CAROLINE CANNATA ‘22, Senior Editor, TMP 39

Why We Should All Work on a Farm… At Least Once

I surprised myself by committing my month of rest and relaxation to farming, in solitude, on a 70 acre plot of land at the base of Blue Hills. Some were worried. Many were confused. I have never, not once, expressed an interest in farming to anyone. Yet I found myself, with dirt under my fingernails, cursing the tick I’d find on my ankle, most May mornings at Brookwood Community Farm. It was consuming and it was beautiful. Above all, it felt right. I worked alongside a few others, Tori, Lazuli, Deven, and Hannah. We’d weed, plant, claw, and scrape through rough melanges of dirt, bits of conversation strung between the germinating and the dying. 

My relationship to work shifted, gradually. In the field, conscious of the cold soreness directing my body, I craned my curiosity downwards, to time, dirt, water, and patient life. From this work, nourishment bloomed for my immediate community. So often the illnesses of our planet are fended off by walls, controlled temperatures, shelter, and structure. In that field, these borders were null. The introspection of farming equally stimulated extrospection, an attentiveness to the environment. 

Of my four weeks working at the farm, it rained maybe three times. People would remark, with a plastic ignorance, that it was absolutely fantastic, even thrilling, timing for me to begin farming: no rain, no clouds, just sunshine to saunter beneath. In actuality, the lack of rain was a plaguing worry of Brookwood. “It’s all I can think about,” Hannah would mutter. I’d turn to the blue above, dry as bones and harnessing an unrelenting emptiness. Moderate to severe droughts have consumed nearly 50% of the United States, according to NIDIS, including the farm I worked on. When I’d tell people our environment was experiencing a moderate drought, they’d react with surprise or denial. 

I can’t look down on that surprise, as I was a part of it before. Often, our understanding of climate change is conditional to states or borders. Florida’s marshland is dying, California’s forests are on fire, Antarctica is doomed, and yatta yatta. This process of compartmentalization both minimizes the threat and elongates the fictitious countdown to the day we’ve finally done ourselves over. Not to be cynical, though I’d argue a pressure of cynicality is necessary here, most of us do ourselves over everyday: our decisions hour by hour parallel the health of Earth. To understand climate change outside of established borders would instate a more intuitive, holistic understanding of climate change. We’d directly challenge the fabric of our geopolitical relations and the passive solutions we’ve rafted ourselves to. 

Extreme turbulence within geopolitical relations, Ukraine most notably, reflects our current relation to food. Borders are reshaped, our fabric rips, and our dependence on the conditional reveals to be no better than mosquito netting. How we value, or rather perceive the value of, local produce is not dramatized by supply chain failures; instead, these failures reveal the deafening reality of how much value local sustainable initiatives harbor. 

The most upsetting aspect of this whole nightmare, for me, is that the solution lies within a mile radius of all of us: our communities. But the Western initiatives to globalize, take, plunder, extricate, abuse, and rely on the labor of others have seriously damaged the local levels. Most small towns don’t even have a paper like the one I’m writing in here, nevermind the mobilization of sustainable initiatives. We are strangers to one another, so what do we do? Well, support those already operating. There’s more in the Boston area than you think. Above all, use your time intentionally, and not always directly for the benefit of yourself. And if you’re feeling super bold, try reading a little about climate change and sustainability, and please, please find out why Greta is more sane than us students ever will be. 

ALEC HAMBLET ‘22, Co-Editor in Chief, TMP 39

I came into the high school with very few plans. The Milton bucket list my friends and I made freshman year was comprised of sophisticated goals like “climb the lockers in the wigg hallway” and “put froyo on pizza and eat it…and eat froyo out of the machine (like put your mouth under it like skying sorta)”. You’ll be surprised to know that I have yet to complete this bucket list. (And I’m now realizing that I have only a few short weeks to do so, so if you see me eating froyo straight out of the machine in Forbes…mind your business. )

But in all seriousness, I did have some goals for myself. There were clubs I wanted to join, positions I wanted to hold, relationships I wanted to have, friends I wanted to make, etc. However, nothing was completely concrete. I didn’t make grand plans or serious bucket lists, and I didn’t really have an idea of the future. I had no clear path through Milton, and yet, I feel like I’ve come out all right. I don’t think even a year ago I could have guessed what my life would be like right now, and two years ago, I’d probably be mildly horrified. However, that’s what happens when you guide yourself mostly by doing things you enjoy. At age 14, you really don’t know what you’re going to want at age 17, so I think there’s a lot to be said for leaving room for yourself to grow and change by doing what you enjoy most for the present.

Although people don’t know me as a huge procrastinator, I’ve actually made a lot of important decisions last minute. I decided to write my TMP editorial board application only a few days before it was due, after originally deciding I didn’t want to apply. I honestly cannot remember what made me change my mind. The college I ended up committing to is one that I decided to apply to only 10 days before their deadline. I joined tech crew spontaneously in 7th grade and it’s been one of the biggest, most fun parts of my Milton experience. I’ve often changed the thesis of my English papers right before they’re due (with varying degrees of success). I’m not saying that making a plan is a bad thing. In fact, it’s always good to have something to fall back on. However, keeping yourself open to the idea of scrapping plans when something better or different comes along is equally important.

Most of what my life looks like today was not according to plan, because I never really made a plan, and even if I had planned to get to this exact spot, I don’t think I could have gotten here. Do you ever do something that looks really good completely by accident and then realize that you never could have done it on purpose? That’s how my life feels. Milton has so many opportunities that each and every one of us is going to miss out on some things. There are many things I wish I could have done at Milton, but I’m not sure I’d be willing to give other things up to do them.

Perhaps this is all to say that I shouldn’t be giving advice. Most of you probably don’t want your lives to look exactly like mine because we’re all different people with different desires, and if you do want your life to look exactly like mine, I’m not sure what advice I could give you in that vein either.

But I’m going to try to give some advice anyways: Things have a habit of working themselves out, or at least we humans have an enormous capacity to make the best of situations. There are a lot of parts of my Milton experience that, had 9th grade me seen the future, I would have done my absolute best to avoid. Missed questions on tests, rejections in all forms, slow cross country times, embarrassing social situations, COVID: the list of things that would have scared the hell out of me 3 years ago goes on and on. But you know what? Looking back, none of them seem that bad. I’ve generally found that the anticipation of something bad is often way, way worse than the bad thing itself. For instance, I often spend hours stressing about and dreading a cross country race, only to find that it’s inevitably not as bad as I’d feared. The same holds true for tests, awkward conversations, and pretty much every other difficult situation I encounter.

I warn you all: there are going to be some bumps in the road ahead. If I could tell you your future, you’d probably dread some parts of it. There are some things I’ve done at Milton that I’m very glad I’ll never have to do again, but I’m going to miss a lot of things as well.

I urge you not to plan your Milton experience too strictly. The things that seem right for you now may not be right for you in a year, or even in a week, or the next 10 minutes. Don’t miss out on opportunities just because you don’t think you have enough time to apply or because you’d never considered them before. Life tends to work itself out. And, that said, don’t mourn missed opportunities, because you truly don’t have time to do everything.

