The first surgery I observed is a moment that stands out in my life. It wasn’t an “aha” moment, at least not at first, but rather an “oh no” moment. I remember putting on the stiff blue scrubs, the light blue surgical hat and shoe covers, and the mask, imagining in my head what was about to happen. The sight of blood had never bothered me, I had watched this kind stuff online and in videos before. How different could it be in real life? As I walked into the operating room, I was overwhelmed by the multitude of doctors, anesthesiologists, nurses, scrub techs, nurse anesthetists, and even a translator, all dressed in blue. I could literally smell the sterility of room which had white tiled walls and was freezing cold.
My mind started racing. What if I can’t handle the blood, or I pass out, or even vomit? As I went back and forth in my head, I was interrupted by the anesthesiologists who told me that if, at any point, I didn’t feel well, I should sit down and if I felt faint, to lie down on the floor. That was out of the question. There was absolutely no way I would be caught laying down on the floor of the operating room. I could not think of anything more embarrassing. Yet, with that new though in my mind, I grew even more apprehensive. The surgery hadn’t even started and I was a mess; I was seeing stars, my heart was racing, and sweat was dripping down my back. I sat down on the stool by the head of the patient and took a deep breath. The surgery began, and to my amazement, I forgot about passing out or getting queasy. I overthought the situation so much that I panicked myself for no reason.
The cold air hit me like a brick wall coming out of DeSalles Hall. I had just finished my AP Chemistry night class, and was making the walk across the parking lot to the chapel. My friend David, who was also coming from Chemistry, was coming with me. With full smiles and heartwarming laughs we were being the loud, happy, rambunctious teenage boys Don Bosco Prep students are known to be, until we got to the chapel. David went in first, dipping his finger in the holy water, then knelling and making the sign of the cross. I did the same… We were at Eucharistic Adoration, a practice which, at the time I was very unfamiliar with. Only showing up to receive extra credit, I was planning on not participating because I believed I never needed the sacramental aspect of faith to have a relationship with God, only theology. That was about to change.
The instantly noticeable reverence was striking. David and I were silenced immediately. The people seemed so focused yet so relaxed, and between the soft light of the candles and the calming sound of the music I couldn’t help but feel everything slow down. After sitting in the pew, I spent many minutes observing everyone. They looked calm and comforted, as if all their problems had just disappeared. I just didn’t understand why. Was it the paintings of Christ on the high ceilings or the candle light reflecting off the stain glass windows? Or was it the statue of the Virgin Mother on the altar? What was I not seeing? In frustration, I looked up. The Eucharist was in the Monstrance on the altar, and I just stopped and stared. That was God. As a Catholic everything culminates to the belief that Christ sacrificed Himself for us, and we take part in that through Him being physically and entirely present in the Eucharist. I had never thought about it like that. My God, who created the world and all that was good, who is love, was right there twenty feet away from me. My God who loved me so much as to die on a cross for me, was in front of me. I was overwhelmed by a sense of comfort knowing that the end and the beginning was there with me, and for that hour I had the chance to just be surrounded by His love and adore Him. I understood what everyone was feeling, they felt loved. In that moment, I was reaffirmed that I am a Catholic, and that Catholicism has become a guide for my values and a source of my actions. I know who I am by knowing who I am for, I am for God.
One of the more eye opening experiences I have had that helped me better understand my identity was my senior year at our conference swim meet. It was a Friday night, and my entire team was heading to uptown for our big meet. We were lined up to have some great races, and the energy in the drive up was electric. You could just feel the excitement mixed with nervousness as we all walked on deck. As the meet began to start I knew one of the big races of the night would be my 100 breaststroke. I would be competing for first place with another girl from our rival school.
As my even got called to the blocks, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I stood on the blocks staring at the calm water in front of me, ready to compete and craving to win. Time slowed down, until I heard the timer set off the race. The race itself was a blur, but I do remember slamming into the wall at my finish and looking to the scoreboard to see a #1 by my name. My teams cheering was insanely loud and I looked to my coach who had a huge grin on his face. When I went back to my team, I was greeted with high fives and smiles. And this look by all the underclassmen of admiration. They looked at me as a leader and a role model, someone to reach for. Even if what I did may not have been that impressive, I knew that after that day people looked at me differently. Myself included, I wasn’t just a swimmer, I was a leader.
When I was in eighth grade, I decided to step outside of my comfort zone, a decision which transformed my beliefs about the world around me. As I walked through the halls of my all-girls, college preparatory school on a sunny, May afternoon, I overheard a high schooler talking about a program that she was planning on participating in over the summer, Camp Umoja. She explained to her friend that she hoped to be accepted as a counselor to children from Baltimore’s public housing. I had heard about this camp before and knew that it was only offered to high school students. Nevertheless, I nervously walked into the service director’s cramped office, introduced myself, and asked him if I could apply, even though I was still in middle school. He offered me the opportunity to apply, but warned me that it would be a competitive process since so many high school students wanted to participate. I spent hours writing my essay response, and to my surprise, I was accepted as a counselor.
On the first day of camp, my nervousness returned once again. My heart began to pound because I worried that I was unprepared to mentor a child since I was still a child myself. My fears were allayed as five-year-old Dayvon, standing the height of my waist, looked up at me with longing eyes, saying, “I pick you. Will you be my counselor?” Dayvon later revealed to me that he had also been nervous, and that he was relieved to have found me. Although the next two weeks were the most tiring of my life, every aching muscle reminded me that my hard work was positively impacting my camper’s life. As Dayvon and I grew closer, we played basketball and tag, attended swimming lessons, and shared stories. One morning, Dayvon revealed to me that he often feared that his water would be shut off because his family could not afford to pay the bill. I realized that although Umoja could not change Dayvon’s reality, it could change his life. Umoja provides each child with individualized attention, something hard to come by in Dayvon’s crowded school and home. Umoja also had the power to change my life. For some, it is easy to feel detached from other people’s problems, but Dayvon became the face of every child denied basic human rights. Camp Umoja helped me to recognize my calling to combat injustice that exists in our world, particularly inequalities that impact children. Whenever I become overwhelmed spending hours on my homework, I remind myself of my goal of creating a better world for children like Dayvon.
I have been a competitive Irish dancer since I was five years old, meaning that dance and Irish culture have always been a large part of who I believed myself to be, but finally visiting Ireland was what made me realize how important it was that I maintain this part of my identity.
The car swiftly rolled down the narrow and windy roads of Sligo that seem to barely allow for one car, let alone the two that it was intended for. The confident driving of my mother’s cousin, Michael, greatly contrasted my mom’s apprehensive nature as she had navigated the unfamiliar roads when we had first arrived. I peered out of the window as we passed lush green fields dotted with hundreds of sheep lazily grazing. The nervous butterflies that always accompanied dance competitions had disappeared and I was finally able to fully enjoy the beauty of the country that I had so excitedly awaited my trip to. I turned my attention back to the quiet conversation between my mother and Michael, as we traveled to see the house that their great great grandmother had grown up in. The small car pushed up a steep hill and pulled over to the side of the road. We stepped out of the car to examine the house. To my surprise and mild disappointment, there only remained a few large stones that had once made up the walls of the small house. I observed the lonely old stones quietly, awe rising up as I gazed out at the Irish countryside from atop the small mountain. The quiet disappointment that I had felt for just a passing moment dissipated as I began to appreciate the fact that there were any stones at all. The butterflies returned, but they were different. Despite the fact that little of the house remained, I gained a sense of pride from the knowledge that I maintained contact with relatives and ancestors to which I was only distantly related. Our shared heritage and identity lead to the development solid ties that will always remain important to me.
The early weeks of December of 2017 have to be amongst the most stressful of my entire life. I was awaiting the letter that contained the status of my application for Boston College, which has been my dream school for as long as I can remember. I felt a range of emotions from excitement to anxiety because I truly had no idea what the letter would say. Finally, one night I came home from practice and checked my email, and there in my inbox was a letter from the board of admissions at Boston College. My heart started racing because I knew I could either face a moment of pure excitement or bitter disappointment. When I opened the letter and it said that I had gotten in, I was ecstatic and could not wait to share the news with my friends and family. I was about to attend my dream school.
Despite all of this excitement, as the date for me to leave for school approached, I started to become anxious all over again. I had never lived away from home for an extended period of time and had certainly never lived on my own. I also didn’t know anyone coming in, which was nerve-racking and exciting at the same time. It was during this time that I truly realized what it meant to go away for school since I would have to learn to live on my own and make a whole new set of friends. I love being around others, so family and friends have always been a crucial part of my identity. As I prepared to leave for school, I realized the importance of staying true to my values and my identity if I wanted to make real friends and make the most of my time at Boston College. I would be meeting a variety of people, all with different backgrounds, beliefs, and interests.
In my first weeks of school, and even now, I have made some great friends and am continuing encountering new people and experiences every day. In doing so, I have been challenged to stay true to my identity while simultaneously keeping an open mind to the values of others. As a result, I feel that my identity and sense of self is stronger than before, and the uncertain situations have only helped me grow.
The early weeks of December of 2017 have to be amongst the most stressful of my entire life. I was awaiting the letter that contained the status of my application for Boston College, which has been my dream school for as long as I can remember. I felt a range of emotions from excitement to anxiety because I truly had no idea what the letter would say. Finally, one night I came home from practice and checked my email, and there in my inbox was a letter from the board of admissions at Boston College. My heart started racing because I knew I could either face a moment of pure excitement or bitter disappointment. When I opened the letter and it said that I had gotten in, I was ecstatic and could not wait to share the news with my friends and family. I was about to attend my dream school.
Despite all of this excitement, as the date for me to leave for school approached, I started to become anxious all over again. I had never lived away from home for an extended period of time and had certainly never lived on my own. I also didn’t know anyone coming in, which was nerve-racking and exciting at the same time. It was during this time that I truly realized what it meant to go away for school since I would have to learn to live on my own and make a whole new set of friends. I love being around others, so family and friends have always been a crucial part of my identity. As I prepared to leave for school, I realized the importance of staying true to my values and my identity if I wanted to make real friends and make the most of my time at Boston College. I would be meeting a variety of people, all with different backgrounds, beliefs, and interests.
