As Opening Day of the 2021-22 school year neared, I found myself especially eager to make a great plan for the first day of class for my two sections of seniors in English 4—one that would not only engage my students and encapsulate the goals of the course, but one that would help me answer—for them as well as myself—the capital-Q-questions I think of all the time:
Why do we talk about literature?
What’s the point of this class?
I thought for a long time about what to show, do, or discuss with my students on that first day. And finally, the day before the first day of class, I wheeled my one year-old son past the Organic Garden in his stroller and was reminded of a conversation I’d had the previous spring with my then-advisee Riley Baker ’21. On a day shortly before Commencement, Riley came back to dorm from working in Organic Garden and told me that while digging in the dirt, she’d been listening to an episode of the On Being podcast in which the host Krista Tippitt interviews the writer Ocean Vuong.
“Mr. Torrey,” she said, eyes bright. “It was, like, the most profound thing I’ve ever heard. You should listen to it; I think you’d love it.”
So I did listen to it, and it was profound, and I did love it.
And then I forgot all about it—until that sunny Labor Day afternoon a few months later.
“There it is,” I thought. “My plan.”
At the end of the interview—during which Vuong covers everything from his immigrant childhood in Hartford, Connecticut to the power of language and its capacity to evolve—Tippit references an essay of Voung’s, in which he, in the face of a family tragedy, embarks on a walk through Manhattan and can’t stop noticing, of all things, fire escapes. They are everywhere, Vuong writes, clinging to the sides of our homes, calling out to us “with the most visible human honesty: We are capable of disaster. And we are scared.” Vuong goes on to assert that literature—the poem, the story, the novel—is itself a form of fire escape, a safe haven that’s often ignored but always at hand, a place of intimate vulnerability where we, as readers, as people, can find refuge. We hurt, Vuong’s essay asserts, because we’re afraid to bear ourselves. But by studying the stories of others, by witnessing their pain and triumphs, we move toward a better understanding of ourselves and a solution to our common crisis of communication.
As soon as this seed of an idea had been planted, ideas for other pieces to discuss on the first day came to mind faster than I could process. By the time my first section rolled into my classroom the morning of September 7, I had a thick packet of readings for them: Barry Hannah’s “Water Liars,” George Saunders’s “Sticks,” a scene from Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad. We dove in and enjoyed an intense (in a good way) seventy-five minutes of rapid-fire discussion.
For me, and I hope for my students, this first class was not just great, but wonderful. As I made my way home, I felt more excited about teaching than I had in some time—maybe since the beginning of the pandemic. I was excited to have connected with my students, and to watch them connect with the ideas buried in our readings. I was thrilled by how eager, how perceptive, even how open to being vulnerable they all were. But most of all, I was humbled. A five-minute conversation I had had with a student three months earlier had suddenly bloomed into the answers to my questions.
Why do we talk about literature?
To move toward a better understanding of ourselves and a solution to our common crisis of communication.
What is the point of this class?
To be a place of intimate vulnerability where we—as readers, as people—can find refuge, and bear ourselves.
English teacher Will Torrey on the capital-Q-questions of teaching
As Opening Day of the 2021-22 school year neared, I found myself especially eager to make a great plan for the first day of class for my two sections of seniors in English 4—one that would not only engage my students and encapsulate the goals of the course, but one that would help me answer—for them as well as myself—the capital-Q-questions I think of all the time:
Why do we talk about literature?
What’s the point of this class?
I thought for a long time about what to show, do, or discuss with my students on that first day. And finally, the day before the first day of class, I wheeled my one year-old son past the Organic Garden in his stroller and was reminded of a conversation I’d had the previous spring with my then-advisee Riley Baker ’21. On a day shortly before Commencement, Riley came back to dorm from working in Organic Garden and told me that while digging in the dirt, she’d been listening to an episode of the On Being podcast in which the host Krista Tippitt interviews the writer Ocean Vuong.
“Mr. Torrey,” she said, eyes bright. “It was, like, the most profound thing I’ve ever heard. You should listen to it; I think you’d love it.”
So I did listen to it, and it was profound, and I did love it.
And then I forgot all about it—until that sunny Labor Day afternoon a few months later.
“There it is,” I thought. “My plan.”
At the end of the interview—during which Vuong covers everything from his immigrant childhood in Hartford, Connecticut to the power of language and its capacity to evolve—Tippit references an essay of Voung’s, in which he, in the face of a family tragedy, embarks on a walk through Manhattan and can’t stop noticing, of all things, fire escapes. They are everywhere, Vuong writes, clinging to the sides of our homes, calling out to us “with the most visible human honesty: We are capable of disaster. And we are scared.” Vuong goes on to assert that literature—the poem, the story, the novel—is itself a form of fire escape, a safe haven that’s often ignored but always at hand, a place of intimate vulnerability where we, as readers, as people, can find refuge. We hurt, Vuong’s essay asserts, because we’re afraid to bear ourselves. But by studying the stories of others, by witnessing their pain and triumphs, we move toward a better understanding of ourselves and a solution to our common crisis of communication.
