me the privilege of interacting with the general public aer a long day at school. A job that involved… pizza. Now, working at a pizza place, while generally simple and quite fun, has also been quite an educational experience. I’ve learned that the job isn’t really about pizza at all, it’s about people. It’s about patience, listening, and communication. And trust me, people will test all three of those skills. I’m fairly certain that most of our teachers would agree with that. One such memory stands out. I was standing near the takeout counter, when I overheard a woman yelling at the takeout workers because she received extra cheese instead of extra pepperoni. At first, I thought, okay, this is a simple fix; it should all be good. But then she launches into a long rant about her own service industry experience, and suddenly it isn’t about pizza anymore. It was about listening, really listening, even when the words don’t feel fair or logical. Next, there was the man who called to “reserve square pizza dough,” which is a menu item that runs out fast, but how exactly does one reserve dough? It’s not sitting in the fridge with little name tags on it, waiting for someone to slap marinara and extra cheese on it? He swore someone told him to call and do this, and it took a lot of communication skills (and patience) to explain that while we do have dough, we don’t exactly run a dough reservation system. And of course, my personal favorite: the teenage boy who seemed to have discovered jalapeños for the first time. Picking them off of his food, staring at it like an alien artifact, and asking, “What is this?” A few bites later, he decided it was way too spicy and that he wanted to order something else. e menu spelled it out clearly, but sometimes part of communication is knowing when not to argue. Sometimes patience is just letting someone learn the hard way—preferably not with jalapeños. rough all of these bizarre encounters, I have realized that this job quietly taught me skills that matter far beyond working at the counter. Listening, patience, and communication are not just about keeping customers happy. ey are about learning and developing the skills to deal with people in general, how to adapt when things do not go as planned, and how to stay grounded when the situation makes absolutely no sense. High school has been similar to my pizza job. High school is oen confusing. High school is oen overwhelming. However, high school is full of funny moments that have forced me to practice those same skills not just with others, but with myself. And no matter how confusing, overwhelming, or unexpected these encounters may be, I have learned it is worth approaching them with an open mind and a willingness to learn new perspectives. Whether it is in a pizza shop or in life, those moments—no matter how weird—end up shaping you. ere is no reserved dough in life. And at the end of the day, remember… e customer is always right. Well, at least let them think that. ank you.
MACEY CLAIRE DUCKWORTH ’26 Who would’ve thought that my mom forcing me to go to a soccer camp at eight years old would become the best thing that ever happened to me? Even though it started as something I desperately dreaded, soccer has been a big part of my life for as long as I can remember. As I got older and life got more complicated, the thing that was once just a sport I did for fun became so much more than that. When I think about why I love soccer so deeply, it is not just the sport itself that keeps me looking forward to practice or eagerly awaiting a tournament weekend; it’s about the people who I am lucky enough to surround myself with because of it. Each year, when I show up to club practice on the first day, there are seventeen unfamiliar faces. I don’t know their names, their positions, or what schools they go to. But each week, that number decreases just a bit. We smile, we chat, we play together, and, slowly, we learn more about each other and become friends. During those two hours of practice, two days a week, nothing else seems to matter. I don’t think about the three hours of homework I have to do, or even that I might have a test the next day. e peace and joy that this time brings me is all worth it. e tears, the injuries, the 5 a.m. wake-ups and four hour drives, and the thousands of dollars poured into this sport aren’t the focus. Somehow, the wins and the goals scored, the times where I laughed so hard my stomach hurts, and the relationships I will treasure for the rest of my life make up for all of it. My teammates are the reason I want to show up. Soccer has been my constant in a time full of uncertainty. It wasn’t big, standout gestures or a specific day that helped me, but rather a collection of small moments that one by one deepened my relationship with myself and the sport. A teammate ran up to me to give me a hug aer a hard day at school. We all showed up to practice early just to talk with one another. I was so out of breath during a drill because I couldn’t stop laughing. All of these experiences made soccer part of who I am, not just something I do. Although my time playing competitive soccer may soon come to an end, the lessons I learned will forever be a part of my identity. By continuing to step onto the field, I found the confidence within myself. Despite the missed family dinners and school events, I have never regretted a single moment of the time I dedicated to soccer and my teams. I’m filled with gratitude for the lessons I carry with me, including the importance of hard work, community, and being a little selfish sometimes. Choosing soccer meant choosing to put myself first. It meant allowing myself to do something I needed, and in the process, I learned the value of showing up for others, too. I hope to be for others the person my teammates were to me.
KEENAN JAMES DUFFY ’26 One of my favorite facts that I love to share about myself is that I have 5 cats. Part of the reason I like to share this is because of how much of a conversation starter I can make them with their bizarre personalities. My oldest cat is Wilson who from the moment we got him has always wanted to be outside, the only problem with that is he is terrified of doors. Every time he wants to go inside or outside it takes him 5 seconds to scope out the door and then run through at full speed. My second is Lucy who walks bowlegged and has an obsession with food even though she has never been starving a day in her life. She has such an accurate internal clock that when dinner time rolls around at precisely 6pm she will immediately find the nearest person and start begging for food. ird is Baby or as most people call her Baby “Phat” spelled with a ph. She is the most interesting out of the original 3 as she has crippling separation anxiety. is has required us to get a basket of stuffed toys; which when she thinks she is alone picks them up and holds them in her mouth and proceeds to cry as loud as possible. When that doesn’t attract a person she sticks her face in the food bowl which may have caused her to gain some weight. And her favorite sleeping position is smack dab on the top of your head. e fourth edition is Curry who is a bigger Diva than Madonna. inking she owns the house with everyone in it being her servants. For example she only lets herself be carried if it is on the shoulder and she climbs the curtains and gets stuck at the stop needing someone to get her down. It is our fault she is like this though, because we found her on the side of the road and catered to her every demand. e fih edition and the one I consider to be most insane, almost enough to land herself a place in an asylum, is Whisper. Whisper is deathly terrified of everything except bacon. If she senses that you are coming in her direction at all she will bolt out of the room before you can blink, and she sleeps with one eye open. ere is one more cat to mention who is not officially ours just a foster, but is so bewildering that I think he might end up being the 6th member of our posse. He is Crumble aptly named because he looks like he has been in a rumble. His eyes are sunken into his head, he is missing a front tooth which causes him to drool, and doesn’t seem to feel pain. All of that together creates a cat with constant being in the way syndrome; yet even with all that against him he is the most endearing out of the whole bunch. As you can see all my cats come from the island of misfit toys but I love them more for it. And though they don’t understand the concept of being judged they are still an example of being unapologetically themselves; so I say take a page out of my cat’s playbook and embrace who you are, oddities and all!
LILY EMERY ’26 When I was fieen, I got lost in Japan. And when I say lost, I don’t mean that I wandered away from my parents in a mall. I mean really, really lost. Actually, in this situation, stuck, would probably be the better word to use. Traveling alone is generally considered nerve racking enough without the part where the plane you were supposed to get on aer transferring decides to go BYEE while your luggage was still in the process of making its way across the airport. So I was stuck. Alone. Very lost, and very shocked. Did I expect this? God no. Did it happen? Well… in the moment, of course I wish it was a dream! It was a mess. ere were no vacant seats in any other flights; and at that point, all I could think about was the fact that I was supposed to meet my mother in Toronto, with my dad going to Sweden and my brother still in Hong Kong. I am not ashamed to admit that I panic-cried. A minor. Traveling alone. Who only had cash in the wrong currency. It was only then, when I realized that there was absolutely nothing I could do to immediately change the situation, that I actually looked around. More specifically, I looked at the family of three that had slowly approached me. Now that I think back to it, these three were practically and literally my life savers. Aer a fair chunk of time was spent calming me down, arguing with airport security, going through the Japanese immigration, I realized that the situation was not all that bad. Well… probably because I had a hotel room to myself with a free voucher for a buffet breakfast. But also because I realized that I had been able to ask this family for help without being reduced to feeling pathetic. And that’s how I wound up touring Japan while my parents panicked in the background! Unfortunately, as much as I would like to believe in my utter independence, every turn came with an unexpected challenge. Since my great fiasco in Japan, I’ve faced plenty of challenges: getting lost in Grand Central, stranded in a snowstorm in the middle of nowhere, staring blankly at French security guards trying to explain where the bathroom was—a bit unsuccessful but they tried. And yes, each time I panicked, begged for help, or just stood there frozen. None of it was fun in the moment. But every time, I learned the same lesson: reaching out, trusting others, and asking for help allows you to grow, adapt, and move forward. So, as we leave here today, I hope we all remember this: being independent is important, but being connected is essential. Surround yourself with people you trust. Don’t be afraid to ask for help. It does not make you weak, it makes you human.
EMMA ABIGAIL ERHARDT ’26 As many of you may know, I’m a twin, and if you know anything about twins you may think that we are similar to each other, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. In actuality we are complete opposites of each other. So what do you do when you have two people who are completely different? Obviously you make them share a bedroom for 13 years. is arrangement resulted in one of the biggest fights my sister and I have ever had. is all started when we moved from the bedroom at the top of the stairs to the bedroom down the hall, which is the biggest room in our house. Since there are two of us, it made sense for us to share the space that used to belong to my older sister. It had a small walk-in closet that we shared, but we now had our own dressers instead of the one we shared previously. e problems started when it came time to decorate. e best way to describe my twin’s style would be minimalist and my style could be described as maximalist. I had 3D puzzles, figurines, and anything shiny I could find, and I wanted to see it all. Our fight began with whispered comments of annoyance, then moved into raised voices and arguments that ran in circles, with neither of us wanting to back down. But one of us had to give in eventually, and it was me. I agreed to move all my things from the window sill to the shelf right by the walk-in closet. If the door was open you couldn’t see any of it, and my sister made sure the door stayed open. Unfortunately, this did not mean peace, as now any other argument we had, I used my previous surrender as a cause for getting what I wanted. e fighting finally stopped once Olivia moved into the room between the hallway to the stairs and the hallway to my room. Her old bed remains in my room, for whenever we might have a guest, or for the rare nights my sister wants to come back and sleep in our room. Despite our pointless fighting, Olivia and I both agree that we always sleep better when we’re in the same room. So even though we are both heading in different directions and the person sleeping in the same room as me won’t be her, I look forward to the new experiences I will have without her. It brings me joy to know that when I return she will be there ready to fight with me about my taste in decor. I’m just happy that I have someone who loves me so much that our relationship can withstand an hour long argument about room decor, that ends in awkward silence, followed by laughing at how funny it is to be mad at each other. I hope you all find that person for yourself. Fortunately for me, I was born with this person so she’s stuck with me.
OLIVIA THERESA ERHARDT ’26 ere is a very controversial subject that’s been debated for centuries, but don’t worry, I’m here to settle it; Delaware beaches are in fact better than the New Jersey shore. As a proud ‘New Jerseyan’ and a person who has lived in the state of New Jersey my whole life, it hurts me to admit that a part of Delaware is a little bit better. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Jersey shore and the state that I call my home, but let me tell you why I will always love Delaware beaches more. Growing up, my most memorable summers were all well spent in Dewey Beach. I was always lucky enough to stay at my uncle’s tiny beach house about 5 blocks from the ocean and 3 blocks from the nighttime excitement of Dewey. is is something I now realize I took for granted very oen. e home that sits in Dewey is known to everybody in my direct family as “the shack,” because it is so small that calling it a house seems like a stretch. e shack can squeeze my family on two beds and a pull out couch, but if you want to go upstairs you basically have to climb the steepest set of stairs you’ve ever seen. As a kid, something about the old tiny shack used to creep me out, so I never knew how lucky I was to have a place at the beach. I loved the ocean and spending long days getting knocked by waves with my siblings, but the thought of having to go back to the shack aer the day just made me want to stay on the beach for the rest of the night. e water heater in the shack is very small, meaning every person in my family has a 2 minute time limit for showers. e blocks of walking from the beach, covered in sand, just to take a fast shower before we ran out of hot water wasn’t great. By the end of your shower, you are either still basically covered in sand or just annoyed because your water was freezing. Not to mention that when we stay there, I have to share a bed with my brother who talks in his sleep. Don’t even get me started on the spiders, or the fact that I honestly, out of my whole 18 years of living, don’t remember my parents cooking a single meal in that tiny kitchen. e occasional PB & J or turkey sandwich might be the closest we’ve come to cooking in that house, but most of the time we just end up going out to eat. All that said, when the nights got late, and my whole family was at the beach, none of that stuff really mattered. I’ll never forget July 19th, 2013, the night the Teen Beach Movie came out for the first time. I was 5 years old and I remember the excitement my siblings and I had aer completing our 2 hour drive to the shack, making it just in time that night to watch it on Disney Channel. Sitting on the floor, eyes drooping, we all smiled as we ate Grotto’s pizza for dinner. We turned on the old box tv that probably weighed about 25 pounds and watched the whole movie. We even got to stay up past our bedtime that night which was crazy because I basically had a bedtime until I was in high school. anks dad. Now, as a high school senior, I went back to the shack this past summer and sat on that same couch—and it hit me. I had spent so many summers being annoyed by the flaws of that little house, but that tiny shack is the backdrop of some of the best memories of my life. My past few summers I’ve had a job and had less free time, so my weekends at the shack started to dwindle down. e indifferent feelings I had towards going to the beach became a hole in my heart, longing to be in the tiny home I spent my childhood summers in. How silly was I? How silly was I to be so ungrateful for a roof over my head, and a home full of love and family. So, the reason why Delaware beaches are better than the Jersey shore may not be why you think. ey are better because I get to take the quickest shower of my life aer the beach. ey are better because I get to squeeze into a house with my friends and family. And they are better because down a street called Rogers Ave, there sits a little shack full of love, where a family spent their summers and grew up.
ank you mom for dragging your kids to the beach all of those summers we spent at the shack, and for the countless memories we’ve made. Also, sorry about the time I got the stomach bug on the way down and still forced you to take me to the beach. I’m sure you loved that. We all have places and homes where we make memories in life, and I encourage everyone to take a look around to realize how lucky we are. Maybe when I’m older I’ll find a new beach house to create more memories in, but for now, Delaware beaches stay at the top of my list. ank you.
WILLIAM BLAKE ERKENBRECHER ’26 roughout my life, sports have been a constant. No matter what was going on, they have always been my escape and a place where I can leave everything else behind. Whether I am stepping onto the field or diving into the pool, that time allows me to separate from my worries. But as I entered high school, I learned that even something you love cannot solve every problem. Going into high school, I decided to take on three sports where I quickly realized it would be hard to give my all to each one. But in the middle of it all, I caught a glimpse of what I could be in swimming the drive, the potential and the feeling of constant progress had me sold. Eventually I had to take a step back and realize that to pursue this I would have to give up something I love, football. Football had been more than just a game to me. To me It was teamwork, brotherhood, and a framework for my life and without it, I felt lost. For a while, I didn’t recognize myself as the team I once leaned on wasn’t there anymore every day aer school. Although losing football was hard it opened the door for me to focus on swimming. During this time I showed up to practice everyday ready to work and expected all the hours of time put in to finally show at my biggest meet that December. But aer 4 days of racing and no dropped time. I realized that my effort alone isn’t enough without direction or balance. As my season went on I started to get burnt out as the early mornings and long practices started to feel draining. Wanting to quit and throw it all away I decided to talk to my brother. Being over 1000 miles away from me down in Florida I gave him a call telling him how I was done. And where instead of telling me to just keep trying he showed me how lucky I am to have something to challenge me every day that pushes me mentally and physically From then on, I started to see swimming not as a burden but as an opportunity. I embraced the grind again, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I began to focus on small wins, and getting just a little better each day. is mindset was contagious though and started showing up outside the pool too, in my schoolwork, my relationships, and my attitude. Over time, I began to see myself thriving in all aspects of my life, growing more confident, disciplined, and capable than I ever thought I could be. Looking back, I’m grateful for the challenges I faced. As quitting football, struggling to find balance, and burning out all taught me that failure isn’t the end but is instead a part of growth and at the time when it felt like everything was falling apart it was taking a step backwards that helped me see things more clearly. If I hadn’t taken that time to reassess where I was and what I truly wanted, I wouldn’t be where I am today. at pause gave me perspective and reminded me why I started, and how important it is to keep moving forward, even when progress feels slow.
THATCHER JACKSON HONOUR FLYNN ’26 To my knowledge, there are few things as tedious as a weekend wrestling tournament. Aer a long week of classes, homework, practices, and all the other tasks of daily life, we show up to a sweaty, smelly gym for 12 hours just to have the privilege to wrestle for roughly 24 minutes. If you have been through one of these, I empathize with you. is is not to say that I dislike the sport. In fact, I highly recommend it if you have a little bit of interest, come and practice with us for a few days. You’ll find a community of people tied together by these shared struggles, brought together by these long hours and tough experiences. ough the sport itself is enjoyable, especially when you win, you can expect to do a whole lot more waiting than wrestling. Over the course of the tournament you can expect to do, at most, 24 minutes or so of actual wrestling over a two day period, and that is assuming you wrestle all 6 minutes per match, which is hardly ever the case. My issue is not with the actual wrestling part of the tournament, but the waiting. In between matches, there is a 30-45 minute minimum wait time. is is supposed to serve as a long breather; however if you are well conditioned enough, you should be able to wrestle a good match again in half that time. e constant cycle of warming up for a few minutes, going out and wrestling for a couple minutes just to wait again, regardless of win or loss, is unbearable to me. One time I remember clearly from sophomore year at the Wetzel holiday classic, the tournament was so inefficiently run that I wrestled two matches in the roughly 10 hours I spent there on the first day, and my brother only wrestled one. Needless to say the team has since dropped that tournament. Besides the waiting, there is a reason that the entire team should be there for these long tournaments: the team itself. When I go to them, it is not just for my benefit of being able to wrestle more but also showing up for my teammates. Except for Howdy Duncan which is right aer Tree Trim. I would far rather go home than get changed into my gear and sit around that tournament again. You can hate the tournament itself, but you’re also there for the people who are your friends and teammates. We celebrate the victories, the incredible moves, and the challenges overcome together, but we also take the losses together. You should always be there for them, no matter the sport, and be supportive of them. It doesn’t matter whether you’re the fastest person on the course, field, or pool or whether you’re strongest on the mat, being there for them and supporting the people around you is important, whether it be through the good, the bad, or the ugly. If I had to give one piece of advice, it is this: Even if you struggle with it, even if you think it is too much for you to handle, keep working at it. e relationships that form during these events make it all worth it. As I move on to other things in life and soon enough college, I will likely find myself missing these moments, and even if they were rough then, I rarely regret it aerwards. Even something as small as a workout circuit, which can be mentally and physically tough in the moment, will ultimately be rewarding. No matter the struggle of the meet you’re in and no matter how tough the grind is, push through. And no, even with this being said, I would much prefer to never show my face at Howdy Duncan again. I think I’ll be sick that aernoon. ank you.