I’ll likely find myself starting college with a similar lack of long term plans. I’m not yet sure what I want to major in or eventually devote my life to, but I’m confident that I’ll find it eventually. There’s a lot of time ahead for each of us to make and break plans, and a lot of things that will hit us that we can’t even imagine right now and therefore won’t be factored into plans, no matter how carefully they’re made.

I’m not saying that you shouldn’t think about your future at all, and I’m not saying that what you do in high school doesn’t matter. Your future is important, and you stand to benefit from getting the most out of your Milton experience that you can. But please, try to be happy, because happiness too is an integral part of a worthwhile Milton experience. Milton is here to challenge you, and I urge you all to let yourself be challenged, but Milton is also here to give you an enjoyable experience. So, if you’re not enjoying your experience, don’t just wait for things to get better, try to make some changes.

And, now that my I’ve given my deep wisdom, here’s some random but more easily applicable wisdom:

• Chocolate chip cookies taste 10x better if you heat them up in the panini maker

• Lunch is 40 minutes, so if you go 15 minutes after class ends, you still have 25 minutes (aka plenty of time) to eat and the lines probably will have died down

• Almost any teacher will grant you a 1-day extension even if you ask right before something’s due (unless it’s a huge project). Teachers don’t want to read something you wrote between 3 am and 5 am. Just get the extension and go to bed.

• Honors Bio is easier as a senior

• “Reply” and “Reply All” are two similar looking buttons with very different functions. Learn the difference.

I hope that some of you made it to the end of this reflection and found something helpful along the way. I’m incredibly happy with the experience I’ve had at Milton, and I’m thankful for all the people who made it possible. I’ll miss this place.

EVITA THADHANI ‘20, Co-Editor in Chief, TMP 37

“How do you want to be remembered?” The question met an awkward silence as it circulated around the room of 12 or so Milton Academy 8th graders. If I remember correctly, we were learning about Emmett Till, a 14-year-old innocent black boy who was murdered in 1955. We had just seen a picture from his wake, his black and white deformed face. My classmates and I were about 14, too, and by posing this question, my Social Studies teacher, Ms. Mathieu, had reminded us that our lives—which felt light, young, full of opportunity—were in fact, terminal. We had the ability to make an impact, to be remembered in the way we wanted, but that window for impact would one day shut. As the day continued, every one of my actions felt more important than ever. Holding the door for a fellow classmate, smiling at a teacher, checking in on a friend— these small interactions became top priority. I wanted to do the right thing in all interactions because, after all, they would determine how I would be remembered. And then, of course, the days rolled on, and other than in the Social Studies classroom, the question felt distant in comparison to the math test I had next period, the essay I still had to write, or the internship I had to pursue over the summer. I was fast approaching a seemingly massive hurdle: surviving high school and getting into college. 

As with anything, it’s easy to look back and say how you would have done things differently: classes not taken, opportunities missed, friendships left unexplored. It’s probably better to dwell on the many parts of Milton that were fulfilling and enjoyable— my first sweat-filled, chaotic glow dance, singing with my cross country team, workshopping in Creative Writing class, sunny afternoons on the quad, and late night Milton Paper meetings. But in these final days as I look back, I cannot ignore one thing I wish I had done differently: I wish I had kept that question of remembrance with me beyond that 8th grade Social Studies classroom. 

It’s only in this spring, as I prepare to graduate, that I’ve begun thinking about how I will be remembered at Milton. In the rush of handing in assignments, preparing for the next ones, keeping up with extracurriculars and, in this past year, completing college applications, I somehow never processed that I would actually be leaving this place, this world of vibrant green lawns and brick buildings that I’ve called home for the past 13 years. It’s ironic, I guess, that amidst working day in and day out for my next step, I never fully registered that taking that next step meant leaving one behind. I did not realize my actions and work here determined anything other than what my next step would look like. But of course that’s not the case; although aimed (perhaps too much) at the future, those actions determined how I would impact Milton, the place I would be leaving. If this realization had come sooner, if I had kept that question of remembrance with me, I like to think my actions would have been aimed more at helping the people and the place around me. I could have visited and thanked my teachers more. I could have listened instead of stressing about class participation. I could have reached out to people I did not know. I could have been a tutor, a sustainability advocate, or a volunteer. I could have smiled more. I could have looked over the Paper better, to ensure that what we published was helpful, not hurtful. I could have left a better impact than I have. 

 As of June 5th, my window for impact at Milton has narrowed, if not completely shut. And throughout most of my Milton experience, I’ve been so consumed by what lay on the other side that I did not even see the existence of that window. You may think I’m simply arguing for the cliche “live in the present.” But it’s one thing to live in the present; it’s a completely other thing to live in the present knowing you will one day leave the people around you. The environment you are in today, especially in this time of quarantine, may feel like it will never end. But as you navigate this moment and the next, remember, as I will try to, that the people and place around you are only temporary, and that, as much as you are working towards the future, your actions now determine how you will be remembered. 

NATHAN SMITH ‘20, Co-Editor in Chief

Dear Milton, when I started my journey with you, you didn’t know me very well.

I remember the application essay I wrote.  I told you how I met my first friend when I started at Park School in the 6th grade; during recess, I noticed the only other boy who looked as shy and lonely as I felt, and approached him. “I’m Josh,” he said, “who are you?” As we grew closer, I realized that Josh was the most hated kid in the grade, and I began to understand that my befriending him was akin to being shunned by everyone else.  Still, I remained steadfastly loyal to Josh, the only kid bored enough to talk to me, and did my best to defend him against rampant bullying.  A good story to tell, I thought, of an applicant who dares to be true even when ignoring his own sense of justice would offer him the short term gratification of additional friends.  I’m glad you agreed.

I confess, though, that my friendship with Josh did not last. Josh left Park after the 7th grade. Milton, I did not tell you how that friendship ended, how a year after I met Josh, I could barely stand his presence. I did not tell you that Josh left Park after the 7th grade because his only friend had, as he put it, “left him in the dust.”  You must have expected me to arrive at high school as an upstanding leader, someone who sticks up for not only himself, but also others.  Instead, when I started at Milton, I was shy and insecure, and I wished someone had been there to have my back—I could barely support it on my own. 

Milton, thank you for taking a chance on me when all you knew about me was the part of my story I was ready to share. Starting from the very first exercise, the application, you taught me that presenting myself to the world is a game of partial stories.

I became adept at telling those stories, to present what I believed to be my most appealing and competent and seemingly intelligent front as I wandered, then strode more purposefully, through your hallways. From answering teachers who were mad when I showed up late to class, to  sharing details about my personal life with friends, to replying to the daily parental “how was your day,” I employed the partial story all the time. But I grew exhausted keeping so many details to myself.  In those details were the uncertainties, maybe the judgment I feared, and the mystery of all of me.

Bit by bit, Milton, you taught me the value of sharing a fuller story.  Each time a student broke a significant rule or stepped on a code, you read aloud to the whole school the details of the infraction, reminding us that specifics tell the story and drive the action  My favorite English teachers pushed me relentlessly to think more deeply about each book, play or poem I read, and to produce a more complex analysis.  You constantly reminded me to dare to be truer.  

