30 Things I Learned While I Was in High School (a list)

1. Nothing's ever easy.

2. The hardest thing to realize about love is that there's never enough of it.

3. People want to be good.

4. It's impossible to divide your time evenly between a million different things. Learning the principles of time management is one of the most important parts of growing up. A lot of us juggled high school with jobs, sports, school plays, time with family, relationships, and volunteer work. We learned how to prioritize and how to find the right balance. These lessons will prove to be the most valuable to us when we're in college as well as later on in life. But I learned that the most important thing to remember when it comes to managing your time is that you can't do it all.

5. Try your hardest to do the right thing, even if the right thing isn't popular.

6. ...But it's important to keep in mind that one mistake isn't going to define you for the rest of your life. We're young. We'll make mistakes.

7. Sometimes, short stories have no underlying meaning. Sometimes, the stories are just short.

8. There will be times when the customer is definitely wrong--there's just nothing you can do about it.

9. Crunchy peanut butter is better.

10. If you want to be friends with somebody, you usually have to work pretty hard for it. It's not always as simple as just having a class together and favoriting each other's tweets. In fact, if you want anything bad, you gotta fight for it.

11. Being nice pays off.

12. Food solves a lot of things.

13. Sometimes you may be the only one who's right, even if nobody else agrees with you. Trust yourself. Stick to your guns.

14. Conversation isn't the only way to connect. It can be nice to not talk.

15. It's okay to do things alone and to want to do things alone. See a movie, read a book, or take a walk. It's equally as important to get to know yourself as it is to get to know other people.

16. Always disable text preview.

17. The simplest and often times the best thing that you can do for others is display genuine gratitude. Always take the time to thank people--teachers who wrote recommendation letters, friends who did a favor, co-workers who picked up shifts. It'll make you feel better at the end of the day.

18. Speaking of feeling better at the end of the day, never underestimate the healing properties of a hot shower and a good night's sleep. Laughter is also the best medicine--that is a cliche that is also true. I recommend Demetri Martin's stand-up routine on Netflix, or any YouTube compilation of the funniest New Girl moments. Phone a friend. Buy yourself an ice cream. You won't regret it.

19. The scariest moment is always just before you start.

20. Fighting fire with fire can be surprisingly effective.

21. Education isn't a gun held to your head--it's a weapon in your hands.

22. Sometimes all you can say is "yikes" and move on.

23. There's such a thing as a healthy amount of procrastination. I've found that if I try to accomplish something all at once, the result is much less gratifying. Sometimes it's necessary to let things sit for a while, to return with an open-mind later on. You don't have to fix everything right now.

24. Life isn't a support system for art--it's the other way around.

25. Reading for pleasure is cool. So is making mix CDs.

26. Rooting for the villain is useless.

27. "The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you'll let things upset you." -Lost In Translation (filed under Quotations That Turned Out to be Applicable)

28. If you're excited about something, you have to work at it.

29. More good days will come.

30.A year is much shorter than it sounds.

Dear Admissions Counselor (a poem)

Dear admissions counselor,

I’ve made a lot of promises to you.

I’m sure you’ve read about them.

My aspirations outlined in my essays;

my resume and transcript, telling indicators of my potentially bright future.

I’d like to thank you for your time and consideration.

I’m sure you’ve seen far too many essays and applications in your day,

some ridiculously good, some frighteningly bad,

and while I found mine to be relatively strong when I fared them well and pressed submit,

they may have lost their zeal by the time they reached your hands after a long day

of dissecting students' lives.

The truth is, I really know nothing about you, admissions counselor,

but you know quite a lot about me--

my job history, how many A’s I’ve gotten, what my teachers have to say about me, if anything.

I’m sure you have a family--

a wife or a husband and perhaps some kids of your own.

Maybe they’re in college right now, or already navigating the ghost town of adulthood,

but then again, they may not have even begun this process yet,

maybe they're still in diapers or starting middle school,

and you’re just waiting anxiously

for the day when somebody exactly like you

is scrutinizing your daughter’s essays and frowning contemplatively

while they mull over her grades and test scores.