HENRY RAFAEL GARDNER ’26 I am Venezuelan. Anybody that’s been to my football games or wrestling matches knows that. ey’ve all heard my mom yelling “¡Duro! ¡Tú eres más fuerte!” to cheer me on at the top of her lungs. My favorite food is the Arepa, a delicious and crispy cornmeal sandwich you can eat with anything. I listen to Latin music. I pray in Spanish. I love the sweet taste of papelón con limón and, growing up, I le my baby teeth out for a RAT named El Raton Perez instead of the Tooth Fairy. But I’m not really Venezuelan. I’ve never even been to Venezuela. Listening to my mom’s stories of growing up there or mi abuela singing in Spanish and playing the cuatro doesn’t really make up for that. I’m also half white. While I think I look like my mom, nobody notices because I have my dad’s blonde hair, blue eyes and white skin. Greenville, Delaware, is a strange place for the son of a Venezuelan immigrant and a white man from poor Appalachia to grow up. Too Venezuelan to be white. Too white to be Venezuelan. Yet somehow I’ve never really felt out of place. I’m uniquely me. A proud second-generation Venezuelan immigrant, born in North Carolina and raised here in Delaware. A captain of the football team who dances merengue at homecoming. My identity is my own. One that does not fit neatly into a single box. And I’m proud of that. As a child, I found the exaggerated dialect of Joel Chandler Harris’ Uncle Remus to be a hilarious connection to the Southern half of my family. But as I grew older, I began to see past the humor and nostalgia. I now see how these stories used to minimize and fictionalize the black experience to fit a white narrative. Today, I see the same thing happening again. I’ve heard members of the media and some politicians beg us to believe that all Venezuelan refugees in the United States are criminals. Members of the Tren de Aragua gang are here to murder and traffic drugs. at narrative unfairly justifies racial profiling, mass deportations and ICE raids in the same way Uncle Remus was used to justify slavery and the Jim Crow South. My mother has started carrying her passport to the grocery store. is is not the America I grew up believing in. And I’m determined to show how America should be. By simply being me. A living representation of the racial and cultural melting pot of America. As I transition into the next stage of my life and soon move off to college. I’ll carry with me the lessons my family has taught me along the way. I’ll leave you all with three. First, Be Proud. Celebrate and share who you are loudly, boldly, and without apology—whether that’s your culture, your passions, or your voice across the bleachers when our girls volleyball team wins yet another state championship. Second, Be Strong. Life is hard and the world will test you. Now, strength isn’t about refusing to fall. but about how you stand up and continue working to the finish line. Finally, Be Kind. Especially to those who look up to you. You can change someone’s whole world with just one compliment or by including them. Like Janie in eir Eyes Were Watching God, I don’t know what ultimately lies at my far off horizon. But I do know this: if I keep leading with pride, strength, and kindness, I’ll get there—and I’ll bring others with me. When I do, I’ll have spent a lifetime growing with others and showing the world not just what this second-generation Venezuelan immigrant has to offer but the power of embracing our differences instead of letting them divide us. ank you.
CLAIRE ISABELLE GERACIMOS ’26 Ever since I was a freshman, and I learned what a senior speech was, I’ve thought about how I would write the perfect senior speech. I’m a little bit of a perfectionist. I’ve always tried to make everything I do perfect, but in reality, I’ve never been perfect. I mean, I was born with 11 toes. So how perfect can I get? Now I know what you might be thinking: was this girl really born with 11 toes? Yes, I was, 11 fully functional toes. On top of that, I was also born with congenital trigger thumb, which meant my thumbs were always bent, so every time that I tried to do a thumbs up, it was more of a thumbs crooked. So, from the day I was born, I had crooked thumbs and an extra toe. Definitely far from perfect. When I was 10 months old, I had surgery to remove my extra toe. e first time that I walked was with a full leg cast, and I learned how to climb up and down the stairs with it. is was the first time I stressed my parents out, and they realized I was going to be the problem child. At that time, I was the center of attention, not just because I was the baby born with 11 toes, but I was also the newest addition to the family. So, aer 3 years of my life being the center of attention as the youngest and getting all of the youngest child privileges, my privileges were revoked. My brother was born, and I became the middle child. I took my role as a middle child very seriously, and yes, I was your stereotypical middle child. I liked to start arguments for absolutely no reason other than just because, and I knew what to do to annoy my siblings. But there is also the other side of a middle child, the side that keeps the family together because they are in the middle. So I got the best of both worlds. I had an older sister whom I looked up to, even though she liked to boss me around, and I totally annoyed her. And I also had a younger brother whom I got to boss around and also spoil. But at the end of the day, our relationship was definitely not perfect; even though we argued a lot, we actually did love each other. While I might complain about being the middle child sometimes, I wouldn’t trade my role for anything. Regardless of if you have siblings or not, being perfect doesn’t really matter to those important to you, just that you’re you. So even though I now have 10 toes and almost straight thumbs, I’m still not perfect, but no one is. And today, instead of striving for perfection, I have learned to not let the fear of not being perfect stop me from trying new things. So don’t stress about trying to be perfect in everything you do because our imperfections are what make us unique!
TYLER JOSEPH GORDON ’26 Injuries suck. No matter what kind of injury it may be. It can be a stubbed toe, broken ankle, or blowing out your knee. is past October, I tore my ACL and basically everything else in my knee. If you have ever torn your ACL, you can empathize with me when I say, I would never wish this on anybody. I will never forget hearing the chain of pops throughout my knee, falling to the ground aer being tackled, and screaming on DeGroat field due to the immeasurable pain. However, what I will remember more than the pain of the injury itself is the day when I found out how severe my injury really was. at day was definitely worse. I remember crutching very slowly and very anxiously back to my surgeon’s office, aer impatiently waiting for the results of my MRI for 2 days. Aer waiting in silence for a decent amount of time. My surgeon walks in dead silent with the straightest face I have ever seen. Almost like he was mad at me for my injury, which I knew he wasn’t. Before he opens up the MRI, he looks at me for a good 3 seconds and doesn’t say a word. I thought to myself I really hope that look means good news. However, I was dead wrong. He opens the MRI and looks back at me before he goes over anything and says, “Tyler,” then pauses for about 4 seconds. “is might be the worst knee injury I have ever seen in all of my years doing this job”. I was speechless. I had no idea what to say or how to respond to what he said. However, in the middle of me trying to process what he said, he wasted no time going over the results. He looked at every inch of my knee which was very bad. As he is going over the MRI, I’m thinking, “wow, this guy must have had a really bad day or something because there is no way this is real”. However, I knew I couldn’t get out of this one. e results ended up with my knee hanging on by a thread. No, really, by a thread. e LCL was the only ligament in my knee that had no damage to it, and according to my very reliable medical source, ChatGPT, the LCL is commonly compared to a threat along with its counterpart the MCL which in my case was torn to pieces. Despite the severity of the injury, I knew I was lucky because of the people I had around me. My family had very different reactions to my injury. My mom obviously was devastated. I could tell she felt really bad for me which made hearing the news even worse. My dad, who has been through 2 ACL surgeries and many physical therapy sessions and still has bad knees said “aer PT is done in like 10 months, your knee will be like bionic.” I replied with “Like your knees aer PT?” Aer 4 months of healing I realized that the physical part of healing is hard, but the mental process is so much harder, seeing all of my friends playing sports, running around and having their senior seasons when I can’t is definitely the hardest part of this process. e 2 most important things I have learned in this process that I want you to also takeaway, especially for the seniors, is 1, learning to laugh, especially at yourself sometimes. For example, walking into homecoming this year, and seeing a tiny chair “saying reserved for Tyler” on it was definitely funny, and laughing at all of the jokes that my friends and family let me hear daily. For example, “you should take out your LCL and frame it for saving your knee”. 2nd, sticking with your people. I realized it never hurts to be dependent on the people you care about when you need it. Asking my friends for a ride when I need it. Asking my mom or my dad to get me something aer surgery or reminding me to take my pain meds aer surgery, or asking my brothers to get me the same thing I just asked my mom too for the sole purpose of annoying him. Even though this injury sucked, the laughs, the jokes, and the car rides where I had to take up the whole back seat because I couldn’t bend my knee were worth it. ank you.
ZOË TAYLOR GOULD ’26 Have you ever driven over the St. George’s Bridge, stealing glances of the setting sun over the Canal, the golden light setting the water ablaze as you suddenly remember you’re on a rickety 83-year-old bridge suspended 140 feet above the water? Well, I have, 16 times. ose few moments of striking beauty, ironically, marked the beginning of a night full of terror, rug burns, and an absurd amount of Monster Energy. I drive down a dusty path to the makeshi Frightland employee parking lot, clock in, and head to the makeup shed. I take the small vials of watery pigment in my fist and shake them vigorously. Once mixed, they snap into place on my airbrush and I take a few minutes to blacken my fingertips and darken up my eyebags. By 6 o’clock, the first actor is in my chair. e air is thick with excitement and fumes from the paint that would later give me a terrible sinus infection. e conversations between artists and actors are disturbingly jovial. Comparable to a hair salon run by maniacs. “Hey… so sorry, do you think you could slit my throat for tonight?” Or when it’s time to move on to the next actor: “Alright hon, you’re all finished! You look absolutely awful! Now get out of here and scare some kids!” e chaos of acting begins just as the chaos of painting ends. I slip on my kneepads, elbow pads, and fingerless gloves, followed by my straightjacket costume, looking like an escaped asylum patient who thinks he’s Tony Hawk reincarnated. Aer nights of accumulating sweat and grime, the getup makes me smell the part of a deranged freak just as much as I look it. I slip through the back entrance into the darkness of Idalia Manor. I’m soon welcomed into my room by a motion activated zombie arm dropping from the ceiling to pat me on the back. As I hear the next group approaching, I crawl under the bed, hiding, waiting, until I see unsuspecting feet walk past. I give their ankles a healthy grab. And if I’m not satisfied with their reaction, I’ll follow up with a little chase down the hall. ey paid to be scared, and I intend to deliver. Aer hour three, my body starts to give way. Aer every group I collapse onto the filthy carpet, closing my eyes for a measly 45 seconds before the next one arrives. Eight thousand ankles later I’m bruised, cramping, and my fingers ache from being stepped on. Nothing in this world brings me more joy than being violently flashbanged by house lights coming on, marking the end of my torment. I drag myself out from under the bed, walking to the exit with my equally exhausted coworkers, our voices too far gone for any post shi chit chat. Sweaty and sore, the cold night air whips me into a sufficient state of consciousness. I peel my costume from my damp skin, clock out, and limp to my car. Beyoncé blaring in my ears and thumping in my lungs keeps me just alert enough to make it home safely around 2:30 a.m. It takes until 3:00 to wash all the filth off and until 3:30 to get settled into bed. I did this every ursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday in October. e toll it took on my mind and body was baffling. Every part of me was sore, and I oen fell ill from being in such a filthy environment, all while juggling the school play and college apps. Somewhere in the middle of those nights, between the bruises and the 3 a.m. showers, I realized I was a lot tougher than I thought. I kept showing up even when every part of me wanted to quit, and there was something strangely empowering about that. Now when school, work, or life feels impossible, I have this weird little bank of confidence to pull from. If I can crawl out from under a bed for seven hours straight and still come back the next night, I can push through just about anything… with enough Monster Energy. Oh and PS to that guy I accidentally made eye contact with at a red light at 2 a.m. in full makeup, no one will ever believe you.
KENNEDY SARAH HASKINS ’26 Although my siblings and I fight far less than we used to, we still get into the same petty arguments as before. When I tell people that my sister and brother have an 8 year age gap, while my brother and I have a 5 year age gap, they assume that these petty arguments can’t exist due to how far apart in age we are to each other. But, they do. For example, just a few years ago, my brother, 8 at the time, got into an argument with my sister, 16 at the time, about the money he had loaned her. Not only was the argument over a few bucks, but it lasted all day. ere were also the bets they would make with each other, and when my brother would lose, he would refuse to pay her back. Being a middle child, I’ve always been able to bond and hang out with my older and younger siblings. But, this doesn’t mean that I was excluded from these petty arguments. When I was younger, my family and I used to stay at the same hotel at the beach every summer. One summer, while I was swimming in the pool, I somehow forgot how to float. So, as I’m doggy paddling trying to stay afloat, I see my sister and I start screaming her name shouting for help, but she just keeps swimming past me with her goggles strapped tightly to her face acting as if she can’t hear me. Eventually, a random kid helped me back to the shallow end. To this day, I bring that story up and she continues to claim that she couldn’t hear me. Similarly, I always get into arguments with my brother where he rage baits me, knowing I will get mad. Like when he says that his 7th grade homework is a lot more difficult than the work I am doing this year. When we were younger, my parents used to say I would act the age of my siblings depending on which one I was hanging out with. is used to upset me because I thought they were just saying I was acting immature for my age, but now I see it as a good thing and one of the ways I am able to bring my siblings together. For example, a few years ago we took a trip to Universal studios for spring break. It was the last day of the trip so everyone was in a bad mood, plus the weather had gotten worse over the few days we had been there. I then had the brilliant idea for my siblings and I to go on a water ride to li our spirits. My sister complained saying it was too cold and that she wanted to head back to the hotel, while my brother complained that he wanted to do a roller coaster instead. But, I eventually convinced them to go on. While waiting in line, my siblings made me sit in the front so that the water would only get on me. But for better or for worse, the front seat did not get splashed at all, and it was actually the second and third seats that got splashed. Like usual, we argued about the ride as we were leaving. As my siblings and I look back on this trip, we remember this ride as a bonding experience, (even though they were not happy while on the ride). Although we argue oen, we always come to a resolution. While I was writing this speech, I realized that I’m going to miss the petty arguments between my siblings and I. So, my lesson for you all is to not take these moments for granted. When my sister graduated in 2023, my brother and I had to learn how to keep our bond and relationship intact. Between the FaceTime calls, texts, and TikToks we send to each other, we’re still just as close. As we go off to college next year, I would tell everyone to hold on to these memories and cherish them and the people in them. ank you
ELENA STELLE HEIFETZ ’26 For many of us, silence is awkward and uncomfortable. It’s the empty pause in math class aer you answer a question completely wrong with full confidence. It’s the feeling of sitting at your lunch table alone when you get downstairs at 12:45, and, of course, all of your friends happen to have class. For me, though, silence will always be a reminder of Khatima. is past summer, I volunteered as a teacher at the IRIS Summer Learning program for Afghan refugees. On the first day, I noticed one girl immediately. At recess, all of the other kids laughed and played basketball or drew with chalk. But Khatima sat alone in the corner with a stack of papers from class, staring intently at the English worksheet that lay before her. I walked over to see if I could help, but Khatima quickly turned away and hovered her pencil over the blank worksheet, as if suddenly she knew all of the answers. Immediately, I was curious. I wondered what she was thinking and how she was feeling. Why wouldn’t she talk to any of the other students or teachers, even when they spoke to her in Pashto? Khatima was silent for three days. Several attempts to communicate were rebuffed by unconvincing smiles of confusion and even more silence. To support Khatima, I sat quietly by her side in class and on the bleachers. On the fourth day of the program, it finally happened. Still silent, Khatima signaled for the bathroom, and I nodded, giving her permission, but she didn’t budge until I realized that she wanted me to go with her. So we entered the bathroom, and Khatima stopped. She reached into her hijab and revealed a beautiful, flowery yellow painting on a small canvas that read “Ms. Ellie.” She smiled, passed me the painting, then pulled out her phone to open multiple screenshots of translated Pashtoto-English paragraphs she had been saving. Khatima shared her story with me, then, shaking with excitement, she passed me the phone so that I could share mine. Visiting the bathroom to communicate over Google Translate became our daily routine, and throughout the summer, I learned all about Khatima’s story. In the classroom, I helped Khatima with her English and facilitated interactions with the other kids. She taught me how to write my name and count to ten in Pashto. Soon enough, Khatima stopped sitting alone at lunch and joined the big table. In just two weeks, she became like a little sister to me. Our relationship became a powerful reminder of the importance of persisting through challenges to connect with others. Growing up half-Flipino, I have always had an ingrained desire to build community. I have grown up with six lolas and eight lolos, 46 titos and titas, and an assumption that anyone I meet at a weekend gathering around my age is a cousin. Meeting fellow Filipinos invariably includes wide smiles of genuine excitement, warm embraces, and avalanches of food. We are fortunate that building a strong community at Tower Hill is comparatively straightforward. Whether in SGA, track, orchestra, or simply the halls, we communicate oen and share common interests. Different from my interactions with family or in familiar surroundings, Khatima taught me that the most valuable relationships can come from working together to overcome challenges. So my advice to you, (as Coach Twyman would say), is to get comfortable being uncomfortable. Be curious, put yourself out there, and take advantage of all of the opportunities that you are offered, even if it means doing something you have never done or making a conscious effort to talk to a new friend. e reward of true connection will always be worth the extra time. ank you.
WILLIAM DEAN HOLT ’26 Since I was young, I can always remember my father being obsessed with music. Whether it was a long car ride, family dinner, or the numerous hours we have spent together setting up stereo systems, I can barely remember moments in my house where no music at all was playing. Over the years, I have been introduced to almost every genre and era of music possible by my dad. I have heard everything from rock to country to house music. All this time spent around music has led me to take up my dad’s obsession with music. rough the countless number of artists that I have listened to, I have settled on one as my favorite: e Allman Brothers Band. I can vividly remember my dad playing Allman Brothers CDs when I was much younger and enjoying the music, but not truly understanding how great the band and the music was. But as I have grown older I have grown in love with the band. I have spent an endless amount of time listening to all of the Allman Brothers albums and listening to any live concert of the Allman Brothers that I can get my hands on. To me, the Allman Brothers are not just a band, they are a lifestyle. e relaxed style of music reminds me to take life at a slower pace and enjoy the little moments. e authentic vocals in songs like Dreams and Whipping Post have reminded me that life will be hard sometimes, but songs like Midnight Rider have urged me to search for ways to experience freedom, break some rules, and live life to the fullest. e Allman Brothers have allowed me to relate my life to music in ways that younger me would have never imagined when listening to the Allman Brothers. I know that when I go to college next year, I will miss hearing my dad’s music all the time and will miss the times we have spent together listening to this music. However, I will always be able to rely on the Allman Brothers to keep me grounded in my day to day life. I am thankful for my dad introducing me to some of the best music ever made. It is because of his love for music that I am the person I am today. If I were to give someone younger advice, it would be to spend as much time as possible with your family. You will miss the simple moments that you take for granted everyday when you go off to college. Also, be proud of the music you listen to. Music is truly a special form of art that can not be replaced by anything else. I will leave you with a quote from the leader of the Allman Brothers, Duane Allman. “ere are a lot of different forms of communication, but music is absolutely the purest one.”
GRACE HUANG ’26 I remember my very first art class at the studio I used to frequent. I remember carefully setting up my supplies, copying the way the older students across the room arranged theirs. I even remember the very first drawing I made—a colored pencil piece that I realized half-way through the class was far too ambitious for me. One of the older students, along with my teacher, tried to help me: trying to get me to use the right colors, etc. I didn’t care about any of that though. All I really wanted was to enjoy my evening drawing. All of a sudden, I hear this agitating voice behind me, giggling at what I was working on. “Why is the head so big?” I remember her saying to me. I was in disbelief. Aer all, why was this random kid I didn’t know insulting my art? My younger self strongly disliked her. Looking back on it though, I have to say, she was unfortunately right. I had no sense of what should be put where or even what colors to use. I blended brown and yellow for the pants, creating an interesting combination. Of course, I’ve become less resentful of the 8 year old in my past but many of my earlier years of art were fueled by the need to prove her wrong. ankfully, as time went on, I did begin to see what my classmates saw. I saw how black was never just black, always tinted with a bit of blue or green, and how the seemingly white highlights were never simply just white. Somewhere along the way, I began to enjoy experimenting with color—especially the idea that a color could change almost magically depending on the one placed next to it. Without realizing it, although cheesy to say, I had begun to enjoy the process, especially picking up about the small tricks and I’ve learned throughout the years. I slowly forgot about that little girl. So maybe, if you also have someone like that in your life—even if they’re more skilled, more confident, or naturally better at whatever you do—it’s best not to let their words limit you. Even if someone sees your flaws before you do, don’t let it stop you from continuing long enough to remember why you started.