As soon as this seed of an idea had been planted, ideas for other pieces to discuss on the first day came to mind faster than I could process. By the time my first section rolled into my classroom the morning of September 7, I had a thick packet of readings for them: Barry Hannah’s “Water Liars,” George Saunders’s “Sticks,” a scene from Colson Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad. We dove in and enjoyed an intense (in a good way) seventy-five minutes of rapid-fire discussion.
For me, and I hope for my students, this first class was not just great, but wonderful. As I made my way home, I felt more excited about teaching than I had in some time—maybe since the beginning of the pandemic. I was excited to have connected with my students, and to watch them connect with the ideas buried in our readings. I was thrilled by how eager, how perceptive, even how open to being vulnerable they all were. But most of all, I was humbled. A five-minute conversation I had had with a student three months earlier had suddenly bloomed into the answers to my questions.
Why do we talk about literature?
To move toward a better understanding of ourselves and a solution to our common crisis of communication.
What is the point of this class?
To be a place of intimate vulnerability where we—as readers, as people—can find refuge, and bear ourselves.
The familiar question, asked in the hallways at school and over phone, email, and text from everyone close in my life, feels particularly poignant this year.
In short, Tuesday, September 7 felt to me like a celebration. Students donned dress code outfits—not without much debate and perhaps some consternation on the part of a few students—and found their way to classes in Amos, Founders, and O’Brien. Teachers enjoyed coffee and breakfast pastries in the new faculty room. And all our beautiful campus spaces—no classroom tents this year—were gleaming and ready for the learning to begin. Great anticipation, planning, and energy went into our collective preparation for the first day and for the 2021-22 school year.
Teachers and students alike have been thinking deeply about the opportunities and the challenges before us. All our students, faculty, and staff are back together again on campus, and we once again have the ability to hold immersive, 75-minute in-person classes. Because we’re returning from a period of interruption and distance, we’re noticing with fresh eyes what it means to learn and teach here at St. Andrew’s. It’s almost as if all of us are new this year.
During our opening meetings, faculty focused intensively on ways to build and rebuild our inclusive, collaborative academic culture, and how to teach the habits and skills of genuine intellectual engagement. With those goals in mind, on the first day of class, teachers talked a lot about:
how to listen
how to take part
how to support
how to concentrate
how to manage time
These skills are the first rails on the scaffolding we will build for our newest and youngest students as they learn to problem-solve, reason, write, debate, and deduce. But after the dislocation of the past 18 months, even our VI Formers—indeed, even our faculty—may need to dust off their intellectual toolkits. As teachers, we attended closely to where students are in their learning of these core skills and content—or, as we say in the Faculty Handbook: we worked to get to know each student as a learner. Our job as teachers is to adapt and build from there.
We asked III Form students in a survey this week what they most looked forward to; the top responses were building relationships with teachers and classmates. And in our meetings with new faculty in August, teachers explained that they joined St. Andrew’s to be part of a school where positive teacher-student relationships, strong engagement, and respect and trust between all members of the community are the foundation of the culture. The “joy of learning”—something we talk a lot about here—is always going to be rooted in that moment of discovery, or that feeling of understanding or doing something that you previously thought you could not. However, this year, I think all of us appreciate more than ever the type of intellectual joy that is rooted in making connections—not just between concepts, but with other people. We are even more aware of the joy of togetherness—the joy of listening, taking part, and supporting each other. Of course, all of those skills can be practiced over Zoom, but there is a kind of irreplaceable intellectual alchemy that occurs when humans occupy a space together.
So what will we do with our togetherness this year? That’s what we’re all here to find out.
In January, the school watched and wept through the film Just Mercytogether. Last Wednesday, Onyx and Essence, St. Andrew's black male and black female student affinity groups, treated us to a Chapel service celebrating Black History Month. In the words of Dean of Teaching & Learning, Elizabeth Roach, this service "...taught us—through song, dance, stories, poetry, and readings—about suffering, courage, resilience, the power of the arts and storytelling, and the importance of remembering the truth of our past and present as we strive for a better, more equitable, and inclusive world today." In such moments, suffering stirs compassion, which liberates the mind from its default-mode petty concerns, and we feel the vibrancy and vitality of living in a body, with a heart and a purpose.
