This is my best friend Jamie (left) and her younger sister Casey (right). It’s the first photo I’ve taken of them in a while, which is odd considering I photographed them for three straight years in high school, using them as models for every project I was ever assigned. I took this one at their dad’s house last night. It feels weird to call it that, because growing up–and I practically grew up in that house, rather than in my own–I always called it “Jamie’s house.” When we left for college, it became her parents’ house, and after the divorce, just Howie’s house. Of course, going back there it still felt a little bit like we were 7, and her mom came by to visit as though she still lives there, and a lot of things just haven’t changed. Some of the furniture is gone, there’s only one dog, and Kyle (Jamie’s youngest sibling) has morphed into a teenager with a deep voice that none of us recognize, but we also spent the day uncovering old notebooks, pictures, and maps from our witch-hunting days.

I don’t know if I’ve written about this yet, but Jamie and I once believed our third grade teacher was a witch, and so we spent the majority of the year whipping up potions made of bleach, coffee, and other such things in an attempt to melt her (we read too much of the Bailey School Kids books back then). We even wrote spells–none of which seem to make any sense, though we were pretty proud of them at the time. I won’t embarrass myself by reproducing any of them here, but I assure you, they’re rather unique.

After joking about what we might find yesterday, Jamie pulled out a vile-looking bottle of brown liquid and glitter that was sealed off with wax. I tried to convince her that it was a memory candle gone bad, but her mother just looked over at me and said: “Lauren, you know this is some shit the two of you concocted–you guys were fucked up.” No one but Jill could sum up our friendship quite so accurately…

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This photo was taken in the most sacred place in all of Demarest. It’s hard to explain this particular tradition to those who are unfamiliar with my dorm, and to avoid divulging too much information to those whose jobs are to keep this place so secure, I will leave it at this: we are the first generation of Demarites to reach this place in the past four years, and it probably will not be done again for quite some time. I have to avoid posting any of the (better) pictures that reveal what this place is and who is in it, but it was amazing to see some of the things that were written in this place, some of it dating back to the 1950′s. Unfortunately, days after this success, we learned of a tragedy in the dorm that affected our community in a way I’ve never seen before. On Thursday night, our friend and beloved Demarite took his own life.

I chose this particular photo for an entry about my friend because when we reached this sacred place, I noticed one psalm in particular that was written on the wall: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” (Psalms 30:5) My friends know that I’m not one to quote the Bible as anything that is meaningful to me, but that psalm has always struck me as particularly moving, and I know it is something that Onion wholeheartedly believed. In spite of everything, Onion was the most positive and outwardly optimistic person I’ve ever known — and when I say that Onion lived to cheer people up, it’s not just something to say. I remember distinctly the times we counted attendance sheets and request forms in e-board meetings and always stopped at his name to mention how wonderful, how involved, how dedicated, and how sweet he was. There was never anything Onion wasn’t willing to do for a friend or neighbor. It’s hard to think back now on how suffocating it must have been for him to live every single day for another person, because he never even let on about the difficulties going on in his life. The few personal struggles in his that we were privy to, he seemed to handle with ease. I know it’s pointless and vain to look for warning signs after the fact, but it’s so difficult to think back on every memory I have of him and realize that he was never as happy as he seemed, and that every smile and every hug he ever gave to me was for me, and not for him. We always question the people who look more upset and more depressed than usual, and never think to worry about the people who don’t seem capable of expressing any sort of negative emotion at all.

I don’t really know how to begin explaining what we’ve been going through these past few days or what our response has been. It’s just hard to believe that something like this could happen in our own home, and I don’t think I’ve ever lost someone in quite the same way before. When someone passes away in a place like Demarest, there’s hardly a single person in the entire community that isn’t affected. We all grieve together. We go to bed and wake up with a hundred people who are all crying with us. It wasn’t until hours later that I realized life was still going on outside of the dorm, and that it was a regular Thursday night of drinking and partying and everything else. It’s almost assaulting to finally walk out into that after an experience like we had. I can’t even write about how I found out because it was such a horrifying realization when it finally clicked for me, and all I could think about was finding Kayla… never mind trying to fathom how this could happen to someone like Onion. But returning to normalcy, I’m realizing, is even more frightening. I’ve slept in Kayla’s room for two nights, avoided the dining hall, avoided leaving Demarest at all, and cried with people I don’t think I’ve ever had close relationships with at all. I think we’re all getting over the initial shock of it together, and I’m amazed at how supportive our entire community has been, but it’s not easy to know how to grieve when someone passes away like this. I do know that we’re all lucky to have known Onion, and for now, that and the support of our Demarest family is what’s getting us by.