CHARLES ALEXANDER HUDSON ’26 If you have ever been to the Delaware beaches, you know that they can be overcrowded—and sometimes a little dirty. Yet every year, I look forward to making that 2 hour drive down to Bethany Beach, where I’ve made some of my earliest and best memories doing things like driving on the south inlet, bodysurfing, and crabbing with my grandparents. My passion for the beach comes from my love of the ocean. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been in the water body surfing, boogie boarding, or surfing every chance I got. One of the best decisions I made growing up was learning how to surf. I was 11 at the time and a little hesitant, but aer my dad convinced me to give it a try I quickly fell in love with it. e beach I surf at the most is the Indian River Inlet, and aer going there for years, I got to know the local crowd, a mix of kids my age and older guys who have been surfing forever. e thing about surfing in Delaware is the waves are only good for short periods of time around low tide. is meant that if low tide was at 5:30 in the morning, I was waking my mom up at 5 to drive me to the beach so I could catch that small window. Fast forward to this past summer, the last summer I spent as a kid. It also was the summer I had a real job. I worked at a local restaurant called Hooked Up in Bethany Beach. It would end up being the busiest summer I’ve ever had, working 5 days a week, always at night, and through the weekends as well. Working at the beach also meant I was mostly on my own, which forced me to take responsibility for how I spent my time. Looking for a sense of balance, I found myself surfing more this summer than ever. No matter how long my shi was the night before, I always tried to make time to be in the water. As I’ve gotten older—picked up new hobbies, made new friends, and taken on more responsibilities—Surfing has always stayed constant. It connects me to who I was as a kid and reminds me why I love the beach so much. e beach has taught me to appreciate stillness—the value of slowing down and spending time by myself. In the water between sets, when the ocean is calm and there’s nothing to do other than sit with your thoughts is when you learn the most about yourself. If there’s one lesson I’ll take with me from the beach, it’s this: Find something you are truly passionate about, something that keeps you grounded, and hold on to it. Life will always get busier and things will continue to change, but if you have that one thing that centers you, something that reminds you who you are, then hold onto that thing, and never let it go.
MOLLY CATHERINE HURST ’26 On September 13th, 2016, I joined Quizlet, a very simple platform where you can make digital flashcards. I’m sure that many, if not all of you, use it on a semi-regular basis, or some other site that’s very similar. At this time, I was a third grader… so I did what every reasonable third grader would do, and I made my username “PrincessGuineaPig,” because what else would I have named it? Being an avid guinea pig lover and owning my own affectionately named Cookie, younger me obviously had to include this aspect of herself in her Quizlet username, completely unaware of the fact that other people would have to see it when she got older. Regardless, the name stuck, and my Quizlet journey began. Starting with simple vocabulary sets, I moved onto making sets about me, my interests, my family members, and more, not to mention that I made my parents take a test using the application on the set made about myself. is set also happened to include a question about how long my favorite book was (because, obviously, everyone should know that). If you’re wondering, it was 538 pages, and both my mom and my dad got it wrong. As I moved through middle school, my Quizlet reputation grew; for those who didn’t want to make their own, I always had a Quizlet at the ready. People started memorizing my username, much to the embarrassment of my middle school self. Yet, when I brought up renaming my account, I was met with great resistance by my friends—so I le it alone. I continued my journey, and it was a great one: teachers began using my sets to test the class prior to an assessment, people would come up to me and ask me to email them a link to my cards, and so many other things. It was one of the first times that I felt real pride in my hard work. Transitioning to high school, my username started to cause me great embarrassment. My feelings festered; I was supposed to be getting older, but my account made me still sound like the third grader who originally created it. Much to the complaints of my peers (who didn’t want to have to memorize something new), I changed PrincessGuineaPig into something much more boring and formulaic: mch1907. is change, while to some minor, demonstrated my growth from elementary and middle school into a young high schooler. Here, highlights included a peer of mine (who I’d never even spoken to) having known my name because of my Quizlets, not to mention other students asking me to make them Quizlets for classes I wasn’t even taking. For example, French (I’ve solely taken Spanish since 7th grade). Another fond memory includes my freshman year English class: a friend was asking for my username, as it was no longer catchy, when another student across the room loudly exclaimed “that’s Molly’s Quizlet username!” In that moment, I felt like I was a micro academic celebrity—not really, but I shed my embarrassment of my prior username (which was definitely still haunting me), because now I knew I was actually helping people—actually having an impact on them, even people who I barely talked to. is story isn’t about how I completely changed everything or got everyone 100s on a Spanish quiz, but it’s about me finding my voice through a flashcard platform. What I would say is that it doesn’t matter the method of your impact on others, but it matters that you have one. I grew up on Quizlet—I tangibly changed my username because it wasn’t a true reflection of me anymore. A really small metaphor, but one nonetheless. Quizlet made me more me, and it made me realize that even if I wasn’t on a varsity sports team or the lead in the musical, I still had a purpose in the bigger world of high school. While Quizlet is simply a website, to me, it’s really a whole lot more. When I was younger, I saw no way to stand out from the crowd, to help other people and make a difference. I stayed on the sidelines and let other people do the big things because I was scared. It turns out, though, in the end, that we can all do scary things. Because I wanted to do something as simple as study, I ended up being able to make an impact on my own terms.
GASPAR IOOS ’26 My Mom always said that playing video games was never going to get me anywhere, but I’m here to tell a story that would say otherwise. I walked in from school expecting a normal aernoon. Instead, my mom sat me down and told me that my father had passed away. As I sat on the couch absorbing the news, I realized, at eleven years old, I would never get the chance to know him, and never get to ask the questions that sons save for their fathers. Growing up, I watched as my friends’ dads coached Little League and gave their kids extra support. My best friend’s dad, Mike, never le me out—he made sure to cheer extra loud for me and took me to dinner aer the games. I always felt he was there for me, and he helped fill that void. As I started high school, missing a father figure became more difficult. By this point, I had moved across the country during COVID, and although I easily made friends and was a varsity athlete, I found myself longing for a father figure during this period in my life. It was through video games that I unexpectedly found the person I was missing. ‘Twisted’ started as a gaming buddy but has become one of the most important people in my life. Twisted, whose real name is Rick, is a paramedic who lives in Maine. We bonded over video games, but it was our conversations about the ups and downs of our daily lives that became more important. As I struggled to understand what it meant to become a man, I grew comfortable sharing my thoughts with him, and he, in turn, enjoyed mentoring me. Many times I have come home from school feeling anxious and worried about grades, athletics or personal relationships. With my brother at college and my mom busy working, I didn’t always feel like I had someone I could talk with. Not long aer we met, Twisted surprised me by checking in on me outside of the game. ese phone calls lied a huge weight off my shoulders as I was finally able to feel comfortable talking about my feelings and having a genuine conversation with someone. Last year, as many of you know, I began thinking about running for student body president; Twisted became a big part of that decision. Our relationship had laid the groundwork for me to be vulnerable. For instance I didn’t know if I had the confidence to give a speech in front of the entire school but also if I had what it took to lead. e week prior to my speech, Twisted called me every day to see how I was feeling and reminded me that I had been through some very difficult things: moving across the country during COVID and of course losing my father. He reminded me of the strength that I have, how much I have grown and how that has resulted in empathy and resilience, two key things needed for leadership. Although I lost the election, I gained something more important: the realization that I was strong and more resilient than I believed. rough my relationship with Twisted, I have become a more confident and empathic person. His example has turned me into a better friend, family member, and leader. I didn’t realize the values and importance a father figure could have on somebody. I now know how much effect one person can have on another, and I strive to be that presence for others, knowing that even a small action, like a simple phone call, can change someone’s life.
SARAH ANN KALMAN ’26 Growing up I have been blessed to always have someone that truly loves me. I have never met anyone that loves me more than my mom. Growing up and thinking about college, I’ve realized the countless things my mother has done for me that go beyond just being a mom. My sister Ella, who has Angelmans Syndrome, ate a tide pod and was in a medically induced coma on life support when I was 8 years old. e entire time I had no idea how sick my sister truly was, because my mom wanted to protect me and my siblings from the idea that our sister could die. Even when I’d complain about the hospital’s wifi being bad or being bored, she never lost her patience, and she never made me feel unimportant. My mom goes to work and saves lives every day in her job as a vet, and never once loses patience aer her 12 hour shis. She texts me all day saying that she misses me and is so excited to hug me when she gets home, always reminding me of how loved I am. My mom is the reason I want to become an emergency veterinarian, because I want to be like her. She sends me pictures of cases from work all the time, quizzes me and teaches me all sorts of things I will need to know in the future. I have always loved the car rides we spend talking about fake patients, and how proud she is of me when I get the diagnoses right. When I was little, I used to get really scared at night while she was at work, so I’d FaceTime her. Her coworkers would answer, normally the same person, and he’d bring me to her, wherever she was, or if he couldn’t, he’d sit and talk to me until I felt brave enough to hang up. I never felt unimportant because even when she was busy, somebody was always there for me. When I’m sick my mom is the one person I always want by my side. She tends to me with so much love and care that it makes being sick and missing everything just a little bit better. She will do absolutely anything for me, and I have always appreciated the endless care that I receive. Even shadowing my mom, I’ve seen how admired she is by her coworkers, and I know that I am not the only one who thinks my mom is great. ey all come up to me and tell me how much they love my mom, and that I should be grateful to have her. Even though I don’t show it and make fun of her oen, I am endlessly grateful. I am forever grateful for how my mom raised me and the morals I have because of her. My advice to everyone is to truly think about all the things your parents have done for you, and just say thank you. So mom, this is my thank you.
SOPHIA ZHU KARRON ’26 ink about all of the things you can do in seven minutes: listen to a few songs, scroll on your phone, run an errand. Seven minutes doesn’t seem like a lot of time and most of the time it passes before we even realize it’s gone. But for me, a mere seven minutes determined my entire future. As I reflect on my senior year, my weekends looked a little different. I was waking up early, traveling to a new city, and preparing to walk into a room full of strangers. ese strangers, however, weren’t just anyone. ey were professors– professionals who had spent their entire lives studying and performing music. And for the next approximately seven minutes they would decide whether I belonged in their program. If you know me, you know that music has always been a huge part of my life and it is something that feels deeply connected to who I am. So when it came time to decide what I wanted to study in college, voice performance felt like a natural choice to make. But choosing that path also meant stepping into one of the most intimidating processes I have ever experienced. Every weekend there was a new panel of professors and as soon as I walked into the audition room, it felt like every moment and every breath I took was being analyzed. My posture, my tone, the way I entered the room–everything felt like it mattered. People kept reassuring me that the panel wanted me to succeed. ey would tell me things like “Don’t worry they are rooting for you” or “they are on your side!” But let me tell you. e second I stood alone in front of the panel–it felt like they were NOT rooting for me. It felt like they were waiting for me to make a mistake. e auditions themselves were short and the second I walked out of the room it was all over. Just seven minutes. Aer all of the preparation, all of the traveling, all of the anticipation, it was finished almost as quickly as it started. And as I walked out of each room, whatever had happened inside was already starting to blur together in my mind. I would replay moments over and over, wondering if I sang a phrase the way I wanted to, or if I should have interpreted a section differently. e first audition was by far the most nerve racking. It felt like every ounce of pressure was sitting on my shoulders. But as the weeks went on and I completed more auditions my mindset started to shi. ose intimidating panels of professors slowly became less scary and the room felt a little less heavy. e auditions were still nerve racking but they also became moments where I could simply enjoy sharing a story with my voice. Eventually I realized: once those seven minutes were over, there was nothing I could change. All I could do was move forward. Looking back at how I felt, I realized that those auditions weren’t just about proving something to a panel of professionals. ey were about proving something to myself.
I learned how to trust the work I had put in, instead of letting my thoughts consume me in the moment. I learned how to let go because once those seven minutes were over, holding onto every small mistake didn’t change anything, but it did take away from everything I did right. Life is full of moments that feel like they determine everything whether that be an athletic performance, a decision, or a really important test. In those moments, it is very easy to get stuck worrying about every possible mistake. But what I learned this year is that you can’t live inside those fears and you can’t spend all your energy chasing perfection. Sometimes the best thing you can do is walk into the room or field, or space and give everything you have in that moment and trust that it’s enough. Seven minutes might seem short. But sometimes seven minutes is all it takes to discover what you are capable of. Seniors, if you haven’t found your passion yet, I hope something finds you that makes it all worth it. ank you.
MASON JULIUS KATOR ’26 ank you. Two words my mom tells me “you can never say too many times.” My mom is not only the best mom, but she’s also my best friend. I couldn’t ask for a better relationship with my mom, and there’s nothing in this world I would trade it for. Proverbs 22:6 “teach a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.” Ever since I was a kid my mom has always been there for me. Whether it was taking off work to help make our baby dolls in first grade, volunteering for stream watch in middle school, or watching every second of every football game she could. No matter what the occasion was, my mom was there for me. With this came many lessons I had to learn. Like how even though we finished making our baby dolls and my mom had to leave for work, she would still be at home waiting to give me a hug when I came through the door. Because yes, I started crying when she had to leave. What can I say, I love my mom. She taught me to always strive to learn more. Just as during stream watch she would learn about the river and nature with us. Not only inspiring us to do our best work, but to have fun with it as well. My mom did this in just about everything. Anytime we would go to the zoo we’d always stop to read about the animals we saw, always learning and always staying curious. Not only did my mom teach me many things, but I taught her as well. When it came to football my mom knew virtually nothing, so when her eldest son started playing it was my job to teach her. Over the years she became more familiar with the game, and I’m sure watching me play every Friday night had to have helped. At the top of the bleachers just to the right of the press box is where you could always find her. She supported me every step of the way, missing only two games over four years of playing. Even with the two she missed, she still found ways to stay connected. Whether it was streaming it off YouTube or texting my dad the whole time, she had to know how I was doing. is just showed me more than ever that my mom would not only support me one hundred percent, but no matter the distance between us, I know she will always be with me. Helping and supporting me. As I get ready to go off to college I have to remember this more than ever because this time next year I will be somewhere new and I won’t have my mom waiting to hug me as I come through the door. She’ll be back home waiting for me to call about my day. So to all the future calls I’ll be making to you mom, I can’t wait. You have taught me well, and I won’t ever turn away from it. ank you mom.
AALIA NOOR KAZMI ’26 Some of my fondest memories originate from the many vacations my parents took me on all throughout my childhood. Each of these vacations included a strict itinerary created by my dad to create the perfect balance of an educational yet relaxing trip and included activities that would pique the interests of each of our 5 family members. I mean, I won’t lie to you, little Aalia wasn’t necessarily stoked by the amount of historical landmarks and boring museums she was forced to visit. I will definitely admit that my younger self never actually appreciated the opportunities that I was given. I basically dreaded having to sit in the overwhelming and loud airport, the dirty and tight airplane seats, and most of all, I despised the idea of not being able to escape to my room when I got slightly mad at my family for some stupid reason. It didn’t help that my germophobic self couldn’t stand getting comfortable in a hotel or Airbnb knowing that there were so many people that stayed there before me. So yeah, it is safe to say that my younger self did not enjoy traveling. However, around two years ago, my perspective began to shi. It was August of 2024 and my parents, my older sister, my younger brother, and I were in Italy for about a week. We were all sitting around a table for dinner when my mom suddenly made a comment that stuck with me. She noted that this would be our last family trip before we sent my older sister off to college. at’s when it hit me: vacationing with my family wasn’t always going to be a constant in my life. e silly week-long vacations most likely would not always fit the schedule of my sister when she was living all the way in North Carolina. But I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea of traveling the world without my built-in best friend. I began to think back on all of my trips which I had previously overlooked. I thought about the many inside jokes that my sister and I would repeat all throughout our time together. I thought about us teasing my younger brother and my parents over and over until they literally couldn’t take it anymore. I thought about the hours that we would set aside to take countless photos of each other in our thoughtfully-picked outfits. It was in that moment that all of the positive memories started rushing through my brain. I could finally set aside my hatred for the airport, being jet-lagged, and the absurd amount of walking, to recognize what I had been taking for granted all along. It wasn’t about the place I was visiting, the food I was eating, or the items I was shopping for, it was about cherishing the time spent surrounded by the people I cared about the most. e past few months being a senior in high school has brought on more tasks and stress than I ever could’ve imagined. College applications, work, school and tests, sports. My schedule was constantly packed, and it le me with absolutely no time to spare for my family. Not to mention, my sister was now living almost 9 hours away. e idea of growing up and going off to college that once seemed so far in the future, was now my reality. I too was going to be facing a big change that would most likely limit the amount of time I’ll be home for. With this new lifestyle in mind, I have to admit that I now crave these vacations. I long for the escape of making memories and spending quality time with my family and not having to think about everything on my to-do list that awaits me when I get back home. From every single vacation I’ve taken with my family from August 2024 up until this very moment, I always strive to make the most of it, because as times continue to change and my siblings and I begin to grow older, I recognize that there will be less and less time spent all 5 of us. I now realize that these quick family getaways are a real privilege. And yes, I will probably still continue to complain about the cleanliness of my airplane seats every once in a while, but that will not be a moment that defines my outlook on the trip. What’s most important to me now is simply being with my family. And for all of you in this room, I hope that you too will realize how important and valuable quality time is with the ones that you love. Whether that be with family or friends, make sure to always live in the moment. You’re only this old once, and not so long from now, these times will all feel like distant memories, so don’t forget to make the most of them.