Last summer, I traveled to upstate New York to sit for my first meditation retreat. I have been trying to understand the Buddhist concepts of impermanence, unsatisfactoriness, and no-self since I first learned about them at St. Andrew's a quarter-century ago. And, though I know my memory is fallible, I feel like I have been fascinated by these themes (especially impermanence and death) as early as I can remember. It is completely unsatisfactory that all of us will one day die. This fact is among the most horrific of all the facts that I know. And yet, paradoxically, this fact has so much to teach us about love, peace and happiness. Buddhist monk and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh introduces a helpful analogy about suffering:
Everyone knows we need to have mud for lotuses to grow. The mud doesn’t smell so good, but the lotus flower smells very good. If you don’t have mud, the lotus won’t manifest. You can’t grow lotus flowers on marble. Without mud, there can be no lotus. Without suffering, there's no happiness. So we shouldn't discriminate against the mud. We have to learn how to embrace and cradle our own suffering and the suffering of the world, with a lot of tenderness.
It is only by looking at suffering and death that we get the beauty and vitality associated with life. By confronting the fact of suffering directly and often, it is possible to have a richer, happier, more compassionate connection with the living (and dying) amongst us, including ourselves. Unless we understand this at a deep level—unless we confront directly the suffering of all the rest of the world—there can be no true happiness. The single-minded pursuit of pleasure can, at best, provide an illusion of happiness; it is like trying to grow a lotus flower on a marble floor without the mud. True purpose—purpose worth living and dying for—comes from both witnessing and developing the compassion to respond to the suffering and setbacks of other people and concerns. Rhonda Magee, author of The Inner Work of Racial Justice, writes about this dynamic. We hope, she says, "to inspire the more heartful path of turning gently toward the particular and unnecessary suffering caused to so many and exacerbated by the very ways that we go blind to the operation of race and racism in our own lives and in those of our fellows in the world.”
Today, students left campus for Spring Break, and, in less than three months, the Class of 2020 will depart school for the last time. I once found it unbearable to dwell very long in these final moments of separation. I left parties without saying goodbye, and even silent pauses in conversations made me uncomfortable. Though I still struggle with life's mud, I have learned to turn toward these moments. They offer a priceless gift: when we contemplate endings, we are presented directly with the power, the immediacy, and the ineffability of our moment-to-moment conscious experience. How magical is it that we have life at all?
Over Spring Break and beyond, let’s seek out moments to turn toward the pain of racism, of separation, and of the innumerable deaths throughout our lives. For, in these moments, we get a glimpse of how full our lives can become. As we contemplate impermanence with compassion, we become a little less attached to ourselves and our wishes, a little less afraid and a little more free. In the process, we practice opening up to opportunities to remake the world.
The other afternoon I wandered a bit during a free period. I walked through the cloister past a student reading a book—a library book, for fun—on a bench in the sun. Just down the way under the arched entryway sat another student, deep in thought, concentrating on a notebook of math problems. I walked past a classroom where students perched in the window seat, typing and thinking and writing. I headed for the library, filled with students and teachers reading, grading, or writing at tables that look out on the Front Lawn. As our students settle into the academic year, building their capacity to sustain focus and pursue challenging academic work, the St. Andrew’s campus culture of deep engagement is essential. We also know that it is increasingly precious and rare.
In stark contrast to SAS academic life, in most of our daily lives, a sentence or two of reading quickly gives way to interruption and distraction–phones and devices and emails consistently, relentlessly intervene. Even as I write this letter, my email tab sits a tantalizing one-inch scroll away. How do our students stay focused on their work amidst the alerts, clickbait, and pop-ups, all designed for quick responses and a constant state of distraction? I would argue that the practices of our campus culture – from our classroom layouts to our daily schedule—actively enable and reinforce deep focus. Because we put phones aside for the bulk of the day, and because we are deliberate about how we use technology and how we use time, St. Andrew’s creates the space for students to concentrate deeply and tackle complex questions.
James Williams’ recent book Stand out of our Light: Freedom and Resistance in the Attention Economy examines how phone apps and digital devices “privilege our impulses over our intentions” as they persuade us to turn away from our tasks and goals. Williams even sees these distractions as a “fundamental risk to individual and collective will” and a threat to our very values. His book forced me to look even more critically at what may be happening to our ability to read, think, form opinions and set goals. But when I walk through our SAS classroom spaces, or glimpse into study rooms during study hall, I wish Williams could come to our campus; I think he’d be quite reassured.
This week my advisee Marvi Ali ’21 shared with me what it was like to immerse herself for an hour and a half in an assignment for her Global Studies class. Totally absorbed by an article on immigration, she lost track of time and found herself reading for most of study hall. Moreover, she was inspired to share and talk about the issues she was studying with her family that night, and she plans to bring the article’s points and questions to the Current Events Club she formed two years ago.