When I became Co-Editor-in-Chief of The Milton Paper, I reveled in the opportunity to lead the only organization at Milton dedicated to sharing the complete, uncensored story.  But I was naive.  The constraints on TMP are real, because, dear Milton, you cede the truth of stories or of opinions, even those plainly stated as such, if those opinions might offend some community members. That is a truth; did you want me to say that aloud?

Partial stories, you say, still have their place.

Milton, as I leave you, I know two things. One:  I loved some of my teachers, who were caring and thoughtful and helped me think.  I loved spending time with my friends, hearing the stories they were ready to tell.  Thank you for sharing them with me.  I will miss them all.  Two: I am ready for more stories, as full as I can make them.

CALVIN CHEONG ‘20, A&E Editor, TMP 37

Looks like we made it. 

Who could’ve known that it would end like this? No glorious parade, no teary-eyed embraces, no actual sense of solid, definite closure. Honestly, I guess it’s kind of appropriate—a gradual, creeping stagnation into our final moments, leaving us blinking and shrugging and saying to ourselves: “Welp. I guess that’s that.” Without a simple goodbye, it all goes by so fast.

What happens next? Now, the army ants of time begin the laborious task of dismantling the insect husk that was once the Milton Academy Class of 2020, extracting each integral, grisly component away from the next, yet all collectively down the gaping gullet of the inevitable unknown. Well, it’s not all this bad. I suppose that some of us will end up in similar places, submerged in the gastric acids of the larvae that represent our destinies. Woohoo.

Anyways, that very cringy mess you just read (which I’m going to include because whatever) was the fruit of the taxing labor of trying to convey what I see as Milton’s inexorable fate as a community. We will slowly drift apart. We will slowly lose sight of one another. We will slowly trek down our own stray paths, while trying to look over our shoulders to where we once met with the paths of others. If we’re lucky, we might catch glimpses of our fellows alongside us; if we’re unlucky, this is it. 

At this point, you might be saying, “Whoa hey! What a load of crap! My friends and I are gonna stay friends for the rest of our lives!” And if you believe that and have good reason to do so, I wholeheartedly hope that it happens. And if you really just don’t care about what I’m saying, I guess that I don’t care that you don’t care about what I’m saying. Additionally, I hope that you don’t care about my not caring about your not caring about what I’m saying, so that I can, in turn, not care about your not caring about my not caring about your not caring about what I’m saying. This reflection is more for me, I think, than it is for you.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In lieu of weirdly specific sentimental drivel that I know wouldn’t hold any significance whatsoever to anyone at all other than myself, I decided to include some random loosely-identity-related context just so that you can, if you really want to, put a face to the name, and cement that name behind all the other nonsense that I decide to spout in this rant-disguised-as-a-senior-reflection. After all, you probably don’t even know who I am. If you’re an underclassmen? Most definitely not. In my grade? Extremely likely that you don’t. In any one of my classes (most of which, in my four years at Milton, consisted of fewer than a dozen students)? Quite possibly not. 

In fact, the most exposure I’ve received was when I really hoisted myself up by the bootstraps and lost the election for Boarding Monitor last year. Yes, I am boasting. About losing. Well, given that my halcyon days were spent sitting around in my dorm room and promising myself to vanquish the antisocial devil that resides within me, I’d say that I’m justified in considering my overwhelming defeat to be a victory.

You might be saying, “Whoa hey! What does the fact that you’re a loser and a weirdo and a dorm rat and someone who relies on self-deprecating humor to an uncomfortable extent have to do with anything?” I wouldn’t be surprised. I wouldn’t be surprised, because each one of those “insults” would be absolutely correct. Hey, everyone’s lost something or felt lost at something in their lifetime—me, perhaps, more than some. And from a weirdo’s experience, everyone’s a little weird; if you deny it, it just makes you weirder. Trust me, it takes one to know one. And I daresay that over seventy-five percent of my aggregate time in high school was spent in the dorm. In my room. What I’m trying to say is that just because someone takes offense at an aspect of your identity doesn’t mean that you should. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To my people on TMP: I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Really. Those meetings were probably the only place other than Forbes House where I could feel like some semblance of myself (If I had to quantify it, I’d say TMP37 got around 84% Calvin, while Forbes got 95% Calvin. And I’m very sorry to say this, but most of my classes were pushing on 8% (sorry sorry sorry). I shudder to think what might happen if I was ever forced to reveal my true, glorious self—my full potential—to anyone; vaporization might be involved, who knows). Fact is: everyone has masks they put on for other people. The Milton Paper gave me a place, a home away from home away from home, where my mask wasn’t all that different from the real ‘me.’ A weird metaphor to show my appreciation, I know, but it’s something that I’ve never had the chance to say. Thank you for giving me one of the few things I looked forward to every week. 

When I started writing this thing, I had aimed to be more angsty and edgy and somber, to really pull on the ol’ heartstrings; yet, somehow, I got caught up in attempting to include humor, and the mood brightened a little. Maybe it’s because I’m having trouble feeling anything at all in the wake of the memories we’ve lost, the moments that ran away from us, not only in the last couple of months, but in the little things we took for granted that slipped through the cracks of everyday life in the past four years. The happy accidents that, no matter how hard we reach into the past, we will never experience again. So here’s a little melancholy song suggestion that I hope you will listen to: Can’t Cry Hard Enough by The Williams Brothers.

There you go, beyond the clouds. Goodbye, Milton Academy.

Calvin Cheong ‘20

ANDREW WILWORTH ‘20, Managing Editor, TMP 37

How Did I Get Here?

This is both my first and last Paper article. Yes, you read that right. In my freshman and sophomore years, I enjoyed the Paper solely as a consumer, with no interest in it past whether that week’s backpage had “beaten” the Me*sure’s backpage (it usually did). When I did finally decide to get involved with the Paper during my junior fall, I joined the humor board. For maybe 15 weeks total, I “helped” write with a humor board of seniors that almost always wrote all the jokes. Then, I spent the Spring at The Mountain School, a semester school in Vermont, and my minimal contributions to the Paper subsided completely.

And yet, on April 18th, 2019, I opened my email to find a message from Pierce Wilson ‘19 with the subject line “CONGRATS TMP 37!!!!”, announcing that I was to be the Managing Editor of The Milton Paper, Volume 37. I read the email probably five times, searching for the joke, the prank, the error. I returned to the application I had sent in only three days before to make sure I had sent the right one. My confusion only grew when I confirmed that I had sent the right Google Doc, that under “Prior Writing Experience” I had actually written “Humor for half of junior year, but no experience writing articles.” I gave up combing through the email and texted my predecessor and close friend Lyndsey Mugford ‘19 directly: “TMP 37!!” I tested the waters – would she respond, “What do you mean?”, or “Congrats!”. My screen lit up with her response: “You’re the right person for the job!”

In this instance and in countless others at Milton, I have found that the most important thing that people identify you by is not your grades, your friends, your class, race, gender, or sexuality, but your character – the morals you hold, the traits most important to you. Lyndsey and the TMP 36 board chose me for this position not because of how experienced or talented I was, but rather because of how my character matched that of the person they wanted in this position. 

This same scenario repeated itself for OBK: the 12 heads from that year chose me not because of how smart I was, who my friends were, or how popular I was, but because those who knew me knew that I was reliable, passionate, and dedicated. When my name flashed across their eyes, the first thing they thought was not, “he had a B in US History!” or “I don’t know how many friends he has…” but rather, “will he dedicate himself to this job and will he respect those he leads alongside?”