In my first weeks of school, and even now, I have made some great friends and am continuing encountering new people and experiences every day. In doing so, I have been challenged to stay true to my identity while simultaneously keeping an open mind to the values of others. As a result, I feel that my identity and sense of self is stronger than before, and the uncertain situations have only helped me grow.
In June of 2017 I traveled to Costa Rica with members of my high school’s Environmental and Spanish club. Upon entering their capital of San José, the cultural differences were instantly apparent. The buildings, vehicles, stores, and houses quickly opened my eyes to the poverty in the city and the aspects that qualified it as a third world country.
Throughout my journey, I explored four different territories in Costa Rica. After spending one night in the city, I embarked on a four-hour bus ride on the dirt road highways to Sarapiquí where I immersed myself in the natural beauty of the abundant rainforests. Spending two nights in a hut with howler monkeys as alarms and poisonous frogs disturbing our sticky slumber was quite an experience. Then, I hiked up volcanos in Arenal, while taking breaks to do stereotypical tourist activities such as shopping at local stores and visiting local fruit stands in passing. I was in awe of the richness of their fruit and the inexpensive souvenirs. Interacting with the locals allowed me to further understand their culture, while practicing my Spanish speaking abilities. The final stop was Monte Verde where I had the opportunity to hike through the cloud forest and experience the natural heat of the hot springs. By the end of the week, I had become accustomed to eating rice, beans, and fruit for every meal with a scenic view.
Walking down the velvety, red carpet, there were flashing cameras and cheering. I was not Gigi Hadid, Hailey Baldwin, or Ashley Graham, however. I was a volunteer date at the Tim Tebow Foundation’s Night to Shine event, an opportunity I attempted to partake in for multiple years. I had forced my brother, Matthew, to come with me to the event and drive through the sleet and freezing rain on a Friday night to help out at the makeshift prom for those with special needs. I think he only grudgingly agreed because he needed service hours for school and because there was the prospect of Tim Tebow surprising the guests. It was the first time either of us attended the event, and we did not know what to expect. The night began with bickering between my mom and brother as to what would be appropriate for him to wear; I had picked out my outfit weeks in advance, and it consisted of a hot pink Lilly Pulitzer dress and a flowery clutch. He settled on a suit and tie.
Once we arrived to the initial meeting point, there was a sea of people. Matthew was claustrophobic but was thrown into the crowd that had been waiting in the sweaty gym. We waited for about an hour until we were paired up with our buddy. My buddy and I began talking up a storm instantly; however, Matthew’s buddy kept saying that she missed her mom and dad. Nevertheless, we proceeded to pick out fresh flower corsages and asked a plethora of open-ended questions to Matthew’s buddy. We were later escorted in the party limo and walked down the red carpet. The night was filled with dancing, photo booths, and an array of catered food options. Even Matthew’s buddy was smiling and seeming to enjoy his company. Although Tim Tebow never showed and my brother did not initially seem too interested in attending, he shared with me that it was one of the most rewarding experiences of his life once we loaded the car to go home. I echo his sentiment and am upset I will not be in Illinois to attend the event with him this year.
In my exploration for events that challenged my identity, I found myself reflecting upon two different travel experiences I was able to have in high school. In my junior year of high school, I traveled to Rome with my latin class to learn about ancient Roman life and culture. I initially signed up for the trip as an excuse to explore the famous city, but upon reflection, the experience brought me to a position of inner exploration. Walking between the old buildings was unique sight; their pale yellow and pink colors danced between the bright blue sky. The breeze cut between the ancient columns, through the fallen buildings and around the decomposing walls. Coming from New York City, I once thought I came from a great city with a deeply important past; yet the great city of Rome made my home feel insignificant in the face of human history. The ancient scriptures on the walls and cryptic language swarming the streets reflected both wisdom and age. Contrastingly, I am used to sky high metal buildings that shimmer in the sunlight, revealing that I come from a place with less history and more modernity. I thought I came to Rome to learn about the Romans, but instead, I learned more about myself.
In my senior year of high school, I embarked on a service and volunteer trip that visited various schools in rural neighborhoods in Zimbabwe, Zambia and South Africa. Arriving in the lower class neighborhoods was drastically different from the modern city landscape I was used to. Many of the people we witnessed lived in hand constructed houses using various materials: boards of wood, metal planks, and concrete. The language barrier made it hard to learn more about the people there; although, my visual interactions with the environment around me told me more than I needed to know. The city centers had crumbling buildings and various animals walking through the streets. There were no delis or take out restaurants; instead, there were deteriorating single floor concrete structures with paint chips peeling off. The streets outside of the cities were dirt roads with no stop lights or traffic signs. Comparing my natural environment to the environment the rural neighborhoods I visited invites me to explore my identity in the scope of the world as a whole.
My first day of work in the summer of 2015 was a hot one. The heat seemed to rise out of the pavement on State Street where I was walking; ready to meet the other teens who would join me in the summer internship program at the New England Aquarium. As I walked into the air conditioned room where the program was to begin, I was startled to see over fifty heads turn to face me. Suddenly, the internship seemed a bit more daunting than it had on the application I filled out online. Once my name tag was pressed flat on my shirt, I retreated into a corner and started to read a sports article on my phone in an effort to avoid the awkward smalltalk which was starting up between many of the other teens. This plan did not work for long however. My wish to be left alone was destroyed by a tall, dark haired kid who introduced himself to me as “Paul”. After some initial dismay at my forced interaction, I decided that trying to isolate myself throughout this job would not only be impossible, but also detrimental. So with my new friend Paul, I waded out into the sea of teens and tried to spark up a conversation with as many as I could.
My experience that summer, in large part due to the people I met, was one I remember only fondly, as well as one that persuaded me to spend my next two summers in the same program. These days when I find myself I similar situations, with the same sinking feeling in my stomach as I glance over new faces, I remember my first day that summer, and how I never really had anything to worry about. I also remember Paul, and I try to remind myself that there are others for whom I can do what Paul did for me. When I think of these things, suddenly scary new places don’t seem quite as new or scary.
My 4Boston placement isn’t like many of the other ones available to us in the club. I volunteer in the CBAT unit at the Franciscan Children’s Hospital, nooked away on Warren Street, just a few MBTA stops away from Boston College itself. The trek is easy enough in the warmer months, but when winter rolls around and it’s bitingly cold out, I waddle down the slushy road in my parka, encapsulated in shivers. Unmotivated and tired, I call up to the fourth floor of the unit and say “I’m a volunteer from Boston College” and they loudly buzz me in. I trudge all the way up the stairs, place my thawing hand under the automatic Purell dispenser, and walk in. Instead of referring to the person in charge to find out what my task is for today like many other 4B volunteers may do, I go sit in the “living room”, a small room with sloppily painted lime green walls, mismatched comfy chairs arranged around a television, and a long table that is so thoroughly covered in playing cards and arts and crafts supplies, it is hard to see that it is made out of dark brown wood, abraded from such frequent use. I grab a deck of cards that actually only has forty nine, and ask a small, blonde twelve year old girl if she would like to play Palace. I know that she has had a terrible past, because all of the kids in my placement have, too. Our job isn’t to fix their problems though; our job isn’t anything specific at all. We just be there.
During movie time we watch Hotel Transylvania, and many of the kids choose to accompany this cinematic masterpiece by making friendship bracelets, playing with Legos, or doing some other sort of craft. The blonde girl, I played cards with, Mia, has taken a liking to me during my four hour visit to CBAT because we talked about One Direction and her “boy drama” at dinnertime. She approaches me and asks me if she can draw a portrait of me. I am flattered and confused, wondering why my uninteresting face would spark the inspiration of her artistic side. However, I nod and sit stone faced so she can capture my essence, or whatever it is that artists do. Starting to picture Mona Lisa’s unamused smirk in my mind, I decide to change things up. Every time Mia looks up to study a feature of my face, I stick out my tongue, or cross my eyes, or make any other face that will make her grin and roll her eyes as she unevenly sketches my eyebrows with a blunt, crimson colored pencil. When she hands me my portrait, I tell her it looks great and something in my heart truly changes. I fold it up and put the picture in my pocket, excited to show all of my friends. I soon say goodbye to Mia for the last time, since kids only stay in CBAT for a few weeks, until they recover from their depression, anxiety, or desire to self harm. This goodbye is particularly bittersweet, as I am glad she is well enough to return to her home, school, and friends, but saddened because I will truly miss this new young friend I have made. I walk out the door, apply more foamy hand sanitizer, and disappear into the stark night, clutching the piece of paper in my pocket that is so much more than a rough sketch of my face.
Picture yourself alone on the ice, standing in the frigid air, legs like jello and heart beating so loudly that you swear everyone in the rink can hear it. Three people are watching you, three strangers who are about to make a major decision for you. These strangers will hold your fate for the next year in their palms, toss it around in their minds, scribble it down messily on their scoresheets as their sharp eyes analyze you. Your future is riding on this test, a determination of your eligibility to skate on your dream team, an opportunity that you never considered to be realistic until recently. This is where I found myself on the last day of September in 2017, during my senior year of high school.
After completing my last footwork pattern, pure relief and joy coursed through my veins. I had put out a decent test for only two months of intense training, while most skaters take over eight months to prepare. All of the crippling stress that had been weighing on my shoulders melted away as I skated off the ice and hugged my coach. Minutes later, my score sheets were ready: retry from all three judges. Crushing disappointment consumed me as I thought about how hard I worked to be ready for my test. Both the experience of failure on that day and success when I did pass the test later on solidified my identity. Skating is all about retry, retry, retry – and when I fail, it’s that little girl in me who loved to be on the ice who keeps me going.