It’s moments like these that make me aware St. Andrew’s is truly unique in its ability to encourage capacities for learning, concentration, and connection. Because we commit to our cell phone policy and protect time and spaces for study, we can hold discussions and conversations where we focus on one another, not on our blinking phones. Our students can read deeply, answer hard questions, and generate layered arguments, and most importantly, they can respond thoughtfully to the issues and demands of the world they’re learning about.
As I write this, young people around the world are demonstrating ahead of Monday’s Climate Action Summit at the United Nations, in an effort to demand action from the world’s leaders. We’re joining them with a teach-in that includes writing letters to local newspapers in support of climate change legislation, such as those proposed by the new bipartisan climate caucus in the Senate.
My journey to this moment began with recently retired life sciences teacher Dr. Peter McLean. For other alums, it was likely William H. Amos. Both men decided to dedicate the bulk of their professional lives to educating young people on the beauty, splendor, and necessity of the natural world and, in turn, to doing everything they could to protect it.
Working quietly on my bird, wildflower, and leaf projects or taking weekend trips to Hawk Mountain under Dr. McLean’s direction wasn’t nearly as much about being able to identify species as it was about planting seeds to care. When asked recently what individuals can do to help solve the climate crisis, Swedish environmental activist Greta Thunberg responded, “Educate themselves.”
Our stewardship of St. Andrew’s 2,200 acres, a sanctuary within the continued sprawl of Middletown, places the School in a unique position to educate outside the classroom—and to lead. Mr. Amos and Dr. McLean both understood this, and we are building on their legacy.
More than 100 students signed up for the relaunch of our Outing Club, led by history teacher Grace Gahagan, with 19 students stepping up to lead camping trips, hikes, and boating adventures. Three new canoes joined the Noxontown Pond fleet this week, and weekend plans more intentionally include outdoor experiences. This weekend features a planting party in the Organic Garden, a sunset canoe trip, a beach cleanup at Elk River Beach, apple picking, and a guided hike through the Noxontown woods. The III Form embarks on a night hike this evening, while the VI Form will gather around a campfire for s’mores under the stars. Next Saturday, our annual Pond Day features over 20 outdoor adventures for students, which we hope will lead to many more unscheduled adventures throughout the seasons.
Simultaneously, campus continues to become more environmentally sustainable thanks to the ongoing collaboration of students, alumni, Director of Sustainability Diana Burk, Head of School Tad Roach, our Facilities Team, and the Board of Trustees. The newly renovated Amos Hall will be the latest LEED-certified building on campus. Six new electric charging stations were installed last week, and for the first time ever, 100% of St. Andrew’s electricity now comes from renewable sources.
There’s still much more work to do, but the will is there and ideas are leading to action. I hope you will be part of the conversations here on campus and let us know how we can share our energy with you in your efforts at home.
A little after 10:30 PM last night, the Pell seniors sat around my kitchen table, eating Derby pie. In many ways, it was an ordinary night, like so many others throughout the year; gathering for baked goods around that table is a tradition with the Pell senior team, a place of communion for these VI Formers who devote so much of their time, energy, and love—without regard for the busyness of their own year—to mentoring the newest St. Andreans. But last night felt just a little different, as we’ve reached the point in the year when the seniors are starting to realize they’re coming up on lasts: their last couple of duty nights, their last Spring Fling free day (at least if the weather gods and Mr. Roach finally accede to their pleas), their last handful of classes, their last games and Arts Weekend performances.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a senior at St. Andrew’s, and how different it looks here than it does in most places. This thinking is, of course, occasioned by where we are in the calendar year—those lasts we mark with the seniors, even as we begin the process of building new senior teams to take up this mantle next year—but it’s more than that. In conversations with teaching candidates over the last few months, the question I’ve most frequently been asked is, essentially some variation on, “Is this real?” Is this remarkable culture they are glimpsing in the twenty four hours they spend on campus actually possible, and if so, how have we achieved it?
There are many ways to answer this question, but most often, I end up talking about our seniors—and when I do, I am thinking not only of the wonderful members of the Class of 2019 whom we will celebrate in a few weeks’ time, but also the years of seniors I have seen precede them. There is something distinctive here about the depth and power of the collaboration between students generally, but seniors especially, and the faculty towards a shared vision: the power and potential of a school community that balances intellectual rigor with kindness, authenticity, and human connection. The teaching candidates see it when they speak with the Senior Interviewing Team—an experience they usually describe as the best and most intense part of their interview day. They remark with surprise that current seniors are so deeply invested in what the school will look like next year, when they won’t even be here.