NOOR ALI KHAN ’26 Like ALMOST every assignment I’ve had to do in high school this speech was written very last minute. Now don’t get me wrong I’ve been thinking about this moment since freshman year, what would I talk about up on stage in front of the entire Upper School. What topic would be worth my discussion, what memories would I look back on, what advice would I give you all, and of course what cliché phrase I would say to wrap it all up (don’t worry I have a few incorporated) but no it all boiled down to the moments before writing this speech, a very interesting story, AKA around 10 p.m. last night (sorry Mr. Rapp). Procrastination It was just about 10 hours before I had to give this wonderful speech that I sat down at my dining room table, whipped out my charger and dead MacBook that I had barely touched all spring break, I waited for the screen to light up and opened up the still empty Google Document labeled Noor’s Senior Speech and realized I had procrastinated once again. Now if you know me or have taught me or if you’re my college counselor even, you’re aware this wasn’t a one time thing or quite frankly even a rare occurrence, because whether it was college apps, school work, or any other responsibility I’m sure I’d been able to find a way to put it off until absolutely necessary. But unfortunately (if it’s not obvious already) this speech is not about how I fixed everything and realized the magic trick and solution on how to not procrastinate. I sadly didn’t suddenly become productive overnight. (Although I really wish I did, it might be a good trait to adopt for college I’ll definitely work on it guys.) But no that’s not the groundbreaking story and realization of this speech. As much as I’d love to blame procrastination as this big evil villain and tell you how to defeat it, it turns out there’s more to it than just the label of laziness. Why do we procrastinate? Google says: Humans procrastinate because they tend to avoid tasks that feel difficult, stressful, or uncertain, choosing short-term comfort over long-term goals. So we delay tasks to avoid discomfort and struggle, we distract ourselves and watch just one more episode before starting that essay, avoiding the ocean we are met with and the weight we feel staring at the blank document with endless words we feel like we have to write. Or maybe we convince ourselves we’ll be fine scrolling on TikTok for just 10 more minutes before cramming for that midterm because the funny videos feel better than the chunky study guide full of review problems and topics we need to drill into our brains. Procrastination comes from all those tiring overwhelming feelings. Needless to say some of us are in it for the thrill saying something like “I work well under pressure” and “the adrenaline rush of the deadline motivates me” and I won’t lie I am one of those people sometimes. I need a high pressure last minute deadline to make me finish something, and I know doing things last minute can sometimes produce an exquisite work. But more oen than not, it’s not the best work it’s just the fastest. And eventually, I started to realize that what I was avoiding wasn’t the work itself—it was everything that came with it. e fear of being overwhelmed before I even began, because starting is oen the hardest part, and to reach that flow state you have to surpass the block of beginning the task. And no, I clearly haven’t magically fixed this, but I have started to understand it just a little bit more So if you’ve ever told yourself “I’ll do it later” and “I still have time,” you’re not alone, and maybe it’s not laziness. Maybe “later” isn’t the problem—maybe it’s what we’re avoiding, So follow your dreams, guys preferably before 10 p.m. the night before it’s due. Remember to make every moment count, just maybe don’t wait until the last one. You know what they say, better late than never but never late is better. But in all seriousness, the next time you find yourself putting something off, ask yourself what it is you’re actually avoiding, and then spend some time pondering upon that question. It might be more productive than hitting “next episode” on Netflix. ank you
AASHRITHA KOYA ’26 Bingo! Although seemingly an ordinary game on the surface, it unexpectedly brought me closer to the senior residents in the nursing home I volunteered at—residents who I did not expect to form real connections with. When I first started volunteering at the local nursing home, I didn’t expect to enjoy it much, or really at all for that matter. I would be sitting around for hours helping the residents, not being able to talk to anyone or really do anything fun. And while this might’ve been true for the first couple of days, it was definitely not the case for the rest of my time going there. In the beginning, helping them play bingo was filled with long silences, pauses, and awkward laughs. We didn’t know anything about each other, so conversations stayed limited to the game and never really went deeper than that. Over the next few weeks, as I became more familiar with the residents and they became more familiar with me, we started to converse more. Our conversations were limited at first. Questions like: How are you doing today? and What did you do today? came up oen. But over time, those conversations grew into something more. I began to hear stories about their own lives, their own memories, and their own experiences at the nursing home. Although they did most of the talking, I enjoyed listening to them—and honestly I think they liked it that way. Getting to know many of them, it was really interesting to hear how different everyone’s lives had been, yet they were all now connected by the same place. It made me think about their connections beyond that. Many of them didn’t really have people in the nursing home to talk to the way we do every day—not just casual conversations, but also real ones, with people they could open up to and feel heard by. at’s when I began to understand the importance of my role. e conversations I was having with them weren’t just small talk—but they actually mattered. In many ways, it was really the only time they could truly share their thoughts and feel heard. I spent time interacting with many residents who don’t regularly get visitors, and through getting to know them, I began to realize the importance of simple conversation. Something that feels so normal in my daily life–constantly talking and being heard–is not something these residents get the chance to experience as oen in the nursing home. During my time there, I made an effort to give them that: to truly listen, understand their experiences, and just be present for them. And in doing that, I realized that my presence alone actually did make a difference. Over the next few weeks, residents began to call out to me from their bingo tables, excited to talk to me about anything and everything. We became open with each other. And although I didn’t expect to make friends before volunteering at the nursing home, I can definitely say now that I did. I can also say that I had fun. Spending time with them, talking with them, and playing bingo ended up being something I genuinely looked forward to. Being a part of that activity meant helping create moments of fun, joy, and happiness in their day, which was incredibly rewarding. So, my first message to you guys is to never write things off before you try them. I went into volunteering thinking I wouldn’t enjoy it at all, but it ended up being one of the best and most meaningful experiences I’ve ever had. You never really know what something will turn into, or who you might meet. Some of the most unexpected places can lead to real friendships, so just being open– starting a conversation, putting yourself out there–can go a long way. Second, never underestimate the impact of simply being there for someone. We go through our days having conversations without thinking twice about them, but for some people, those moments mean everything. Taking the time to listen, to care, and to be present can make a bigger difference than you realize. I didn’t expect something as simple as a game of bingo to change my perspective, but it showed me how powerful small moments like those can be. And sometimes, those small moments are exactly what someone needs. ank you.
LILY CLAIRE LEUNG ’26 Apparently, pets can reflect their owners, which is alarming, because my two dogs, Napoleon and Josephine, are chaotic. Napoleon acts like the house belongs to him, and everyone else is just visiting. Josephine, on the other hand, is sweet but, let’s call her spiritually aware. She’ll stare at a blank wall for minutes, completely still, like she’s seeing something I really hope isn’t there. But for all of their weirdness, my two French bulldogs have taught me more about life than I would have ever thought. ey’ve taught me about confidence, patience, and finding joy in the little things. Napoleon’s downfall began with Dogtopia, a doggy daycare that soon turned into a war zone. What was supposed to be “playtime” became, in his mind, a battlefield. He tried to fight every dog, small dogs, big dogs, dogs just minding their own business, none were safe. By noon, he had been banished to solitary confinement, out of contact with all other dogs. When we came to pick him up, the staff gently suggested he never return. But honestly, getting kicked out of Dogtopia was only the beginning of his chaos. en, there was the roof incident. One day he threw himself out of the car like he had been waiting his entire life for this moment of freedom. He disappeared. Aer twenty minutes of searching, we heard barking from above us. We stepped outside and there he was, staring down at us from the roof. Before we could react, he sprinted toward the edge at full speed. We braced ourselves to catch a flying French bulldog. ankfully, he skidded to a stop, reconsidered his life choices, and slid into the gutter. We still don’t know how he got up there. And then came the chocolate incident. I used to believe chocolate was deadly for dogs. Apparently, Napoleon never got that memo, because he ate thirty-five chocolate bars. We know the number because, unfortunately, we counted the wrappers in his vomit the next morning. Napoleon is many things: dramatic, reckless, probably immortal, but boring has never been one of them. Josephine, on the other hand, is peaceful, sweet, calm, and very, very strange. She’ll sit in the corner and stare at the wall like she’s watching a movie only she can see. I’ll walk in and ask, “Josie, what are you looking at?” She won’t move, won’t even blink. She just stares harder. It’s unsettling. She seems as if she’s communicating with the spirits. But then there’s her other side, the one that wakes up the moment a snack bag makes the tiniest crinkle. She can be dead asleep, three rooms away, wrapped in a blanket, and still teleport into the kitchen immediately. She goes from complete stillness to a full sprint in half a second. She may live in her own universe, but she’s loyal, sweet, and oddly spiritual. As funny as they are, Napoleon and Josephine have actually taught me something important, about love, patience, and what it means to just be in the moment. No matter what kind of day I’ve had, stressful, tiring, or annoying, the moment I walk through the door, they act like I just returned from war. ey don’t care if I failed a test or spilled coffee on myself. ey just care that I’m home. at’s loyalty. Watching them also reminds me that happiness doesn’t have to be complicated. For them, happiness is a walk, a nap, or a snack. Maybe that’s something we forget, to appreciate the small moments that make up a good life. Even when I mess up, like forgetting to take them out on time, they forgive me instantly. No grudges, no drama. Just excitement to see me and another chance. If people were more like dogs, the world would be a much better place. So maybe Napoleon’s bossiness and Josephine’s ghost-staring aren’t flaws, they’re reminders. ey show that life is better when you approach it with loyalty and love. I urge you to slow down, notice the small moments around you, and treat the people in your life with patience. If we all took aer Napoleon and Josephine, life would feel a little easier and a lot more joyful.
LISA JIAHUI LU ’26 It’s not a phase, mom!!! Isolated within the confines of my bedroom walls plastered with anime posters and manga panels and locked away from the rest of the COVID-plagued world, 12-year-old me was stressed. My biggest issue? Finding which anime to watch next. Aer scouring MyAnimeList for hours under the romance genre (simply because I couldn’t find anything I hadn’t already watched), I settled on something that looked cute but had a regurgitated, unoriginal plot. My plans for the night were decided. We all have cringey, weirder versions of ourselves that we can’t believe ever existed during our early adolescent years, and my preteen self was truly her own person. I was an awkwardly tall and extremely clumsy girl, pretty horrible at every sport and extracurricular I tried… but if there was anything people really knew me for, it was my very strong anime obsession. I was never really afraid of expressing my love for anime. In fact, I proudly referred to myself as an Otaku, and even tried converting my friends into fellow anime-lovers. Anime was just something familiar and comforting, and I showed that openly because it felt like a part of me. But one oand comment stuck with me longer than it probably should have. I remember this one time in 7th grade when my friend (or so I thought) decided to point out the new stickers on my Chromebook in front of the whole class when it was silent. She asked me about my “weird anime stickers,” which prompted my entire class to whip their heads around and stare at my computer. As their scrutinizing gazes analyzed the various characters plastered on the device, I felt myself turning red. I moved my arm to cover the logo from Tokyo Ghoul, the cute headshot of 002 from Darling in the Franxx, my favorite Demon Slayer ship and so much more. Before then, I had never considered my passions something to hide. It doesn’t help much either that I expressed my love for anime not only in merchandise, but also in the way I dressed. Making questionable fashion choices, I exploited my parents’ bank account on poor-quality clothing sites that sold candidfemale-protagonist gear, and sported my Pinterest-esque fits every day at school, complete with oversized cardigans and huge hair clips. You can imagine how that went when everybody else wore hoodies and the most branching out kids did was the occasional graphic tee. But little by little, slowly but surely, these differences added up, and I started to become self-conscious. Not because anyone ever bullied me or said anything, but because I became more aware of myself. I noticed the difference between what I loved and what was normal, and that distinction scared me. High school started, and suddenly being seen felt riskier than it ever had before. I learned how to hide what I loved, and tried to suppress myself into what was normal at the time. But luckily, I also learned that hiding never lasts. As I settled into high school, I felt the things I loved always mattered to me more than hiding myself, and little by little, I started letting those pieces of me show again. And what I’m here to tell you is I haven’t really changed since then. I might have peeled all those stickers off aer eighth grade and eradicated any evidence of the dark days on my social media, but those stickers were replaced with new ones of bands I enjoy, travel destinations, frogs protesting climate change and random colors, while most don’t entertain the thought of a laptop case. I ripped the anime posters off my walls, but now hang musical banners and my own artwork, making my environment a reflection of me. ose interesting clothes still sit at the bottom of my closet collecting dust, but now, I experiment with fun accessories, tacky jewelry, and weird hair. My interests have been and will always be known by everyone around me. So no, I don’t really love anime as much as I once did. But I’ve realized that the young girl who wasn’t afraid to express herself never went away, because I’m still never afraid to do what I love. In promising to be unapologetically myself, I will always be the one to laugh too loud, cry too hard in public, speak whatever’s on my mind and express myself in any way I know. If this speech is too cheesy or cliché, who cares? A lot of the things we do are fueled by the fear of being different or standing out. But in the end, does that fear ever change who you or I really are? Choosing to live openly and expressively is rare, but it’s something worth committing to again and again.
Because whether it’s this year or in four years, we’re all leaving this place. We’ll have versions of ourselves we’re proud of, and versions we pretend never existed. But those awkward, cringey, too-much versions of us are the ones who taught us how to care deeply, try boldly, and show up honestly. So as we move on, I hope we never ask, “What will people think?” but instead, “Is this something I love?” Because I’d rather be remembered for being too much than for never taking up space at all. And if loving something too hard, being a little too loud, or standing out in whichever way is the price of living honestly, I think that’s a pretty good deal. So no, it really wasn’t a phase!
CHRISTIAN WEST MARTIN ’26 As seniors, we spend a lot of time thinking about what’s next, college, careers, and everything ahead of us. But in doing that, we don’t always stop to think about how quickly we got here, or how fast this moment will pass. I wrote a poem to describe what this part of life feels like and it’s called In Due Time. is poem is just a reflection on time, on growth, and on how everything we’re experiencing right now will eventually become something we look back on.
In Due Time by Christian Martin In due time, this will all be a memory. e hallways. e routines. e moments that felt normal that we didn’t think twice about. In due time, these seats will be filled by someone else. And we’ll be somewhere else, living a life we once only talked about. Because life life comes fast. Faster than we expect. Faster than we’re ready for. One day we’re starting something, and the next we’re looking back at it. And it’s strange how the things we rushed through become the things we wish we could slow down. Because right now feels ordinary. But in due time, it won’t be. It’ll be a memory. A moment we try to replay. A time we didn’t realize
we were living through while it was happening. And that’s how life moves. Quietly. Quickly. In due time. We spend so much time thinking about what’s next where we’re going, who we’re becoming, what we still have to figure out that we forget this moment this part the story. Even the uncertain parts. Even the unfinished parts. Even the parts that don’t make sense yet. Because not everything is meant to make sense right away. Some things take time. And maybe that’s the lesson we don’t always notice Life comes fast, but meaning builds slowly. Moments pass quickly, but who we become takes time. So maybe we don’t need to rush through this. Maybe we don’t need to have everything figured out before we leave here. Maybe we just need to recognize it at this moment, right now, even if it feels small even if it feels normal is something we’ll miss. In due time.
And one day, we’ll look back and realize We were in the middle of something important. Something that shaped us. Something that changed us. Something that mattered more than we knew at the time. Because that’s how it happens. You don’t always see it while you’re in it. But you understand it later. In due time.
SARAH WESSELL MCCUSKEY ’26 My grandfather, Pop-Pop, is my best friend. Ever since I was little, I’ve loved going to his house for dinners, watching the Eagles with him, or sitting by his side as he reads and rereads the New York Times and Wall Street Journal. He is the definition of a lovable grandfather: he dresses as nice as possible for every event, he bird watches out the living room window, and he always greets me with a huge smile. He is my biggest supporter, my role model, and my favorite conversation partner. A few years ago, he was diagnosed with dementia. ough he has always struggled with names and technology, I started noticing more how forgetful he was becoming. All our conversations have started to sound more and more similar. I have heard an endless amount of times about my grandfather’s time in medical school, stories about my Mom and my uncles, or lists of all the poodles he’s had. I can’t even begin to count how many times I’ve been asked about my summer plans, what electives I’m taking, or the recent favorite: where I’m going to college. For a while, it was both frustrating and hurtful to answer the same basic questions multiple times throughout a few hours, and have to react over and over to the same stories and punchlines. Over time, I’ve learned to enjoy these identical, repetitive conversations. ey give me chances to return to myself, be present, and be comfortable. Every conversation gives me a minute to be still instead of constantly moving onto the next new thing. In a way, our repetitive conversations and visits feel like a lesson. I’ve come to appreciate that life isn’t made up of big, once-in-a-lifetime moments or life-changing conversations, but instead of little ones that repeat until they become part of who we are. At first, I thought this lesson only applied to my conversations with my Pop-Pop. But I began to notice the same kind of repetition shaping the rest of my life. My family’s routines, which once were boring and annoying to me, began to stand out. I used to be annoyed that my Mom seemed to only play Bob Dylan in the car, that every Sunday my Dad would refuse to change the channel from football to one of my shows, and that we always seemed to have the same dinners, and then eat the same breakfasts in the morning. But like the repetitive conversations with my grandfather, I was able to find comfort, and even enjoyment in these moments. Now, I love listening to Bob Dylan with my Mom, or watching football on Sunday with my Dad, because it feels like nothing’s that different from when I was little. ey give me time to not be growing up or be in action. So many of us in this theatre right now are going through huge changes. Whether it’s your first year of high school, or getting your license, or getting ready to go to college, there are constantly new things in your life. Sometimes, this change is exciting, and sometimes it’s terrifying. Whatever that is, I urge all of you not to get lost in the new and extraordinary. ough there is always a time for adventure, you should never forget the comfort that comes with repetition. at lesson, more than anything else, is the gi my grandfather has given me: the understanding that love lies in the ordinary, in the things we do again and again. And because of him, I will never take those small, repeated moments for granted. ank you.
ELAM PARKER MUSCELLI ’26 My brother has been a constant presence in my life for as long as I can remember. No matter where I was or what I was doing, Anthony was always there. He is definitely the person I have the most memories with. And while most of these are good whether it is us playing football in the backyard or Wii Sports together, there are definitely some bad ones that stick out like when he locked me out of his room for a week because I didn’t want to give him my favorite football card or our constant arguments about who has to do the dishes. Some of our best memories come from our time when we both went to Tower Hill. Getting to be on the same Football and Basketball teams, playing in the same band concerts, or going to watch him play in the Basketball championship were things I took for granted at the time but now reminisce about. He was always there to give advice or help me with anything he had already gone through. is all changed aer he le for college. I figured that our relationship wouldn’t really change all that much because his dorm room was just a mile or two away from our house. His absence didn’t immediately feel like a gap in my life, but over time I noticed how we had started to dri apart. Less random trips for food, less pick up games at the Y together, I couldn’t just go into his room whenever I wanted to annoy him anymore. It is the little things especially that I miss. Whether it was him forcing me to listen to his basketball podcasts on the way to school or him asking me to play NBA2k for the millionth time, I’m now nostalgic for things that used to annoy me. I used to hate when people called me by his nickname “Moose” because it felt like I was living in his shadow, but now I like it because it reminds me of him. Now that he’s in college I try to find more time to spend with him. I make sure to take him up on offers to play basketball or poker together when I get the chance. I look forward to summer, spring, and winter breaks because I know he’ll be home. Although I don’t get to spend as much time with him as I used to, I try to make the most of it when we do get to hang out. My message to all of you who have siblings in college is to reach out oen to see how they’re doing and cherish the time you have over breaks. My advice to those of you who still have the privilege to go to the same school as your siblings is don’t take the moments you have le for granted, even if it’s something as small and seemingly unimportant as your car rides to school, you’re gonna miss it when it’s gone. ank you
ALEX A. NEAL ’26 I have never gotten a good haircut. Every single time I have entered a barbershop, I’ve le a little sadder than before. No matter where I went or which barber I picked, I could never find a haircut that I was satisfied with. I believe that hair is the most important part of someone’s style. Even if you don’t really have a style, your hair can still convey some part about you. However, there was a time when I didn’t care whatsoever about my style or my hair. And so, starting in middle school, I would get buzz cuts. Every couple of months, when I felt my hair was getting too long, my dad and I would go out into the backyard and he would shave my head nearly clean. Starting around the middle of my freshman year, I became self-aware. Every time I would get a haircut or even just a trim, I felt judged by everyone else. In my mind, I stood out, and everyone was looking at me and criticizing my hair. I made the executive decision to stop cutting my hair. Aside from the occasional slight trim, I let it grow out for three full years. By the beginning of this year, it had reached all the way down to my shoulders and covered my eyes. It was also at the beginning of this year that I made another realization. My hair actually looked nothing like how I thought it looked. In my mind, it was much shorter, and barely covering my eyes and face. I couldn’t let it grow out any longer: for the first time in three years, I went to get a professional haircut. ere was one problem: I didn’t know where to get it. e places I would go to get my occasional trims were apparently only specialized in bowl cuts, considering every single trim I got made the front and sides of my hair a straight line with a slope of zero, so those were out of the question. Eventually, aer looking online for a while, I settled on one. Stepping into the barbershop, I felt excited. I had a reference photo vetted and approved by my friends, I had my sister and some of my friends there for emotional support, and best of all, it was right as winter break started, so that if the worst happened, at least I would have a couple of weeks to let it grow out. However, that excitement faded when I saw the beast about to cut my hair. 6’3”, 250 pounds of straight muscle of a man stepped out. Pitbull-owner, deadlis 405, owns an auto shop. And scariest of all, he calls himself e Bully Barber. Despite this, the haircut was gentle, almost soothing. It took him two and a half hours to complete. He used up an entire bottle of sea salt spray. As it turned out, looking into the mirror aerwards, he lived up to his name. e haircut was worse than I could have possibly imagined. He managed to combine a bowl cut with a mullet. I didn’t even know that was possible. And somehow, despite all of the sea salt, my hair was flat as a pancake. I mean, it was as if he didn’t even look at the reference photo. Stepping out of the barbershop, I felt ashamed. It was the end of the world. I would never recover. However, as the months passed, my hair actually started to look good. Not just good, it was exactly as I had envisioned it being at the start of this year. I loved it. e Bully Barber was simply playing the long game. So, what’s the moral of the story? ere are actually five. First, if someone doesn’t do the job right the first time, quit immediately. Why? Because I went to him last week, and the reference photo I showed him had the back and side hair all the way down to the bottom of my neck. And look at what he did. (Turn around) Clean cut. Second, trust the process. It might look terrible now, but e Bully Barber has an investment mindset. ird, don’t judge a book by its cover. e Bully Barber might look really intimidating at first, but he is the gentlest giant you will ever meet. Fourth, don’t let your parents cut your hair. ey don’t know what’s good for you. I definitely did not need those buzz cuts.