Running has been a part of my identity ever since I could remember. My parents signed me up for numerous sports at a young age, but it seemed I only enjoyed the running aspect more than anything else. Throughout middle school and high school, I would wake up at 5 AM every morning to complete workouts with my teammates. As the years went on the question of running track and cross country at a collegiate level was a major inquiry in my life. Time after time again, many coaches had said I needed to cut a few seconds off my two mile time in order to be considered for their program. I was determined to make my final high school track season count. It seemed that after my rigorous training schedule that I was on the verge of hitting my goal times and thus being able to run in college.
However, in January of my senior year an event changed all of this. It was an amazing day, skiing with some of my closest cronies in Durango, Colorado when I began to lose control of my skis and fell face-first into a rock. My goggles shattered, and my helmet cracked. My vision blurred and the full day of skiing was swiped from my memory. I awoke to a bright hospital room; it seemed that my dream of running track at a collegiate level had also diminished.
Running has been a part of my identity ever since I could remember. My parents signed me up for numerous sports at a young age, but it seemed I only enjoyed the running aspect more than anything else. Throughout middle school and high school, I would wake up at 5 AM every morning to complete workouts with my teammates. As the years went on the question of running track and cross country at a collegiate level was a major inquiry in my life. Time after time again, many coaches had said I needed to cut a few seconds off my two mile time in order to be considered for their program. I was determined to make my final high school track season count. It seemed that after my rigorous training schedule that I was on the verge of hitting my goal times and thus being able to run in college.
However, in January of my senior year an event changed all of this. It was an amazing day, skiing with some of my closest cronies in Durango, Colorado when I began to lose control of my skis and fell face-first into a rock. My goggles shattered, and my helmet cracked. My vision blurred and the full day of skiing was swiped from my memory. I awoke to a bright hospital room; it seemed that my dream of running track at a collegiate level had also diminished.
When I was a Freshman in high school four short years ago, I was purely an introvert. I would take the train home from school everyday once the final bell rang, but I realized that my comfort zone must be pushed and challenged to heighten my sense of sociability. I decided to pursue a new interest in the world of club sports and landed upon the Frisbee Club. My friend Jonah was telling me for weeks that frisbee is a great hobby to try out and presents loads of fun to everyone, regardless of athletic capabilities. I decided to give frisbee a try. It was on a cool, fall afternoon that I attended my first Club Frisbee session and immediately upon arrival, Jonah yelled “DAVID CATCH” from a distance. For the first time in my life, from 40 yards away, I found a 175-gram frisbee whirling its way at me at a stunning speed.
For the rest of high school, I worked my way up through the frisbee hierarchy at Fordham Prep and reached the position of Vice President. I was now given the position and power to envision a new dream, which was making the club competitive. The spring of junior year arrived and Jonah and I worked relentlessly with the school and the New York Disc League to make some magic happen. After weeks of negotiation, we were able to land a game against the B-team of Regis, another high school in the New York City area. We lost the game but it was never actually about the game. That frisbee game shedded light to the effort that Jonah and I put in to create this opportunity. Because of this, at age 16, I finally felt that I was part of a real team. I became one of the two captains of the team and my confidence in tossing the frisbee soared over time. This new wave of confidence tapped into all areas of my life and by the end of senior year, I realized how much I have grown and how much I have learned simply from tossing a 175-gram plastic disc.
As I entered the building for the first time, an unfamiliar scent hit my nose. My brain tried to identify this scent unsuccessfully, which served as a painful reminder of how far I was from home. Of course, my parents would argue home was a matter of minutes away, however home to me was thousands of miles apart form my current location. My family and I had just recently moved, and my 12 year-old self was convinced that my life was over. I couldn’t wait until college, where I could return somewhere in Pennsylvania and become reunited with all my best friends. Colorado was foreign, and St. Mary’s middle school sounded like hell on earth.
With all this in mind, I did not speak to anybody after walking into the school. I made a beeline for my first class, not making eye contact. I had always been a talker, and then suddenly I felt stripped of that. I was no longer outgoing, and I simply wanted nothing more than to get away from everyone. I was determining the ways in which I could talk to the least amount of people. My parents and teachers became increasingly worried, but I had decided that in order to preserve my old-Philadelphia self, I needed to maintain a persona of nothingness. To me, it felt like I could preserve my old identity.
It was in the first few weeks of my Freshman year of college where I became more keenly aware of my identity. I remember unloading my stuff from the car with my family into my dorm room on a scorching mid-Summer day. One thing I realized, while unloading, was that many of my classmates were not like me. My previous college did not have a diverse demographic; many of the students were from the same background and ethnicity. At first, it was very overwhelming. Many of my classmates bonded quickly because they were from the same area, or their families knew eachother. I was not like my classmates. I wasn’t from the same ethnic group, I didn’t know anyone from my area, and I, overall, did not feel like I fit. It was hard to find friends at first, and it took a while until I found some real friends. All in all, it was a grueling experience in which I questioned my identity and did not feel like I belonged.
After a few weeks of pretending to be someone I wasn’t, I came to the realization that I could never find true friends if I’m “masking” my true self. I started to join and attend new clubs and events that I thought interested me. A week after this realization, I went to a giveaway Bingo event hosted by the Board of Programmers. At that event, I met some of my best friends during my freshman year of college. I believe that through questioning my identity during a challenging time, it resulted in me learning more about my “true” self and embracing it. I place confidence that through embracing my “true” identity, it resulted in truer relationships with my friends and overall satisfaction with who I am.
Nothing beats the fifteen minutes I spent being crammed in between my brothers on the journey home from my high school graduation in late May. The irritating noise of a single car window being ajar slightly overcame the squabble over who got to play the final song of the ride. The second car, full of all my family that stood up and shouted as I stepped across the stage, pulled in with an absurd amount of pizza just behind us. After everyone had eaten enough for two, my little brother, Micah, handed me a blue envelope that had “to George” freshly written with a strong-smelling black Sharpie.
Micah is not my biological brother, but he is everything else that an awesome and pesky little brother can be. I immediately ripped the envelope to shreds and began scanning the neatly written words at the top of the card all the way down until the handwriting became smaller and smaller as the edge of the card drew near. I flipped the card over to read Micah’s final remarks, which happened to be a line of words that allowed me to become more keenly aware of my identity. The line was “Congratulations George. One day I am going to be just like my big brother.” As the youngest of four siblings and over fifty cousins, I was rarely presented with an opportunity to be a lasting role model until nervously signing up for a service program three years prior to my graduation, which allowed me to meet Micah. Although merely fourteen words, the written line generated a realization that I am a big brother, I am a positive influence, and I have done something larger than myself.
The dry heat in the air was stifling, the pitiful puffs of wind carrying snippets of conversation a far cry from the refreshing ocean breezes and soothing crash of the surf that characterized my days just 48 hours prior. Directionally horrendous as always, I puzzled over a campus map for far too long before heading out to what I hoped was Fulton hall, though whatever building it was would suffice to save me from the overbearing heat outside, the kind that faintly sizzles and causes the roadway to radiate with energy. Thankfully I had found the right building, and upon walking through the doors may as well have been transported into a different world entirely. A blast of air conditioning brought a wave of chilling relief to my poor, overheated body, and I looked in wonder at the opulent foyer I had entered, complete with a lofty vaulted roof and icy marble floors. By some miracle I was able to find an elevator and, checking and double checking my room number like I had some kind of nervous tick, I managed to blindly stumble upon the right classroom. As I opened the door and went inside, the silence was deafening; despite being only 10 minutes early, I was the first student there. So I picked a seat, and began to wait. Somewhere in the building the AC hummed away, and the clock on the wall ticked on, and on, and on. A few minutes that feel more like a couple of eons pass, and my racing heartbeat begins to drown out the incessant ticking I had grown to hate in such a short space of time; my thoughts began to race. Was I in the right room? What day was it? Did something happen and was the class cancelled? As it turned out, all of this fretting was unnecessary. Beginning at five of one and lasting until 1:00 a steady stream of students shuffled into the room and at least attempted to find seats, as some miscalculation along the way put thirty students in a twenty-five seat classroom. Around then, I began to feel less bad about showing up to class early.
Though it might sound like anyone’s typical first day of Freshman year, in reality it was anything but. It wasn’t this most recent brutally hot September, but an equally broiling July a full year and then some earlier. It was my first day taking one of BC’s (very interesting) summer ‘Experience’ courses for high school students, but represented many of the same things to me that a traditional first day of college would to anyone else. It was the first time I was in an environment of complete strangers, learning in a college fashion away from the comforts that a familiar school setting, like a high school, can provide. This experience stood in such stark contrast to most of what I had known all of my life that it was inevitable, really, that from this class I would be able to take away something more personal, having learned more about who I am.
I am an alumni of Jesuit High School of New Orleans, Class of 2018. “High school” usually starts freshman year, but the school I attended actually started “pre-freshman” year. I spent a total of 5 years at the military Jesuit institute. Each year, 5 days a week, I would wear a full khaki uniform complete with a belt, appropriately placed name tag, and shined black leather shoes, and if one part of the uniform was out of place then a detention would be given. “Yes, Sir/Ma’am” or “No, Sir/Ma’am” was always expected, if a response of “yeah,”“nope,” or anything just as colloquial was given then getting yelled at or sternly corrected was to be expected. So yes, my school was strict, but I could not be more grateful because I am who I am today because of everything I have been through there. I have much pride for Jesuit because it was arguably the best single sex institute in New Orleans. An entrance test determined whether a student could be admitted in the school, and the lucky few that were accepted are constantly reminded that there are hundreds of students that wished they were in the same spots as them. The reason that the school is so competitive is because of its strong alumni community in the city. New Orleans is unique in many ways, but especially when it comes to high school. In the city during interviews or random conversations, the first question that always comes up is “what high school did you go to?”; the university/college one attends usually is not as important to people in New Orleans. I know for certain that if I had not gone to Jesuit then I would be a completely different person today.