But that’s the thing about generations of St. Andrew’s seniors. As excited as they are about the possibilities that await them in college next year, they remain fully committed not only to the St. Andrew’s of right now, in the waning days of their senior spring, but to the St. Andrew’s of tomorrow—the St. Andrew’s their own III Formers will lead in three years time.
It often makes me think of the final lines of Tony Kushner’s Angels in America, one of my all-time favorite plays, which Elizabeth Roach and I always teach in Humanities at this time of year. Prior Walter, the play’s central character—a prophet for a new millennium—ends the seven and a half hour play speaking directly to the audience with a blessing, an invocation, and a call to action.
“Bye now.
You are fabulous creatures, each and every one.
And I bless you: More Life.
The Great Work Begins.”
This feels like it captures something essential in what our seniors do each spring: having offered the underformers the blessing of their care, their mentorship, their guidance, the seniors pass The Great Work that is the preservation of the St. Andrew’s ethos on to them. It will begin again as the rising seniors take up their charge.
On Monday, St. Andrew’s welcomed Palestinian author Yousef Bashir as part of our Open Minds series. Mr. Bashir’s compelling personal story about forgiveness and hope for peace between Palestine and Israel resonated deeply in our community. Conflicted about and frustrated by the hospitality and kindness of his father toward Israeli soldiers during the occupation of their house in Gaza, Yousef, a 15-year old boy at the time, could not understand his father’s approach to life, given the harsh reality of war. However, Yousef began to comprehend his father’s philosophy of compassion and acceptance the day he was shot in the spine by one of the soldiers living in his house. Rushed to an Israeli hospital, Yousef was saved and embraced by dedicated Israeli doctors who cared for his life. Through surgery and many months of rehab, they helped him regain his ability to walk; they never gave up on his recovery. Saving his life and accepting him without regard for his identity as a Palestinian, the doctors and nurses reciprocated Yousef's father’s belief in humanity.
As I listened to Mr. Bashir’s story, I could not stop thinking about one aspect of our St. Andrew’s students that I so much admire: their ability to confront their fears and step out of their comfort zones for the benefit of themselves and others. As a teacher of Spanish, I see my students take risks as they communicate in a language they don’t yet fully understand. I see them put themselves into the lives of others whose cultures and customs are different from their own. These students could always opt for writing or speaking the bare minimum, but that is rarely the case. Not long ago, I visited a math class. Students were working in small groups, engaged in solving problems, and most of them were facing difficulties, yet they did not seem worried about being wrong. Just last weekend, a number of students wrote original plays, and other students performed these plays for the very first time. Ah! And this was a completely student-organized event.
Intrigued by students’ courage and motivation to step out of their safe spaces and stretch themselves, this week I asked students to tell me their stories. Here are some of their perspectives. Katie Macalintal ’20 writes: “One way I have stepped out of my comfort zone at St. Andrew's is by speaking up in English class. At first, I was worried about saying something ‘incorrect,’ ‘stupid,’ or ‘insignificant.’ As I received feedback from teachers and became cognizant of the culture associated with the discussion table, I started speaking up more and letting go of my previous worries. By contributing my thoughts and confronting confusion in English class, I have learned about the importance of asking questions, collaborating, and challenging my own ideas.”
Isabel Hwang ‘20 reflects, “Through the constant love and support of my fellow peers and faculty members, I joined the cross-country team, started a brand new club, and overcame my fear of speaking in public. The culture of kindness at this school encouraged me to start a conversation with Mr. Gus, a wonderful driver for mentoring, and Ms. Darlene, a warm SAGE staff member. I believe that I’ve most changed by learning how to appreciate others. I wouldn’t be who I am today if Charlotte [Gehrs ’20] hadn’t encouraged me to try running, or if Mr. Mufuka hadn’t been so open to the idea of an Ethics Club, or if Model UN never challenged me to talk to complete strangers.”
In the winter of his junior year, Cole Ferguson ‘19 decided to join the wrestling team. This was a brand new experience for him. He writes, “I had no idea what I was getting myself into but knew that I had to try it until the end. Though the practices and matches were so difficult, I stuck to it and decided to keep going with the sport. By the end of the season, I maybe wasn't the greatest wrestler, but had a priceless experience with my team and learned so much about myself and discipline.” Similarly, Miles Abney ‘20 joined the swim team this past winter. Miles reflects, “Trying a new sport halfway through my junior year was a foreign concept to me. I was terrified of letting down my former winter team, not being good enough in the pool, and feeling ridiculous for trying something new so late in my high school career. However, I was amazed by how my former coach, my new swim coaches, and the swim team supported my decision. I absolutely loved every minute of the season and never felt unsupported or as if I wasn’t good enough. I do vividly remember stepping out of the pool after my first race into the embrace of so many of my teammates. I had not only just placed last but had been disqualified, yet everyone encouraged me to keep trying and not get down on myself. The incredible culture of the team taught me how to challenge myself to not necessarily be the best, but to focus on improvement no matter how much improvement it is.”