My point is not to be more like me. Like all of us, I am flawed in too many ways to count. Here’s the takeaway: no matter what your GPA might look like or what you might want it to look like, you must prioritize your character, because only your character defines you in the eyes of others. 

As I was preparing to write this reflection, I was at a loss for what I could possibly pass on to my friends and peers in one small piece. I pondered over the meetings to choose the Paper’s 38th Editorial Board. When we began to discuss the Managing Editor position and who should succeed me, without much thought I shared, “I think we should go with Kayla, because she seems right for the job.” During our biology class this year, I saw Kayla fearlessly lead others in exploration, selflessly help others (including myself) in understanding, and completely dedicate herself to succeeding. I did not choose Kayla because of her experience in writing, nor her extracurriculars, nor her sample editorial. I chose Kayla because of her character. In this moment, I finally understood what Lyndsey had meant when she told me I was the right person for the job. 

I did not intend for this reflection to become a proclamation of holy advice, but rather a contemplation of my time at Milton and what I will take with me. At an institution where almost 200 students leave every year, it is hard to leave a lasting mark. I know that I would be vain to assume that I have permanently altered any club, sport, or group in which I have participated. But I do hope that for those who knew me, my character shone through and left an impression on you, since all those who made my Milton career so special certainly left an impression on me. Thank you, Milton.

MALIA CHUNG ‘20, Copy Editor, TMP 37

Exit Wounds

Since the onset of quarantine, I’ve existed between the bookends of night. I go to bed at four in the morning and wake up five quick hours later, still hanging in this thick, sleepy limbo. In these odd hours, I’ve begun sorting, rummaging for closure as the day itself is closing. I’ve revisited old books like Marie’s Howe’s Magdalena, the green sticky notes collaring the cover of Ocean Vuong’s Night Sky with Exit Wounds, the endless copies of Magus from my time, as well as decades before my own. The extra copies, with their slim, well labeled spines, are, most likely, classroom wash-ups from my faculty mother, Lisa Baker, or faculty father, Tarim Chung. I peel through them for some midnight perspective on my time at Milton, on those before me, on what’s yet to come. 

If you asked me last year, I wouldn’t have predicted my missing Milton, which sounds silly since my entire life to-date is written here. I was born here, shuttled straight from the hospital to Milton’s faculty housing on East Campus. With my two younger sisters, our family has migrated from the Condos to Hathaway House to two West Campus apartments before returning here to East Campus, across from the town graveyard and off the vein of Centre Street. 

Milton’s speed and intensity have not always fit me, though it offered me a four month getaway at its semester program, the Mountain School, situated on the Northern border of Vermont. In this single span of junior year, I grew tremendously, learning to track another landscape beyond my own. At the Mountain School, I came to understand the limits of my own knowing–that to know what I don’t know and to live at ease with that uncertainty, that vulnerability, is to better understand myself. 

In Neha Wadekar’s Persky Award keynote speech two weeks ago, she, a Milton alum and now Kenyan-based journalist, relayed that living and working outside of the country gave her a newfound appreciation of home– the freedoms of the familiar shifted into something more precious. 

To slip into love with a place, I urge you: leave it in order to see it more clearly. For me, I have found that the precious, here, exists within people–my Milton-based family, of course, but also the people whose lives collided with mine in this last year and a half. Their stories have taken me on adventures–in the classroom, though usually beyond–and have inspired me to share my own. My restless, searching nights, of late, have left me hankering for more time with these stories. But I trust that my love for this place–shared among the people who pass through here–will persist, that beauty can still rise from the ragged unfinishedness of this year, that leaving something undone is an act of love too.

MAYA BOKARI ‘20, Senior Editor, TMP 37

I, too, pictured this spring entirely differently. I thought the universality of the 2018 PSAT memes across the country was remarkable, but the reality that the whole world has been negatively affected – that the whole world is experiencing unique forms of the same catastrophe – is unfathomable to me. I am fortunate that my loved ones are safe and cared for, so this disastrous addition to the history books, for me, has been an opportunity to reflect and gain perspective.

However, exercising reflection is not at all a new phenomenon in my life. In fact, as I reflect upon the amount that I reflect, my present reflections tell me that I reflect far too often. All jokes aside, I think a healthy dose of remembrance, accompanied by analysis and gratitude, can guide us in our search for a new path. That may mean examining an existing drug in an attempt to treat coronavirus patients, identifying a consistent topic of interest when choosing a major, or even digging through the archives for inspiration when writing a TMP Senior Reflection. My friends might tell you I get my “healthy dose” from keeping a journal and maintaining a constant flow of sentimentality. Instead of denying that truth, I will laugh and say thank you to everyone who gave me a shoulder to cry on during the last day of junior year. 

Tears don’t fall without a reason, though. My favorite moments at Milton are the ones punctuated with tears of joy. Hearing my first Friday night Dance Concert crowd roar; turning in my Honors Biology DYO; having an engaging, passionate US History debate; celebrating speech, squash, tennis, and hack soccer team victories – my sentimentality at the time made me more appreciative of all that Milton has given me. Presently recognizing the magnitude of Milton’s smallest gifts inspired me to collect those moments, and now, knowing my Milton memories were cut short, I am even more grateful that I didn’t wait to express my gratitude for the place that has meant the world to me for seven years.

That being said, I am not heartbroken that our senior year ended on March 12. I love Milton. But that isn’t a realization I came to overnight after it slipped through our fingers. When I left my large public school in Loudoun County, Virginia and arrived here for sixth grade, Milton’s small community of students and teachers – who actually knew each student – meant something to me that I didn’t yet know how to articulate. By the end of seventh grade, I began to recognize that Milton was truly my school, and all its offerings were there for exploration. My freshman year was overwhelming, though. The safety I once felt in Ware Hall seemed completely absent – at least until I found a group I could count on. The squash team did that for me. When that winter season arrived, I had a team full of upperclassmen I idolized and a place where I became a more confident member of the community. Sophomore year, I became more widely involved by joining the Speech Team and The Paper, but I soon learned the hard way you can’t do it all. Junior year, I stepped on campus with the greatest attitude. Taking the classes I really wanted to take, spending my time how I wanted, and amplifying my voice in The Paper, the whole of junior year was undoubtedly a highlight. 

I know senior year was shorter than it should have been, but even the first semester flew by at lightning speed. Full of deadlines and responsibilities, senior fall could have easily been clouded by the college process. I pretty quickly figured out that my happiness during such a stressful time depended upon my willingness to not take myself so seriously. The rowdiness of hack soccer was something I had never experienced (nor do I think I will experience again), but for an hour after school, kicking an old, beaten up soccer ball into a broken mini-soccer goal seemed like the most important task. Above all else, nothing screams happiness to me more than Winter Dance Concert. The opportunity to constantly learn from my peers, share what I love, and perform for the school’s biggest audience is unlike any other. I see it only fitting that we spent our final weekend of high school on that stage.

My fifth grade self might have expected me to say now that Milton has made me who I am today, but it hasn’t. Milton didn’t change me. It didn’t make me who I am today. I am who I am. I am the same person I was when I applied in 2012. But Milton allowed and encouraged me to explore all of my interests, develop my strengths, and grow from my weaknesses. 