I remember the exact moment I ended Cabin 3. I was immediately greeted by a whirlpool of dust, followed by the overly-chirpy “hellos” from my other cabin-mates. My mom did not force me to go away to summer camp, although strongly suggested it . Being only twelve years old at the time, I would agree to nearly all of her ideas. I immediately regretted this agreement the second I arrived at Pleasant Valley Camp. Clawing at my mom as she tried to leave me, I finally succumbed to her. I peered out of the tiny window of Cabin 3, watching her drive further and further away, until she eventually became nothing more than a mere dot in the distance.
The first task of the two week “journey” was to conduct a swim test. A stampede of thoughts instantly began swarming my head. “Why do I need to show them I can swim? What twelve year old can’t swim?” I followed all the girls out of the cabin towards the lake, dragging my feet with every step. I looked around to find several other girls pestering the counselors about my unsaid thoughts. “Well”, I thought, “at least I’m not the only one. When we arrived at the lake, the other girls and I jumped in the water. A surge of chills sent up my spine, eventually leading to cold rush through my head. I looked around to find the other girls looking with a similar look of relief. We all immediately burst out with laughter. Of what, I am not sure. I did know that from this point forward, I managed to enjoy my time at camp much more than I expected the day my mom dropped me off. Though understated, this surge of laughter allowed me to realize something about my identity. I learned I can sometimes be malleable enough to conform to situations I may not be comfortable with. This revelation has had an ever lasting impact on my life today.
The first thing I noticed after my AP French exam was the dark gray clouds that engulfed the sky. As I walked to the parking lot I inhaled the heavy air and heard the faint rustle of the leaves as the wind meandered through them. My legs slowly woke up from the six hour nap they took during my two exams, and I had to use my left hand to open the car door. On the car ride home I rolled down the window to breath in the fresh air; my eyes fixated on the sky the whole ride. But I couldn’t rest when I arrived home. The Language Honor Societies were having a ceremony tonight and I was presenting.
Although I struggled to keep my eyes open and I had to pinched myself every so often, I smiled the whole time. When it was my turn to speak I looked up and out into the sea of faces. I read my speech with a slow and careful purpose, allowing the french I learned for seven years to dance and reach the audience. While I knew that only a fourth of them understood what I was saying I continued to express my thoughts in the language I love. When the ceremony was over I could finally go home and study for my exam tomorrow. Going outside and running to the car made my heart jump and somersault as abundant rain drops crashed down to Earth.
The early weeks of December of 2017 have to be amongst the most stressful of my entire life. I was awaiting the letter that contained the status of my application for Boston College, which has been my dream school for as long as I can remember. I felt a range of emotions from excitement to anxiety because I truly had no idea what the letter would say. Finally, one night I came home from practice and checked my email, and there in my inbox was a letter from the board of admissions at Boston College. My heart started racing, because I knew I could either face a moment of pure excitement or bitter disappointment. When I opened the letter and it said that I had gotten in, I was ecstatic and could not wait to share the news with my friends and family. I was about to attend my dream school.
Despite all of this excitement, as the date for me to leave for school approached, I started to become anxious all over again. I had never lived away from home for an extended period of time, and had certainly never lived on my own. I also didn’t know anyone coming in, which was nerve-racking and exciting at the same time. It was during this time that I truly realized what it meant to go away for school since I would have to learn to live on my own and make a whole new set of friends. I love being around others, so family and friends have always been a crucial part of my identity. As I prepared to leave for school, I realized the importance of staying true to my values and my identity if I wanted to make real friends and make the most of my time at Boston College. I would be meeting a variety of people, all with different backgrounds, beliefs and interests.
In my first weeks of school, and even now, I have made some great friends and am continuing encountering new people and experiences ever yday. In doing so, I have been challenged to stay true to my identity while simultaneously keeping an open mind to the values of others. As a result, I feel that my identity and sense of self is stronger than before, and the uncertain situations have only helped me grow.
As a young freshman at a new school, I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work in high school. In addition to completing my assignments and staying on track, I was also conscious of my image. I was at a new school attempting to establish a friend group and garner acceptance from my fellow peers. “Fitting in” in my mind was crucial, I only had one chance to give a first impression, one that would stick with me for the next four years. As the school year progressed and school work and football became increasingly busier, I had to pick and choose what activities to pursue. Ultimately, I stopped the Boy Scouts to make my time for school work and sports. The Scouts had been an important part of my life and had always brought me enjoyment, but my busy schedule and the stigma that “Boy Scouts are not cool” swayed my decision.
Fast forward to the summer going into my junior year and I was in New Hampshire at Boy Scout camp. I had decided to rejoin the Scouts and make an attempt to achieve the rank of Eagle Scout by my eighteenth birthday. However, the only way to realistically do that was to go to camp, a proposition I dreaded. Upon arrival, I immediately began to regret my decision. I was fine with camping, but a whole week of it was pushing it in my books. The first day was rainy and dreary, a perfect representation of how I was feeling. I had no desire to be there with younger Scouts and knew almost no one which made it that much harder. Furthermore, I was still in the mindset that my being at Boy Scout camp made me “weird. I went into the week with the expectation that I was going to hate every second of it. However, as the week progressed and I took part in some amazing activities my outlook began to change. By the last day, my whole perception on the week and myself had changed. The week had been a blast, and I finally came to peace with the fact that this was part of who I was and that it did not matter what people thought about my involvement in Scouts.
The cold air clashed with the hot sweat dripping off my nose. My heart began to sink, but not far enough to where I couldn’t recover. “This is it,” I thought to myself. I wiped the sweat off my brow with the bottom of my jersey and exhaled as I took in my surroundings. I sat still on the bench until my trance was broken by a voice behind me telling me to come back into the locker room.
My dad grew up playing hockey and continued his whole life. When I was old enough to put on skates, I began to skate. I played hockey at a high school where there was a rich tradition of hockey. Part of my identity has always been a hockey player. From the culture to the commitments I made to the sport, I was a hockey player. That all came to an end the last game of my hockey career. It has a home playoff game against one of our rival schools and the fans were in full force. When the buzzer hit zero, the cold air hit me again and my jaw tightened up. The fans embraced us, after a loss, and we did our usually post-game routine. Time seemed to slow down as I analyzed every movement I was doing to study my actions so that I would never forget them. The moment I left the ice, I was no longer a hockey player. I didn’t know what I was.
“Dear Jennifer, I am delighted to offer you admission to Morrissey College of Arts and Sciences at Boston College. You have also been selected to participate in Options Through Education (OTE), a mandatory transitional summer program.”
June 17th, 2018, I pulled up to Cheverus hall on upper campus to see the parking lot full other students and their families helping them move into what would be the next 7 weeks of our summer. However, it was visible to see that everyone was a person of color. Little did I realize that the white-passing part of my bi-racial nature was visible to others as well. I wasn’t shocked nor uncomfortable because I did not grow up in a predominately white town until I felt a tense divide between myself and the other diverse students that made up the program. I felt the way how people at first make one’s skin color the thickest layer of our body when it is the thinnest. It is how I spent those next 7 weeks trying to navigate what my bi-racialness means to me and how it plays a role in the larger society who saw it that same way too.
As I was holding myself accountable for not looking “Asian enough”, whatever that means, to feel accepted by others, I had reminded myself of what life was like at home. I was unapologetically who I was, not fully defined by my race or ethnicity but knowing how it has played a role in my life experiences. As I was too busy worrying that my peers were looking at my appearance, I didn’t realize the relationships I was developing with them in the meantime. There were people who were looking beyond the surface this whole time. I don’t know why I felt like I had lost myself that summer when I had always lived by my own conduct and not through the validation of others who did not know about my personal experiences and intersections of my identity, but I had to remind myself of this optional truth.
As I get off the plane in Cancun Mexico I looked around and quickly realized I was much different than everybody else around me. Going to Mexico I expected this, but it was even more clear to me now.
My two friends and I all standing at about 6’6 were getting crazy looks from people all around us, and as we exited the airport and went outside to get a taxi to our hotel, we were asked by a little kid who spoke very little English, “Do you play in the NBA?” My first reaction was to just laugh it off and tell the little kid that we didn’t, but before I could answer my friend immediately answered with a, “yes, yes we do.” We took a picture with the little kid and went on our way.
This experience really opened my eyes to how I identify myself, as an athlete.
I have had the same best friends for as long as I can remember– a group of five individuals with extremely similar personalities. Aside from our identical sense of humor, we all shared a love for Black Mirror, Thai food, and, most importantly, theater. Our weekends consisted of carpools from one rehearsal to the next, sometimes traveling nearly an hour away to perform a show we had always dreamed of doing. On our various road trips between rehearsals, the only music that was allowed to be played was show tunes (although playing the soundtrack of a well-known musical was considered to be a deadly sin– only obscure musicals were allowed). When we weren’t at rehearsals, we were hanging out in our friend’s basement which we had plastered with show posters. There we would sit and watch funny singing videos, laughing at a person’s inability to match pitch, something we thought to be rather natural.
All throughout my high school career, this was the lifestyle I was used to. I was completely surrounded by theatre and had accepted it as a very large part of my identity. However, there was another part of my identity that I could not deny. I was absolutely infatuated with everything having to do with Neuroscience. Neuroplasticity, aphasia, cortical degeneration, you name it. I had always known that this was the field I would end up studying. Although I loved theatre, it was more of something I used to hang out with my friends. Throughout high school, I began to gather the sense that my five best friends did not think of school the same way that I did. It was not until one evening that I discovered just how different from my friends I truly was. It was a typical Friday night, and we were all sitting in the basement as usual. The topic of college came up, and I listened as my friends talked about the various schools that they would be applying to. I immediately felt my mind begin to race. Every school that they had listed was an art school where they could study theatre. Of course, I loved theatre, but it was never something I thought of as a career. I knew that what I really wanted to pursue was neuroscience. When the question finally fell on me, I told the truth. I did not want to apply as a musical theatre major and would probably be stopping theatre in college. My friends fell silent. At this exact moment, I felt a part of myself fall away. This group that I had identified with for so long suddenly felt so different and distant. I had always considered myself to be the same as these people, but for the first time, I realized that I was very different.
