A First Time for Everything: Four Year Senior Reflection
“Hey, don’t tell anyone.” “Don’t tell anyone what?” “That I like you.”
First-times are not perfect. My third-grade crush’s confession of his feelings for me failed to meet my expectations of romance. In fact, I was so disappointed that I stared at him, red-faced, and chased after a group of my friends who were walking ahead. But I still remember this moment. It was the first time I had felt embarrassed in public, the first time that my heart had danced against my ribcage, and the first time that I was consciously aware of the tingly feeling one gets from a “first time” experience.
“There is a first time for everything” is a common saying that holds incredible truth. I remember my confusion when I tried opening the door to my dorm, having forgotten about the keycard system, the anxiety of sleeping through my morning classes even after setting six alarms and the satisfaction of finding someone in D-Hall to sit with. But I got used to all these things, and after these ‘firsts,’ they were just normal parts of my day. I mastered waking up at 7:53 a.m. and still making it to 8 a.m. class, honed the art of rubbing my backpack on the keycard sweeper until the satisfying click is heard and I have sat at the same D-Hall table with the same group of people for four years
After a while, I started missing “first times.” I missed the exhilaration I felt as I slid down the hill on a black trash bag, spraying mud and rain water from my sides, the glee that shot through my body as I jumped off a bridge into the gentle water, and the awe that filled me when I looked up at the PEA library from its bottom floor for the first time.
Coming to Exeter for the first time was dizzying. Always speaking in English was an experience in itself, and Exeter’s trademark brick buildings looked daunting as well. After my dad dropped me off with a hasty “good luck,” I refused to spend time with my roommate or even eat regularly. After an unnerving first week, I found three handwritten pages that my dad had given me, detailing how to do laundry, where to put away my socks and which shop I should visit to buy the cheapest binders. However, even these pages steeped in my dad’s love didn’t help me. Classes were still daily nightmares, and meeting people who seemed perpetually happy was petrifying; but most of all, I distinctly remember the horror of the first Assembly.
The cloth benches soaked up the heat that a thousand students breathed in and out. I sat squeezed in between two jittery, acne-covered boys, fanning myself with a copy of a song that Rev would soon boom out. I didn’t like Principal Hassan’s speech, mostly because I couldn’t understand him; I didn’t get the point of introducing new faculty if we were going to meet them later anyway, and I certainly didn’t pay attention to the never-ending list of retiring faculty and emeriti. Saying “senior class” at the end of each assembly seemed unnecessary; the end of an assembly was still going to be a fire hazard. I sympathized with the upperclassmen who dozed off. I dreaded entering that hall every time I ascended the marble steps.
One rainy day, as if the cold weather itself wasn’t bad enough, the Assembly hall seemed even bleaker. I saw the usual empty seats on the benches and even occasional empty rows. When a man, holding a small drum, strode onto the stage, I was profoundly unimpressed. I readied myself for him to ramble on about his accomplishments in an exotic field of academics.
My classmates shifted in their seats, sighing collectively and preparing to doze off in a more comfortable position. The drummer ran his fingers through his hair, fixed his shirt and cleared his throat the way that every boring intellectual begins a lengthy speech. But instead of introducing himself, he started to tap his drum heartily, and the rich sound weaved and reverberated through us. Everyone’s eyelids slowly opened.
“You’re going to sing with me today. Now, repeat after me: Ache, ache!”
A lackluster mumble undulated through the hall. I rolled my eyes; after all, we weren’t kindergarteners. My fellow preps snickered at each other; I even saw some of them crossing their arms, haughty at the ridiculous idea of chanting during assembly. But only a moment later, we found ourselves pumping our fists in the air to the beat of traditional West African music. My heart beat to the poignant tune, and I joined a thousand other students in screaming the incomprehensible words as the Assembly hall exploded with spirit and energy. At that moment, as my ears rang with the rhapsody, I felt the Exeter bond.
Four years later, I found myself sitting in the very same Assembly hall. A white pillar was blocking my view of the stage. Once again, the drummer walked to the middle of the stage, but this time, instead of letting out a haughty sigh, I broke into loud applause, whooping and cheering with other excited seniors. I anticipated the rush of excitement I remembered from my first sing-along at Exeter.
“You’re going to sing with me today. Now, repeat after me: Ache, ache!”
It wasn’t there. Where was the vitality, the warmth and the incomparable moment of singularity? The assembly hall erupted with the same beat and words, but I didn’t feel the same thrill I felt before. I longed for that first time, when I felt the outburst of passion that served as the first evidence of my undying love for Exeter. When Mr. Hassan said, “senior class,” I walked out of the assembly with an eerie feeling in the pit of my stomach. Did senior year mean the end of the unrestrained joy I felt each time I tried new things? Was I too old to experience the same sensation again.
First times are special. They’re not necessarily pleasant, but they’re moments that no one will ever be able to get back. As a four-year senior, I’ve participated in almost all Exeter traditions, from yelling from my dorm balcony at midnight, to napping on the quad on Principal’s Day, to lining up outside Dunkin Donuts at 5 a.m. on the last day of the year. But the tingle that I felt doing these things for the first time during my prep year is never going to come back.
As I walk around campus with a short three weeks left until graduation, I’m overcome with nostalgia for the “first times” Exeter has given me a chance to experience. But I’m also filled with the comfort that “first times” happen anytime, anywhere, to anyone. Graduation symbolizes leaving Exeter behind, but after walking through the archway that is inscribed with “Class of 1970,” every senior is led into a world of new first times. First times can’t happen unless we allow ourselves to experience them, and I’m determined not to let senior spring, the idea that everyone associates with being the end, to hinder me. To experience again the unforgettable excitement that comes with a first time, I’m ready to take chances to try new things. And it’s never too late for that.