The profound impact every aspect of Milton had on me now inspires me to look forward. In a time filled with uncertainty and void of closure, I write my final piece for The Milton Paper with dry eyes and a smile because I have much to look forward to – thanks to Milton Academy. 

MIRIAM ZUO ‘20, Editor-at-Large, TMP 37

Time has a surprising amount of inertia for something that’s supposed to be massless. I don’t just mean writing the wrong year at the top of a paper or forgetting to mentally update my age after a birthday. But time has its way of encouraging complacency – and so we fall into our daily routines, rarely venturing beyond the whirlwind of assignments, obligations, and errands that lulls us into a sense of progress. To disrupt the pace, to exit the merry-go-round, to push against time’s forward march is to step into the unknown; I wonder whether we underestimate the pull to stay comfortable.

Two years ago, I came to Milton as a new junior, but I almost didn’t. That summer, after the admission offer had been accepted and the deposit had been paid, I had second thoughts (and six-hundredth thoughts). Did I really want to leave my friends? Could I keep up with the schoolwork? Would I get homesick? The questions boiled down to one essential point: would I be uncomfortable?

Come September, I showed up to my first day of classes in a daze, stumbling around to one W-starting building after another and trying not to feel alone as unfamiliar faces ran up to each other and hugged in the Stu. I had been right; this was not at all comfortable. I felt distinctly out of place, even in my own room, where I couldn’t quite figure out my K-pop loving, plastic-crow-owning roommate, Kendelle (TMP 37 senior editor). She was the one who suggested I write for The Milton Paper, not the Measure – one of the best pieces of advice I’ve gotten at Milton.

Junior year was simultaneously a blur and the longest year of my life, a paradox that I suppose is often used by lazy writers to bridge the discrepancy between the actual length of an important event and its perceived impact. I tried cross country (unsuccessfully), started the college process (thank you, Ms. Klein-Ash!), joined a number of clubs, separated the good desserts from the bad in Forbes, and did the other things on the Milton checklist. Though the year took up a relatively small portion of my timeline, it overcame the inertia from my old habits as I met new people and challenged my sense of self – hence why it felt so long. At the end of the year, at the encouragement of former editor-in-chief Pierce, I applied to become a part of TMP’s board, figuring that it’d be a fun – comfortable – way to engage with others.

I probably shouldn’t have been surprised when things got uncomfortable right away when we covered Transitions. The editorial board doesn’t always agree; actually, based on how long it takes us to come up with editorial ideas, we usually don’t. I don’t mean to say that it was all uncomfortable – a lot of it was watching music videos and goofing around while editing – but when we would get to topics like politics and assemblies, going to board meetings was, at times, like stepping on gum on purpose. And yet, by the time of our final (Zoom) meeting, in which we chose the board for TMP 38, the tension had subsided, with the Paper all the better for it.

I’m reminded of a passage I read on the difference between a risk, which is statistically unlikely, and an uncertainty, which is unknowable. Certain decisions, like applying for an Ivy League school or taking a test you haven’t studied for, are unlikely to end well, but much of what time brings is uncertain. You can posit what might happen if you talk to that person or write about a controversial topic, but you won’t be able to quantify all of the variables and connections. My point, hopefully not entirely obscured by my rambling, is that there will be discomfort in your time at Milton. And as much as you will want to avoid it, I’ve learned that it’s worth taking the plunge. That’s how we move from imagining progress to actually making it happen.

RISHI DHIR’19, Co-Editor In Chief, TMP 36

I’m graduating from high school. Wow, just saying that seems surreal! I could never have imagined that the small freshman with braces and a bowl cut would now be going to college. And though I have gladly shed my infamous bowl cut, there are many things I wish I hadn’t lost in my time at Milton. I wish I hadn’t stopped playing piano. I wish I hadn’t quit soccer. I even wish I hadn’t stopped doing art (ceramic stuff, definitely not painting). I ended up sacrificing the activities that I loved because I wanted to explore myself, to learn more about what my true passions were. While I did discover many new interests, in stretching myself too thin, I prevented myself from doing more of what I knew I loved. In the exact same way I am entering college, I had zero idea of what I wanted to do. I just knew I wanted to be the “all around” student, being head of at least one club, academically strong, and a varsity sport player. I really had no direction.

My freshman year at Milton was a trial year. As I have said on numerous tours, “I must have signed up for 50 clubs, which I’m pretty sure is some record.” That was a lie, it was more like 20—I know, still a lot. By the end of the year, I had cut it down to about five clubs, six if you include writing for the Milton Measure (fun fact, I’ve never been a staff writer for The Milton Paper).

My sophomore year, things started becoming difficult. Playing soccer and basketball, along with managing school work, left me with little time to dedicate to much else. I started putting my own interests before my classwork. I felt like I had committed to those clubs, and therefore, I had to show up. And though I kept trying out different activities, I still hadn’t quite found what I was looking for. I wanted something that would have me laying awake at night and obsessed with studying it. Junior year ended up being one of my best, but also one of my worst years at Milton. In my first year with The Paper, I discovered a love for writing and journalism. Though I got cut from Varsity Basketball, I thoroughly enjoyed playing JV. Since it was the first year I could really choose my classes, almost of my teachers had me excited about the coursework. But in my slow pursuit towards discovering my passion, I once more kept putting my future interests ahead of the work I had to get done then and there. But this overcommitment is where my big mistake came. Of the four clubs I was actively apart of, as discussions of future leadership became prominent, I thought, “Why not, this could be fun.” While I had already applied and gotten the Editor-in-Chief position of The Milton  Paper and head of Model UN, I figured that these would be easier, as nobody else was applying for head of my two other clubs. But going into senior year, I didn’t foresee all the work that being a head of a club entailed. Editor-in-Chief of The Milton Paper, Head of Model UN, Head of South Asian Society, and Head of Students Interested in Middle Eastern Affairs. Sounds like an impressive resume, I know. I don’t regret being a part of all these clubs. But toss in college applications, having to get the best grades of my Milton career, and finally making the Varsity Basketball team, I had zero time to do anything. My years of neglecting school work and the threat of “not going to a good college” loomed over me and I had to focus on my grades. I had stretched myself so thin that I wasn’t able to be a reliable and fair head to these clubs. By trying to juggle so many different things, I forgot why I was even doing so many activities in the first place.

So as I move on to college, I want to convey a message to those who are still trying to find their calling. I’m not saying don’t explore your options. Go ballistic. Try everything you can. But once you narrow those down, choose one or two and just devote all you can to that. Don’t try to balance all— it will make it difficult for those around you. I thank Milton for everything it’s provided me.

I love Milton. I have so much love for everything this school has given me— the laughs, happiness, and memories. I fully credit Milton for shaping a lot of who I am today. And I’m so glad that in my time here, I was able to achieve my personal goal of being an “all rounder”. But I wish I hadn’t taken on leadership in so many clubs. I wish I didn’t sacrifice, or have to sacrifice clubs for schoolwork or vice versa. I wish I had foreseen the difficulty of juggling all these different clubs. And to my coheads, I apologize for not being there all the time. Even as I leave, as cliche as it sounds, that blue and orange will always be apart of me.