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Luckily, Hall Government was cancelled tonight so that the love birds amongst us could spend the evening fornicating, and the rest of us learned about and composed erotic fiction in the Main Lounge (a joint section between Creative Writing and Sex, Sexuality & Gender — it’s a hit every year). You’d think the cancelled meeting would allow for plenty of free time, but somehow I ended up still awake at 1:30, blogging instead of sleeping… I should really work on that, considering I wake up at 6:30 during the week…

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I feel much differently about holidays — it doesn’t count as a real Thanksgiving until folding chairs are brought out to fit everyone at the table, until at least 3 dishes break, or until at least one child throws a fit over being forced to eat vegetables. Kayla, knowing this, graciously offered to come fetch me on Thanksgiving day and bring me over to her house, where a real Thanksgiving dinner was being held. I ate far too much, engaged in a number of awkward conversations with a strange and non-related guest who apparently teaches photography, pretended to understand football, and became the newest crush of Kayla’s 5-year-old brother. So, all in all, it was the best holiday I’ve had in a long time.

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At Damian’s suggestion, we embarked on this pumpkin-picking excursion early today — and although it involved waking up at the ungodly hour of 10 a.m. on a Saturday, enlisting the help of our hall director and other drivers in the building to help make the trip, and sliding around in the mud and rain searching for pumpkins all morning, the outing was a definite success. Out of my group, Kayla drove, meaning an appropriate mix of showtunes and country music on the way to the farm, where RJ, as expected, found the largest pumpkin he could (aside from the $50 monstrosity sitting in front of the register). Dan was far more interested in the deformed pumpkins and even more phallic-looking gourds, while I spent most of my time looking through the baskets of mini pumpkins for the cutest one, contemplating the possibility of cooking pumpkin seeds in the microwave. (In my household, anything involving actual cooking is strictly frowned upon — but I’ve escaped from inheriting at least some of my mother’s foodisms, as the only thing she really eats other than raw vegetables is buffalo, something I’m not so inclined to try…)

After buying our pumpkins, Kayla, RJ, Dan, Liz and I set off for the dollar store, where everyone bought lights for their Jack-O-Lanterns. Once again, our purchases pretty accurately summed us up as a group, with Kayla buying a raincoat for Dexter, RJ getting a whole pile of useless items that will somehow, one day, come in handy, and Dan finding yet another black hat to add to his collection of all black clothing. I, of course, was more interested in the candy aisle, while Liz seemed to be the only one who could remember what we actually came in for.

Clearly, we’re an interesting bunch of people.

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To understand my love for animals, you’d probably have to understand what my house looks like. By no means am I exaggerating when I say the vacuum is considered our house pet, which means animals are strictly forbidden. As a child I launched a number of unsuccessful campaigns for a house cat, dog, hamster, frog, and eventually a fish — but even that suggestion was shot down. I once managed to bring a plant home, but that only lasted an hour or so before my mom removed it from my room and exiled it to the kitchen counter, where she could be sure if its whereabouts. Why, who knows what kinds of messes that plant would have caused? If you think I’m exaggerating, just talk to anyone who has actually been inside of my house. It’s rare that one makes it through the door without already breaking a rule — there’s a very strict shoe removal policy that involves careful placement of the feet so as not to track dirt into the house. However, bare feet are also strictly forbidden. Socks are a must, as foot sweat poses a great threat to both tiled and hardwood floors. And heaven knows even after a thorough mopping session, my mother can tell where those bare feet have made their mark. OCD doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Growing up around that kind of obsessive behavior makes me constantly examine the level of stress in my life, and the extent to which my own behavioral patterns contribute to that stress. I’ve always seen my busy schedule and level of involvement as a positive thing, and I still do — but I’ve learned that certain things aren’t worth my time. I put too much work into meaningful organizations and people who appreciate that effort to worry about those that maybe aren’t so rewarding or useful. I’m proud of my involvement with various activities and I enjoy a lot of what I do, but from now on I’m resolving to cut out the things in my life that I spend more time complaining about than enjoying. It’s never too late in the year for a new resolution, right?