And lastly, don’t be afraid to experiment. I would’ve never known that my hair could look so much better if I just stayed in my comfort zone and never gotten that haircut. And if it looks bad, so what? It’ll grow back out eventually, and you can try something new next time. Bonus moral: don’t let other people dictate how you live your life. So what if people laugh at your haircuts and judge them? If you think it looks good, then it’s good. In this sense, my buzz cuts were probably the best haircuts I’ve gotten. I didn’t care about what people thought of them. I liked them. ey felt good. e breeze through my hair. I can’t lie, I kinda miss the buzz cut. Also, happy birthday Alexa. ank you
SIENNA JEAN NYGARD ’26 If my dad has taught me one thing in life, it is never to leave a turtle behind. No matter if my family was on our way to school or late for a doctor’s appointment, if we noticed a turtle trying to cross the road, we always stopped. My dad would pick up the turtle, wrap it in a towel, let my sisters and I name it, and then relocate it to the nearest pond. Even if it was a snapping turtle or a tiny baby one, my dad made sure we would always help them. We did this so oen that my dad was famously known in the neighborhood as the man who helps the turtles. One day in sixth grade, while I was taking my dogs outside to play, I saw my neighbor in the corner of my yard luring a tortoise to my door with a bag of carrots. Apparently, she had found the tortoise in her yard and attempted to lure her into ours since she knew my dad would lend a helping hand. My dad and neighbor talked for a while and figured that someone had this tortoise as a pet, yet released her because she got too big, as she was clearly not native to Delaware. Aer doing some research, we figured she was an African Sulcata tortoise. She weighed around 100 pounds, was about a foot and a half in length, and seemed to be around 8 years old with a life expectancy of 150 years. So, knowing she wouldn’t survive the winter months coming up and being the turtle-saving family we were, we took her in (and eventually settled on the name Ariana). Filled with excitement for our new pet, I immediately got to work on a safe and warm enclosure for her in our basement. I set up heating lamps, made her a bed, laid out lots of grass, and set out a water station. Every morning, I fed her a colorful breakfast of cut-up peppers, lettuce, strawberries, watermelon, and carrots. Some days, she was eating better than I was. In the summer, Ariana gets to roam our backyard. With her big appetite, she eats the entirety of our backyard’s grass and then runs off into the neighborhood to eat our neighbors’ plants. You may think a tortoise would be slow and could never run away from home. However, she has managed to slip away from her outdoor pen so many times, just to be found eating someone’s front yard plants or just cruising on the sidewalk on the other end of the neighborhood. As the years passed with having her, she has become a very loved family member. My dogs have grown fond of her, learning that she will try to eat their dog food if le unattended, but will also snuggle up next to them when she is cold. We never go a winter without placing our special-made Santa hat on top of her so she can walk around our Christmas party getting fed pieces of lettuce from our guests. Also, in the summer, she is always there to keep you company while doing yardwork or just soaking up the sun. One day, Ariana is going to outlive me. When I can no longer be the person who cuts her strawberries in the morning or lis all 100 pounds of her outside, I will get to pass her down to my kids, and maybe even my grandkids. I will be passing down the one true thing that has taught me responsibility, patience, and that my empathy for animals is not a waste. I’m sure my dad would get sick of me screaming every time I saw a turtle in the middle of the road because I was scared it would get hit by a car, but he always ended up stopping. He made sure I got to get a close look at the turtle, feel its shell, and find a safe home for it. My dad nurtured my love for animals and taught me, even though it can be a hassle at times, to care for them and other things that are in need of assistance. So, as I pass Ariana down to my children, I’m giving them more than a pet and more than a large tortoise that loves eating watermelon. I’m giving them an understanding heart for animals and the patience to care for them. I want to provide them with what my dad gave me, which is the opportunity to learn the importance of caring and being there for another being. Although many seniors, including myself, are all in a stressful place applying to colleges, I encourage us all to be a little more caring. Be the person in the hallway to help someone who dropped their books, help a freshman find their classroom, or help your friend with their homework. We should pass down a tradition of kindness that stays within Tower Hill for years to come. I encourage us all to stop and help the turtle on the side of the road.
ANDREW JIHOON PARK ’26 I heard this story about a fish, he swims up to an older fish and says: “I’m trying to find this thing they call the ocean.” “e ocean?” the older fish says, “that’s what you’re in right now.” “is”, says the young fish, “this is water. What I want is the ocean!” How do you know you’re in the ocean? How can you prove you’re in the open waves and not a lake, creek, or just a pond with a really good PR team? Well, if one can find defining traits of the ocean nearby, it must be. If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and has rows of unnervingly serrated teeth? Must be a duck. e ocean is big. Like really big. Big enough where if one picks a direction, they can keep following it until they inevitably run into something really really interesting. Captivating, even. And it’s full of fish. e odd aquatic mammal too. But it’s full of so many fish. Athletic fish, musical fish, red fish, blue fish, one fish, two special fish. Special fish that match me perfectly; ones that match me best, even. In the ocean you can cross open aquatic country with cleaving strides. You can use crainess and knowledge to trawl the continental cliffs for treasure. Exchange stories from the tribulations of travel with others that you pass by, and perhaps even decide to venture forth alongside them. And there’s always more ocean to let you go farther. More ocean to train in. More to find those special fish. More ocean if you can’t find what you need to live instead of just surviving. Someone would be very lucky if they were in the ocean. When your hobbies just can’t flower. Your companions don’t click. When you move through life, rerolling the waters you search, disheartened more and more from each floundering pursuit to find that promise of liveliness you yearn for—heeding neither solace in your personal pursuits nor support in close companions—you find yourself a listless person. One that feels no remorse for dropping the years invested into each community. One that stares the world with a deadpan ambivalence before turning his back and relocating far up the Atlantic coast, never to hear from the south again. But in the ocean, that isn’t the end. In the ocean, a man has infinite chances until he is alive. Nearly half a decade since moving to Delaware, now a fledgling upperclassman, a question crossed my mind “are ya winnin at the new school?” “No.” I answered, glumly staring out of the Cross Country bus window. I’ve only been in steady remission from cello burnout. I’ve only been scrapping varsity alternates in the running sports with luck, plus I only just got out of a knee brace. I don’t feel like I’m a cornerstone member of any community. If only I could stop hopping between seas and actually explore the ocean, then I would be “winning”. “Oh but you are” a voice in me reasoned. Yes, my aspirations of playing my bucket list cello sonatas are sidelined, but where I once couldn’t play most anything I came across on the internet, I have grown my technical ability to now tackle even janky transpositions at will. “Only an alternate runner” was achieved by striking new times onto the purple PR board for five straight months. I am doing better than I was last time I checked, every time I check. at is winning. at mythical group of people to geek out over tech or share niche history memes with until midnight might not be what I am inundated in, but I am certainly not strapped for a community anymore. e bus pulls to a stop and people begin to shuffle out as that voice, my heart, concludes its final argument. “You aren’t just in water. You are in the ocean. Look up and see.” I have this story about some thoughts. e thoughts run up to the brain and say “Mr. Brain, Mr. Brain! We’re still looking for this thing called a community.” “A community?” says the brain, “that’s what you’re in right now.” I look at the people beckoning for me from the Rehoboth boardwalk outside of the bus and smile. “Yes,” I say, “those are my friends. And I am glad to be in the ocean.”
NIKHIL RAJESH PATEL ’26 Cooking Stories What is both seen as an art and a science has been my go-to place for experimenting and occasionally making my kitchen look like a crime scene. Cooking has been one of my favorite things to do on weekends, during breaks, and even when I’m hungry while studying for a test around midnight. To be honest, I could sit here all day and tell you all the different reasons why I love making food. My decision to first step into the kitchen all started in middle school during the pandemic, where I’d find myself binge-watching MasterChef seasons along with frantically noting down recipes from my favorite cooking channels on YouTube. From those very moments, my life began to change. I remember the very first time I learned to crack an egg, scooping the eggshell fragments out of the egg whites. By the time I turned twelve, I had learned how to cook an egg in over ten different ways. But shortly aer, I realized that simply wasn’t good enough for me. With the cookbooks I begged my dad to buy me, I started to invest myself into trying to perfect the dishes I loved most. And while many times I thought I did, there was still something about the food I made that didn’t quite feel right. Yes, the innumerable pasta and dessert recipes from those books tasted amazing, though I realized that being a good cook wasn’t only about making things taste great. So, I started adding my own creative touch to things just because I thought they might make things work better. Sometimes they did. Sometimes they really, really didn’t. But making food became so much more fun when you don’t know what the outcome will be. At last, I felt that I had finally channeled my “inner chef.” But once again, something was missing. I had always enjoyed creating these delicious masterpieces by myself in the kitchen, even if I was making food for other people. And for some of you here, you know just how annoying it can be when someone else starts using the stove while you’re trying to make your own food. But that feeling disappeared last anksgiving. We had decided to have dinner with a larger group of people than normal, and nothing was ready. With smoke alarms blaring as the oven started to burn chemicals that came from who-knows-where, I had found myself amidst what it truly felt like to be cooking with others. And I’ll admit, it was fun. Nothing was perfect, and nothing was really going according to plan. And for the first time, I wasn’t focused on getting everything exactly right. I wasn’t worried about the fact that we were running out of butter or that the garlic bread was starting to burn in the pan. I was just glad enough to be part of all the chaos that our creativity brought with each other. Cooking wasn’t just about what I could make on my own anymore—it was about who I was making it with. It’s helped kindle new family traditions and recipes—like Fettuccine Fridays or Asian-Mexican fusion nights—just to name a few. And by the way, I still think I’m a better cook than my mom—Sorry Mom. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that cooking doesn’t have to be perfect to be worth doing. And the best part of it is getting to share those moments with other people. So I hope you all find something you enjoy with others—even if it means setting off your smoke alarm a couple of times.
GEORGE FINN PEDDRICK ’26 When I was 3 years old, my brother Tate, who many of you may know, threw an old license plate like a Frisbee across the room for me to catch. As I said, I was 3, so naturally it hit me squarely in the middle of my nose. I now have an offset nose and a deviated septum. at incident was the beginning of many years of a complicated relationship with my brother. You see, I have always looked up to him. I have always yearned for his approval. When we were younger, he was always cooler, funnier, more athletic, better at video games and most importantly a role model. But somehow, I was never quite sure about the way he felt about me. When I was 11 our family was on our annual summer vacation in Cape Cod. Like always, one night we went to have dinner at our favorite restaurant which overlooked the Cape Cod Bay. Fully dressed up and enjoying our time, we decided to go out on the dock and take a few photos in our nice attire. Bored with the situation, my brother came up with one of the smartest competitions I’ve heard of to pass the time: who can get closest to the edge of the dock without falling in. My refusal to lose the contest coupled with my little understanding of physics led me to believe Tate’s next brilliant idea: hold onto a rope on the side of the dock and lean back towards the water. Needless to say it didn’t work, and I spent the rest of the night upset and soaking wet. e next event happened recently. During spring break of freshman year, our family took a trip to Amsterdam. Being independent high schoolers, my brother and I were allowed to go get dinner alone one night. We picked a small sushi restaurant that looked cool and had good reviews. e meal was great, we were having fun and everything was okay. at was until my brother plotted yet another competition: a wasabi-eating contest. We went bite for bite, however eventually, I overestimated my abilities and consumed what apparently was a lot of wasabi. Immediately, I rushed to the bathroom and attempted to spit and wash out the spice. Aer a while, still in distress, I attempted to leave the bathroom. e door wouldn’t open. I tried over and over to unlock and open the door but it simply would not budge. As anyone in this situation would do, I started banging on the door and yelling for help. e place went dead quiet, and the manager came over to unlock the door. I was finally free but was now being stared at by 30 random people. And to cap everything off, amidst the silence, my brother echoed to the crowd “he does this all time” and the gallery proceeded to explode in laughter. When I look back on these stories, it isn’t the embarrassment that bothered me as much as the fact that I just wanted to be as cool as Tate and, in my mind, I was always failing. So… my relationship has been an endless pursuit of trying to win his respect and through some kind of competition. It could be anything from basketball to soccer to body surfing to FIFA. When I lost, which was pretty much always, I would either start a fight, or throw the controller across the room or run to our parents to tattle… always convincing myself that Tate was out to get me. My brother called me “so” which only fueled the fire. But when I was in 9th grade, I noticed things started to change. We played soccer on the same team, and he started to treat me with respect here and there. When Tate was a captain his senior year, he would confide in me about the team, trusting in me more than ever before. en he went to college, and I was alone in the house. At first, it was refreshing to finally have him off my back, but I soon realized how much time we had really spent together. en we went down to visit him at college, and I got to spend the night in his dorm room. at’s when something really weird happened, he toured me around and introduced me to his friends like he was proud to be my brother. While I was certainly over romanticizing something simple, in the moment, I couldn’t believe it. I guess I have come to realize that all those years I was trying to measure up to him and to get his respect, I might have had it all wrong. Yes, he WAS always laughing at my expense, but it was still all about just him and me. His world and my world were always the same. We weren’t separated by competition or respect or coolness—we were bound by the fact that we were brothers and will always be a big part of each other’s lives. All that time I was trying to impress him, he was calling me so because I didn’t realize that we were already equals. So keep an open perspective. e same moment can look totally different depending on the angle you choose to see it from—just like my stories with Tate. What once felt like embarrassment now feels like an unforgettable memory. What once seemed like him pushing me away was really just us getting closer. People always say life is constantly changing, but I’ve learned that sometimes the world doesn’t change nearly as much as we think. And when the way you look at something shis, its meaning can shi with it. So don’t be afraid to re-examine the people in your life. A small change in perspective can change the whole story.
TATE EVERETT POFF ’26 My mom always knew where I was in the house because I ran everywhere. As I grew up, that same sense of urgency followed me into nearly everything I did, whether it was eating quickly, racing through homework, or talking a mile a minute when excited. My mom would tell me to slow down, worried I might hurt myself, but I never wanted to. Life was a 100-yard dash. e only time I ever seemed to break that pace was with my grandparents. Whenever they came over, I was always the last child in the room, in no rush to leave to join my brothers. And when I played golf with my grandmother, instead of rushing through every hole, I would pause to take in the scenery, appreciating the stillness: no distractions, just me and my grandmother. When I turned 16 and was ready to get a job, I looked at many options: bagging groceries, working in fast food, washing cars—jobs that required making haste, of course. But when I saw the advertisement for Country House Food Server, a position at a retirement community center, I gravitated toward a job that might make me feel the same way I felt when I was with my grandparents. To my surprise, the residents were not unlike my high school peers and me. So much about the residence reminded me of the Broadway show I had seen years ago… Mean Girls. For example, when my boss showed me the dining room, she explained that if I seat a female resident at a table and notice others shaking their heads as I approach, I should probably find her a new table. My favorite resident, Judy, who served as the facility’s resident “popular girl,” would shout “ere’s my Tate!” from her apartment balcony as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. She would meet in the lobby with a compliment, making me feel both special and slightly embarrassed in the same way the seniors make freshmen feel. Like true adolescents, male residents ask the servers to fill their two-pint cups so full of butter pecan, rocky road, and rum raisin that the lids don’t even fit. On “Seafood Night,” I was restricted to how many crabs and shrimp I could dole out, but some residents would try to “twist my arm” into giving them one more crab, just like how I add a few extra chicken nuggets to my plate during lunch. But for every Mean Girls parallel, there was a reminder from the residents that echoed my grandmother’s advice whenever I hurried a drive, angrily topping the ball and making it roll off the tee: “Slow down and take a breath, enjoy the moment.” Every time I work in the bistro of the Country House, there’s always a group that lingers aer dinner. ey sit together, talking over the last sips of wine or playing card games, completely unhurried. My coworkers and I are usually in a rush to get home, but watching this group has made me appreciate how, like my friends and I, they savor every moment with the people beside them. Now, with my last year of high school in full swing, I find myself wanting to emulate e Country House residents. Aer spending so much of high school rushing toward the next objective, I want to slow down and savor the time I have with the people I love and take advantage of the little things that make me happy like, hanging out in the senior homeroom, going to Jansen’s aer school, and car rides with my younger brother. Looking back, I realize that slowing down was never about moving less, it was about noticing more. e residents at e Country House have shown me how joy lives in the quiet pauses between the rushes of life. ey also taught me that lessons don’t always come from grand moments; sometimes they come from simply standing still long enough to appreciate what’s right in front of you. As we seniors prepare to step into the next chapter, I want each of us to live with this intention, to cherish the joy of these final months and enjoy each minute. Perhaps my mother was always right; it would be good for me to slow down once in a while.
ADINA POPESCU ’26 Growing up, my cousins and I were inseparable. We spent most of our childhood together, making up games, playing Roblox, and doing just about anything we could to pass the time. Most of my favorite memories from ages four to eight were spent with my cousins and my brother. One of our favorite games was something we called “Rooms.” Every room in our grandmother’s house became someone’s home, and the hallways were the streets. As the youngest of the four, I usually ended up with the smallest room but I didn’t mind. What made it special was the way we turned it into a functioning economy. My oldest cousin would hand out money at the start, and we would each sell things from our “homes.” At that age, I didn’t really understand the concept of money. So naturally, I spent all of mine within the first five minutes. In a panic, I went to my grandpa’s office for help. He didn’t know the rules of our game either, so he decided to solve the problem his own way, we simply made more money. We wrote numbers on pieces of paper, cut them out, and just like that I was rich. Unfortunately, my financial comeback was short-lived when I tried to pay with a thirteen dollar bill. My cousins immediately knew something was off. at day they lectured me about playing fair and how you cannot just make more money when you run out. at same sense of structure and authority showed up in other games we played. My oldest cousin loved it when we played school. I didn’t love it as much mostly because she gave us real homework and actually graded it. She liked being in charge. But even in her bossiness, she was teaching me. I vividly remember her patiently helping me learn how to tie my shoes, practicing over and over again. She made up little games to help me tell my right from my le. At the dinner table, she would quiz me on our family’s phone numbers while I practiced dialing them on my toy Dora phone. Looking back, I realize how much my family shaped me. ey taught me lessons about responsibility, creativity, patience, and right from wrong, sometimes without even knowing it. As the years went on, life got busier. We didn’t see each other as oen. One by one, my cousins and my brother le for college, and I felt like I was being le behind. But every holiday when we’re all back together, it’s like no time has passed. We laugh about the trouble we got into, the tantrums we threw, and the ridiculous games we created. When I was younger, I couldn’t imagine ever being as old as my cousins and brother were when I looked up to them. And now, in just a few months, I’ll be graduating from high school myself. I couldn’t be more excited. However I am grateful for my childhood and having my family to guide me. Grateful for the small moments. e made-up games. e laughter. e bickering. So I urge all of you to cherish the time you have with your family. In the moment, those memories might seem ordinary. But one day, you’ll look back and realize they shaped who you are today.
