8/5
Dear Journal,
Today is the last week before high school.
I’m really not sure what to write. What are you supposed to do with a journal? Rant? Talk? My life isn’t nearly interesting enough for stuff like that.
I guess I’ll just write down what’s around me.
I’m sitting in a chair. It’s made out of plastic, I think. My mom’s laying down on the couch in the living room, watching a telenovela. She grabs at a chip from the bag laying on the table right in front of her, but just misses. She sighs.
She does this every weekend. And I don’t mind it at all. That is, until she starts trying to bring me into it.
“My child’s growing up,” she was whining this morning. “Next year you’re in high school, and after that you’ll be off to college. You won’t forget me, right?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“I hope not. But I know how you kids are with your phones…TikTok and YouTube shorts…this generation is plain addicted to those things. You forget what matters. Not like how we used to be.”
How we used to be.
That’s when I started thinking:
How did we use to be?
I remember the apartment we used to live in. Spacious and comfortable. Every yellow was gold and every brown was bronze, and each white a pearlescent perfection. Light filled every corner of the room, and the windows, lucent with a rainbow halo. My mom’s angelic smile, and her old leopard-print glasses. She got rid of them after she broke the lenses. But there, in the memory, they were still fixed right on the bridge of her rosy pink nose. And I thought to myself that God must be wearing leopard-print glasses in Heaven.
I remember the elementary school I used to attend. The entrance was curtained by great oak trees, much taller and older than I was. The sky was a vibrant blue, the clouds like oil splatters on a beautiful watercolor painting. And the grass was tall and wet with dew. I held the straps of my backpack in one hand and my mom’s hand tightly in the other. I didn’t want to let go.
My mom smiled at me. That kind, angelic smile. That smile could convince me to do almost anything when I was a kid. I can’t imagine it having the same effect on me now.
“Go on,” she said. “You don’t want to be late for your first day.”
I tightened my grip.
“Don’t you want to know what school’s like?”
I gripped her hand even tighter.
She sighed and kneeled down on the concrete, placing both her hands on my shoulders. Her hazel eyes stared past her black glasses which replaced her leopard-print.
“Listen,” she said. “There are some things in this world you don’t want to change. You want to keep them close and swear that you’ll never let them go. And still, the world changes anyway. Is it because it hates you? Is it because it wants to take everything away? No, honey.” She released her hands. “It’s because change is a part of life. Nothing lasts forever. And nothing should last forever. You are changing. You will keep changing, long after I’m gone. I want you to have a life far beyond mine. I want you to experience half the troubles I do, and twice the victories, and just as many losses—because that is how you learn.”
I don’t think I understood much of that at all when I was younger.
Now, I think I get it.
I know that the apartment wasn’t nearly that big. Honestly, compared to where we live now, it was cramped and small. Our “backyard” was an alleyway filled with trash cans.
I know that the place wasn’t nearly that heavenly. We had an ant problem every weekend, and the whites were always off.
I know that my mom didn’t always smile. She cried. She yelled and screamed. And some days she wouldn’t look like anything at all. Blank.
When dad left, she broke her leopard-print glasses throwing them at him as he ran out the door.
I know about all the schools we visited. She held my small hand tight as we talked to the supervisors.
I know why she trembled when we walked out of the room. Her steady grip, shaking.
She was so scared of losing me.
I know the trees were newly-planted saplings, and the grass made of plastic.
I know that when we were at that gate she was trying to convince herself more than me.
And I know she wasn’t nearly as poetic with it.
I know the truth about those days.
When she was still young.
When I was still young.
Now we’re not nearly as young. Or at least she isn’t.
Sometimes I think she forgot what she said about change. She seems so resistant to it now.
But I still remember.
I want to remember.
Even if everything changes.
I guess that’s why I wrote this all down.
I’m still the kid in front of the gate.
I don’t know what to choose.
8/15
Dear Journal,
Today marks my last first day of high school, and the first of 180 (or whatever number) days left of school.
I’m currently sitting in my car, waiting for my senior year to start. I don’t really have much to put here since it’s barely eight in the morning. I don’t know, it seemed like a good idea twenty minutes ago to journal my last year, when I grabbed this from my drawer. It really was just a last minute decision, my foot was already out the door, and I saw the little brown cover from the corner of my eye and thought, ‘Huh, this has the potential to make this year at least one percent better, what could go wrong?'