I can’t be certain, but I’d imagine that it’s not very hard for you

to only let your applicants exist as words on paper, because, let’s face it,

it’s easier that way.

You probably want to get home to your family and maybe your dog

after a long day of checking yeses and nos, 

of stuffing envelopes with rejection letters or car decals, 

admissions counselor.

I don’t mean to waste your time, and I’m not trying to beg

for an acceptance--I like to think that I’m above that, 

but if you read my essays again, there’s probably a note of desperation in between 

each of the meticulously placed words.

Can you really blame me?

I only wanted to introduce myself a little more accurately--

sure, it’s drilled into your mind that whatever’s in that file

with my name on it is the ultimate assessment of

how I’d do at your school,

and I’m not questioning your judgment, admissions counselor,

because I trust that you’re pretty damn good at your job.

But, you see, it would have been distasteful for me to use the word “damn”

on my application and sometimes I curse like a sailor,

especially during an episode of road rage and

I like to eat plain bagels with butter and honey

and sometimes I dance in the shower when I’m in a good mood

and sometimes I spend money on things I don’t need

like DVDs or Star Wars Band-Aids.

See, none of that was deemed relevant

when I took the fictional seminar on How to Apply to College.

The point, admissions counselor, is that I wanted to be more honest with you,

because some nights I skipped studying for a test

and I probably could’ve reviewed more for the SAT

and there were a few instances that I even went to concerts instead of

doing my APUSH homework and I’ve even ditched school

once or twice because I “wasn’t feeling well”.

I’m sure you’ve guessed at stuff like that.

I mean, no high school student

could maintain a 5.0, fall in love, see all the Oscar-nominated movies,

and save the world without their head exploding, right?

I did some of those things,

and I did those few things all at once without suffering a mental breakdown.

I think that's pretty impressive.

You hold all the cards, admissions counselor.

You’re changing lives,

you’re running this whole show, and I should really be

bowing at your feet.

You have my answer, and you’ve probably had it

for many months now

and I’m really scared and I don’t know when I’ll hear from you next,

but when I do, that’s when I start planning my next move

(literally and figuratively).

Because this fall

I could be at your university

or I could be at any of the others that have already sent me

happy letters and car decals and student store coupons and

skies full of congratulations.

They want me bad, admissions counselor,

but I’m still waiting for you.

You know me.

You know that I'm a pretty smart kid and you know that I want to study journalism 

and you know that I’m the oldest of three siblings.

Hell, you even know where I live.

But I’m asking you now to remember how much power you have.

To take a break from playing collegiate God and

recall what it was like when you mailed off your application materials

with your fingers crossed in vain.

I’m asking for you to remember who I am

when I write a book or end world hunger

or beg you for change on the street

and realize that the degree hanging on my wall at home

will, in some small and yet eternally significant way,

be because of you.

Harry Potter Essay

In wrapping up my college application process, I finally stumbled upon the one prompt that will henceforth always stick out in my mind. The prompt that I had absolutely no trouble with whatsoever. The prompt that will make my last name a little bit more visible and (hopefully) advantageous. At the end of this long and seemingly never-ending road of unforgiving word counts, fixing, editing, scrutinizing, rereading again and again and again, and that shaky feeling you get right before you hit "submit", there is a gleaming light. For my final college essay, I got to write about Harry Potter. And to celebrate, I wanted to share. 

In the Harry Potter series, a “sorting hat” divides students into four “houses.” Each house has its own characteristics that can roughly be translated as bravery, intelligence, ambition, and duty.  If you were to create a sorting hat, upon which characteristics would you base the sort?  In which “house” would you put yourself? 

Growing up immersed in the world of Harry Potter, I was always drawn to the idea of the four different houses. Desperate to know where I fit in, and even more desperate to know why, I developed the notion that these houses could represent the different sectors of high school students. I’m surrounded by thespians and jocks, mathletes and history buffs. Everybody’s different, but somehow, everybody’s connected. And so I’d simplify the disparities into the following: creativity, logic, spirit, and diplomacy.