SCARLETT FIONA QUINN-PLEMMONS ’26 “I’m claustrophobic” are the words I say over and over again wherever I go. People’s mouths usually form an O and they nod, even though I am not sure if they actually know what that means. It means you have a fear of being trapped in a small space. It started when I was in kindergarten. I was out to dinner with my family and I went to the bathroom with my sister. e doors to the individual stalls went all the way to the ground and had one of those classic handles. When I tried to get out of the stall, I couldn’t unlock it. I started panicking because I was now stuck in a stall. I yelled out to my sister and she kept repeating “Just turn the lock, just turn the lock.” I did. I turned the lock every way I could. My sister went to get my mom who echoed the same message (just turn the lock) but it still did not work. Eventually, my family got the manager, who had to use a coin to unlock the door for me. Unfortunately, that was not my last time getting locked in the bathroom. It happened again at school. I couldn’t unlock it so I crawled under the stall door and told a teacher, who then sent another student in to unlock it. ese incidents were the first I can remember where claustrophobia became real for me, but it did not end there. It only got worse. I stopped being able to sit in the third row of our car, sit on the inside a booth in a restaurant, or go in elevators. As I got older, I realized that this wasn’t something that was just going to go away or work itself out. And pretty quickly, I learned that if I didn’t say something for myself, no one else would know to. I remember freshman year being placed in an inside seat in the theater for morning meeting. It probably didn’t seem like a big deal to anyone else but it terrified me. For the day that I sat in that seat, I couldn’t stop thinking about how I was going to get out. e backpacks trapping me in and the people crowded around me made it very overwhelming. I knew I wouldn’t focus on anything else if I stayed in that seat. So I spoke up and easily got moved to an end seat. Since then, I have continued to stay seated on an end seat. Don’t get me wrong. I have tried to work on my claustrophobia. During an assembly, I tried sitting one seat away from the aisle, which also made me nervous, even though nobody was next to me. en someone came in and sat next to me. I wasn’t ready for that and I darted out of the assembly. Safe to say, I have not exactly worked on it since then, but hopefully one day I will. Claustrophobia has definitely been annoying and a hassle, but it’s also taught me something important. I learned to speak up sooner than I might have otherwise. It taught me that staying silent doesn’t make things easier. So my advice is simple. Speak up when you are uncomfortable. Especially when we (seniors) transition to college and new environments, don’t be afraid to advocate for yourself. ank you.
AVA ROSE ROBBINS ’26 is winter, I did something I’d never done before: I joined the Dive Team. A couple of my friends were on the team, which made me feel more comfortable with the whole idea, but I was still feeling pretty anxious about it. is isn’t a story about some great triumph, impressive accomplishment, or amazing comeback; it’s just about trying something new for the sake of trying something new. It’s true that I did face a certain amount of anxiety, but it actually wasn’t that bad. Most of the time when I tried a new dive it ended up being fun, funny, and memorable. e first time I was on the diving board, I was nervous, self-conscious, and intimidated. I watched as some of my team mates did triple backflips and other complex dives. ere was no way I could even come close to what they were doing. At one point, my coach instructed me to do tuck jump, and instead I ended up doing a full-blown cannonball because I never “untucked.” I made a huge splash, and half of the team laughed. At the moment I was embarrassed, but as I watched other people try new dives and oen have trouble with them, I was less anxious about trying again. I’m a pretty good athlete overall (a strong runner and solid lacrosse player), but I could tell from the start that I was never going to be good at diving. For example, I couldn’t stop “rainbowing” on my dives. Instead of going straight up and then straight down, I would always end up diving too far out and making a long “rainbow arc”—and, big splash— which gets an automatic low score in any competition. Aer each dive, I got to review my performance on video. is was another exercise in humility. It was clear visual evidence that I would never be even a super good diver but I still wanted to try something new. e most complex dive I tried to work up to was reverse dive. For this dive, you start a few feet from the end of the board, take a few steps forward, and then rotate backward toward the board. e first time I attempted it, I fell off the end of the board before I could even begin to execute the dive. But I kept trying, and eventually I could make out somewhat of the dive. I probably would have earned a 3 out of 10 on my best days with that dive, but it still gave me a sense of accomplishment to just be able to basically do it. rough all this, my coaches were patient, supportive, and helpful. ey wanted me to learn as much about diving as I could and to have a positive overall experience on the team. During my time on the Dive Team, I also enjoyed things like talking with friends on the team and listening to blasting music on the way to practice. We would all squeeze into the tiny hot tub barely warm and definitely not spacious—just sitting there for way too long stalling to jump in the freezing pool, catching up about school and life. It was repetitive, but in a comforting way that made it something to look forward to. Waiting in line for our turn on the board as we gave each other tips and encouragement. It felt good to be part of the group. I also came to understand that you can learn a lot from an experience that doesn’t result in an amazing victory against all odds or a heroic comeback aer a crushing defeat. Although I never became very skilled or even participated in any real tournaments, there was a valuable lesson that I learned from joining the Dive Team: Always try new things. It’s the only way you’ll grow—and you’ll never get bored.
ALEXA HATHAWAY ROHRBACHER ’26 Most of you might not really know me. But even if you don’t know me by name, you almost definitely know or can at least recognize me by my braid. To give you some background: It all started my freshman year when I decided to play on the football team. Almost immediately aer the first few practices, I realized there was a problem. And that problem was my hair. Whenever I played with my hair in a ponytail, it got completely matted. If I put my hair down, I couldn’t see, which was obviously an issue. And a bun wouldn’t fit (at all) under the football helmet. Aer a lot of trial and error, I found the perfect solution: e Braid. It worked, so I wore my hair in a braid to the next game, and the next one, and then every single day of high school since. At first, I didn’t even know how to braid my own hair. My mom did it for me every morning. But I learned pretty quickly that if I was going to wear it every day, I should probably learn how to do it myself. But even now, when I’m too tired or I can’t get it right, my mom still braids it for me. Aer a while, this turned into a routine and something familiar that gave me a sense of comfort every morning before the day started. ere have definitely been good parts to wearing a braid every day. Somehow it became a part of other people’s routines too. Almost every morning some of my friends rate my braid of the day on a scale from 1-10. eir standards are definitely too high (and their ratings feel slightly rigged), but it’s still become a fun goal to try and beat my score from the day before. In the fall, when I worked aer school in Kaleidoscope, some of the kindergarteners even started to notice that my hair never changed. A few of the girls even started coming in with braids because they wanted to match me. at was when I really realized how much my braid had become more than just a hairstyle. But as the braid became part of my routine, there was another side to it too. Over time, it stopped being something I thought about and became something I automatically did. I didn’t dislike it, but aer a while, the idea of wearing my hair down or doing something different felt… just weird. Like it might draw a bit of attention I wasn’t really looking for. I’ve never loved change. And wearing my hair the same every day became a pretty easy way to avoid it. Now, as a senior, I’ve been asked a lot about what college will look like for me. And from some of my friends, the question that usually follows (and somehow even feels a little scarier), is: “Are you going to keep the braid?” And honestly, I don’t really know. To me, the idea of college already feels like a lot of change—with a new school, new people, and entirely new routines to get used to. I’ve even found myself worrying: “What if I can’t get it right and my mom isn’t there to braid it for me?” But maybe that’s also the point—that college is where some of those routines are supposed to change. When I first started writing this speech, I thought it was just going to be about my hair. But I soon realized it was also about comfort, routine, and knowing when it might be time to change one. To try and finally answer the question everyone keeps asking: I’ll probably wear my hair differently in college, but I’ll still bring back the braid for comfort when I need it. And maybe one day I’ll even come back and visit Tower Hill with my hair down—or maybe I won’t. Because I’ve learned that sometimes growth isn’t about changing everything. Sometimes it’s just as simple as knowing when to keep the braid and when it’s okay to let it down.
RIKHIL SANJEEV ’26 I am an expert escape artist. No, not one that can escape from a straitjacket or even the call of ice cream on a hot summer day (or any day really), but I am pretty good at escaping from life. I have two types of escape routes. Long-term passions and short-term obsessions. My only real long-term passion has been tennis. Almost every day aer school, I would forget about homework, family issues, or any other stress and throw myself into perfecting my cra. My laid-back demeanor completely melts away on court, revealing a fiery alter-ego. If I win a big point, you’ll be able to hear it from any other court. If I do something really stupid, you’ll also be able to hear it from any other court. For a while, I thought my energy and passion towards tennis came from my love for winning; I wasn’t even really sure if I loved tennis. is love for winning spilled over into my most recent short-term obsession: college apps. My advisor oen jokes that I lived in the college counseling office. Any chance I got, free periods, office hours, even during lunch, a time that was once sacred to me, I was now willing to violate its sanctity just to get feedback on an essay. As a deeply passionate person, I throw myself into whatever my interests are, college apps just being my latest one. However, more than just being interests I could use to escape, college apps and tennis both served as something for me to win. Yet my pursuit to win made me do something I thought I’d never do. I stopped playing tennis. Not completely at first—it started with not asking my friends to hit aer school because I just didn’t feel like it, and then slowly missing one of my few practices to do work, until I didn’t even sign up for winter practice sessions on time. For a second, I had no way to guarantee that I’d be able to play at all. e day I internalized this, I thought I had lost myself. It turned out tennis didn’t just connect to me as an escape route, it had made its way into the core of what made me, me. I had lost all hope until my coach texted me one day. A kid had broken their ankle, and he asked me if I wanted the spot. A part of me snapped back into place. I didn’t think twice before telling him yes, and I’ll forever be thankful for that moment. e other day, I showed up to practice completely exhausted instead of skipping like I would have done before. is is probably the part where you think I’m gonna say something like, “and I played amazing.” e reality was quite different. My coaches oen tell me I move like a baby giraffe on court, but that day I played like one too. Yet, I was still glad I went. I’ve been asking myself for years whether I actually loved tennis or just winning, and this finally gave me the answer I had been searching for for so long. As we travel through our formative years, our identities begin to take shape, and we learn the parts of us that are nonnegotiable. Never let anyone or anything take away what makes you, you. And on that note seniors I want to offer you a special piece of advice. Today, many of us will receive decisions from our top schools. Some of us already have, and some of us will soon. If you get in, congratulations, I’m confident in saying to any of you that you deserve it. If not, I’m not trying to be corny when I say that that school didn’t deserve you anyways. If you frame life as a journey towards self-discovery, getting rejected from your top school isn’t losing. College apps aren’t something to win, it’s just a part of that journey. Each and every one of you deserves a place that wants you for you, a place that saw only a small glimpse of you and chose you. Never settle for anything less. ank you.
JOSEPH SETTING III ’26 “Papa Ned, wake up!” I screamed, shaking him vigorously to revive him. I watched his body go limp, his head fall on his chest, and his arms drop from the steering wheel. As I tried to wake him, our car found the only guardrail-free section of the road, heading for a 20-foot cliff. My beloved grandfather and I were on death’s doorstep. Just a few hours before, Papa Ned and I were conquering Utah’s most challenging ski runs. Since I was three, we built our relationship on our shared love of skiing. Papa Ned devoted his wintertime to coaching me in skiing. As I grew up, our winters consisted of begging my mother to let us go to the mountains on weekends. is ski trip, however, took a turn for the worse. My grandfather’s foot was still pressed on the gas as we sped toward the 20-foot embankment. ere was nothing I could do but direct our vehicle to miss the last tree before clearing the cliff. Our car leapt off the embankment, yet we miraculously landed on all four wheels. Aer our vehicle slammed to the ground, I scrambled out the SUV window, crawled across the hood, and yanked Papa Ned’s door open. As I learned from my veteran-nurse aunt, I screamed in Papa Ned’s face and vigorously rubbed his sternum, causing him to flutter his eyes as he regained dazed consciousness. Realizing my phone was dead, I grabbed his phone to call EMS and sprinted across a small farm to give the 911 operator the only street sign in sight, only to have his phone die too. Slight relief came over me when four EMTs arrived and rushed him to the ambulance, paddling his chest when he flatlined twice on the hospital ride. Around 3:00 a.m., I faced a life-or-death decision for my beloved grandfather. Do I sign off on his pacemaker surgery? At fieen, alone with zero family input, I tried to silence the panic as Papa Ned’s limp body haunted me. Doing nothing was a gamble too great, so I prayed and put pen to paper, sending Papa Ned under the knife. Aer a sleepless night, my heartbeat finally slowed at 5:30 a.m. when my grandfather exited the surgical suite with his pacemaker implanted. I wept when I saw his balding, gray head rolling towards me. Ever hungry, he pleaded for applesauce, which made me bawl even harder. Papa Ned was back to his usual hungry self. Remaining composed, I saved the life of the man I admire most, allowing me to cherish more moments with him. Instead of letting fear and uncertainty dictate dangerous choices, I remained calm and focused on each challenge at hand throughout the night. My true bravery was shown in making quiet, steady choices for Papa Ned. Genuine love for my grandfather overrode my fight or flight instinct, guiding me through each problem as it arose. at night showed me that real strength comes from remaining calm and thinking clearly, even in chaos. It made me realize I want to be the levelheaded one in a high-stakes situation, whether during a family member’s heart failure or a friend’s mistake causing an overtime lacrosse loss. Now, when adversities arise, I strive to practice the same steadiness that I used to save Papa Ned’s life. For two and a half years since, I have visited my grandparents, cherishing little moments. I frequent their house, enjoying Dot’s Original Seasoned Homestyle Pretzels, as Papa Ned and I take turns grabbing from the 35-ounce bag. is seemingly mundane event means the world to me. If I were not in the car that night on the mountain, he would have died. Now, sharing Dot’s pretzels with Papa Ned is more than a snack. It’s a reminder of my calm courage on that life-saving night.
MACY WANG SHI ’26 Message Goal: Love life→ love future→ future depends on climate → protect our climate=protect our future. “You think you just fell out of a coconut tree? You exist in the context of all in which you live and what came before you.” (Kamala Harris) But to my 7th grade self, the biggest question was—what comes aer me? Aer my parents inevitable deaths, my death, aer the 21st century? e existential fear of my mortality swirled into my dreams and set hidden traps in every medical drama and joke of death. Only at my Michigan hometown’s Dickinson Lake did I find solace from my never-ending anxiety. Kayaking in blue-green water that stretched for miles, I could finally breathe a sigh of peace, enveloped by balmy breezes rustling summer leaves as gentle water lapped against my boat. But upon returning weeks later, the lake had deteriorated into an unrecognizable greasy, brown sludge. Do Not Enter, a sign read. is lake is contaminated with E. coli. at day, I saw that death wasn’t a distant future—it was already unfolding around me as warming summers pushed ecosystems past their limits. Fast forward 5 years, to the Panama trip a few weeks ago. On the beautiful San Blas islands, a sparkling oasis in the middle of turquoise seas, we learned that the breathtaking home to the indigenous Kuna people was sinking. A new school had to be removed because of its imminent drowning in rising sea levels. e reality of warming temperatures pushing glaciers to melt and sea levels to rise, drowning not just islands but people, their dreams, their futures, reminded me that in the background of assignments and tests, our planet was still crying for help. How does it feel when I say the last time there was this much CO2 on the planet, humans didn’t even exist? at our most recent winter with extreme cold phases was caused by warming temperatures weakening the Arctic’s polar vortex, causing gusts of arctic chill to blow down to our region? ese facts oen don’t inspire motivation or passion, and instead cause feelings of apathy, terror, paralyzing the audience. And it’s normal. Psychologically, climate issues trigger fear, guilt, and helplessness, and our brains shut those feelings down to protect our sense of self and belonging on this planet. So I’m not here to give you facts about our dying planet or how harmful our ways of life are. e issue of our climate is only going to get more prominent in our lives, so I’m here to share a little strategy, a little realization, that has helped me turn some fear into action. It’s pretty simple. What’s stronger than fear is hope. How does it feel when I say, as a result of people caring, the blue whale came back from extinction? Our country’s icon, the bald eagle, was rescued from extinction just 19 years ago? ere is hope. And what’s stronger than hope is love. e environment isn’t something separate from us; we are a part of it. We are the environment. So love your own life so much you would protect our planet’s life, endangered species lives, and the lives of people born on a sinking island. Now, almost 6 years aer 7th grade, I can’t say I’ve found out what happens aer death, but the one thing I can say for certain is—I love my life. e thing that brought me out of my existential crisis at Dickinson Lake was simply enjoying being alive. For me, that came in the form of appreciating nature—breathing fresh air, touching cool water, hearing birds sing. Beyond that, the friendship, beauty, art, memes, and food humans create are the most precious things to witness. It’s what drives me and hopefully you as well to care for the ecological foundation that these human creations rely on. So feel deeply. Show your friends and family how much you care for them, celebrate successes, cry hard at rejections, laugh harder at jokes, and love your life so much you need others to experience that exhilarating joy. I urge you to take a closer look around you. e friends who you deeply cherish eating lunch with, the beautiful canopy of trees on your drive home from school, your favorite outfits, the sunkissed memories of spring break stored in your camera roll. Whether you want to admit it or not, the impact of climate change is all around us. It affects our vacations, the post-rain flooding on our drives to school, the clothing companies we buy from, and all our loved ones. In order to honor our time on this planet, we must protect the earth that provides us this magical opportunity. Because everyone deserves the right to truly live, starting with all of us.
JAMES HARPER SILLIMAN ’26 I never would have guessed that the study skills I learned in middle school would actually save my life. Since I was 13, I attended Teton Valley Ranch Camp in Wyoming for a month each summer until I graduated 2 years ago. is camp taught me how to care for horses, how to survive in the wilderness, and valuable life lessons about responsibility, leadership, and perseverance. During the first backpacking trip of my final year, I faced my biggest challenge yet. e staff announced we would be attempting an experimental 50 mile route across the back side of the Teton Mountain range. We would be the first group to attempt it. e distance alone was intimidating, but with the elevation gain, it would feel much further. My cabinmates and I were ready, until the first day took a turn for the worst. Aer a few hours of hiking, I began to feel dizzy and nauseous. At first, I thought it was just a headrush from standing up too quickly, but hours later I still felt weak. When I told my counselors, they checked my temperature and discovered I had a high fever. We realized it was likely altitude sickness, caused by a sudden lack of oxygen in the air which my body had not yet adapted to, coming straight from the East Coast. I was given two options: hike back to the start and end the trip for the group, or push forward another 25 miles to a rescue point on the Continental Divide. To be honest, I was terrified. I have never felt so sick in my entire life, but I chose to keep going for my friends. As the journey continued, my sickness got worse and my backpack felt heavier with every step. Sometimes I could barely stand. e only thing that kept me going were my mini goals. “Just make it to that rock,” I told myself, “just make it to that tree.” Breaking the huge trek into small steps gave me the strength to keep moving forward. e next day we continued our hike and my sickness was continuing to torture me, I had used up all of our medication, I was unable to eat any kind of food without almost vomiting, and my counselor had to carry my backpack for me while I wobbled through the forest. It couldn’t possibly get worse than this… at was until we heard loud crashing and trees falling in the distance. Everyone looked around to figure out what was happening until one of my friends shouted “BEAR.” Now we have a protocol for when there’s a bear sighting, but this bear was charging at us and knocking every small tree down as it ran. I knew that if it came down to us having to run from it I would no doubt be eaten first as I could barely even stand on my own two feet. e bear had gotten so close that I could see its eyes, and it was then that I gave up. ankfully my group stood their ground around me and started making as much noise as possible. ankfully the bear ran past us and disappeared into the forest. is horrible encounter had just about taken the rest of the energy I had le, so when we finally reached the bottom of the plateau, I had to crawl up the final stretch. But finally we reached the top, and there waiting for me was my rescuer. I saw an old beat up yellow car parked on the plateau, identical to the cars from Jurassic Park, and beyond it, the most beautiful view I have ever seen, full of beautiful blue skies and snowy mountain ranges everywhere. And at that moment, I knew the pain and struggle had been worth it. Looking back on this experience I realized that the techniques I used to keep pushing and stay on my feet were identical to the study skills I learned in middle school, turning large tasks into small pieces and getting help from others. Now I’m not telling you to study more or do better but what I will say is that breaking large things down into small steps and asking your friends for help can be very beneficial in any aspect of life.