But now I’m starting to second guess myself. I mean, what am I even supposed to talk about? I’m not one of those super descriptive people with photographic memory who can recall every moment of their day with perfect accuracy. I don’t even remember ever buying this journal, it seems like it just appeared in my drawer a few years ago. Maybe I bought it from the Scholastic Book Fair in fifth grade or something. But now, I’m just sitting in my car before school starts, and I have nothing to write about. And if I know anything about how this school is, I won’t have anything to write about. I guess I could talk about my car.
It has comfortable seats, but it kinda smells, which isn’t helping contribute to my mood. It's an old car that my parents bought from our neighbor about a month ago, specifically for me. Which made me happy, because it’s my first car! I don’t really know why they gave it to me, I mean, we have two cars, and really the only one we use is the nice one we got my sophomore year, but I’m not complaining.
They did have this down look in their eyes when they gave it to me. It’s almost like they knew this was going to be the best thing that would happen to me for the next nine months. And the nicest thing that had happened to me in the past nine months. And all they really gave as an explanation was, “You’ve earned it,” which also just made me confused. What had I done to earn it? I hadn’t done anything differently.
But anyways, I’m currently filled with absolute dread and agony for what is to come. The idea of having to sit in more classes, do more homework, socialize with the same people, walk around the same campus, do the same things, for yet another year is almost unbearable.
But, I’ll be fine. I think I’m just cranky, the fact that I got terrible sleep last night doesn’t help, I was up late rushing to finish my summer homework and I swear I didn’t finish until the birds started chirping. Sure, I could’ve spread it out in an organized and productive manner during the course of my break, but where is the fun in that? I had TikToks to watch.
I’m kind of regretting taking more AP classes this year. But it’s okay. Just one more year, just nine more months, just 180 days left. Just never going to end. It’ll all be okay.
Plus, now I have a super cool journal to write in every day, right?
8/15
My mom hugged me and I held her hand tight. I felt every inch of it, tracing every wrinkle. Her hair, black in memory, speckled with silver. The edges of her eyes curled into crows feet. When did she earn those medals of age? Why haven’t I noticed?
The campus was bigger than I thought—all outside too. You could even eat on the grass if you’d like, but today it was wet, so I didn’t. Lots of ravens (or are they crows?) walking around. I can’t imagine what it’s like when it rains.
There were probably a thousand students there, and they all looked like they knew exactly what they’re doing. Like a school of fish following a current…
They set up several booths around the school. I think it was supposed to familiarize us with the campus—something like that.
“Temporary tattoos? Again?” said a girl.
“They really need to change that to something else. It’s getting old,” her friend replied.
I was too busy covering my arms in them to hear the rest.
8/16
My teachers look so foreign to me. Scary, even. I barely had time to get used to them before they shuffled me off to the next class. Do I really belong here? Will they hate me? What will they expect?
I can only give it my best, I tell myself.
And what if that’s not enough? There are so many rules I need to remember, so many names. Nobody tells you how hard that part is. But it’s like second nature to everybody else. Is there some kind of trick I’m missing out on?
A poster of Shakespeare hangs in my Drama classroom. “All the world’s a stage,” it says in bold italic font. “The men and women merely players.”
I must have lost the script somewhere along the way.
8/17
I forgot to write in here yesterday.
It’s been two days of school, and I’ve already messed up my new school year resolution.
I mean, I could just write the date as “8/16” and pretend like that was today’s date, but I can’t even recall what I did yesterday.
I got up, drove to school in my rickety worn-down car, listened to about five hours worth of syllabuses, rules, class expectations, and get-to-know-me’s with classmates I’ve been going to school with for four years. Actually seven, if you count middle school. And twelve, if you go back to elementary school. And then I went home and laid in bed for hours, just scrolling away on the little apps that infiltrate my mind and destroy my attention span. And then I went to bed.
So yeah, another boring day. Nothing really happened. And now I guess I can talk about today, the actual day. Which was also boring. Honestly, when will it end?
Actually, I found one of those temporary tattoos they were giving out the other day in my pocket. I’ve never put one on before, despite taking one every year when they are handed out. Maybe I should go put it on, in celebration of it being the last time I’ll ever be offered one.
Yeah, I think I’m going to go do that. And that’s going to be the most interesting thing I’ve done today. Is that sad? That seems pretty sad. But it can’t be worse than me already failing at updating day two. Just like I’m going to fail at everything else.
Let’s see if I forget to write in here tomorrow too.
8/21
I ate in the Drama classroom today, talking to some people in my period. Stuff about teachers, and subjects, and which ones were hard and which ones are difficult. I don’t mind it, it’s just that…
I miss my friends. I miss our conversations. I miss everything. Why did that all have to go? Everyone’s talking so fast and so loud, and I don’t think I’ll remember any of it in a week.