The first surgery I observed is a moment that stands out in my life. It wasn’t an “aha” moment, at least not at first, but rather an “oh no” moment. I remember putting on the stiff blue scrubs, the light blue surgical hat and shoe covers, and the mask, imagining in my head what was about to happen. The sight of blood had never bothered me, I had watched this kind stuff online and in videos before. How different could it be in real life? As I walked into the operating room, I was overwhelmed by the multitude of doctors, anesthesiologists, nurses, scrub techs, nurse anesthetists, and even a translator, all dressed in blue. I could literally smell the sterility of room which had white tiled walls and was freezing cold.
My mind started racing. What if I can’t handle the blood, or I pass out, or even vomit? As I went back and forth in my head, I was interrupted by the anesthesiologists who told me that if, at any point, I didn’t feel well, I should sit down and if I felt faint, to lie down on the floor. That was out of the question. There was absolutely no way I would be caught laying down on the floor of the operating room. I could not think of anything more embarrassing. Yet, with that new though in my mind, I grew even more apprehensive. The surgery hadn’t even started and I was a mess; I was seeing stars, my heart was racing, and sweat was dripping down my back. I sat down on the stool by the head of the patient and took a deep breath. The surgery began, and to my amazement, I forgot about passing out or getting queasy. I overthought the situation so much that I panicked myself for no reason.
The cold air hit me like a brick wall coming out of DeSalles Hall. I had just finished my AP Chemistry night class, and was making the walk across the parking lot to the chapel. My friend David, who was also coming from Chemistry, was coming with me. With full smiles and heartwarming laughs we were being the loud, happy, rambunctious teenage boys Don Bosco Prep students are known to be, until we got to the chapel. David went in first, dipping his finger in the holy water, then knelling and making the sign of the cross. I did the same… We were at Eucharistic Adoration, a practice which, at the time I was very unfamiliar with. Only showing up to receive extra credit, I was planning on not participating because I believed I never needed the sacramental aspect of faith to have a relationship with God, only theology. That was about to change.
The instantly noticeable reverence was striking. David and I were silenced immediately. The people seemed so focused yet so relaxed, and between the soft light of the candles and the calming sound of the music I couldn’t help but feel everything slow down. After sitting in the pew, I spent many minutes observing everyone. They looked calm and comforted, as if all their problems had just disappeared. I just didn’t understand why. Was it the paintings of Christ on the high ceilings or the candle light reflecting off the stain glass windows? Or was it the statue of the Virgin Mother on the altar? What was I not seeing? In frustration, I looked up. The Eucharist was in the Monstrance on the altar, and I just stopped and stared. That was God. As a Catholic everything culminates to the belief that Christ sacrificed Himself for us, and we take part in that through Him being physically and entirely present in the Eucharist. I had never thought about it like that. My God, who created the world and all that was good, who is love, was right there twenty feet away from me. My God who loved me so much as to die on a cross for me, was in front of me. I was overwhelmed by a sense of comfort knowing that the end and the beginning was there with me, and for that hour I had the chance to just be surrounded by His love and adore Him. I understood what everyone was feeling, they felt loved. In that moment, I was reaffirmed that I am a Catholic, and that Catholicism has become a guide for my values and a source of my actions. I know who I am by knowing who I am for, I am for God.
One of the more eye opening experiences I have had that helped me better understand my identity was my senior year at our conference swim meet. It was a Friday night, and my entire team was heading to uptown for our big meet. We were lined up to have some great races, and the energy in the drive up was electric. You could just feel the excitement mixed with nervousness as we all walked on deck. As the meet began to start I knew one of the big races of the night would be my 100 breaststroke. I would be competing for first place with another girl from our rival school.
As my even got called to the blocks, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I stood on the blocks staring at the calm water in front of me, ready to compete and craving to win. Time slowed down, until I heard the timer set off the race. The race itself was a blur, but I do remember slamming into the wall at my finish and looking to the scoreboard to see a #1 by my name. My teams cheering was insanely loud and I looked to my coach who had a huge grin on his face. When I went back to my team, I was greeted with high fives and smiles. And this look by all the underclassmen of admiration. They looked at me as a leader and a role model, someone to reach for. Even if what I did may not have been that impressive, I knew that after that day people looked at me differently. Myself included, I wasn’t just a swimmer, I was a leader.
When I was in eighth grade, I decided to step outside of my comfort zone, a decision which transformed my beliefs about the world around me. As I walked through the halls of my all-girls, college preparatory school on a sunny, May afternoon, I overheard a high schooler talking about a program that she was planning on participating in over the summer, Camp Umoja. She explained to her friend that she hoped to be accepted as a counselor to children from Baltimore’s public housing. I had heard about this camp before and knew that it was only offered to high school students. Nevertheless, I nervously walked into the service director’s cramped office, introduced myself, and asked him if I could apply, even though I was still in middle school. He offered me the opportunity to apply, but warned me that it would be a competitive process since so many high school students wanted to participate. I spent hours writing my essay response, and to my surprise, I was accepted as a counselor.
On the first day of camp, my nervousness returned once again. My heart began to pound because I worried that I was unprepared to mentor a child since I was still a child myself. My fears were allayed as five-year-old Dayvon, standing the height of my waist, looked up at me with longing eyes, saying, “I pick you. Will you be my counselor?” Dayvon later revealed to me that he had also been nervous, and that he was relieved to have found me. Although the next two weeks were the most tiring of my life, every aching muscle reminded me that my hard work was positively impacting my camper’s life. As Dayvon and I grew closer, we played basketball and tag, attended swimming lessons, and shared stories. One morning, Dayvon revealed to me that he often feared that his water would be shut off because his family could not afford to pay the bill. I realized that although Umoja could not change Dayvon’s reality, it could change his life. Umoja provides each child with individualized attention, something hard to come by in Dayvon’s crowded school and home. Umoja also had the power to change my life. For some, it is easy to feel detached from other people’s problems, but Dayvon became the face of every child denied basic human rights. Camp Umoja helped me to recognize my calling to combat injustice that exists in our world, particularly inequalities that impact children. Whenever I become overwhelmed spending hours on my homework, I remind myself of my goal of creating a better world for children like Dayvon.
I have been a competitive Irish dancer since I was five years old, meaning that dance and Irish culture have always been a large part of who I believed myself to be, but finally visiting Ireland was what made me realize how important it was that I maintain this part of my identity.
The car swiftly rolled down the narrow and windy roads of Sligo that seem to barely allow for one car, let alone the two that it was intended for. The confident driving of my mother’s cousin, Michael, greatly contrasted my mom’s apprehensive nature as she had navigated the unfamiliar roads when we had first arrived. I peered out of the window as we passed lush green fields dotted with hundreds of sheep lazily grazing. The nervous butterflies that always accompanied dance competitions had disappeared and I was finally able to fully enjoy the beauty of the country that I had so excitedly awaited my trip to. I turned my attention back to the quiet conversation between my mother and Michael, as we traveled to see the house that their great great grandmother had grown up in. The small car pushed up a steep hill and pulled over to the side of the road. We stepped out of the car to examine the house. To my surprise and mild disappointment, there only remained a few large stones that had once made up the walls of the small house. I observed the lonely old stones quietly, awe rising up as I gazed out at the Irish countryside from atop the small mountain. The quiet disappointment that I had felt for just a passing moment dissipated as I began to appreciate the fact that there were any stones at all. The butterflies returned, but they were different. Despite the fact that little of the house remained, I gained a sense of pride from the knowledge that I maintained contact with relatives and ancestors to which I was only distantly related. Our shared heritage and identity lead to the development solid ties that will always remain important to me.
The early weeks of December of 2017 have to be amongst the most stressful of my entire life. I was awaiting the letter that contained the status of my application for Boston College, which has been my dream school for as long as I can remember. I felt a range of emotions from excitement to anxiety because I truly had no idea what the letter would say. Finally, one night I came home from practice and checked my email, and there in my inbox was a letter from the board of admissions at Boston College. My heart started racing because I knew I could either face a moment of pure excitement or bitter disappointment. When I opened the letter and it said that I had gotten in, I was ecstatic and could not wait to share the news with my friends and family. I was about to attend my dream school.
Despite all of this excitement, as the date for me to leave for school approached, I started to become anxious all over again. I had never lived away from home for an extended period of time and had certainly never lived on my own. I also didn’t know anyone coming in, which was nerve-racking and exciting at the same time. It was during this time that I truly realized what it meant to go away for school since I would have to learn to live on my own and make a whole new set of friends. I love being around others, so family and friends have always been a crucial part of my identity. As I prepared to leave for school, I realized the importance of staying true to my values and my identity if I wanted to make real friends and make the most of my time at Boston College. I would be meeting a variety of people, all with different backgrounds, beliefs, and interests.
In my first weeks of school, and even now, I have made some great friends and am continuing encountering new people and experiences every day. In doing so, I have been challenged to stay true to my identity while simultaneously keeping an open mind to the values of others. As a result, I feel that my identity and sense of self is stronger than before, and the uncertain situations have only helped me grow.
The early weeks of December of 2017 have to be amongst the most stressful of my entire life. I was awaiting the letter that contained the status of my application for Boston College, which has been my dream school for as long as I can remember. I felt a range of emotions from excitement to anxiety because I truly had no idea what the letter would say. Finally, one night I came home from practice and checked my email, and there in my inbox was a letter from the board of admissions at Boston College. My heart started racing because I knew I could either face a moment of pure excitement or bitter disappointment. When I opened the letter and it said that I had gotten in, I was ecstatic and could not wait to share the news with my friends and family. I was about to attend my dream school.
Despite all of this excitement, as the date for me to leave for school approached, I started to become anxious all over again. I had never lived away from home for an extended period of time and had certainly never lived on my own. I also didn’t know anyone coming in, which was nerve-racking and exciting at the same time. It was during this time that I truly realized what it meant to go away for school since I would have to learn to live on my own and make a whole new set of friends. I love being around others, so family and friends have always been a crucial part of my identity. As I prepared to leave for school, I realized the importance of staying true to my values and my identity if I wanted to make real friends and make the most of my time at Boston College. I would be meeting a variety of people, all with different backgrounds, beliefs, and interests.