            Students in the house of diplomacy would be defined as tactful and judicious. They would be the speech and debate kids—the editors, the leaders, and the speakers. Sagacious and intuitive, they would handle situations in a most politic manner.

Logical students would excel in anything that involves problem-solving. They would be the thinkers—deliberate and precise. Math and science would be their language; equations and riddles would be their drugs of choice.

            In contrast, the spirited students would be the dreamers. They would be impassioned and energetic—contagiously enthused. Here one would find students with an extensive knowledge of show tunes or outstanding athletic ability. Fervent and driven, they would pour their heart and soul into everything.

            The final house would be for the creative ones—the artists. Bright. Resourceful. Their common room would be littered with scribbled poems and quick sketches on paper scraps. One would find students wearing headphones and writing feverishly in notebooks. Their imaginations would run rampant, filling them up, making them whole. This would be my home. The sincerity I pour into my work and interests combines the varying convictions that would make each house unique. I choose to invest my youthful exuberance into self-development, and I seek to inspire. To create. To dream. To make the world I want out of myself. 

THE STREETS THAT RAISED ME

I wrote this piece for a college essay prompt, but I started to realize that I was feeling pretty sentimental about Cary and all this college stuff in general, so I wanted to put this out there: 

My hometown and I are dear old friends.

We fight, sometimes. We don’t always get along. There are times when we don’t speak. When I hole up in my room and I read or I watch a movie and try to forget that the world outside exists. But it eventually passes, and I miss the familiarity of my favorite restaurants and bookstores.

My hometown isn’t all that small, but I know every road like I know the back of my palm, down to each little pothole and street sign. I know where to go out to eat, and what I like to order there. I can calculate the distance between myself and nearest movie theater in a heartbeat. As a kid, I built castles in these woods and won colored ribbons in these swimming pools. I’m comfortable here. I’ve read books and written poetry and fallen in love within this suburban backdrop. Sometimes, I don’t want to leave, simply because I don’t know where I’ll end up.

There isn’t any cinematic cliff overlooking the city where I live, or a pier overlooking the ocean, or any other stargazing hotspot. In fact, not all that much is very unique about this place. But we have always tolerated each other’s shortcomings. My hometown has expanded as I’ve gotten older; we’ve grown up together.  Although there are times when all I want to do is get out, I have to give this town credit for providing me with a setting in which an incalculable number of beautiful, different things happened to me. The late night shifts at Harris Teeter. The swim meets that never ended. The two a.m. Waffle House breakfast. The midnight movie premieres. The long drives that took us all the way across town in the name of Cook-Out milkshakes. The snowfalls that stranded us in our homes for days, with only the company of tomato soup, films, and each other. The rainy high school football games I braved for yearbook photos and a free tie dye tee shirt. The people I came to know and love and trust because of all of this. 

I love my hometown. I’m excited to leave, but I guess that’s just the way that it is. Eventually, you grow up. You have to move on. You don’t have much of a choice. Some friends stay with us forever, or at least for a while. But I can’t be seventeen forever, reflecting on all that this small town has offered to me. I’m going to have to move onto something new. Make friends with new places; fall in love with a different city or town. The comfort that I have always been able to find in my hometown has facilitated an optimism inside of me that will never burn out. My hometown and I are old friends. That will always be true. But if I leave and I don’t come back, my hometown will understand, and so will I.

ALL POSSIBLE FUTURES

This is the title piece for my Thomas Wolfe scholarship portfolio. I thought that I would share:

In APUSH we learned about a naturalist named John Muir who said that “nature is only ugly if it is not wild.”

And while I enjoy a scenic view as much as the next guy, I also think there’s something alluring about the anti-salvation of urbanization—the way in which the concept of unity is translated through white-lined wedges of parking lots, lamp posts strung with stickered words, and city awnings dripping with rain.

I mean, we’ve built tunnels in the ocean. There are buildings that scrape the sky.

I like our world. I know we’ve screwed with it, a lot, but there’s not much we can do at this point other than enjoy it the way it’s become.

That’s not to say it’s not worth saving. And it’s not fair that he’ll be staring at beautiful paintings in the sky while I’m staring at beautiful paintings on white walls and we can’t be together.

