"Well, I ain't gonna wander, like the boy I used to know..."
Seniors, one of which I am, get out of school a week before everyone else. Some friends and I have been spending our extra week of freedom camping out at the beach, but I dropped by school yesterday, as I borrowed a labcoat and some books from various science teachers, and I figured they'd want them back eventually. While I was up there, I couldn't resist popping in to visit Mr. Strobel, my old journalism teacher. I explained to him that I had had some errands to take care of, and thought I might as well visit, and he said "of course you did. How could you come back to West Ottawa and not stop in and see the old room? This is where you belong, after all."
This came both as a surprise and not a surprise at all. "This is where you belong." It was a natural and unrehearsed statement, something so odd and unstandard and slightly cryptic that it had to have come from the deepest and truest reaches of his consciousness. It's something you wouldn't expect your teacher to say, but he was certainly right, as I realised when I thought about it later. For the past several years, the journalism room, room 118, had been exactly where I belonged.
It had taken me a while to warm up to highschool after entering. I used to be such an awkward, antisocial teenager with few friends. I drifted aimlessly, hating my classes and everyone in them. Joining The West Ottawan was one of the first things I did that I felt satisfied with, and even after becoming more confident and starting to settle in to highschool, it was always 'the thing I did.' I loved writing, and I loved writing things other people actually cared about. I loved having my writing seen by more than my parents and some English teachers. I loved being part of 'the student voice.' When I became an editor, I loved helping other students learn and 'grow,' dorky as that sounds, and being looked up to. I grew to love everything about it, from the silent delight in finding that great hidden story, to measily things like getting into sporting events free. I even loved the mad rush and scramble right before we went to print, because what would follow was satisfaction like no other. Every part of my job is ingrained into me, and I can't imagine not doing it. So, of course this is where I belong. Could I belong anywhere else?
It's hard for me to imagine that I could. Sadly, I have to. My main thought this entire year was how glad I was that the highschool chapter of my life would finally be over and I could move on, but now that it's over, I feel like I'm being kicked out of the one place I'm supposed to be. Elementary school I never looked back to, middle school I tired of quickly and was ready to press forward. I assumed highschool would be more of the same, yet my time is up and I still feel like I'm only just settling in and begining to make something of my life. It's a crime that I only had four years! Four years is not enough time to get anything done!
I found something I liked at WO, and some friends - four of the other five editors make up my tightest group of friends, and we're together most of the time. After all of the after school and weekend time we've put in, going out to eat, and staying at school long into the night, we've become a close bunch, like a family, with Strobel there to guide us in writing and in life. I'm much closer to him than any other teacher certainly, and really most adults. I go to him when I need advice or comforting, or just want to talk to someone about new music or something. It's all like a TV show. There's a small group of characters that are flawed, but their still the best characters in the world, and they do something interesting, and sometimes something bad happens, but it always turns out ok in the end. Most importantly, they never change too much. The Monkees didn't break up and go back back to college. They'll always be young guys in a rock band. We're not supposed to change either, but we can't help it.
It feels almost pointless. It feels almost like a great big waste. We did all of this, and worked hard, and once we started to go somewhere it was gone. Am I going to find a place I belong in college? And what happens when it comes time for me to leave there? What about after that? Will nothing be permanent? Will I always be forced to leave the thing I'm just starting to realize I love so dearly? It seems to be a theme of life. We're all going to die, so at some time, everyone will be forced to leave the place they belong. Cruel, eh?
But, it may not be so bad. Maybe I don't have to leave, not completely. I can move on, and belong other places, but a part of me will always belong in room 118, and I'll only be more whole because of it. I know that I'm belonging there because a part of my actions will reflect what I learned, and a part of my memories will reflect what I experienced, and a part of my friends and teacher and school will always reflect the fact that I had been there. My name will be hanging on a poster on the room 118 wall for a good, long time, along with the names of everyone before me that has belonged there, and everyone that will, and when they read my name, they won't know then that I have helped pave teh way for them.