In my first weeks of school, and even now, I have made some great friends and am continuing encountering new people and experiences every day. In doing so, I have been challenged to stay true to my identity while simultaneously keeping an open mind to the values of others. As a result, I feel that my identity and sense of self is stronger than before, and the uncertain situations have only helped me grow.
In June of 2017 I traveled to Costa Rica with members of my high school’s Environmental and Spanish club. Upon entering their capital of San José, the cultural differences were instantly apparent. The buildings, vehicles, stores, and houses quickly opened my eyes to the poverty in the city and the aspects that qualified it as a third world country.
Throughout my journey, I explored four different territories in Costa Rica. After spending one night in the city, I embarked on a four-hour bus ride on the dirt road highways to Sarapiquí where I immersed myself in the natural beauty of the abundant rainforests. Spending two nights in a hut with howler monkeys as alarms and poisonous frogs disturbing our sticky slumber was quite an experience. Then, I hiked up volcanos in Arenal, while taking breaks to do stereotypical tourist activities such as shopping at local stores and visiting local fruit stands in passing. I was in awe of the richness of their fruit and the inexpensive souvenirs. Interacting with the locals allowed me to further understand their culture, while practicing my Spanish speaking abilities. The final stop was Monte Verde where I had the opportunity to hike through the cloud forest and experience the natural heat of the hot springs. By the end of the week, I had become accustomed to eating rice, beans, and fruit for every meal with a scenic view.
Walking down the velvety, red carpet, there were flashing cameras and cheering. I was not Gigi Hadid, Hailey Baldwin, or Ashley Graham, however. I was a volunteer date at the Tim Tebow Foundation’s Night to Shine event, an opportunity I attempted to partake in for multiple years. I had forced my brother, Matthew, to come with me to the event and drive through the sleet and freezing rain on a Friday night to help out at the makeshift prom for those with special needs. I think he only grudgingly agreed because he needed service hours for school and because there was the prospect of Tim Tebow surprising the guests. It was the first time either of us attended the event, and we did not know what to expect. The night began with bickering between my mom and brother as to what would be appropriate for him to wear; I had picked out my outfit weeks in advance, and it consisted of a hot pink Lilly Pulitzer dress and a flowery clutch. He settled on a suit and tie.
Once we arrived to the initial meeting point, there was a sea of people. Matthew was claustrophobic but was thrown into the crowd that had been waiting in the sweaty gym. We waited for about an hour until we were paired up with our buddy. My buddy and I began talking up a storm instantly; however, Matthew’s buddy kept saying that she missed her mom and dad. Nevertheless, we proceeded to pick out fresh flower corsages and asked a plethora of open-ended questions to Matthew’s buddy. We were later escorted in the party limo and walked down the red carpet. The night was filled with dancing, photo booths, and an array of catered food options. Even Matthew’s buddy was smiling and seeming to enjoy his company. Although Tim Tebow never showed and my brother did not initially seem too interested in attending, he shared with me that it was one of the most rewarding experiences of his life once we loaded the car to go home. I echo his sentiment and am upset I will not be in Illinois to attend the event with him this year.
In my exploration for events that challenged my identity, I found myself reflecting upon two different travel experiences I was able to have in high school. In my junior year of high school, I traveled to Rome with my latin class to learn about ancient Roman life and culture. I initially signed up for the trip as an excuse to explore the famous city, but upon reflection, the experience brought me to a position of inner exploration. Walking between the old buildings was unique sight; their pale yellow and pink colors danced between the bright blue sky. The breeze cut between the ancient columns, through the fallen buildings and around the decomposing walls. Coming from New York City, I once thought I came from a great city with a deeply important past; yet the great city of Rome made my home feel insignificant in the face of human history. The ancient scriptures on the walls and cryptic language swarming the streets reflected both wisdom and age. Contrastingly, I am used to sky high metal buildings that shimmer in the sunlight, revealing that I come from a place with less history and more modernity. I thought I came to Rome to learn about the Romans, but instead, I learned more about myself.
In my senior year of high school, I embarked on a service and volunteer trip that visited various schools in rural neighborhoods in Zimbabwe, Zambia and South Africa. Arriving in the lower class neighborhoods was drastically different from the modern city landscape I was used to. Many of the people we witnessed lived in hand constructed houses using various materials: boards of wood, metal planks, and concrete. The language barrier made it hard to learn more about the people there; although, my visual interactions with the environment around me told me more than I needed to know. The city centers had crumbling buildings and various animals walking through the streets. There were no delis or take out restaurants; instead, there were deteriorating single floor concrete structures with paint chips peeling off. The streets outside of the cities were dirt roads with no stop lights or traffic signs. Comparing my natural environment to the environment the rural neighborhoods I visited invites me to explore my identity in the scope of the world as a whole.
My first day of work in the summer of 2015 was a hot one. The heat seemed to rise out of the pavement on State Street where I was walking; ready to meet the other teens who would join me in the summer internship program at the New England Aquarium. As I walked into the air conditioned room where the program was to begin, I was startled to see over fifty heads turn to face me. Suddenly, the internship seemed a bit more daunting than it had on the application I filled out online. Once my name tag was pressed flat on my shirt, I retreated into a corner and started to read a sports article on my phone in an effort to avoid the awkward smalltalk which was starting up between many of the other teens. This plan did not work for long however. My wish to be left alone was destroyed by a tall, dark haired kid who introduced himself to me as “Paul”. After some initial dismay at my forced interaction, I decided that trying to isolate myself throughout this job would not only be impossible, but also detrimental. So with my new friend Paul, I waded out into the sea of teens and tried to spark up a conversation with as many as I could.
My experience that summer, in large part due to the people I met, was one I remember only fondly, as well as one that persuaded me to spend my next two summers in the same program. These days when I find myself I similar situations, with the same sinking feeling in my stomach as I glance over new faces, I remember my first day that summer, and how I never really had anything to worry about. I also remember Paul, and I try to remind myself that there are others for whom I can do what Paul did for me. When I think of these things, suddenly scary new places don’t seem quite as new or scary.
My 4Boston placement isn’t like many of the other ones available to us in the club. I volunteer in the CBAT unit at the Franciscan Children’s Hospital, nooked away on Warren Street, just a few MBTA stops away from Boston College itself. The trek is easy enough in the warmer months, but when winter rolls around and it’s bitingly cold out, I waddle down the slushy road in my parka, encapsulated in shivers. Unmotivated and tired, I call up to the fourth floor of the unit and say “I’m a volunteer from Boston College” and they loudly buzz me in. I trudge all the way up the stairs, place my thawing hand under the automatic Purell dispenser, and walk in. Instead of referring to the person in charge to find out what my task is for today like many other 4B volunteers may do, I go sit in the “living room”, a small room with sloppily painted lime green walls, mismatched comfy chairs arranged around a television, and a long table that is so thoroughly covered in playing cards and arts and crafts supplies, it is hard to see that it is made out of dark brown wood, abraded from such frequent use. I grab a deck of cards that actually only has forty nine, and ask a small, blonde twelve year old girl if she would like to play Palace. I know that she has had a terrible past, because all of the kids in my placement have, too. Our job isn’t to fix their problems though; our job isn’t anything specific at all. We just be there.
During movie time we watch Hotel Transylvania, and many of the kids choose to accompany this cinematic masterpiece by making friendship bracelets, playing with Legos, or doing some other sort of craft. The blonde girl, I played cards with, Mia, has taken a liking to me during my four hour visit to CBAT because we talked about One Direction and her “boy drama” at dinnertime. She approaches me and asks me if she can draw a portrait of me. I am flattered and confused, wondering why my uninteresting face would spark the inspiration of her artistic side. However, I nod and sit stone faced so she can capture my essence, or whatever it is that artists do. Starting to picture Mona Lisa’s unamused smirk in my mind, I decide to change things up. Every time Mia looks up to study a feature of my face, I stick out my tongue, or cross my eyes, or make any other face that will make her grin and roll her eyes as she unevenly sketches my eyebrows with a blunt, crimson colored pencil. When she hands me my portrait, I tell her it looks great and something in my heart truly changes. I fold it up and put the picture in my pocket, excited to show all of my friends. I soon say goodbye to Mia for the last time, since kids only stay in CBAT for a few weeks, until they recover from their depression, anxiety, or desire to self harm. This goodbye is particularly bittersweet, as I am glad she is well enough to return to her home, school, and friends, but saddened because I will truly miss this new young friend I have made. I walk out the door, apply more foamy hand sanitizer, and disappear into the stark night, clutching the piece of paper in my pocket that is so much more than a rough sketch of my face.
Picture yourself alone on the ice, standing in the frigid air, legs like jello and heart beating so loudly that you swear everyone in the rink can hear it. Three people are watching you, three strangers who are about to make a major decision for you. These strangers will hold your fate for the next year in their palms, toss it around in their minds, scribble it down messily on their scoresheets as their sharp eyes analyze you. Your future is riding on this test, a determination of your eligibility to skate on your dream team, an opportunity that you never considered to be realistic until recently. This is where I found myself on the last day of September in 2017, during my senior year of high school.
After completing my last footwork pattern, pure relief and joy coursed through my veins. I had put out a decent test for only two months of intense training, while most skaters take over eight months to prepare. All of the crippling stress that had been weighing on my shoulders melted away as I skated off the ice and hugged my coach. Minutes later, my score sheets were ready: retry from all three judges. Crushing disappointment consumed me as I thought about how hard I worked to be ready for my test. Both the experience of failure on that day and success when I did pass the test later on solidified my identity. Skating is all about retry, retry, retry – and when I fail, it’s that little girl in me who loved to be on the ice who keeps me going.