Oh, and number two: get a puppy.

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I could’ve done without the post-rain muddiness, but despite my hatred for squishy wet ground and getting wet outdoors in general, I wandered over to a little creek for some photographing. There’s something about fresh flowing water that always peaks my interest. It’s so pleasant I wish I could literally photograph the sound of it, but I suppose my camera would have to have some sort of neurological disorder for that to work. And last I checked, technology hadn’t advanced to the point of implanting brains in cameras, though I’m sure it’ll happen soon. In the meantime, regular old pictures will have to do.

After the bamboo forest, we decided to walk down one of the dirt paths and get a better look at the rest of Rutgers Gardens, which I took a few pictures of as well. There’s plenty to see, though, so we decided to leave the rest for another day…

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There’s something very interesting, sociologically speaking, about the types of people you see and encounter in the city. It’s sort of like going to college for the first time in terms of being introduced to all sorts of different worlds. It seems like in middle school, the object of the game is fitting in and looking like everyone else — but by the time we approach high school, the idea is to stand out a bit. Dye your hair a funky colour, mismatch clothes, have a certain signature shoe or piece of jewelry. And then when you get to college, you realize you’re not the only rebellious teenager with blue hair who mixes plaid with polka dots, so it takes even more effort for you to solidify your unique identity and really stand out. In one of my sociology classes, we discussed the ways in which that same logic applies to life in suburban and urban areas. In the city, you see all sorts of unique and interesting styles, partially because mixing plaid and polka dots isn’t “weird” or “unique” enough to stand out. I really need to get in the habit of taking more pictures when I go into the city, but I guess I’m weary of being confronted by nutjobs if it becomes obvious that I’m shooting their portrait. Anyone have a spy camera they’d like to loan me?

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When I first saw this quote freshman year, haning in my English teacher’s classroom, I just thought to myself: “Jeans aren’t even in fucking dress code.” Now that school is over, there’s a lot more I have to say about it. First of all, I now have the freedom to wear jeans any day of the week. And second, a lot more has changed than my wardrobe.

It’s funny how you can enter a place wondering how you could possibly survive the next four years there, and by the time it’s come to an end, wonder how it passed you by so quickly.

Graduation is in a week. I’m excited to be done with the work, obviously, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t miss high school. There are a lot of students and teachers I can’t imagine not seeing on a daily basis anymore. There are a lot of other people who have grown on me by now. There are a lot of people I never even got to know, but I really did love you all. I honestly don’t think there is one single person I won’t miss on some level.

I could list those of you who are especially important to me. I could list inside jokes and other memories. I could list favourite classes, teachers, and events. I could list the people I will miss the most, and I could list silly school rules I’m happy to be able to break now that I’m “free.” But the most important thing I can think of mentioning is how all of this–every single person I’ve encountered in the past four years, every single struggle I’ve faced, and every single achievement I’ve celebrated–has affected my life in some way. I’ve grown a lot and I’ve learned a lot, both inside and outside of the classroom, from students and teachers alike, and I will never forget what you’ve all taught me.

Basically, I’ve changed. And that seems like a really obvious statement, because we’ve all changed, and we are all constantly, continuously changing. But it’s extremely important that we all change–for the better. And it is just as important, as we move on, pursue new goals, meet new people, and try new things, to remember what helped us grow into the people we are today. You’ve all made a difference in my life, and though I know I won’t stay in contact with you all, and I know there are some of you I may not see again, we’ll always have one thing in common that keeps us connected.

Good luck, class of ’07.

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