Dear Margo, Rita, and Curtis,
I don’t know what I am going to do next year without my proctors. They’re like older siblings to me. I am going to miss them so much.
Ah, yes. The worst time of the year has come: graduation szn. It is time for the class of 2017 to leave the nest, to flap their wings, and to fly out into the real world. During this time we, as a school, often focus on the graduating class by paying tribute to their accomplishments… but let’s be real—graduation is mostly about the three remaining grades that will be ditched.
Graduation for the ninth-graders, tenth-graders, and juniors alike, is similar to a bad breakup—it comes in 6 phases:
Denial: At first you’ll pretend the class of 2017 isn’t leaving. It will all feel like a bad dream. This is okay, but will soon lead to a rude awakening.
Anger: You’re going to be angry at your seniors for leaving you behind in the valley. Try to channel that by punching your bed pillow.
Tears: You’re going to cry. A lot. Own it.
…More tears. Lots and lots of tears.
Acceptance: Once the seniors have left campus, your pillow is bruised and beaten, and all your tears have dried, you will be forced to accept the fact that the seniors are gone. This phase comes with time.
Finally, comes freedom: With each class that graduates, there is a new class of ninth-graders, bright- eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to take on the Academy. So, channel your inner proctor and take good care of the newbies.
For the class of 2018: Although the class of 2017 were never our proctors, they have been there right there beside us for every step of the way throughout our Deerfield careers. They’ve seen us at our worst (think freshmen, socially awkward, and painfully bold) and they’ve helped us to become our best. So now, as graduation creeps up on us, let’s bid the class of 2017 farewell. Take all the wisdom and knowledge they’ve passed down to us since our days when freshman/sophomore halls ruled in 1 B.V. (before village) and honor the FAM17Y they created.
For underclassmen: Speaking from experience, don’t try to hop in your proctor’s luggage. It does not, and will not work. Trust me, I’ve tried. Instead, I would recommend eating your sorrows away in the Greer.
Don’t worry: we will always have Choate Day.
Margo, Rita, and Curtis
(P.S. To the class of 2017: This is not goodbye…it’s see you later.)