9/6
I haven’t forgotten to write in here again, I’ve been intentionally skipping entries. Because when I went to sit down and write on 8/18, I quite literally stared at the blank page for fifteen minutes, unable to grasp literally anything from my day that was worth writing down.
I realize now that doing a journal entry every day is a slightly unrealistic goal for someone who does the same thing every day. So, I decided to only write down journal entries when something is worth writing down.
It’s been a few weeks since, and although nothing is really worth an entry today, I feel compelled to just have something in here. I’ve already started to fall into the same old helpless, tiresome, relentless, and agonizing cycle that is school, and I’m really starting to get tired. I need something to change up my days, and if that means just writing in my journal every once in a while, well then I guess that’s how it’ll be.
I don’t want this journal to fall into the same cycle of school, I don’t want to dread writing in this journal because nothing has happened again. I want something to happen. I want to open this journal up and feel the words welling up in my fingertips, threatening to spill out and solidify themselves into these pages as an undeniable fact that this was a good school year.
If I keep hoping for it, it’s going to come eventually, right?
9/6
Sometimes in the middle of the night I wish I could talk to whatever’s backstage, whoever’s changing everything, and beg,
“Please stop for just a moment.
Can’t you give me a moment?”
And in my thoughts he has a small enigmatic smirk on his face, like that poster of Shakespeare.
As if telling me, “A show with no performance is no show at all.”
I wish I could accept that.
9/15
It’s been a month since I started writing in this journal. I don’t know what to think of it.
A month represents the time it takes the moon to revolve around Earth once. Just…think about it for a moment. The moon, so far away, has completed a circle around this giant world of mine, from America, to Europe, to Asia, all the way back to me.
That’s terrifying.
9/19
Crowds of people, all in one place. The rush of feet and the rush of adrenaline. Presidents waving frantically toward the crowd, hoping anyone—and anyone would do—would show just the tiniest bit of interest. I watched it all from behind the Drama club board.
They weren’t kidding when they called it a rush.
I must’ve been pretty awkward looking. Though I’d normally eat my lunch by the history classroom, I felt obligated to stay. My friends were there, after all.
You see a lot of people during Club Rush. It’s like the world comes to you.
The first person: a redhead, and a really pretty one at that. She wore a skirt in a floral pattern that matched the season and a beautiful ribbed top. She talked for what seemed like hours.
The second: a young boy, probably a freshman. Nerves got a hold of him and he signed his name hastily before running off.
The third (and fourth?): two students this time. They talked a lot to each other, laughed at the board, signed their names, and didn’t end up doing a whole lot of anything.
The fifth: a girl. A really cool girl. Washed pants and a baggy shirt. Red headphones and chain necklaces. Long brown hair that reached her shoulders. And her face, framed with a pair of leopard-print glasses. She asked me something and I don’t remember what it was, but she smiled while saying it.
Come to think, I don’t remember anything else besides her.
9/20
I’m writing here again sooner than I thought, because today I actually did something worth a journal entry.
I joined the Drama club…! I don’t want to get my hopes up but I’m pretty excited about this.
This is the first club I’ve joined since freshman year. I don’t even know why I did it.
Normally, club rush is just a nightmare for me, the loud and boisterous presidents advertising, the crowded paths as I try to search past the heads of overeager students for my friends, the headache and stomachache I get from all the free candy I get–it’s a lot. And normally, my few friends and I just walk around, look at the posters our classmates have spent time on, listen in on the sales pitches to the few clubs that actually perk our interests, and then avoid the second day because we never actually want to join a club.
Well, I mean, they don’t. I find myself wanting to sign up for one. But I never have, and just earlier today, I thought I never would. But, my friends were talking about going off campus for lunch to avoid the hassle of the rush, and I found myself weirdly hesitant. I felt like I was at a fork in the road and I didn’t know which path to choose, to continue on the one that looked familiar, or adventure into the one that I couldn’t see into. I knew that I couldn’t go back on my choice. I knew this was my last club rush and for some reason I didn’t want to just brush it off for the last time.
So, I faked like I had to make up a test and then went and walked around by myself. And as I was passing by the Speech and Debate club, the GSA club, the Volleyball club, I saw one that caught my eye.
The Drama club.
I’m still not sure what it was exactly that drew me in. Was it the passionate president that was calling out, “Join the Drama club!” with a genuine smile on their face, or the small crowd behind them that were all seemingly a part of a team, or was it the beautifully decorated poster that flaunted the words No experience needed on it?
I wrote my name down on the fifth slot.
9/25
I saw that girl again. The cool one. At a drama club meeting.