Running has been a part of my identity ever since I could remember. My parents signed me up for numerous sports at a young age, but it seemed I only enjoyed the running aspect more than anything else. Throughout middle school and high school, I would wake up at 5 AM every morning to complete workouts with my teammates. As the years went on the question of running track and cross country at a collegiate level was a major inquiry in my life. Time after time again, many coaches had said I needed to cut a few seconds off my two mile time in order to be considered for their program. I was determined to make my final high school track season count. It seemed that after my rigorous training schedule that I was on the verge of hitting my goal times and thus being able to run in college.
However, in January of my senior year an event changed all of this. It was an amazing day, skiing with some of my closest cronies in Durango, Colorado when I began to lose control of my skis and fell face-first into a rock. My goggles shattered, and my helmet cracked. My vision blurred and the full day of skiing was swiped from my memory. I awoke to a bright hospital room; it seemed that my dream of running track at a collegiate level had also diminished.
Running has been a part of my identity ever since I could remember. My parents signed me up for numerous sports at a young age, but it seemed I only enjoyed the running aspect more than anything else. Throughout middle school and high school, I would wake up at 5 AM every morning to complete workouts with my teammates. As the years went on the question of running track and cross country at a collegiate level was a major inquiry in my life. Time after time again, many coaches had said I needed to cut a few seconds off my two mile time in order to be considered for their program. I was determined to make my final high school track season count. It seemed that after my rigorous training schedule that I was on the verge of hitting my goal times and thus being able to run in college.
However, in January of my senior year an event changed all of this. It was an amazing day, skiing with some of my closest cronies in Durango, Colorado when I began to lose control of my skis and fell face-first into a rock. My goggles shattered, and my helmet cracked. My vision blurred and the full day of skiing was swiped from my memory. I awoke to a bright hospital room; it seemed that my dream of running track at a collegiate level had also diminished.
When I was a Freshman in high school four short years ago, I was purely an introvert. I would take the train home from school everyday once the final bell rang, but I realized that my comfort zone must be pushed and challenged to heighten my sense of sociability. I decided to pursue a new interest in the world of club sports and landed upon the Frisbee Club. My friend Jonah was telling me for weeks that frisbee is a great hobby to try out and presents loads of fun to everyone, regardless of athletic capabilities. I decided to give frisbee a try. It was on a cool, fall afternoon that I attended my first Club Frisbee session and immediately upon arrival, Jonah yelled “DAVID CATCH” from a distance. For the first time in my life, from 40 yards away, I found a 175-gram frisbee whirling its way at me at a stunning speed.
For the rest of high school, I worked my way up through the frisbee hierarchy at Fordham Prep and reached the position of Vice President. I was now given the position and power to envision a new dream, which was making the club competitive. The spring of junior year arrived and Jonah and I worked relentlessly with the school and the New York Disc League to make some magic happen. After weeks of negotiation, we were able to land a game against the B-team of Regis, another high school in the New York City area. We lost the game but it was never actually about the game. That frisbee game shedded light to the effort that Jonah and I put in to create this opportunity. Because of this, at age 16, I finally felt that I was part of a real team. I became one of the two captains of the team and my confidence in tossing the frisbee soared over time. This new wave of confidence tapped into all areas of my life and by the end of senior year, I realized how much I have grown and how much I have learned simply from tossing a 175-gram plastic disc.
As I entered the building for the first time, an unfamiliar scent hit my nose. My brain tried to identify this scent unsuccessfully, which served as a painful reminder of how far I was from home. Of course, my parents would argue home was a matter of minutes away, however home to me was thousands of miles apart form my current location. My family and I had just recently moved, and my 12 year-old self was convinced that my life was over. I couldn’t wait until college, where I could return somewhere in Pennsylvania and become reunited with all my best friends. Colorado was foreign, and St. Mary’s middle school sounded like hell on earth.
With all this in mind, I did not speak to anybody after walking into the school. I made a beeline for my first class, not making eye contact. I had always been a talker, and then suddenly I felt stripped of that. I was no longer outgoing, and I simply wanted nothing more than to get away from everyone. I was determining the ways in which I could talk to the least amount of people. My parents and teachers became increasingly worried, but I had decided that in order to preserve my old-Philadelphia self, I needed to maintain a persona of nothingness. To me, it felt like I could preserve my old identity.
It was in the first few weeks of my Freshman year of college where I became more keenly aware of my identity. I remember unloading my stuff from the car with my family into my dorm room on a scorching mid-Summer day. One thing I realized, while unloading, was that many of my classmates were not like me. My previous college did not have a diverse demographic; many of the students were from the same background and ethnicity. At first, it was very overwhelming. Many of my classmates bonded quickly because they were from the same area, or their families knew eachother. I was not like my classmates. I wasn’t from the same ethnic group, I didn’t know anyone from my area, and I, overall, did not feel like I fit. It was hard to find friends at first, and it took a while until I found some real friends. All in all, it was a grueling experience in which I questioned my identity and did not feel like I belonged.
After a few weeks of pretending to be someone I wasn’t, I came to the realization that I could never find true friends if I’m “masking” my true self. I started to join and attend new clubs and events that I thought interested me. A week after this realization, I went to a giveaway Bingo event hosted by the Board of Programmers. At that event, I met some of my best friends during my freshman year of college. I believe that through questioning my identity during a challenging time, it resulted in me learning more about my “true” self and embracing it. I place confidence that through embracing my “true” identity, it resulted in truer relationships with my friends and overall satisfaction with who I am.
Nothing beats the fifteen minutes I spent being crammed in between my brothers on the journey home from my high school graduation in late May. The irritating noise of a single car window being ajar slightly overcame the squabble over who got to play the final song of the ride. The second car, full of all my family that stood up and shouted as I stepped across the stage, pulled in with an absurd amount of pizza just behind us. After everyone had eaten enough for two, my little brother, Micah, handed me a blue envelope that had “to George” freshly written with a strong-smelling black Sharpie.
Micah is not my biological brother, but he is everything else that an awesome and pesky little brother can be. I immediately ripped the envelope to shreds and began scanning the neatly written words at the top of the card all the way down until the handwriting became smaller and smaller as the edge of the card drew near. I flipped the card over to read Micah’s final remarks, which happened to be a line of words that allowed me to become more keenly aware of my identity. The line was “Congratulations George. One day I am going to be just like my big brother.” As the youngest of four siblings and over fifty cousins, I was rarely presented with an opportunity to be a lasting role model until nervously signing up for a service program three years prior to my graduation, which allowed me to meet Micah. Although merely fourteen words, the written line generated a realization that I am a big brother, I am a positive influence, and I have done something larger than myself.
The dry heat in the air was stifling, the pitiful puffs of wind carrying snippets of conversation a far cry from the refreshing ocean breezes and soothing crash of the surf that characterized my days just 48 hours prior. Directionally horrendous as always, I puzzled over a campus map for far too long before heading out to what I hoped was Fulton hall, though whatever building it was would suffice to save me from the overbearing heat outside, the kind that faintly sizzles and causes the roadway to radiate with energy. Thankfully I had found the right building, and upon walking through the doors may as well have been transported into a different world entirely. A blast of air conditioning brought a wave of chilling relief to my poor, overheated body, and I looked in wonder at the opulent foyer I had entered, complete with a lofty vaulted roof and icy marble floors. By some miracle I was able to find an elevator and, checking and double checking my room number like I had some kind of nervous tick, I managed to blindly stumble upon the right classroom. As I opened the door and went inside, the silence was deafening; despite being only 10 minutes early, I was the first student there. So I picked a seat, and began to wait. Somewhere in the building the AC hummed away, and the clock on the wall ticked on, and on, and on. A few minutes that feel more like a couple of eons pass, and my racing heartbeat begins to drown out the incessant ticking I had grown to hate in such a short space of time; my thoughts began to race. Was I in the right room? What day was it? Did something happen and was the class cancelled? As it turned out, all of this fretting was unnecessary. Beginning at five of one and lasting until 1:00 a steady stream of students shuffled into the room and at least attempted to find seats, as some miscalculation along the way put thirty students in a twenty-five seat classroom. Around then, I began to feel less bad about showing up to class early.
Though it might sound like anyone’s typical first day of Freshman year, in reality it was anything but. It wasn’t this most recent brutally hot September, but an equally broiling July a full year and then some earlier. It was my first day taking one of BC’s (very interesting) summer ‘Experience’ courses for high school students, but represented many of the same things to me that a traditional first day of college would to anyone else. It was the first time I was in an environment of complete strangers, learning in a college fashion away from the comforts that a familiar school setting, like a high school, can provide. This experience stood in such stark contrast to most of what I had known all of my life that it was inevitable, really, that from this class I would be able to take away something more personal, having learned more about who I am.
I am an alumni of Jesuit High School of New Orleans, Class of 2018. “High school” usually starts freshman year, but the school I attended actually started “pre-freshman” year. I spent a total of 5 years at the military Jesuit institute. Each year, 5 days a week, I would wear a full khaki uniform complete with a belt, appropriately placed name tag, and shined black leather shoes, and if one part of the uniform was out of place then a detention would be given. “Yes, Sir/Ma’am” or “No, Sir/Ma’am” was always expected, if a response of “yeah,”“nope,” or anything just as colloquial was given then getting yelled at or sternly corrected was to be expected. So yes, my school was strict, but I could not be more grateful because I am who I am today because of everything I have been through there. I have much pride for Jesuit because it was arguably the best single sex institute in New Orleans. An entrance test determined whether a student could be admitted in the school, and the lucky few that were accepted are constantly reminded that there are hundreds of students that wished they were in the same spots as them. The reason that the school is so competitive is because of its strong alumni community in the city. New Orleans is unique in many ways, but especially when it comes to high school. In the city during interviews or random conversations, the first question that always comes up is “what high school did you go to?”; the university/college one attends usually is not as important to people in New Orleans. I know for certain that if I had not gone to Jesuit then I would be a completely different person today.