ABBY FOSTER ‘19, Co-News Manager, TMP 36

I wish I were better at writing. Really writing: the kind of writing people remember. I wish I didn’t procrastinate as much as I do. I wish my sense of self worth wasn’t so tied to what I think people think of me. I wish I hadn’t allowed the college process to become indicative of personal achievement. I wish I didn’t compare myself to my friends, and I wish I told the people I love how much they matter to me. I wish I weren’t so apologetic about the moments I forget to feel self conscious. I wish I could be more gentle with myself.

A few weeks ago I was talking to a friend about how we didn’t feel we were ready to go to college. It’s not that we lack any of the actual skills we’ll need, but that we aren’t the people we had always thought we’d be at eighteen. In her words, we aren’t “fully baked.” She was expressing something I’ve been feeling for a long time. Since the spring of my Junior year I remember feeling a constant sense of panic that was always right about to overwhelm me. Who was I to plan my own future? I didn’t feel anything like the adult who should be making those decisions. For the past four years I’d been telling myself that no matter how I felt in the moment, by the time I graduated I’d be smart, confident, and prepared. And when I got to the end of my high school career and didn’t feel like I was that person, I couldn’t help but think I’d failed.

But when I look back on who I was four years ago, I can see how much personal growth I’m discounting. For a very long time, I was the dissatisfied kid on the sidelines—I wanted so badly to insert myself into social situations, but I just didn’t know how. I felt like I was betraying myself, holding myself back from experiences I so desperately wanted. I needed a space where I could grow and learn and make mistakes. The Paper ended up being that space.

It took me a really long time to write this reflection because I didn’t know how to begin. I’ve been at this school for thirteen years, and I didn’t know how to do justice to those years as well as to my time on the Paper. But eventually I came to realise that my experience on the Paper and my experience at Milton have been, in a sense, the same; while I only joined the Paper a year and a half ago, my experience on this publication has so greatly affected my experience of the school that it has colored all other memories.

In a way, I divide my time at Milton into two parts: before the Paper and after the Paper. Joining the Paper gave me the freedom to meet new people and be someone new around them, and it turned out that this new person was a lot closer to who I felt I was then the person I had been for seventeen years. I will never be able to express how grateful I am for the Paper, because it gave me the space to become the person I wanted to be at a time in my life when I had come to believe I’d never be that person. And as for all the work we did—I can’t describe how incredibly rewarding it was to know that, when an issue was sent in Thursday afternoon, I had done everything I could to help, from editing articles to helping brainstorm the editorial. All the late night meetings and last-minute editing sessions ignited this fire in me I’d never felt before; here was an activity that, after I poured everything I had into it, gave me something back.

If you’re still reading this, thank you; as I said earlier, wrapping up thirteen years felt like a monumental task, and I hope I’ve been able to do it reasonably well. I’ll end with a line from Neil Hilborn’s poem Joey—I’ve been thinking about it recently, and it’s helped me come to terms with this feeling of not being quite the person I should be.

“I’m so lucky we all lived through who we were to become who we are.”

I guess growing up is less about growing into someone and more growing through someone. I’m only eighteen, so I’m not really qualified to make big statements about growing up. But with the small amount of perspective I’ve accumulated over the past few years, I’ll say this: don’t worry if you feel, like I did, that you’re not who you hoped you’d be at this point in your life. You’re not going to be as mature as you want to be when you’re sixteen, or eighteen, or twenty, and that doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong; in fact, you’re probably doing everything right. I don’t know if that’s helpful for anyone to hear, but I hope it is. I know it would have been for me.

CHARLOTTE KANE ‘19, Co-News Manager, TMP 36

As I leave Milton, I bid farewell to many people, spaces and routines that I’ve attached myself to over the last three years. To say that saying goodbye to my time here is difficult would completely undermine my mixed emotions right now. However, I always knew I would one day leave Milton. I expected to feel sad about saying goodbye to teachers, dorm parents and staff members who have changed my life, both inspiring me on my good days and also keeping me going on the days Milton was the last place I wanted to be. The impending doom of saying goodbye to friends who have been there with me through it all -- through the tears, stress and nearly overwhelming bursts of joys -- has in some ways been expected ever since I became close to them. I have known for a long time that I will miss the routines I feel so at ease in: staying up late talking in the common room, walking into assembly and seeing friends, or simply having familiar faces that have helped me feel comfortable here. Despite all of my expectations, I did not expect to have as difficult of a time as I did saying goodbye to the Paper office.

Objectively, the Paper office is simply a closet with windows, complete with a filthy carpet, vomit-colored walls, and a worn-down couch and chairs. You can find anything from memorabilia alums have left over the years, old newspaper articles and movie posters, and food wrappers adorning the wall. I’ll admit it: the space is not the most glamorous, comfortable, or, frankly, clean. When my mom saw it, she asked how I could ever spend so much time in there. Even though the office is far from perfect, I cannot help but mourn the loss of it, as it represents such an important part of my life here.

For the past year, the space has been like a second dorm room for me and has, in some ways, finally given me an identity on campus. For my first two years at Milton, I did not feel like I truly belonged in any space or group other than my dorm. Recently, as I sat on the T, I decided to scroll through my camera roll from sophomore year and was immediately reminded of how lost I felt on campus. In the photos, I can tell that I was not comfortable here, with my hunched shoulders and panicled eyes. The people here have always treated me so well, but I was missing an experience that connected me with a smaller group of people. Thankfully, TMP came to the rescue. When I joined the board last year, I could not have expected how much it would change my life here.

The Paper became a pillar in my life this year. I spent hours with such a passionate group of people every week. Every Monday and Tuesday, I could expect to laugh my ass off, discuss and fight over topics I care about, and do something I love with people who made me want to work at a higher level. My time on the board has introduced me to an entirely new group of friends who have changed my life at school. They have helped me embrace the parts of me—the impulsive things I say, my tics and opinions—that I have been holding back for years in an attempt to fit in, and in the process helped me focus on myself. Some of my fondest memories of Milton are tied to the Paper: the late-night group chat conversations, nights spent wasting time in the office, and the never-ending board discussions. When I first came here, I could not have expected to be part of moments like these, much less have them define my time here.

As I part from a place that I hold so close to my heart, I want to give one piece of advice with anyone who feels lost here: please, if you do anything here, do not put expectations on where you will be in a year or two and take advantage of anything that even mildly interests you. I know you hear it all of the time, but I would not have had my impactful experience if I had not listened to my friend’s suggestion to try out news writing during my junior fall. If my sophomore year self could see me now, with the friends I have and the things I care about, she would surely be shocked, and as I look go into the next part of my life, I can’t wait to see what else is waiting for me. I could not be more thankful for all of these opportunities that this place has helped me take advantage of. Thank you to my family, friends, teachers, and dorm parents who have gotten me to this day, and to you, the reader, for caring enough to read this. With that said, so long, Milton.

KATHERINE MCDONOUGH ‘19, Sports Editor, TMP 36

Honestly, it’s hard to reflect on my time at Milton. I’ve been here for 13 years. I barely remember a time when I wasn’t going to school here. It’s like trying to describe the taste of water—sure, I like the taste, I think? But how do I really know? Water doesn’t really taste like anything. It just is. Milton just is.