Then again, all nice sunsets are merely a coalition of empyrean hues and all works of art are just systemic strokes on a canvas.

I’ve been to a few national parks. I’ve stood in the North Atlantic and felt the sea swirl around me, too baffling for any human to ever completely chart and comprehend. I’ve been rural enough to lay outside and be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of stars. I’ve seen whales in white-capped waters, I’ve climbed mountains, I’ve been to famous cities and famous museums. Truthfully, though, I’d trade all of it away for him.

I’ve seen him sit in his dark room and think about the future, making caricatures with gentle fingertips on his twisted premonitions.

The lacuna inside of him was taking up space, and it sometimes felt like a leering villain and sometimes felt like his best friend.

But here’s the best kept secret I know: Life is still beautiful.

Sure, forests burn down and whales die and cities collapse on themselves, and that sucks. But somewhere in the world right now, a waterfall churns itself over a jagged ledge and into a clear pool, cradled by a bowl of solid rock. And there might be nobody there to see it. Even though violence and destruction may fulminate from time to time, there is no abeyance of beauty in this world. Flowers sprout from piles of rubble. Lightning leaves timeless scars on tree trunks. Nature’s contumacious attitude creates magic in places it theoretically shouldn’t.

So do not lose faith in our sad little planet just because trash litters sidewalks and gas-guzzling cars circumspect tired old roads. Forgive the ignorance of humanity. Forgive the forgetful, the broken, the tired, the lazy, the guilty, the lonely. Forgive the world for beating the shit out of itself.

I forgive it because he’s here, standing next to me, braving this capacious imbroglio we have so ignorantly deemed “life.”

I’d still lay quietly with him even if the world were literally splitting apart at the seams, magma seeping from cracked slabs of rock and mountain tops tumbling into the ocean.  

POETIC JUSTICE

the first time we spoke I asked you to 

write me something beautiful.

do you remember that?

and you did, you did,

and it was so beautiful that it

brought tears to my eyes. And I 

went home and laid down and I cried,

you didn’t know that. Now, I hope, 

now maybe you do.

I probably took that for granted

and I'm sorry.

I was far away from you that night.

Too far. 

Opposite ends

of a stupid floating piece of land.

But I could still talk to you 

when I needed to,

because we have phones and emails 

and letters and

dumb shit like that.

Maybe I didn’t text you enough times, if I had,

maybe you’d still be here,

you know?

Maybe I could've stopped you

Maybe if I'd called you and

you had told me about the storm

I would've been able to tell you

to stay put and wait

until it passed. 

I’m sorry if I sound angry.

You know how in books and 

movies the bad

phone calls always come at night,

like, right in the middle of the night,

like, at three a.m.?

I thought that was just one of those

things that only happens in books and

movies, but it doesn’t. You must

know that now. 

You must know everything now,

wherever you are, 

maybe you know all the truths

that us stupid idiots back here

know nothing of. 

Three a.m. and I got a phone call

that split all the seams open. 

Everything just

collapsed.

Eighty five miles an hour on

an exit ramp, they said.

You lost control, they said,

and then I did too.

I'm sorry, somebody said. 

It sounded disconnected,

as if it wasn't actually 

coming from the

phone, as if somebody 

were actually

with me in my dark room, 

talking to me. I wanted it to be 

your voice so badly that 

for a while I believed it was. 

But it was me, I realized that. 

As soon as you were gone I 

started going crazy,

talking to myself. 

You know what's weird is that I didn't 

cry immediately that night.

I went to the bathroom 

and turned on the tub faucet and the 

sink faucet and I just 

tried to process it,

process the fact that I'd 

never see you smile again 

or hear you laugh or anything

like that.

"I'm not here.

This isn't happening."

Sweetheart, why were you driving so fast?

Sweetheart, why the hell did you do that?

If I had been there

I’d have told you to slow down,

not drive like a fucking idiot in the rain.

Why were you driving so fast?

Why were you driving so fucking fast?

Three a.m. and I haven’t gone back to

sleep since.