DANIELLE OLUWATOSIN SOLEYE ’26 ere’s something my mom has always said to us growing up: you only get one sister. For most of my life, I heard it, but I didn’t really understand it. Because when you’re a sibling, having a sister doesn’t always feel like a gi. ose who know me and Samantha know we can be best friends one second and screaming at each other 20 minutes later. My parents can definitely confirm that part. Samantha and I have always argued over the dumbest things. One of the biggest ongoing battles in our house has always been clothes. Because we put away our own laundry sometimes things end up in each other’s closets, purposely or not, and we wear knowing we probably should have asked. So on the day of my uncle’s birthday party, while we were all getting ready to leave, Samantha came into my bathroom accusing me of taking her white Aéropostale waffle pajama shorts. She was convinced I took them, which lets be honest makes sense but this time I 100% didn’t. She was so convinced and loud about the whole situation that my dad made it very clear that if I had them, even by accident, I owed her one hundred dollars. One hundred dollars for pajama shorts. Please. She searched everywhere. And aer all that, they were in her room. On her bed. Exactly where she le them. To be fair, accusing me makes total sense but I was definitely offended. But that’s just how we are. We’ve always taken each other’s things. But the only difference is, I make her pay for my clothes. ose who know me also know I like to do the most. I’m loud. I’m expressive. I show my love in big ways. So when Samantha had her moving up day, and she was getting recognized, I did what I thought was supportive. I yelled, “at’s my sister!” at the top of my lungs. In my head, it was this proud, movie-like moment. I thought she’d smile, maybe even feel special. But if you know Samantha, you know she doesn’t like attention. At all. e second I yelled, her face dropped. She was embarrassed, she was mad, and somehow, she got grounded. And funny enough I would still do it again. But as much as we’ve fought, there have also been moments that reminded me how important she really is to me. One long weekend, our parents took both of our phones away. Why, I still don’t know to this day. At the time, it felt like the worst thing that could happen. No texting. No scrolling on TikTok. No distractions. Just us. We ended up sitting on the couch together and watching e Good Place for hours each day. For those who don’t know, e Good Place has 4 seasons, and we watched each and every one. And somewhere between episodes and laughing at the same jokes, we just existed together. No arguing. No accusations. No distractions. Just sisters. at weekend didn’t feel important at the time. But looking back, it was. Because it reminded me of something simple. Sometimes you have to unplug to really see what’s in front of you. We spend so much time focused on everything else, our phones, our schedules, what’s next, that we forget to appreciate what’s already here. e people who have been here the whole time. My dad says all the time that Samantha will miss me when I leave for college. And I believed him. I thought, of course she would. I’m the older sister. I’m the one that pays for her food. I’m the one dropping her off at her friend’s house, like a personal Uber. I’m the one blasting music on the way to school. But now, I realize it’s really the other way around. I’m the one who’s going to miss her. I’m going to miss the arguments, the accusations, the moments on the couch, and even the things that annoyed me. Because at the end of the day, my mom was right. You only get one sister. And even if it took me 17 years to fully understand what that means, I finally do.
TANG JIAYOU ’26 I certainly do not deserve the worst senioritis. For those of you who know this yet, my wonderful classmates voted me, your favorite senior, as the one who has the worst senioritis. at is absolutely wrong. Because it wouldn’t be senioritis if I had been doing this for twelve years. I blame it on my parents. My parents are the so-called pretty chill ones. Starting from second grade, I have been living in a household of anarchism. We never had a curfew or any form of rule basically. ere’s never been a moment of “Hey TJ your mom, and I need to talk to you for a second.” So what happened in second grade is that my brother, who is ten years older than me, graduated from high school. For some context, they applied a totally different education strategy on my brother. You know, “Go to piano, then math, then English.” at kind of thing. Now, my brother is a genius. His nickname is huanghuang. In our dialect, it sort of refers to the kind of gangster who just walks around in the street doing nothing. He is very much the opposite of that. He is smarter than anyone I’ve met, and is always the most reliable shoulder to lean on. So very easily he made it into some of the top colleges in the world. And he decided not to go to any of them. You can imagine my parents’ faces when they hear that. Flipped their sanity. He decided to take his tuition and start his own business, because he knew that’s what he truly wanted. Now as I am standing in his shoes, facing my own graduation. I can’t stop myself from wondering, would I do that? No. I don’t have the courage, the dedication, and most importantly, I don’t know what I truly want. I never knew what I truly wanted. Yeah I’m going to college now. But what’s aer that? Get a job in my major? Sounds cool. But is it truly what I want? at question consumes me as if an endless, intangible ocean suffocates me. I know a lot of my brother’s high school classmates. ey were all legends back in the school. Interesting people, fairly wealthy family, went to the best colleges. And now they’re thirty years old, just not doing anything. Because they still can’t answer that same question: what do I truly want? ey just feel like it’s meaningless to do anything. And I’m feeling this right now. I’ve always felt this. It’s not too much of a problem when you know what to follow, for example a school schedule. But as we leave school and enter society, there is no longer a schedule, this is when it would come up. It’s not even like a dramatic crisis. It’s not like waking up every morning and panicking, “Oh what do I do?” It just sits there, quietly. According to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs theory. When we’ve fulfilled our basic needs, this kind of question pops up. e question that leads us to think about the point of existence. So if you think about it, it’s actually quite a luxury to be able to have trouble with that question. I don’t know when I’ll be able to answer that, maybe I’ll never be able to answer that. I asked my brother why he was able to answer that. How do you know what you truly want? And you know what he said? “Why’d you ever think I knew it?” For some context, my brother failed his first business, got two million in investment, lost them all in five years and went back to college. Failure is the main tone of our lives, and there is no direction that lies in front of us. We might never know what we want, but it’d be fun to explore, wouldn’t it? And this is why you should vote for me for the worst senioritis. I hereby call for the re-vote of senior superlatives. If you want to support me please post on Instagram with hashtag justice for TJ or TJ has no senioritis. Together we can make this change, and together we can bring back my honor. ank you very much.
VALERIE STARK THOMPSON ’26 “I’m sorry for your loss”—a phrase people say when they don’t know what else to say. Generic and hardly comforting, but nonetheless, acceptable. ere I stood in my black dress with a smile painted on my face. Not too happy. Not too sad. Just enough to pass for okay. Because grief, I learned, comes with an unspoken dress code—besides the uncomfortably itchy black dress and constricting stockings. You’re supposed to look composed, but not cold. Just enough to be there for others. Noticeably affected, but not totally undone. Sad enough to be believable, but not so sad that people feel the need to intervene. So when I was met with that familiar phrase—“I’m sorry for your loss”—I fell back on my assumed funeral rulebook and my trusty sarcastic crutch. Before I could stop myself, I replied impulsively: “I mean, you didn’t kill her, so no need to apologize.” I bit my tongue. Hard. And apologized for my blunt reply. I told myself cracking a joke takes the edge off. But was my humor really for others? Or was it subconsciously just for myself? Under the surface, I was taking my grief out on other people. It’s not that I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I was trying to make the moment lighter. at’s always sort of been my instinct—retreating to humor, soening the blow before it has a chance to get to me first. Adding light into dark situations. at’s who I was. It’s who I’ve always been. My identity depended on usefulness: the daughter that tried to make things easier; the friend that filled silence with sarcasm at the wrong times. e person who instinctively searched for the silver lining, playing the devil’s advocate, even when it felt wrong to do so. For a long time, I thought this was my strength. But when I began finding positives in death’s wake, guilt replaced any certainty I had. at little contrarian inner voice, the one that carried me for so long, drove my goals, characterized my personality, influenced the way I interacted with the world… it suddenly felt wrong. It wouldn’t shut up, despite my efforts to meditate or scream or destroy my eardrums by blasting music. “Everything happens for a reason,” it said. Like an unrelenting child, it repeated optimism when all I wanted to do was sit in my sadness. Needless to say, I was annoyed. It felt disrespectful because when you’re grieving, finding positives feels almost wrong. I wasn’t healing, I was ignoring what was lost. When I came back to sophomore year from that dreadful spring break, I found comfort in the monotonous routine of classes. I found stability in showing up, sitting down, and knowing exactly what the day was going to look like. But I didn’t just come back to classes, I came back to friends who made me laugh when I needed it most. Friends who sat next to me like nothing had changed, offering love instead of pity. Friends who let me feel genuinely okay again, giving me the comfort of normalcy when life outside of school felt like anything but that. ey let me be sarcastic and sad and distracted and still they loved me. Made me feel like I belonged, and like this bad thing didn’t define me. I’m not standing here telling some neat story about overcoming loss with forced happiness, or how I found the positives right away, or even how pain and conflict ends with emerging stronger on the other side. Real grief, real sadness and real feelings, are anything but neat. It doesn’t follow a predictable 5-block schedule, with a shortened assembly schedule on Wednesdays. And it definitely doesn’t care that we have school the next morning. From all this, I learned that real strength isn’t keeping it together, sticking to that all-too-familiar “yes, thank you for asking, I’m okay” lie. Real strength lies in vulnerability, in letting yourself fall sometimes. Don’t be afraid to lean on the people you love, and definitely don’t make the same mistake I did, thinking that leaning on others, “showing weakness,” meant failing in some way, like I was being too much. e truth is that being loved does not—and should not—require performance. You don’t earn love by being strong or happy. You’re allowed to show up exactly as you are.
Many of us are carrying things quietly. We show up. We smile. We pretend, because that’s what we think we’re supposed to do. But when we stop pretending, who are we really? So if there’s anything I hope my class takes with them, it’s this—especially as we get ready for our own new beginnings: you don’t have to have everything figured out. Allow yourself to feel the uncomfortable things, and seize the opportunities life throws at you. Don’t rush past them. Lean on the people who love you. Let yourself fall back on them when need be. ey’re there for a reason. And when life gets heavy—and it will—don’t be afraid to look for light. Sometimes, forcing yourself to see the bright side is just what you may need, because even in the worst situations, the ones characterized solely by darkness with seemingly no way out, you might be the light you’re waiting for. ank you.
DONALD PAUL TRUESDELL III ’26 I have been playing baseball since I was 4 years old, I have enjoyed playing and watching baseball my whole life. Here at Tower Hill, I have been a part of the team since my freshman year. During that season we had a new head coach which meant everybody had a fresh start. Shortly aer the season started coach Ellis mentioned a volunteer opportunity at Naamans Little League. e team would be buddies for other kids who have disabilities and help them play an organized game of baseball. To be fully honest as a freshman, being a buddy was the furthest thing from what I wanted to spend my Saturday doing. My friends and I talked about if we actually were going to show up, but thankfully the seniors on the team didn’t give us any option and told us if we didn’t go bad things would happen. Because of this encouraging statement we all reluctantly agreed we would go. When I first arrived at the complex I saw my coach, and he partnered me with a boy named Matt. He was 16 years old and diagnosed with Down syndrome. As I started to introduce myself I couldn’t even say my name before Matt gave me along with my coach a hug and thanked us for being there. I was shocked to say the least being partnered with somebody who was older than me and was as enthusiastic as he was. I hadn’t worked with kids much let alone children with various disabilities, but Matt was easy to talk with and he loved asking questions even if they had nothing to do with baseball. We started throwing the ball and on the first throw he sailed it a minimum 10 feet over my head which may or may not have hit a car in the parking lot. Aer this I wanted to get away from that spot. We went to the fence where we hit off a tee. at lasted about 1 minute aer he hit a ball over the wall into the First Watch Breakfast building behind the field. I was not only surprised by Matt’s strength but truly how far he hit that baseball. Once we started playing a game Matt would give up his position so other kids could play there. He also would go up to other players and introduce himself and thank them for spending their Saturday with him and the other kids. Aer the game ended Matt’s family came up and asked for a picture of him with the team, he gave all of us a hug and said “this was incredible.” Aer the game ended the whole team got pizza across the street and once I sat down and talked with my friends I realized what an impact we had on them and they had on us. I remember sitting and thinking back to Friday’s practice where I cheated certain drills and just wanted to go home. But seeing the faces of other kids having the time of their lives doing something I get to do everyday stuck with me. Another aspect I thought about while sitting down is the families of these children, for example Matt brought his Mom, Dad, Siblings, Grandparents and other family friends to show up and watch him play. It means just as much to their parents as it does the players. Since freshman year the baseball team has been working with Naamans, as I start college next year I plan to join another organization similar to Naamans. I encourage everyone to find a way to give up your time, and use it to better someone else’s life. It might look different for every person but do something, you never know what can happen, it might even turn into your senior speech. ank you
ELLA CATHERINE VANNI ’26 17 years ago today, my little sister Charlotte was born. When we were younger, my nickname was Honey Bunny and hers was Honey Badger—two names that perfectly fit our personalities. I was timid, gentle, and calm, while she was fearless, loud, and untamed. Even though she’s 13 months younger than me, Charlotte somehow managed to boss me around AND teach me things. As babies, she taught me how to climb out of my crib. She taught me how to sled downstairs zipped inside a suitcase. (I don’t recommend doing that) She taught me how to eat soap. How to breathe underwater with a bucket. And the sacred art of scooter ballet. But most of all, she taught me confidence. Growing up, my family moved five times across five different states. New schools, new teams, new routines, every move pushed us into unfamiliar territory. My sister seemed to thrive in the change. She’d walk into new places like she owned them. Every time, Charlotte would walk in first, speak up first, and show me how to be loud and bold in new places. She led the way. At our older brother’s soccer games, we were the classic sideline siblings, equipped with Barbie dolls, jump ropes, Polly Pockets, and snacks. ough I was too shy to leave my parents, Charlotte would march right up to groups of kids and jump into their games effortlessly. And every time, she’d turn back for me, grabbing my hand, and would drag me into gymnastic competitions or tea parties until I forgot I was nervous. Week aer week, Charlotte stepped out into the world—and every time, she took me with her. at’s where I started to learn something big from someone small. Over time, I’ve grown into a space between Honey Bunny and Honey Badger—still sweet, but no longer scared to speak up, take risks, or stand my ground. Growth doesn’t always happen in extremes; it happens somewhere in the middle. And while Charlotte’s mellowed out a bit, she’s still the tough, gritty sister who shaped me into who I am today. Next year, for the first time in my life, I’ll be entering a new world without my Honey Badger by my side. But I’ll carry everything she’s taught me: how to break out of cribs, crush suitcases, breathe underwater, and most of all, how to be brave. Love you Charzy and Happy Birthday!
MIA GRACE VATTILANA ’26 anksgiving is my favorite holiday. Now, I know that may be controversial because you don’t get presents like during Christmas or get to dress up in a fun costume like during Halloween. But I stand by my decision, and I have since I was little. anksgiving isn’t my favorite holiday because of the turkey, green beans, or my Mommom’s famous stuffing. It’s also not my favorite because of the break we get from school, although those are all great bonuses. anksgiving is my favorite holiday because my entire family, and by “entire family” I mean all forty of us: cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, is together under one roof. And, if you know anything about my family, you know we are the biggest, loudest, and most entertaining family you will ever meet. So our anksgiving is not just a quiet, boring holiday, but rather a big crazy event that I look forward to all year. As I was growing up, I did not realize how rare it was to have such crazy holiday parties with everyone always showing up. To me, my family has always just been there, constant in the background of my life. ey have always been there for me, through ups and downs, and mistakes and accomplishments. I’ve always had my family to cheer me on at sports games, call when I need help, or give me the brutally honest truth when I need to hear it, and trust me they are brutally honest. No matter what changes take place in my life, my family is the one thing I can always count on to remain the same. Friends have come and gone, responsibilities have increased, but even while learning to step into and accept new and different situations, my family has not wavered. ey have always stood by my side. anksgiving is my biggest reminder of that. I can sneak into my kitchen and see my Mommom critiquing everything my aunts do when they try to make her recipes before being told to get out of the way. I can walk into our screened-in porch and find my uncles and cousins screaming at the TV while watching a football game. I can go sit in our dining room with the “old people” and listen to them tell story aer story about the “good old days.” ese small moments from my favorite holiday show what it means to be supported, celebrated, and loved. However, it isn’t only about being related by our blood; it’s about how we always show up for each other. I’ve watched my entire family join together to support my cousin when he was having a hard time during this year’s baseball season. I’ve also watched my whole family celebrate my brother getting an A on one of his math tests. As for me, my family dropped everything and flew to Miami to cheer me on during my first Miami Fashion Week. rough them, I’ve learned that not everything must be done alone, and that real strength is knowing when to lean on someone when things get tough. In a little less than a year, I will be heading off to college with the rest of my senior class, and I will definitely carry that lesson with me. College will bring a multitude of new experiences, challenges, and people into my life. Being able to create a new extended family where we can always trust and support each other is something I greatly look forward to. But I also know that no matter where I end up, I will always have my family, the original forty of them, to be there when I need them, and welcome me home (most likely with way too much food). at’s why anksgiving is my favorite holiday. It is my annual reminder that I will always have my family, the people who have shaped, supported, and loved me, by my side. ey taught me that life is a lot easier when you know you will always have a group of people who will have your back no matter what. So, to my five aunts, three uncles, nine cousins (and their significant others), three grandparents, parents, and brother, thank you for being there for me all these years. And to everyone else, I urge all of you to find that support group. It could be family, friends, a sports team, a club, or even new people you meet in the future. Make sure you cherish them, and know that no matter where life takes you, the greatest gi you can have, besides my Mommom’s famous anksgiving stuffing, is having people stand by your side with unconditional love and support. ank you.