I remember the exact moment I ended Cabin 3. I was immediately greeted by a whirlpool of dust, followed by the overly-chirpy “hellos” from my other cabin-mates. My mom did not force me to go away to summer camp, although strongly suggested it . Being only twelve years old at the time, I would agree to nearly all of her ideas. I immediately regretted this agreement the second I arrived at Pleasant Valley Camp. Clawing at my mom as she tried to leave me, I finally succumbed to her. I peered out of the tiny window of Cabin 3, watching her drive further and further away, until she eventually became nothing more than a mere dot in the distance.
The first task of the two week “journey” was to conduct a swim test. A stampede of thoughts instantly began swarming my head. “Why do I need to show them I can swim? What twelve year old can’t swim?” I followed all the girls out of the cabin towards the lake, dragging my feet with every step. I looked around to find several other girls pestering the counselors about my unsaid thoughts. “Well”, I thought, “at least I’m not the only one. When we arrived at the lake, the other girls and I jumped in the water. A surge of chills sent up my spine, eventually leading to cold rush through my head. I looked around to find the other girls looking with a similar look of relief. We all immediately burst out with laughter. Of what, I am not sure. I did know that from this point forward, I managed to enjoy my time at camp much more than I expected the day my mom dropped me off. Though understated, this surge of laughter allowed me to realize something about my identity. I learned I can sometimes be malleable enough to conform to situations I may not be comfortable with. This revelation has had an ever lasting impact on my life today.
The first thing I noticed after my AP French exam was the dark gray clouds that engulfed the sky. As I walked to the parking lot I inhaled the heavy air and heard the faint rustle of the leaves as the wind meandered through them. My legs slowly woke up from the six hour nap they took during my two exams, and I had to use my left hand to open the car door. On the car ride home I rolled down the window to breath in the fresh air; my eyes fixated on the sky the whole ride. But I couldn’t rest when I arrived home. The Language Honor Societies were having a ceremony tonight and I was presenting.
Although I struggled to keep my eyes open and I had to pinched myself every so often, I smiled the whole time. When it was my turn to speak I looked up and out into the sea of faces. I read my speech with a slow and careful purpose, allowing the french I learned for seven years to dance and reach the audience. While I knew that only a fourth of them understood what I was saying I continued to express my thoughts in the language I love. When the ceremony was over I could finally go home and study for my exam tomorrow. Going outside and running to the car made my heart jump and somersault as abundant rain drops crashed down to Earth.
The early weeks of December of 2017 have to be amongst the most stressful of my entire life. I was awaiting the letter that contained the status of my application for Boston College, which has been my dream school for as long as I can remember. I felt a range of emotions from excitement to anxiety because I truly had no idea what the letter would say. Finally, one night I came home from practice and checked my email, and there in my inbox was a letter from the board of admissions at Boston College. My heart started racing, because I knew I could either face a moment of pure excitement or bitter disappointment. When I opened the letter and it said that I had gotten in, I was ecstatic and could not wait to share the news with my friends and family. I was about to attend my dream school.
Despite all of this excitement, as the date for me to leave for school approached, I started to become anxious all over again. I had never lived away from home for an extended period of time, and had certainly never lived on my own. I also didn’t know anyone coming in, which was nerve-racking and exciting at the same time. It was during this time that I truly realized what it meant to go away for school since I would have to learn to live on my own and make a whole new set of friends. I love being around others, so family and friends have always been a crucial part of my identity. As I prepared to leave for school, I realized the importance of staying true to my values and my identity if I wanted to make real friends and make the most of my time at Boston College. I would be meeting a variety of people, all with different backgrounds, beliefs and interests.
In my first weeks of school, and even now, I have made some great friends and am continuing encountering new people and experiences ever yday. In doing so, I have been challenged to stay true to my identity while simultaneously keeping an open mind to the values of others. As a result, I feel that my identity and sense of self is stronger than before, and the uncertain situations have only helped me grow.
As a young freshman at a new school, I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work in high school. In addition to completing my assignments and staying on track, I was also conscious of my image. I was at a new school attempting to establish a friend group and garner acceptance from my fellow peers. “Fitting in” in my mind was crucial, I only had one chance to give a first impression, one that would stick with me for the next four years. As the school year progressed and school work and football became increasingly busier, I had to pick and choose what activities to pursue. Ultimately, I stopped the Boy Scouts to make my time for school work and sports. The Scouts had been an important part of my life and had always brought me enjoyment, but my busy schedule and the stigma that “Boy Scouts are not cool” swayed my decision.
Fast forward to the summer going into my junior year and I was in New Hampshire at Boy Scout camp. I had decided to rejoin the Scouts and make an attempt to achieve the rank of Eagle Scout by my eighteenth birthday. However, the only way to realistically do that was to go to camp, a proposition I dreaded. Upon arrival, I immediately began to regret my decision. I was fine with camping, but a whole week of it was pushing it in my books. The first day was rainy and dreary, a perfect representation of how I was feeling. I had no desire to be there with younger Scouts and knew almost no one which made it that much harder. Furthermore, I was still in the mindset that my being at Boy Scout camp made me “weird. I went into the week with the expectation that I was going to hate every second of it. However, as the week progressed and I took part in some amazing activities my outlook began to change. By the last day, my whole perception on the week and myself had changed. The week had been a blast, and I finally came to peace with the fact that this was part of who I was and that it did not matter what people thought about my involvement in Scouts.
The cold air clashed with the hot sweat dripping off my nose. My heart began to sink, but not far enough to where I couldn’t recover. “This is it,” I thought to myself. I wiped the sweat off my brow with the bottom of my jersey and exhaled as I took in my surroundings. I sat still on the bench until my trance was broken by a voice behind me telling me to come back into the locker room.
My dad grew up playing hockey and continued his whole life. When I was old enough to put on skates, I began to skate. I played hockey at a high school where there was a rich tradition of hockey. Part of my identity has always been a hockey player. From the culture to the commitments I made to the sport, I was a hockey player. That all came to an end the last game of my hockey career. It has a home playoff game against one of our rival schools and the fans were in full force. When the buzzer hit zero, the cold air hit me again and my jaw tightened up. The fans embraced us, after a loss, and we did our usually post-game routine. Time seemed to slow down as I analyzed every movement I was doing to study my actions so that I would never forget them. The moment I left the ice, I was no longer a hockey player. I didn’t know what I was.
“Dear Jennifer, I am delighted to offer you admission to Morrissey College of Arts and Sciences at Boston College. You have also been selected to participate in Options Through Education (OTE), a mandatory transitional summer program.”
June 17th, 2018, I pulled up to Cheverus hall on upper campus to see the parking lot full other students and their families helping them move into what would be the next 7 weeks of our summer. However, it was visible to see that everyone was a person of color. Little did I realize that the white-passing part of my bi-racial nature was visible to others as well. I wasn’t shocked nor uncomfortable because I did not grow up in a predominately white town until I felt a tense divide between myself and the other diverse students that made up the program. I felt the way how people at first make one’s skin color the thickest layer of our body when it is the thinnest. It is how I spent those next 7 weeks trying to navigate what my bi-racialness means to me and how it plays a role in the larger society who saw it that same way too.
As I was holding myself accountable for not looking “Asian enough”, whatever that means, to feel accepted by others, I had reminded myself of what life was like at home. I was unapologetically who I was, not fully defined by my race or ethnicity but knowing how it has played a role in my life experiences. As I was too busy worrying that my peers were looking at my appearance, I didn’t realize the relationships I was developing with them in the meantime. There were people who were looking beyond the surface this whole time. I don’t know why I felt like I had lost myself that summer when I had always lived by my own conduct and not through the validation of others who did not know about my personal experiences and intersections of my identity, but I had to remind myself of this optional truth.
As I get off the plane in Cancun Mexico I looked around and quickly realized I was much different than everybody else around me. Going to Mexico I expected this, but it was even more clear to me now.
My two friends and I all standing at about 6’6 were getting crazy looks from people all around us, and as we exited the airport and went outside to get a taxi to our hotel, we were asked by a little kid who spoke very little English, “Do you play in the NBA?” My first reaction was to just laugh it off and tell the little kid that we didn’t, but before I could answer my friend immediately answered with a, “yes, yes we do.” We took a picture with the little kid and went on our way.
This experience really opened my eyes to how I identify myself, as an athlete.
I have had the same best friends for as long as I can remember– a group of five individuals with extremely similar personalities. Aside from our identical sense of humor, we all shared a love for Black Mirror, Thai food, and, most importantly, theater. Our weekends consisted of carpools from one rehearsal to the next, sometimes traveling nearly an hour away to perform a show we had always dreamed of doing. On our various road trips between rehearsals, the only music that was allowed to be played was show tunes (although playing the soundtrack of a well-known musical was considered to be a deadly sin– only obscure musicals were allowed). When we weren’t at rehearsals, we were hanging out in our friend’s basement which we had plastered with show posters. There we would sit and watch funny singing videos, laughing at a person’s inability to match pitch, something we thought to be rather natural.
All throughout my high school career, this was the lifestyle I was used to. I was completely surrounded by theatre and had accepted it as a very large part of my identity. However, there was another part of my identity that I could not deny. I was absolutely infatuated with everything having to do with Neuroscience. Neuroplasticity, aphasia, cortical degeneration, you name it. I had always known that this was the field I would end up studying. Although I loved theatre, it was more of something I used to hang out with my friends. Throughout high school, I began to gather the sense that my five best friends did not think of school the same way that I did. It was not until one evening that I discovered just how different from my friends I truly was. It was a typical Friday night, and we were all sitting in the basement as usual. The topic of college came up, and I listened as my friends talked about the various schools that they would be applying to. I immediately felt my mind begin to race. Every school that they had listed was an art school where they could study theatre. Of course, I loved theatre, but it was never something I thought of as a career. I knew that what I really wanted to pursue was neuroscience. When the question finally fell on me, I told the truth. I did not want to apply as a musical theatre major and would probably be stopping theatre in college. My friends fell silent. At this exact moment, I felt a part of myself fall away. This group that I had identified with for so long suddenly felt so different and distant. I had always considered myself to be the same as these people, but for the first time, I realized that I was very different.