I can’t fall asleep. I find myself crying

at least five times a day now,

choking sobs that rack your entire

body. It’s hard for me to get in a car

because I just remember you sitting

in the passenger seat when you were here

and you’d drive with me 

and you were safe.

But now you've disappeared 

completely and I'm holding

one of your tee shirts in my

hands and it doesn't smell 

like you anymore but 

I feel like I can still 

touch you if I try hard enough,

like you're somehow 

trapped in the cotton fibers

and that this will somehow

make it better. 

At your funeral I said 

a few words. It’s not like

they meant anything. 

You couldn't hear me.

The casket was closed. They said 

it was because you were

thrown from your car. That’s all they told

me, but I overheard somebody whispering

about how your

skull was basically smashed to pieces.

I still think you’re beautiful.

Even with glass embedded in your skin,

blood drenching your pretty clothes,

I still think you’re beautiful.

But I feel bad. I should’ve

written you a eulogy

I should’ve eulogized you 

because all the white flowers

and all the weeping people in black 

didn't 

do you any of the poetic justice

you deserved,

but I just couldn’t find the words,

I can’t find the words 

without you here.

I can’t find any words anymore,

when people ask me how I’m doing 

or if I need

anything, I just smile and it feels wan

and I think I’m becoming a ghost.

Did you become a ghost?

Or did you go somewhere

beautiful? Tell me, please. 

I can't bear to think

that there are secrets between us

now, I want to know about 

this beautiful place you must be in.

I hope you're not sad,

wherever you are 

and I hope it's warm and 

pretty and you can smell flowers still. 

But come back, please, touch me

with your cold hands.

I know you were pretty mad

before you died. I had been distant,

literally, figuratively. I was busy, 

I wasn’t lying

but if I had known,

god, if I had known

shit, if I had only fucking known,

I would’ve dropped everything and

held you one last time, 

I wouldn’t let

you touch that steering wheel,

do anything stupid,

I'd take you in my arms and never

let go, tie you down 

to the bed if I had to just to 

keep you safe,

kiss you and hug you and tell

you I'd never let you get hurt,

that it'd be better this way,

trust me, I'd say,

I've seen the alternative.

I’d take you in my arms, 

darling, I’d

keep you close and warm in bed with me,

I wouldn’t let you go anywhere, 

you couldn’t

go anywhere.

You’re a fucking bitch 

for dying on me.

I’m trying to be angry so 

that it hurts less but it’s

taking a lot of work and 

I’m exhausted and like I said,

sleep brings no solace.

All I can think about is the 

last time I kissed you,

I keep going back 

to that moment,

I don’t remember where we

were but I think it was 

either your room or mine and

it was a while ago and it was brief but 

you loved me

and I loved you and 

I could taste it on your tongue.

Fuck you.

There’s nobody left for me to talk to.

So I’m coming to meet you, 

I’m coming to meet you

because the world is so fucking 

boring when

you don’t exist in it and

I tried to visit your grave but they

haven't been taking care of the grass

and apparently there's a famous poet

buried in the same cemetery 

and I thought about how unfair 

that is because you're probably in heaven

talking to him right now 

and he's probably writing you all these 

nice poems and you must be so happy

and all I have is a stone,

just a stone with some words written 

on it and it can’t speak to me

and tell me everything that 

I need to hear and

maybe it’s selfish but 

I’m coming to meet you,

I’m coming to meet you,

right now,

so please, please

let me-- 

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT

Frozen construction ponds.

That’s where I first learned 

the meaning of “adventure”.

Where I’ve grown up 

there’s no cinematic cliff

overlooking the city, 

no scenic ocean pier.

We’d walk on those ponds

and pretend

we were ice skating.

And that brown ice somehow held,
and it cradled our youthful dreams,

built up like the mossy lean-tos

that we would construct 

in the woods 

behind our houses.

Simplicity tainted everything back then.

Do you remember?

Nothing could touch us,

or so we rightfully believed.

Early on I was

plagued only by things like

pre-algebra or provincial facebook posts.