We were paired in the same group together.
She said her name was Jennifer, but that I could call her Jenny—that she was a senior.
I said that was pretty cool. And that I was a freshman.
That’s when she got this weird look on her face. It was kind of like a grimace.
“A freshman,” she said.
“Yeah.” I said. “Is there something wrong with that?”
She stared at me, and then looked away.
“No. No, there’s nothing wrong with that. It just makes me feel old.”
We were handed a slip of paper. Small and rectangular. Writing scrawled on the inside. Shakespeare. I guess we were supposed to act out a scene or something.
“So, like. Romeo and Juliet?” She said.
I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Balcony scene then,” she muttered as she got up from her chair. “I’m Juliet, you’re Romeo. It’s all the same.”
The classroom murmured and hollered and—
“Oh Romeo, oh Romeo.” She postured. Her hand flopped limply from her wrist. “Wherefore art thou Romeo! R—“
And then the whole world just went quiet.
Her mind must’ve gone blank. She didn’t say another word for five whole seconds. And that’s when the panic settles in. She starts again.
“R—“
And silence again.
I couldn’t stand it. I grabbed her by the hand. And I just started talking.
“To be or not to be,” I cried out. “Fair Juliet, that is the question!”
She stared at me curiously.
And then she started laughing.
“But alas, dear Romeo, I knew him well!”
She asked me after why I did it. I don’t even know. But I thought, during that one moment:
If all the world’s a stage, and the men and women only players—I must find my own part to play. And you can’t act out anything if you stay backstage.
That’s all there is.
I don’t think I need a script at all.
9/25
We had our first drama meeting. It was really overwhelming, seeing all the people surrounding me and I felt like I was behind schedule or something, seeming them all socializing and bonding together. But I tried to remind myself that it was only the first meeting. That everything would be okay. And after today, I’m starting to think they might be.
Our first activity was getting separated into groups and then from there acting out a scene with your partner. I was put with a guy named (blank) and he seemed like a cool guy. He was reserved, and maybe a bit overwhelmed by all the people like me, but regardless he definitely seemed more comfortable than I did.
And then I found out he was a freshman…a freshman! I instantly felt ridiculous. It was like a knee-jerk response. I went from feeling nervously excited to downright ridiculous. What was I doing? I’m a senior with no experience in Drama, what have I been doing the past four years? This guy clearly was getting a head start, and here I was ten steps behind him.
A freshman. Wow, if I didn’t already feel like I was behind schedule, that just made me feel like I was on a whole different script. I instantly felt ridiculous, and even more so when we got a little piece of paper telling us to act out a scene from Shakespeare. I hardly knew any Shakespeare, and I tried to feign indifference but I felt ridiculous.
I was in the middle of scrambling my brain to remember the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet when all of a sudden, I just froze. It was like my brain couldn’t take it anymore. I looked at the freshman in front of me and he looked at me and we were on the same stage, re-enacting the same scene, and I felt ridiculous.
And I realized…that’s what it was. That’s what held me back every day from writing a journal entry. That’s what prevented me from doing the things I wanted to do in freshman, sophomore, junior, senior year.
I was too comfortable. I wasn’t brave enough. I was too comfortable, and I wasn’t brave enough, and so I never joined the Drama club.
I did the same thing every day. I waited and waited for something to happen to allow me to write in my journal a story worth an entry–a life worth living.
But that never would have happened, because I followed the same routine every day and I drove the same route every day and I went on the same apps every day. I never tried something new and I never wanted to face that discomfort. The car smelled but I never wanted to leave it.
It didn’t feel like a breaking point when I signed up for the Drama club, but I guess in a way it was.
It was me breaking away from the same schedule every day. It was me stepping off of the same path I had been on my whole life. It was me finally doing something that made me look forward to the next day.
(And maybe I wasn’t a prodigy when it came to giving a performance, and maybe I wasn’t going to continue with Drama after this year, and maybe I hadn’t found what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
But it didn’t matter. I had done something new, I had gone off script, I had gone on a new path, I had stepped out of the smelly but comfortable car. I had taken the pen and opened my journal and decided that I was done waiting for a story that would never come to me. I would go out and find a story, and I would write everything that was welling up in my journey, everything threatening to spill out and solidify into these pages as an undeniable fact that this was a life worth living.
I refused to let myself stay the same. To slowly burn out until all that was left of me was ashes.)
And now it was me not letting my days, weeks, months, years, lifetimes pass by me while I stayed the same.
It was me finding a life worth living.
By Romina Delgado, Staff Writer; and Madeleine Adi, Creative Writing Editor
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