Because Milton is such a constant in my life, it’s hard to pinpoint what this school has done for me as a person. In my opinion, that ambiguity is a sign that this school has done a lot more for me than I realize. I had my first real friendships here. I found my love for learning here. I met some of my first real mentors here.

Milton’s Upper School was four years of constant ups and downs. Four years of late nights and early mornings, staying up ‘till 4 AM because of lab reports (and an equal amount of late nights up ‘till 4 AM rewatching Thrones episodes); four years of reading the back of The Milton Paper every Friday with my friends; four years of more time spent in open lab than I’d like to think about (PSA @ Science Department: I love you); four years of hockey games and tennis matches; four years of showing up late to assembly every morning (sorry Mr. Tyler and Ms. Engstrom!); four years of school dances that I always had an excuse not to go to (Glow Dance is overrated, folks!); four years of teachers who made me want to throw all my books away and of teachers who made me want to cherish every second I had in class (and oftentimes those two scenarios were the same teacher); four years of scaling the roof of the Junior Building roof and ducking when Campus Safety drives around (sorry, administration!); four years of laughing with my friends; four years of midnight breakdowns; four years of hours spent in the library (four years of Ms. Pearl kicking me out); four years of those really nice days in the spring where everyone eats lunch on the quad (while I’m at it:12 years of FLIK, 1 year of SAGE); four years of teachers who changed my life; four years of lasting friendships and some that faded over time; four years that, when thinking back on it, were somehow both the worst and best years of my life.

I’ve been here far too long to explain how Milton has changed me as a person, because I don’t think four-year-old me is really a fair comparison (although, she was arguably much cooler than I am now). I can say, though, without a doubt, that I wouldn’t be who I am today without these experiences, both the good and the bad, that Milton has given me.

And on that note, pceout Milton.

Katherine McDonough

p.s. Ms. Bell is a gift to this world and y’all better appreciate her

LYNDSEY MUGFORD ‘19, Editor, TMP 36

One Friday, during my freshman year, I grabbed a Paper. Flipping through, I eventually reached the columns, one of which was by a specific senior I really admired. In typical freshman fashion, I just thought that he was so cool. All of the seniors were. They knew how to dress, how to act, and how to drive. They were superhuman. So, I read the column, in which the senior described his discovery of a nest of baby birds. According to the article, as he looked at them, he realized that he, too, could be big in someone’s eyes. I paused, puzzled. What was he talking about? Of course he was big in someone’s eyes. He was big in mine! Hadn’t he seen the impact he’d made on me?

Ever since freshman year, I’ve wanted to be a senior who gave guidance, was a friendly (but respectfully intimidating) face, and had it all together. However, instead, the older I got, the stronger the impulse became to turn inwards and focus on myself. Instead of connecting to the community more easily as an upperclassman, it got harder. Work was all-encompassing, my life was scheduled to the brim, and if I wasn’t busy, I was doing something wrong. The upperclassmen years were not nearly as dreamy as I’d thought.

And that’s where the Paper came in. Here’s the thing about the Paper: it’s constantly chaotic. This year, we not only submitted most issues late but also always had typos, layout errors, and an editorial or backpage written in a last-minute dash Thursday morning. Funding was an entirely different problem altogether. My point is, the entire thing was unpredictable, messy, and time consuming. And I loved it. Within my structured, stressful academic life, the Milton Paper’s wonderful chaos energized me and filled my days with the spontaneity I needed, and the fast-paced, all-hands-on-deck mentality forged friendships with some amazing people. After all, nothing beats scrambling all week to produce something that is, undeniably, a product of your team’s work. Even if the issue had enough errors to fail a Megablunder test, it was still ours. And that was special.

Amidst the chaos, the Paper taught me the importance of surrounding yourself with amazing people who you admire and love. A room full of positive, smart people can be magical— the energy and momentum feeds itself. We absorb aspects of the people we surround ourselves with, so surround yourself with people that you want to emulate and who make you feel good about yourself.

I also learned that you don’t have to work constantly to do well. In fact, you really shouldn’t. While on the Paper, I often couldn’t start homework until after 10. Even still, I wouldn’t work during all my frees and would often stay late to chat with friends. And, honestly, I never regretted that. Yes, the habit contributed to some late nights, but those fun, spontaneous moments gave me energy and helped me avoid burning out. When you’re totally in the moment, leisure time is time well spent. Those are the moments you’ll remember.

Finally, I’ve learned the importance of finding my own validation. Sometimes, people ask if I get upset when students take a Paper, skim the backpage, and immediately throw it away. Honestly, though, it doesn’t bother me. I see the hours of work the board puts into each issue, and I draw my pride from that process. After all, I have no idea who’s reading the Paper, or how closely, so I can’t let that affect how I feel. I can’t validate what I do based on metrics that I can’t see. So, instead, that validation needs to come from myself.

And that’s what I think about when I reflect on the kind of senior I’ve been. Since day one, I’ve wanted to be make a positive impact and, to use that senior column’s language, be big in someone’s eyes. But I don’t know if I was, and I’m not sure I ever will. After all, that senior didn’t know that he was big in mine. Just like the Paper’s success can’t be measured by the recycling bins in the Stu after recess, I don’t think that I, or anyone, can measure my impact on this community based on only what I can immediately see and quantify. You can never fully know your impact, so you can’t obsess with finding it. While here, I’ve tried to live genuinely, and I can only trust that, in doing that, I’ve left a mark. I’m happy with how I navigated the last four years, and that’s enough validation for me. If I impacted a freshman-Lyndsey-equivalent along the way, then all the better.

To wrap up, here are some fast Milton tips. 1) Forbes is open until 1:30. You can get lunch for the first 10 minutes of 7th period, and then stay there. 2) Rising seniors, you will have to continue taking spring PE during projects. 3) You can work in the tech shop or the library for 45 minutes to remove 2 hours of detention.

Huge thank you to the Milton Paper and everyone on it. You guys rock!

NATASHA ROY ‘19, ASSOCIATE EDITOR, TMP 36

You probably know me as a pretty unsentimental person, and even though I’m about to get real sappy in this reflection, I want you to remember me that way. Dry Natasha Roy: your biggest gossip, your chronic eye-roller, your overly blunt classmate. I’m about to get real soft and cheesy, but don’t let my waxing poetic about Milton taint that impression of me. I’m still the wry bitch you know and love (tolerate?)

In the spirit of saccharine goodbyes, I want to start with an obligatory end-of-high-school John Hughes reference. So here goes my favorite Ferris Bueller quote:

“The question isn't 'what are we going to do', the question is 'what aren't we going to do?’”

If I could give current Milton students any (unsolicited) advice, I’d tell you to do all of it—well, all of it that interests you. Do everything you enjoy or can grow from—Show up to those third period Q&As with speakers, make the effort to attend the Milton Moth, take the English classes you’re really interested in instead of the ones you think will give you an easy A. Milton will throw opportunities at you left and right, but it’s easy to ignore them all when you’re overwhelmed with work. I’ve made a lot of mistakes at Milton, but if there’s anything I’m proud of it’s all those dark, frigid weekday nights during which I put homework aside for an hour to go to a Straus dessert or a school play. Those few hours here and there kept me going through those long stretches of essays, lab reports, and naps in the Paper office.

