If I am being perfectly honest, the Deerfield Days promotional video played a pretty big part in my decision to say “Yes to DA!” I was a moth, drawn to the montages of fiery school spirit and exiciting dorm life. Genuine warmth and care seeped from every corner of Deerfield’s promotional videos, website, and emails, so that even from across the world in Shanghai, I felt that if I simply extended my fingertips I could become part of all of it. From the moment I was accepted to Deerfield, I was bombarded with everything green and white. Even now, I feel that Deer- field is, in itself, a vast, unique, and sprawling civilization. Our idiosyncrasy is exemplified by our shared language: Buy in. Shriv in the riv. Feed. Agachi. Kicking it with kindness. Brushie Washie. Days of Glory. Bubsey. Gotcha! Mindful Moment. For food, for friendship, for the blessings of the day. 80% on Albany Road. Chuck Foate.
It’s almost as if we’ve built a world of our own. This world is a little hard to explain to people who don’t live in it, but that’s part of why it’s special. I love that we have a secret language of our own.
Yet this distinct identity and close-knit community that the administration and student body have so deliberately cultivated can contribute to othering. Because our identity is so distinct, the world we’ve built can come across as impenetrable. In an environment that values community above all else, the hardest thing to admit is probably a perceived lack of belonging. How does one even confess those feelings?
For those who feel like their heart is rifting in this way, I borrow a phrase that my best friend from home would tease me with, whenever I felt like I was retreating inwards, trapped in the throes of snowy winter term: “Your world is so much bigger than your school.” Even if Deerfield is not where you retreat to for comfort, Deerfield is not everything. Our school culture is immersive and requires 120% from everyone, but don’t leave your old friends behind. Call your parents for a little longer. Treasure the escape of the outside world.
When it comes to belonging, something I wish that I had embraced sooner is actively giving myself grace and generosity for growth and exploration. Our worship of community means that feeling like you don’t belong becomes an ostensible personal failure, increasingly existential and almost heretical. It’s a familiar spiral. But we are all floating in varying degrees of realizing who we are; we need space in order to grow. In fact, how can we be sure of our place in our community when most of us are still in limbo, figuring ourselves out, learning our own idiosyncrasies, and as corny as it is, realizing who we are? We can afford to take that time to create our own place here.
The struggles of wrestling with belonging at Deerfield helped me realize that there are many dilemmas that you cannot simply think yourself out of. But that is often the case when we are a part of something so much bigger than ourselves. Because the forces of change that push us forward are so grand, no matter who you are, I promise that you will change in ways that you could not have anticipated. There will always be growing pains, and obviously, hindsight is always 20/20, but quite simply, life is happier when we trust that change is for the better. Why not indulge in hope? I, at various points, have also felt like I am failing to live the fullest Deerfield life promised in the Deerfield days video. But it takes time for connections to build, it takes time for this community to earn your trust, and it takes time for your vision of Deerfield to blossom. A year ago, there was no way I could have written these words. And you don’t have to take it from me. There are so many role models to look up to here. Lean on your proctors. Hug your seniors a little tighter. Trust that the giants whose shoulders you are standing on know the way.
I have no grand argument to make about how to wrestle with belonging at Deerfield. I do think it is notable, though, that the people who have gone through Deerfield all preach similar things. I cite a Board Editorial titled “Addressing Mental Health at Deerfield” published last year. Last winter, sitting in the Scroll room, I read these heart-breaking stories, written by page editors and editors of the Scroll, many of which I did not know well, and I cried and cried. I was moved by Clara’s resilience. I shared Jerry’s fear of unfulfilled potential and dissatisfaction with his faltering discipline. I related so much to Sarah, who felt like “everyone else was enamored with Deerfield in a way that [she] could not understand.” I think it means something that, strangely, all of them, in their own separate struggles, came upon similar understandings. Almost every single one of their stories ended with hope, asking the reader to confide in someone, seek out vulnerability, and give yourself grace.
In some ways, these years we spend in the Valley, drifting down the river, are the most carefree of our lives. Sometimes we need to be reminded of that. I have spent so much time transfixed by the enormity of the fleeting gift of Deerfield. So many of my afternoons seeped away, as I stood in dorm rooms, from one side of campus to the other, motionless. Now, honestly, I think I would just like to laugh a little louder and sleep a little sounder.
