If you know me in the slightest, you know that I detest everything about the Hewitt School and dreaded my experience there. If you don't know me at all, allow me to tell you that, in my eyes, that school is about as prestigious as a golden gilded shit can. Masked by ostentatious portraits of previous headmistresses (including Ms. Hewitt, herself) and a seemingly out of place grand piano in the library, the students were about as sharp as the convex surface of a plastic spoon. We had Smartboards© though. Those were radical.
Anyway, this post has not been created for the purpose of complaining. A striking thought came to me as I was reading the few student autographs I had in my yearbook. In essence, I was astonished to read these because they remembered me in the way I've always wished to be remembered by people, which I sure as hell didn't expect. I had no idea that I had an impact on some of those girls; I thought I was the least suitable person whom they would even consider learning from and the least likely candidate to come along and inspire them. Anyway, to provide context, here is one of the entries I received on that grand last day at the Hewitt School.
"Shit, where do I begin? You've been here for 2 years (in great pain) and yet you've still managed to offer something great. You are one of those people who come along and stretch my mind. I will miss the conversations we have after Advisory, and being able to look across the room at you and know that someone just 'gets it'. You say what you think, not what others want you to think. You are sanity and originality, brilliance and analysis, even in this ocean of stillness and conformity. I hope you continue to question everything and fight the fight, and one day reach peace. I can't thank you enough because I feel like I won't realize everything I learned from you until I get the opportunity to implement it."
I made a conscious effort to rebel in a myriad ways when I went to Hewitt. It sometimes got me into trouble but it always gave me gratification. We all were forced to look the same via uniforms, so I felt an obligation to make it clear that I was not one of them despite our physical homogeneity. While I do not feel any spirit of warm kindredness toward those girls, I do appreciate that they took the time for one day out of the school year to let me know that my struggle to salvage my originality taught them a little bit about the nature of iconoclasm. God knows if they'll retain it, but that's not where my quandary lies.
My issue is the fact that it is in our times of struggle and adversity that we realize the true meaning of discovering who we are and presenting it to the world. Since I never found my comfort zone in New York, I had to work extra hard to develop a sense of self. Now, I live in California and feel happier with my station in life. I wonder if feeling too situated is a curse, for it destroys that little engine encased in the shrouds of displacement and uneasiness which propels us to find a sense of home and identity.
I think this affliction affects the weak minded and complacent. I try to remind myself every day that we are never truly done growing up until the day we die. Therefore, we cannot become too fixed into our niches; we will miss out on so much learning, growth, and joy.