Through the voices of these students, one can sense how their courage to confront their fears and explore new endeavors, and to engage with themselves and others, is directly linked to the trust, respect, and care they feel they are given by their fellow St. Andreans. Emily Paton ‘20 says it perfectly: “St. Andrew's pushes you to form deeper relationships with peers and teachers and teammates.” Connection and understanding is the fabric of our culture, and into it we sew trust, respect, and support so that we, as members of this incredible school, can each of us grow by exploring new ways of thinking, new activities, new ideas. Just as Mr. Bashir’s connection with the Israeli community brought him hope for change, so St. Andrew’s students, in their welcoming, caring, respecting and trusting of others, build a culture of safety in which all may grow and become seeds of change and hope in the world.
All my best,
Ana Ramirez aramirez@standrews-de.org
Dean of Leadership, Modern Languages Department Chair
My older sister was my first science teacher. In June of my third grade year, summer break had arrived, and Shelby announced that we would be taking an important walk. On our field trip to the pond across the street, she reminded us to keep our eyes open and not to forget any of the important things we saw: two turtles sunning themselves on rocks, a fishing line and bob hanging from a nearby tree. When we returned home, Shelby handed paper, pencils, and crayons to me and my younger sister. She asked us to write about what we saw from the morning and to make drawings. This was the first page in what would become a summer-long nature journal, and a life-long habit: the lesson of illustrating ideas with images has been with me throughout my teaching career.
Two Februarys ago, Shelby succumbed to cancer. That February was cold and dark, but March promised renewal. By Thanksgiving, Shelby’s death had lead me to an important lesson on impermanence, which I found in the The Five Invitations by Frank Ostaseski:
While we mostly associate impermanence with sadness and endings, it is not all about loss. In Buddhism, impermanence is often referred to as the “Law of Change and Becoming.” These two correlated principles provide balance and harmony. Just as there is constant “dissolving,” there is also constant “becoming”… Each moment is born and dies. And in a very real way, we are born and die with it. There is beauty to all this impermanence… In Idaho, outside the cabin where I teach, blue flax flowers live for a single day. Why do such flowers appear so much more magnificent than plastic ones? The fragility, the brevity, and the uncertainty of their lives captivate us, invite us into beauty, wonder, and gratitude.
The fruits of impermanence are all around us. Today, I met with three teachers who each wanted to provide better learning opportunities for their students. One told me about a freshman who was exceedingly driven in her class. She wanted to help him plan an independent study of challenging problems, which would have the dual goals of stretching him and fostering a more robust growth mindset. The other two wanted to evolve aspects of their fourth quarter curricula to set students up for success in subsequent classes and get real time feedback that would help them measure the effectiveness of teaching interventions. Impermanence is the engine of learning: we find ourselves confused by an idea today, then understanding it so clearly that we can teach it tomorrow.
After my meetings with teachers, I walk out on the Front Lawn, lost in thoughts about impermanence, the senior class, and their upcoming Commencement in May. I anticipate the poignant mixture of sadness and love that we’ll feel when we watch the newest alums joyfully collect their diplomas. And, before I know it, I have stumbled onto a patch of birdeye speedwell—the short-lived, very distant cousins of Ostaseski’s blue flax. Overcome by gratitude for the multitude of lessons on impermanence, I am thankful for our impermanent lives in this community, lived amongst such overwhelming beauty.
Associate Director of Counseling Lindsay Roznowksi, who is also a Class of 1999 alum of St. Andrew's, gave this Friday morning Chapel Talk on February 8, 2019.
In 1996, I was a sophomore at St. Andrew's, "The Macarena" was #1 on the Billboard charts, and Mr. Will Speers was my advisor. I've often acknowledged to students here that there are many differences between being a teenager then and now, but as an alum, I can also relate to many of the amazing and difficult student experiences here despite the time that has passed since 1996.
I know what it's like to do an all-out cannonball into Noxontown Pond.
I know what it's like to take Bio with Dr. McLean—and do the bird and leaf projects (thank goodness for the frequent geese fly-overs).
I know what it's like to be an enthusiastic participant in sports teams, but to hit your athletic ceiling as a starter on JV.
I know what it's like to experience the magic of a faculty member showing up to dorm duty with food (chips and salsa can really take a day to the next level).
I know what it's like to be in English class with Mr. Speers as he feverishly jots down each person's comments in his notebooks and implores everyone to "write into their confusion."