Existing in an age

where screens have the ability to

stain fingertips;

everything is a few clicks away 

which is both

scary and comforting.

Years pass and the concern is no longer

summer swim team relays or
dystopian novels.

The plots of Harry Potter
books are brought up

mostly in reminiscent conversations;

cartoons are a circumstantial pass time

and no longer a Saturday morning event.  

There’s always something new:  

a different band,

a different haircut,

different friends.

Evolution is the norm.

There's this pressure to pick 

the best version of yourself

in the midst of a 

whirlwind of hormones and 

shaky hands and first concerts.

Firsts, there are plenty.

First kisses and first fights and

first times and first failures.

Some firsts
I couldn't help but wonder,
vaguely,
if I was still too young. 

I’ve struggled with everything,

from my the width of my thighs to

my subpar geometry grades.

What boys thought of me,

what my friends thought of me.

Growing pains came in the form of

scars concealed by a

friend’s ill-fitting sweatshirt sleeves;

the first time I had to hold

somebody while they fell apart.

Some nights I vividly remember

crying myself to sleep over

some triviality or another.

Tear stained pillows are a rite of passage,

I suppose.

The bulletin board in my room has seen

every change in the timeline,

every shift, every tilt.

A tangible representation of a

very

good life.

My bookshelf filled up, so did my walls.

And so did my heart, when I opened myself up

to people and things

I’d been afraid to let in.

I added, subtracted,

multiplied.

I found out my favorite foods

and favorite movies,

who I wanted to keep around,

and what it felt like to drive a car

alone

for the first time.

Good music fell into my hands

like a precious gem.

I found songs that

fit me like a glove,

I wielded them, my tiny secret weapons.

And it all happened so fast.

I'm trying to catch my breath.  

I have regrets because

I feel like they’re healthy—

the beers we shared on the beach because

we thought it would be cool,

the times I erupted, yelled too loudly,

the times I let people hurt me,

did too much for those who barely did

anything for me.

I'll learn from these things,

I swear.

I’m not impenetrable.

I am young

and for a tough kid,

my unshakable sentiment

contradicts me.

I am small and I accept that.

I have my daily doubts.

What if one of us dies before 

I get to hold your hand again?

Before we get to watch another movie 

on your too big couch

and gorge ourselves on Chinese food?

Before we get to drive 

with the windows down to nowhere

on a sun-drunken summer evening?

Loss is the axiom of growing up.

What you lose depends on you
and you alone.

It manifests somewhere between
your seventh birthday

and the time you’re twenty-two
and throwing your last

graduation cap into the air.

Because when you're seventeen
you're waiting for eighteen
and then you're twenty and
waiting for twenty-one
and then you're waiting
for something else
that you haven't even
put a name to yet. 

Suddenly that half-life of
half-hearted attempts 

at a full-fledged future

are not for naught.

The times when you used to
hide from thunderstorms

under the kitchen table

seem very far away

and yet.

There are more storms to come.

I know that. 

I’m still afraid,

and rightfully so.

For now I am here

and trying to be cool about it.

The people that are leaving,

the people that have already left

without either of us realizing it,

they all meant something to me.

Some days, I’ll admit,

I want to hurt somebody

because the distance seems to hurt

only me.

I’m trying to save

the best parts of myself

for a time when I feel more sure.

I’d rather you all be happy
and far away

than up close and miserable.

Me, I’ll spend one more thunderstorm

hiding under the kitchen table.

One more Saturday morning,

safe and lazy and in bed.

One more sunset

in the Cook-Out parking lot.

And then I’ll be ready.  

I’ve seen heaven once.

In a daydream or a piece of literature

or my lover’s eyes—I’m not sure.

But it was beautiful.

And it was quiet, but it was never lonely.

You could hear only the tomorrows

of a patient past-life

floating on candy-colored breezes,

whispered from hushed lips.

It was quiet.

It was never lonely.

One day I hope I’ll be found there.

When all is said and done.

When my own personal

“THE END” comes with

the most beautiful sky

anyone has ever seen.

In a place where mortal truths

are locked in people’s glass hearts

and preserved

forever.