It would be disingenuous for me not to end my Milton career the way I lived it: channeling Britney Spears. As my world-wise feminist icon once said, “I'm a put-on-a-show kinda girl/ Don't like the backseat, gotta be first.”

Don’t take the backseat in your own Milton experience. Your schoolwork is crucial (let’s not forget, Britney herself told us to “work it hard, like it's your profession,”) but it’s so easy to become consumed with work that we often close our eyes to all the other fascinating things going on on this campus. Since you’re going to work hard anyway, you might as well do so for classes you’re genuinely excited about. You’ve definitely heard that advice dozens of times by now, but I’m nothing if not stubborn, and I need to hear advice a hundred times before I actually think to heed it. If you’re the same way, I hope my words sway you at least a little.

When I reflect on my time here, I think of my sophomore English class, Founding Voices, which everyone warned me against taking because it was the “boring hardo” one. It ended up completely altering my worldview and pushing me to think more creatively about how literature can inform our daily lives. I think of my Junior year Independent Study, “Women in Theater,” a class so wacky and liberal it sounds like a South Park punchline. I left that course with a new understanding of what womanhood means to me and of how I can use my voice to move others. I think about how during my senior year I dropped Sciences altogether—much to many adults’ chagrin—to instead overload on Humanities and Social Science courses. I subsequently ended my last year here having gained clarity on what I want to do with my life and on the impact I want to leave on the world.

I had no compelling, college-minded reasons to make any of those academic decisions; I simply made them because I wanted to. We have a lot of forces begging us not to do the things we want to do: college, parents, and generally accepted notions of what is or isn’t a sensible academic move. If you can, ignore all of them.

Those classroom experiences taught me how to think for myself, how to challenge the ideas I’ve always taken for granted, and how to use my platform to uplift others. I don’t know how to adequately thank a school that offered me so much: a school that has so wholly made me the person I am today.
Shoutout to all the women of color here, who deal with so much shit and yet inspire me every day with their grit, passion, and talent. Shoutout to every member of the Paper’s 35th and 36th Editorial boards; you made my junior and senior years so special, and I feel so lucky to say that in you, I’ve found my people. Shoutout to every teacher who took the time to ask me how I was doing and to actually care about my answer.

I’ve had some really tough days at Milton, but as I graduate, I think less about the tears I shed and more about the all students and adults—there are so many of you—who at one point or another put an arm around my shoulder, gave me a squeeze, and reminded me that I’m stronger than I thought I was in that moment. None of you needed to do that, and yet you did. I don’t know how to articulate what those actions have meant to me, but the best I can do is to simply say that I wouldn’t be here without you.

Milton, I love you so much. Thank you for teaching me who I am and who I want to be.

By PIERCE D. WILSON, Co-Editor In Chief, TMP 36

If you’re reading this on Graduation, that means I’ve recently walked across a stage, accepted a diploma from the Head of School, taken a few photos and—by now—begun crying. If you’re reading this after Graduation, that means I’m no longer a Milton student, and am alone in the world, struggling without an identity that’s meant so much to me for four years. The former reality is tangible; I can see, hear, smell, and taste Graduation. I’m not scared by it. But, the second of those two realities—the one wherein I’m learning to thrive as an adult—is too daunting for me to imagine even as I write this days before graduation.

As I try to externalize my feelings about leaving Milton, one moment comes to mind. Remember: I’m no fan of astrology, but this hit home.

At her concert, NAO talked about her album, Saturn, which deals with the astrological concept of Saturn return, when the planet Saturn returns to the place it was when a person was born. This typically takes 29 years, but the reported "influence" can begin at age 27. She said: “[Saturn return] is like waking up and coming of age. You start to rethink everything. It's like a complete shedding of skin that can be painful.”

A Sudden Coming of Age. A Shedding of Skin. That’s what leaving Milton feels like.

Another decade before I turn 27. Still, the end of my Milton career brings with it its own Saturn return. I’m letting go of so much and trying to hold on at the same time, and regardless of whether or not I’m ready for it, Graduation will come, and Milton will be over.   

I’ve spent the last four years learning and leaning in, experiencing what would still be foreign to me had I remained at home.

Like most Milton students, I can remember few times when I wasn’t busy. This year, however—while I took on the most—I spent the least amount of time working. I always had work and it always took time. And, had I allowed it to, that time could have consumed me.

Junior year, enjoying my newfound upperclassmen privileges, I would go to the library to work every night. When I got there, I would arrange my books in a productive-looking arrangement, find the playlist to be the soundtrack for a night of studying, and then spend the next two-and-half hours having a jolly old time with my friends, all under the guise of productivity.

At 9:45, I would return to my dorm and begin work. I would not only miss out on downtime after check-in, but I’d also feel that I didn’t really enjoy the library, because I was thinking about work. Whenever I was relaxing, I thought about work, and whenever I worked, I thought about the time I could have been spending with friends.

Each moment of joy is finite. Likewise, the work I have to accomplish each night is finite. I try to avoid mixing work and pleasure, because that means I’m not fully relishing in either.

This year, when I’d stumble into the Paper office during frees and see the smiles of the Board, I’d have no pretenses about working. Instead, I spent time with friends, knowing I would have less relaxation time later, but I’d have enough time to complete my work. And, I never regretted time ‘wasted’ in the office—otherwise I wouldn’t have stopped by.

I will remember the protests as defining moment of my development. If I can I ask one last thing of the Milton administrators, I’d ask that you remember the commitment you made to the students of color, the commitment to make Milton more inclusive. I’d ask that you continue to listen, or rather, that you listen better. Don’t expect the students to do the work for you. And, to students who spend your time ‘fighting the good fight,’ whichever causes you choose, your efforts matter.  

Freshman year, I idolized the upperclassmen. They were so good at what they did. They were so wise and experienced. I thought: When I become an upperclassmen, I’ll know what I’m doing and I’ll be able to stop pretending.

Well, here I am, having completed my upperclassmen years, and I still have no idea what’s going on. The difference is that I no longer pretend. Anyone who’s taught me or worked with me or been friends knows I am a huge embracer of chaos. I almost think that if I knew what I were doing, I’d be living the wrong way.

Maybe this is my ego talking, but I hope I inspire people. I hope my presence in this community has had an impact on someone. But, I also don’t want anyone to make the mistake of thinking I know what I’m doing—which, I might add, seems like a hard mistake to make given the amount of public falls-down-the-Stu-stairs I’ve taken this year. So, to anyone who’s ever been mildly inspired by my graceful clowning, I encourage you too to embrace chaos. Welcome the fact that you will always have more to learn.

Milton has been challenging. But, what’s made it worthwhile, are the people I’ve become acquainted with along the way. So, to the Milton community, y’all are messy as all get out, but, for tolerating my B.S—thank you.

Wow! I’ve made it to the end of my senior reflection and so have you. This is the last thing I have to do at Milton. The last piece of work I’ll ever stress about for high school. How does I feel? Empty, to be honest, and that’s the feeling I anticipate when I leave campus for the last time. What’s next? I don’t know, but Milton has taught me I’ll be able to get through it if I focus up and embrace chaos. So long, and thanks for all the fish!