I know what it's like to be inspired by a TAD talk.
I know what it's like to stay up late on dorm laughing with your friends (sorry, Will Rob for acknowledging the occasional sacrifice of sleep).
I know what it's like to try to put together an edible meal before semi-formal (my go-to was breakfast for dinner). My cooking skills have not really improved since then.
I know what it's like to hear those seven magic words: we will have a free day tomorrow.
I know what it's like to step into an exhibition and hope that you are able to ask the right questions and make good points.
I know what it's like to lurk around campus trying to find a kind, willing faculty member to take you to town for food. (With her permission, shout out to Camille Strand '20 for her stellar lurking skills—respect!)
As a faculty member living and working at the same place I grew up from ages 14 to 18, I wanted to take advantage of my unique situation and reflect on what advice I would give to my high school self. And then cross my fingers that some if it would resonate with you. As they say, hindsight is 20/20 and I'm about to let you try on my glasses.
To my high school self—I would say:
Strive for authenticity and stop worrying so much about what other people think of you. This piece of advice is not always an easy one to follow—even as an adult. I fully acknowledge that social comparison and considering other people's perception of you is a natural instinct. When you engage in those things in a balanced way, I think it can cultivate empathy, compassion, and productive introspection that may lead to positive personal change. But when the social comparison and focus on other people's opinions of you becomes more and excessive, you end up putting your happiness, confidence, and self-acceptance wholly in others' hands. What other people are thinking, doing, and saying becomes the yardstick for your ability and worthiness. And one of the most problematic parts of this whole thing is that we are creating narratives based on comparing our insides to someone else's outsides. More specifically, we know what is going on in our own heads and we are stacking all of that up to what we think is going on for someone else based solely on our observations of them—how happy they look, how confident they seem without knowing what is really happening internally. This must especially be harder for you than it was for me in the context of social media—constantly observing others' curated lives. Because very few people post a picture of themselves on a bad day. Instead we see filtered selfies of people living their best lives—happy, successful, doing things more interesting than we could ever imagine. There were so many moments as a teenager when I was too busy defining myself through someone else's vision of success when I wish I would have taken a deep breath, let it go, and made room to figure out what my own unique, authentic vision was for success and thriving. Disengaging from the constant worry about what others think and how you compare to them requires consistent and intentional practice. As Brene Brown says so well: "Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we're supposed to be and embracing who we are."
My second piece of advice to my high school self would be: challenge how comfortable you are, stretch past your boundaries. High school is all about self-exploration. Who am I? Who do I want to be? We often answer those questions by finding people we love to be with and things we love to do. When you find those people and things, it feels amazing, but looking back, I wonder if I got too comfortable in that sweet spot. I wonder if being comfortable turned into complacency—could I have had more transformative experiences if I challenged my comfort level more? I developed deep and abiding friendships at SAS—the people I found here are still some of the most important people in my life now. One of my friends, Jessie, was a bridesmaid in my wedding. My roommate, Emmy, and I still get together and laugh our heads off the same way we did after light out in our dorm room. Another one of my friends, Dave, just had his first child a few weeks ago. And my friend, Suli, who moved to Saudi Arabia right after college came to visit me on campus this past summer after not seeing each other for almost 20 years and it felt like nothing changed. Bernadette Devine, who works in the Advancement Office, was in my class at SAS and has been one of my best friends since then. These days, she comes over to my house, sits on my couch, and we spill the details of our lives and give each other advice—just like we did as teenagers—except now our conversation is interrupted by my kids every 90 seconds asking me for juice or the all-too-common exclamation: "Mom! Mom! Look at this!"
I have never doubted the connections I formed here, but I do wish I got to know even more people outside of my social circle—pushed myself to have conversations with someone I normally wouldn't, been intentional about connecting with someone on a deeper level who was just an acquaintance. I also wish that I would have taken the risk of trying new things—I wish I would have tried out for a play, tried to learn an instrument, signed up for a painting class, joined more clubs, and gone on more camping trips with Dr. McLean. You never know what you're missing until you take the risk of doing something different.
So—that's my advice! It might be hard to picture the adults in your life as once-upon-a-time teenagers, but seriously, we have been in your shoes. Look around at the adults in this room. They were all 16 once! And because I'm just one person with one experience and there is so much wisdom in the room, I couldn't rob you of the advice they would also give to their high school selves. So here we go!
Mrs. Torrey:
What I need you to worry about is this: I need you to love yourself.
I need you to love yourself.
No, really, listen: I need you to Love. Yourself.