And Mr. Strobel? When he says "this is where you belong," he knows it like he knows me, which is to say: there are no secrets. I know he's a bit sad we're leaving, as I'm sure he's sad when any of his editors leaves, but he wouldn't keep doing this if it didn't add up to something. And, I'd be a fool if I thought he didn't already know that I'll be writing him all the time, whenever I'm lost or confused, or just need some writing tips.
In conclusion, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZjD7N26lsHU.
This came both as a surprise and not a surprise at all. "This is where you belong." It was a natural and unrehearsed statement, something so odd and unstandard and slightly cryptic that it had to have come from the deepest and truest reaches of his consciousness. It's something you wouldn't expect your teacher to say, but he was certainly right, as I realised when I thought about it later. For the past several years, the journalism room, room 118, had been exactly where I belonged.
It had taken me a while to warm up to highschool after entering. I used to be such an awkward, antisocial teenager with few friends. I drifted aimlessly, hating my classes and everyone in them. Joining The West Ottawan was one of the first things I did that I felt satisfied with, and even after becoming more confident and starting to settle in to highschool, it was always 'the thing I did.' I loved writing, and I loved writing things other people actually cared about. I loved having my writing seen by more than my parents and some English teachers. I loved being part of 'the student voice.' When I became an editor, I loved helping other students learn and 'grow,' dorky as that sounds, and being looked up to. I grew to love everything about it, from the silent delight in finding that great hidden story, to measily things like getting into sporting events free. I even loved the mad rush and scramble right before we went to print, because what would follow was satisfaction like no other. Every part of my job is ingrained into me, and I can't imagine not doing it. So, of course this is where I belong. Could I belong anywhere else?
It's hard for me to imagine that I could. Sadly, I have to. My main thought this entire year was how glad I was that the highschool chapter of my life would finally be over and I could move on, but now that it's over, I feel like I'm being kicked out of the one place I'm supposed to be. Elementary school I never looked back to, middle school I tired of quickly and was ready to press forward. I assumed highschool would be more of the same, yet my time is up and I still feel like I'm only just settling in and begining to make something of my life. It's a crime that I only had four years! Four years is not enough time to get anything done!
I found something I liked at WO, and some friends - four of the other five editors make up my tightest group of friends, and we're together most of the time. After all of the after school and weekend time we've put in, going out to eat, and staying at school long into the night, we've become a close bunch, like a family, with Strobel there to guide us in writing and in life. I'm much closer to him than any other teacher certainly, and really most adults. I go to him when I need advice or comforting, or just want to talk to someone about new music or something. It's all like a TV show. There's a small group of characters that are flawed, but their still the best characters in the world, and they do something interesting, and sometimes something bad happens, but it always turns out ok in the end. Most importantly, they never change too much. The Monkees didn't break up and go back back to college. They'll always be young guys in a rock band. We're not supposed to change either, but we can't help it.
It feels almost pointless. It feels almost like a great big waste. We did all of this, and worked hard, and once we started to go somewhere it was gone. Am I going to find a place I belong in college? And what happens when it comes time for me to leave there? What about after that? Will nothing be permanent? Will I always be forced to leave the thing I'm just starting to realize I love so dearly? It seems to be a theme of life. We're all going to die, so at some time, everyone will be forced to leave the place they belong. Cruel, eh?
But, it may not be so bad. Maybe I don't have to leave, not completely. I can move on, and belong other places, but a part of me will always belong in room 118, and I'll only be more whole because of it. I know that I'm belonging there because a part of my actions will reflect what I learned, and a part of my memories will reflect what I experienced, and a part of my friends and teacher and school will always reflect the fact that I had been there. My name will be hanging on a poster on the room 118 wall for a good, long time, along with the names of everyone before me that has belonged there, and everyone that will, and when they read my name, they won't know then that I have helped pave teh way for them.
And Mr. Strobel? When he says "this is where you belong," he knows it like he knows me, which is to say: there are no secrets. I know he's a bit sad we're leaving, as I'm sure he's sad when any of his editors leaves, but he wouldn't keep doing this if it didn't add up to something. And, I'd be a fool if I thought he didn't already know that I'll be writing him all the time, whenever I'm lost or confused, or just need some writing tips.
In conclusion, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZjD7N26lsHU.