MICHAEL WILLIAM WAESCO ’26 For as long as I can remember, football has been a significant part of my life, and it has been, and will continue to be, something that I love. However, the reason I love football is one that most people won’t guess. It is not the sadness that comes with watching Michigan lose to Ohio State for 8 years in a row; It is not the hope I had that Sam Bradford or Mark Sanchez would finally lead the Eagles on a game-winning drive… only to throw an interception to end the game; It is not the joy I felt watching Michigan stuff Alabama on 4th and goal from the 3 in overtime to win the Rose Bowl; It is not the excitement I have before running onto the field minutes before kickoff, or the inspiration I draw upon watching players battle adversity and succeed. e reason I love football is the sense of community it fosters. Some of my earliest memories are of playing punt return on Friday nights on the grassy area to the right of the home stands, and having to crawl under the gap in the gate when the ball wound up over the fence, which it always did. Or, going to practice as a kid and telling Jake Falco, in a running joke that we had, that he was “the worst player on the team”. (He was the starting middle linebacker and a senior captain.) Or playing catch at practice with Alex Jenkins, as the coaches explained plays that were way too boring for my 9-year-old self to be bothered with. Or listening to Sam Murphy and Grier Wakefield play Zombie Nation, also known as the We Are Penn State song, which I simply called “e Sam and Grier song”. ese memories, along with many others, comprised the majority of my childhood experiences, as these players, and countless others, had a profound impact on my life. e community that I was lucky enough to belong to from such a young age was like having 40 older brothers, whose faces and names changed every 4 years, but whose actions remained constant. Being able to have these shared experiences and memories with my Dad, both growing up and now playing for him, has made it even more special. ey are the kind of memories that don’t fade over time. So, as you start high school, head to college next year, or continue on with life, find a community that will take you in, protect you, and bring joy to your life every day. ank you.
DAILEY ROBERT WELSHMER ’26 Janssen’s Market. e local grocery store and eatery in our small town of Greenville, Delaware. Almost everyone at Tower Hill probably knows the place. I mean, it is right around the corner from our school and offers easy access to countless food and drink options, plus a welcoming atmosphere with friendly, helpful staff. Sounds like a perfect place from the get-go if you are new to town or need a quick place to get some lunch, almost too perfect. I could go on and on about all of the different combinations of food and drink that I have tossed together at Janssen’s, like sushi and strawberry milk. I would not recommend that one, by the way. My culinary experiments are not why I am up here, though, and I would not be talking about a grocery store if it did not have some deeper meaning to me. So I’d like to begin by thanking Janssen’s market for all of the great memories I have spent with so many people there. Yes, that might sound like an odd thing to say, but let me explain. Whether it is just stopping by and grabbing a drink with my friends aer school on a random Tuesday aernoon, heading over there to grab a possibly, but not always the most healthy meal, before a soccer or lacrosse game where we would talk about hopefully beating Friends, or stopping by early on the weekend for breakfast aer a hangout the night before and laughing at dumb jokes to help wake each other up. ere is a common theme surrounding all of these instances, and no, it is not the food and drinks, although that is very good too. Every time I went to Janssen’s, I was excited to spend time with the people close to me because I knew these moments would not last forever. It was a social hotspot open at all times during the year, a place where everybody was willing to stop in, even if it was only for a short amount of time. at is where my love for this place comes from, and it has never provided a dull moment throughout all my years in high school and, unfortunately, even some scattered into my middle school era. Next year, when I head off to my college of choice, which will be warm and sunny, I will no longer be able to go to Janssen’s on any given day. I will no longer be able to shoot a quick text to a group chat to hang out and get a drink, grab an early morning breakfast sandwich or something very weird like a spicy pickle, and most importantly of all, share all of these influential moments in my life at our favorite spot with those whom I truly care about. We might still be able to text about what’s going on in our lives in group chats every once in a while, but it won’t always be the same as it was. What I did realize from all of these experiences, though, is that there is something very important I can take away. ere should always be things in your life that are worth missing, or you just aren’t doing it right. Feeling emotional about leaving places and things behind is only human, and all of us in this senior class are going to have to do it in a short amount of time. So, find something or someone that gives you cherishable memories, hold onto it, and especially don’t forget about it because these moments are what made you who you are today. Oh, and now that I’m on this topic, I realize I am going to have to find a new spot like Janssen’s at my college. An unknown place for me where I need to start from scratch, hopefully making new friends and getting absurd amounts of food. How hard could it possibly be? ank you.
SARITA SUBHI YADAV ’26 If anyone has seen my room before, they know how incohesive and rather boring it looks: light blue walls, pink bedding, curtains I picked in Lower School, and a rather random assortment of my own paintings. Propped on my windowsill lies a light pink canvas I was gied when I was seven that reads “With Brave Wings She Flies.” I had never thought much about this canvas until I learned how to face my lifelong fear of heights. Flying can be hard: delays are so frequent, lines are long, turbulence is sickening, and you have no control over what happens. But flying can also be hard when crosswinds alter groundtracks, gusts bump the plane, everyone speaks at lightspeed on the radio, and the old men leave oil caps so tight I have to call the line guys to open them. ere are seemingly infinite things to learn when seeking a pilot’s license: listening to two radios at once, swerving out of commercial airspaces, and successfully completing nausea-inducing maneuvers. Not to mention learning strict regulations, meteorology, the physics of flight, and functions of every screw on the plane. But flying has truly taught me what success looks like and how to thoughtfully manage what I do. For a long time, I have been able to just “add one more thing” into my schedule without compromising much because I truly love everything I do, but adding flying changed that. ere will be days that tire you to your maximum, like when I decided to do my night flight requirements at midnight aer running around the US Open all day or when I decided to read 700 textbook pages over four days leading to anksgiving Break to prepare for a flight exam instead of reviewing for my school tests. But the pressure of the hard work is worth the experiences in the future. Perfect scores and fantastic performances can get you far, but nothing compares to the pure joy of simply doing what you love. So I was okay with missing a few days of school and not turning in calligraphy posters to stay in New York and catch up on my ground school, because there is a lot more in the world that you can learn outside of a classroom. When I was learning how to land, my instructor ingrained in my mind that there are always two options: going around or landing. ough I pretended like both options were always available to me, all I could imagine was how embarrassing it would be to have a pilot’s license and not land a plane on the first try. Knowing very well that I would never go around, I vowed to nail every airspeed and altitude and perfectly execute each approach. But even with my perfect approaches, I became incredibly infuriated with the sheer amount of go arounds I had to perform. Every now and then deer would scurry across the runway or meander around the centerline, gusts of wind would push the plane off of the runway, or other impatient and ignorant pilots would inch their way onto the runway in hopes of speeding up my landing. Aer flying several average patterns, my instructor hopped out of the plane, asked if I was ready to solo, and explained that she would rather watch me execute fiy go arounds instead of one risky landing. It was during this moment, nervous to fly solo, that I understood that my success as a pilot and my instructor’s trust in my skills was not a result of my perfect patterns or few butter landings, but a product of my developing ability to accept the unpredictability of aviation and go around until an opportunity came for a safe landing. At school we see doing things right on the first try, memorizing test content, and taking hard classes as a measure of success, but what really matters is doing what is right for you, and learning how to adapt. I couldn’t have done any of this without the sheer amount of support I found whether it was my family tracking my solo flights over multiple states, my teachers understanding that I unwisely overbooked myself, my friends cheering me on every step of the way, or my instructor who taught me success can be a flawless approach with a butter landing on the first go, and it can also be rolling in safely aer unforeseen unpredictabilities force four go-arounds. So find the people who wake up at 5 a.m. to drive you to flights, the people who come to your orchestra concerts and tennis matches, the people who look for you on TV, and the people who will always take the train all the way home with you.
QIUHAN YU ’26 I’ve always been someone who needs a sense of control. Of course I made backup plans, and then another backup plan just in case. When I leave the house, I carry two portable chargers because I’m afraid one might die. I bring three large suitcases for a one-week trip, filled with things I might “suddenly need.” I don’t prepare because I enjoy it. I prepare because I’m afraid of the unexpected. And then there’s my mom. She is the complete opposite. She has booked hotels the night we arrived in a new city. She packs on the morning of our flight. When something unexpected happens, she just smiles and says, “e only thing that never changes is change.” For the longest time, I couldn’t understand her. And I thought, if I couldn’t stop change from happening, I would prepare for every possible version of it I set three or four alarms in the morning, not because one isn’t loud enough, but because I want to leave room for the possibility that I might be too tired to wake up on the first one. Even when I was waiting for college decisions, I started asking AI to calculate my admission chances every single day, a full month before the decision came out, just so I could emotionally prepare for every possible outcome. I lived in a constant cycle, replaying the past and criticizing myself, while over-planning the future so nothing would ever surprise me again. Until I got to this turning point. Aer college applications were finally over, aer this huge chapter that had defined so much of my high school life, I felt like I finally had time to pause. And when I looked back, I realized I had already lived through so many changes. I le my hometown and moved to another country. I moved from one state to another. I transferred from a boarding school to a day school. I met new people and said goodbye to some old ones, some of them permanent. And some of those changes broke me at the time. Some of them felt unbearable. Without realizing it, I was already doing the one thing I thought I needed to prepare for: I was accepting and adapting. Even when I was anxious. Even when I felt completely unprepared. Even when I thought I was falling apart. Maybe my mom was right. Change doesn’t wait for us to be ready. It happens anyway. And maybe safety doesn’t come from controlling every outcome. Maybe it comes from trusting that when things change, and they will, we are capable of adjusting.
I’ve spent years searching for a signal that would finally make me feel secure. But every time one source of anxiety ended, another one appeared. What I’m slowly learning is this: We can’t eliminate uncertainty from our lives. But we can stop punishing our past selves for not knowing more and stop exhausting our present selves by worrying about futures that might never come. And the truth is, most of the things I was anxious about never actually happened. And the ones that did, the bad days, the unexpected changes, became part of my story. ere’s a lyric I really love: “100 bad days made 100 good stories.” Right now, some things might feel overwhelming. Some changes might feel unfair or terrifying. But one day, we’ll tell these stories and laugh. Not because they didn’t matter. But because we grew through them. If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a senior, it’s this: We don’t need to control every part of our lives to survive them. When change happens, we just need the courage to start off again And so far, we’ve done that every single time.
EVAN RICHARD ZAKIELARZ ’26 Lessons I’ve learned from my dog. Two summers ago, our family dog Finn decided to trade in the leash life for an off-grid adventure. No more waiting politely to be let outside. No more sleeping on a comfy bed. During what was supposed to be a normal morning walk, Finn made a break for a cornfield… and never came out. Turns out, Finn had overheard my family talking about our vacation plans, knew we were about to have fun without him, and decided to ruin them. While he was out living his best life, my family went into full search-and-rescue mode: Dawn patrols, dusk stakeouts, and late night drives down every back road in three-states. Plastering over 1,000 posters wherever possible: Trees, mailboxes, lampposts—anything stationary got a sign. Hiking through thickets, forests, people’s yards, and huge cornfields. Installing trail cameras, smearing trees with bacon grease, and building (air quotes) “comfort stations” that looked like a mashup between a campsite and a garage sale. Hiring pet trackers who could identify paw prints like crime scene investigators. We even brought in a pet communicator, who, using psychic powers, assured us Finn was alive... and very hungry. Which, to be fair, is also how he feels on a normal Tuesday. We also got scam calls from people claiming they’d found Finn and would give him back if we just sent them our Google Wallet password. One guy said he had “the dog” and would return him if we wired him $500. We passed. But then—there was a break in the case. I’d randomly put a flyer up at Rockford Park, which was the other side of the river—so a long shot as Finn hates water and would have had to go for a swim. is was a dog who would walk 20 feet out of his way to avoid a sprinkler. But lo and behold, a jogger had seen my flyer and called to say she’d seen something late the night before, 7 miles upriver, on a deserted road. A flash of brown and white. Reflective harness. Possibly a dog. Possibly bigfoot. Possibly nothing. We raced to the area. No Finn. But our dog-finding squad dropped a trail cam, and crossed fingers. e next morning, footage from the previous night revealed: a raccoon rave at 2 a.m., a disco squirrel, a blurry UFO (we think), and—just at the edge of the dark screen—a tiny head. You would’ve thought we were FBI agents the way we did a frame-by-frame analysis, and boom: It was Finn. Cue fireworks, champagne, and high fives. But... just as our hopes were at an all time high—he disappeared again. We spent another week searching the area, with no sightings. Just more cornfields. (sigh) Always the cornfields. Aer everything, we were about to leave town for vacation—hearts heavy, hope fading, suitcases packed with guilt. And then… as we crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge… the phone rang. Two hikers said they found a dog. Caller: "Hi... we think we found your dog, Finn." Us (skeptical): "Can you prove it?"
ey sent a photo. And BAM: there he was: Finn, skinny and muddy, staring at the camera with a thousand yard stare. We made the world’s fastest U-turn ever. 30 minutes later, we finally reunited with our dog, a small bite on his tail, but otherwise healthy. Ultimately, this wasn’t just a dog-gone-wild story. It was a month of life lessons: 1. Never underestimate a dog with a dream. 2. Dogs know when you’re going on vacation. And they will sabotage your plans out of pure spite. 3. ere are a LOT of cornfields in our area. 4. At 2:00 a.m., ankle-deep in mud, whispering “Finn” into a cornfield is a creepy experience. 5. Get your dog a GPS collar. Or an AirTag. Or maybe just teach him to use Google Maps. 6. Hard times bring out the best in people. Especially dog people. ose folks would storm a castle to rescue a stranger’s chihuahua. 7. ere are a LOT of good people out there. We got messages and calls from complete strangers, and even a guy who offered to bring a military-grade drone to help search. 8. Turn over every rock, look behind every stone... especially if you’ve lost a pet. Or sunglasses. Or car keys. Because you never know which rock, stone… or sign… will be the one that delivers. 9. Most of all, never give up on something when it’s important. Because just when you hit rock bottom, sitting in a Wawa parking lot holding a leash with no dog, the universe throws you a bone. 10. Because… Number 10: When you least expect it, your phone might ring with a miracle. Aer 4 crazy weeks, we got our dog back. Dirty, skinny, a little skittish around squirrels—but he was home… and under 24/7 surveillance… with a GPS collar… a baby monitor… and a small ankle bracelet. And he’s never even looked at a cornfield again.
AILEEN ZHANG ’26 e Beauty of not being Perfect—My Ballet Journey Today is a really special day for me. Besides my 18th birthday—which is definitely an important day—today also marks the 14th anniversary of my ballet journey. Fourteen years ago, four-year-old Aileen walked into her first ballet class on her birthday. It all started with a pink tutu hanging in a shop window. Just one look at it, and I begged my mom to let me try ballet. e first few years of my ballet journey were nothing but fun—we learned simple combinations and easy short dances from classical ballet. I could still recall when our class imitated different animals – swans, butterflies, cats… Back then, ballet felt like playtime, and there was no pressure. But everything changed the day we realized I couldn’t do a split. Aer that moment, things became clearer. One aernoon, my teacher pulled my mom aside for a serious talk about my future in ballet. It wasn’t that I didn’t work hard—it was that my body simply wasn’t built for ballet. I had poor flexibility, I couldn’t point my feet, my legs couldn’t “turn out”... And, worst of all, my knees were naturally rounded, making my lines look less straight and less “ballet-like.” My teacher explained to her that if I wanted to continue dancing, I would have to work much harder than anyone else, and that would come with a lot of pain. I could still remember the conversation that night with my mom. When she asked me if I wanted to keep dancing ballet, I answered “yes” without a second thought. I didn’t know what challenges were waiting for me, and I said yes with this simple bravery and deep love as a child. Aer that day, things completely changed—1-1 classes with my ballet teacher were added to my calendar. I almost visited my dance school every day, every week, spending hours aer hours in the studio. My teacher would press down on my splits, push on my feet to force an arch, and hold my knees to make them straighten. Every stretch felt like fire. Every correction came with pain. To further improve, I even joined rhythmic gymnastics training. I could still feel the sharp pain during stretching, and sometimes I couldn’t even tell whether the wetness on my face was sweat or tears. ere were days when my legs trembled so much I could barely walk out of the studio. But still, I showed up again the next day. ose years were full of pain and sweating, but what surprised me was that the pain didn’t make me hate ballet. In fact, it made me love it more. And that was confusing to me: Why would I love something I wasn’t naturally good at? Why would I choose something that felt so hard for me? It wasn’t until my family moved from Shanghai to Delaware that I slowly began to understand this question. In a place where no one knew my past in ballet, I started understanding my relationship with it more clearly. Even now, aer fourteen years, I’m still not a perfect dancer: my legs don’t turn out perfectly, my feet still don’t arch the way I wish they would. But I’ve learned that perfection has nothing to do with my deep love. At some point, I started asking myself: Do we have to be good at something in order to love it? I would have struggled to answer this a few years ago, but now I can answer without hesitation—of course not! In fact, Ballet isn’t the only hard thing that I choose to love, others include taking organic chemistry courses, self learning K-pop dances and Korean, learning choreography, founding my dance workshop and school dance club… Am I perfectly good at all these things? No. But do I love them—Yes. Somewhere along this journey, I learned that perfection is not the purpose of doing something. Connection is. Curiosity is. Joy is. e things we love don’t need us to be perfect—they need us to be willing to meet them with simple love. Once I let go of the idea that I had to prove myself, I finally understood that loving something freely, without conditions, is one of the most powerful choices we can make. In my opinion, loving something is already a kind of success. ere is a Chinese proverb that keeps inspiring me: “e best time to plant a tree was 10 years ago, but the second best time is now.” My experience proves that it’s okay not to be good at something, yet to love and enjoy it. It is never too late to begin something—as small as starting on a book, and as large as beginning a new hobby. I wish all of us could have the courage to begin—even when it feels late, even when it feels hard. Let’s choose the things that move us, and let’s allow ourselves to simply be who we are.
JOHNATHAN YUHUAN ZHANG ’26 is person wrote a choral symphony based on Edgar Allan Poe entitled e Bells, as well as his All-Night-Vigil. For ten points, name this Russian composer well-known for the brilliant second and third of his four piano concertos and the Rhapsody on a eme of Paganini. (I’m sure Alex Neal would like to answer) at’s just one example of a question you might see in quizbowl, which if you don’t know, is a team trivia game where you answer questions based on different topics, like science, literature, history, and popculture. If you knew only one thing about me, it’s probably that I like to collect information about pretty useless things like a hoarder, which is almost exactly what quizbowl is made for. At its core, quizbowl is extremely simple: you get points for right answers, but there’s many ways to do that. You could read piles of books and take notes religiously so that you really know your stuff. Or, you could spend hours practicing questions and reading example problems so you know what to look out for. Better yet, you could guess based just on the speaking pattern because the question writers are so repetitive and predictable. (it gets to the point yk). It might just look like a bunch of nerds sitting in a room, but there IS nuance to how everyone plays. Regardless, it pays to pay attention to the little things. I can’t tell you the amount of times something I heard in conversation years ago or a bullet point Mr. Shaw read off the TV suddenly became relevant. Over the course all 17 years of my life, I’ve done and seen a lot of things that haven’t been particularly important, be that baseball or how to play the flute, and luckily quizbowl uniquely rewards having different interests. Regardless, there is also a lot of losing. Sometimes, you happen to forget that the piano exists or a small technicality gets in the way. And for me, there’s a lot of wrong answers, more than everyone else. ey say you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take, but I it’s almost true for the shots I do take. For that, I can always blame myself, but there are times you come up against a team or even one person who is so good that there is simply nothing to do but be amazed. It’s just a little sad but necessary reminder that there’s always someone better, a lot better. If I had to give everyone here a piece of advice, which isn’t to do quizbowl, it would be this: take risks as much as you can; try new things, and listen to what people have to say—it might be meaningless in the moment. but you have no idea when you might apply it. en again, you might think that this is all pointless and silly and that an academic competition that rewards rote memorization over application and depth of understanding is deeply flawed, to which I agree. But I still do it, because I’m sure everyone agrees that being right feels good. By the way, the answer to the question was Rachmaninoff.
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