Here's what I want you to do: every time you say something hateful to yourself, about yourself, pause, take a breath, and then tell yourself the opposite. Flip that script and say something loving to yourself, something positive about yourself. When you begin to tell yourself you're so fat and ugly, stop and think: I am beautiful and strong. When you begin to tell yourself that no one is ever going to notice and desire you, ever, stop and think: I am worthy of attention and affection. When you begin to tell yourself that you shouldn't speak up because you don't want to come off as pushy or brash, stop and think: My voice is just as valuable as a boy's voice.
Think it and say it and think it and say it until you believe it.
You need to learn to love yourself, because you deserve that.
Mr. Torrey: Your desire to change--to lose weight, to become a better student--is a good one. But the people who love you most and love you best don't care about what you look like or what you've accomplished. All that matters is kindness--to yourself and to others. Make people laugh. Pay people complements. And take pride in all you do.
Mr. Foehl: In college and beyond, surround yourself with people who are going to bring out the best in you.
Mrs. Honsel: At the end of the day, nobody is thinking about you as much as you think they are. They aren't thinking about the fall that you took up the steps, they aren't thinking about your new hairstyle, they aren't thinking about how you played the game, they aren't thinking about your performance in the play, they aren't thinking about how you did in class...they are thinking about themselves and all that they have going on. So put yourself out there, take a risk and follow the beat of your own drum. Quit worrying about what everyone else is thinking about you—because they're not.
Mr. Honsel: Every day is a gift. Read good books, listen to good music, laugh with your friends, make time for play—it all goes by so fast.
Miss Duprey: I spent most of my high school years waiting for my life to start happening. What I wish I knew then was that my life, arguably the most pivotal parts, was happening right then and there. I'd fantasize about the person I wanted to be. What she looked like, what college she went to, what career she would have, and how much people would like her... I was completely unaware that during all that dreaming about who I would become during my 4 years at St. Andrew's, I was becoming me. Life it is providing you with the the core materials that will build you into your future self. Care for yourself, be patient with yourself, challenge yourself. As exhausting, confusing, and stressful life may be right now, know that "future-you" needs "present-you" just like "present-you" wouldn't be here without past-you.
Mr. Meier: Time goes by really, really fast. Faster than you could ever imagine in the present. Don't think that all good things will come in the future, or say, "one day, things will be better." Don't wait to do the things you love or think you need permission to go and be who you want to be. Your life is now, be present, don't waste time. Also, you're going to go bald so you should really grow your hair as long as possible.
Mr. Terrell Myers: Don't be afraid to dream BIG!
Mrs. Hutchinson: Don't worry so much about what other people think. Focus on the inside of yourself and others rather than the outside. And, love is the most important thing, hands down! Oh, and it gets better!
Mr. Speers: My advice would be to listen more to those around you, and be a little more skeptical of both your insights and even those of people around you. (Also, it's ok to get a little crazy once in a while and end a sentence in a preposition.) I added that last part to Mr. Speers's advice, but I'm sure he would agree that it would have been good for him.
Mrs. Carroll: Don't take a single game or contest for granted. And remember there is always someone else, somewhere working harder than you.
Mr. Carroll: Take care of your body. When you're young, you think you're invincible and don't necessarily focus on getting the right nutrients, getting sufficient sleep, preparing the proper way, ultimately hindering your ability to live pain-free (in your thirties!) as you age.
Miss Amanda Gahagan: Stop worrying about what other people think of you. Just be weird! Weird is way more fun.
Miss Pierce: Your teachers are your greatest allies. Be open to mentorship and guidance. Don't be afraid to ask for help.
Mr. Mastrocola: Really get to know the adults in the community and try to make friends with more kids outside of your social circle.
Miss Grace Gahagan: Let your freak flag fly
Get weird and get psyched
Own it and dive in
Talk to adults - coaches, advisors, teachers
It's not about you
Let it go
Mrs. Brownlee: Be gentle on yourself. Don't compromise your values. Listen to your gut!
Ms. Furlonge: Spend more time with your friends being silly. After SAS you won't necessarily see the people who help to shape you in ways that you won't even imagine, so spend more time making those memories.
Mrs. Roach: Find people who make you a better person.
Mr. Roach: You need to read more. You need to realize that your education and your career must be tied to an abiding passion in your life. You must search for that passion and commit to it as soon as it becomes clear. You need adult role models.
You need to become more empathetic, generous, and kind. You need to talk to your grandparents and parents about the meaning of life. You need to know that life is short, and you have no time to rest. You need to work, read, live, love, and share with more attention and intensity.
Oh and—marry Elizabeth Montesano, even though you have barely spoken to her.
I don't know about you, but I'm inspired by all of that advice. I love living and working with this faculty and with all of you. I love how much fun we have together. I love the fact that we have the opportunity to learn from each other every day. I hope our short time down here in the chapel this afternoon was one of those opportunities.
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