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News & Photos
"All We Have to Do is Believe" by Emily F. '13
Emily F. '13 delivered the following reflection on the occasion of the Eighth Grade Closing Ceremony, June 8.
About three years ago, on the last day of our sixth grade year, we were all tired but excited for the freedom of summer. I was sitting at my desk right near Mrs. Bitz; the heat was intense so the lights were off and my bare legs were stuck to those infamous blue plastic chairs. On the last day of school I expected to see Mrs. Bitz roll in that huge, black TV cart, so we could see her “cousin” Bill Nye appear on the screen, but on that last day, she had only one thing on the agenda, a poem. Now remember, it’s about 85 degrees, the sun is shining and all we can hear is Rock Shop tuning up for their concert. How could she really expect us to listen to a poem? As we sat in misery, she handed out the purple sheet of paper and told us that that she had gotten the poem from her high school lacrosse coach and when he gave it to her it truly told her how much he really believed in her. I took the paper and stuffed it my back pack and I guess it got lost in the mound of books, papers, and pieces of clothing I had found in my locker in the annual end-of-the year clean-out. But somehow, my mom got a hold of it and put it up on my wall of memories that is full of pictures, letters, and invitations from years past. The poem hung by a small pink thumbtack for two more years while the wall and I grew around it.
One night recently, I looked at my wall and spotted a picture from the sixth grade camp-out. I remember we did a six-mile hike led by Mr. Bakewell that made me and probably the rest of the group feel like out of shape idiots because we couldn’t keep up with our forty-year-old social studies teacher. On that trip we kind of forgot someone when we were leaving, but it worked out we went back and found him sitting on a stump. He got home okay. Then I thought about the seventh grade camping trip and the thrill of going white water rafting that included, if I remember correctly, three kids overboard, four lost paddles and one boat that had five hormonal 13-year-olds and one instructor.
I laughed as I remembered that group being the last to shore, they were soaked and the rest of us were dry for the most part and I can just see the face of the traumatized rafting instructor. I traveled over to the snapshot of my group for the Bay Trip. I remembered how while the rest of my classmates went on a three-hour drive to their assigned island on coach buses, my group hopped into two McDonogh vans driven by Mr. Aaron and Mr. T. We traveled to Claggett Farm for a very interesting experience that included almost getting hit by three school buses, secretly racing our canoes across some small part of Chesapeake Bay, and walking in the woods, at night, alone. I was petrified; I did not want to do it.
I was one of the last to go and I remember that Mr. Aaron was in front of me and I could almost make out his silhouette in the light of the campfire that was waiting for me at the end of the walk. As I finally reached the end, my friend came running up behind me, screaming her head off, as she jumped on top of me. I freaked out and realized that I am not a nature person. Just like that time in the woods, our years in the middle school were not always fun and games. We all had our hard times whether it was losing a friend who moved away, failing a test given by Ms. Grant—and let’s face it, it happened to the best of us—or getting our first taste of Mr. Scocos in sixth grade study hall by asking, “Can I go to the bathroom?” and the minute you walk back in the room he asks “So, how did it go?”
After I looked at all the memories that I pinned up on my wall, my eyes glimpsed a flash of purple under a bunch of old birthday cards. As I walked over to my wall, the purple paper brought me back to the sixth grade as I sat in that blue chair right in front of Mrs. Bitz.
When I read this poem I get goose bumps, just like when I hear Mr. Ford tell an inspirational story at a morning meeting, or when I watch a seventh grade boy get up in front of the entire middle school to fight for his little sister. This is the original copy of the poem, all the way from the last day of sixth grade; it’s called I Believe In You.
Over the years, just like this poem, the memories that were so clear to us when they first happened are going to be covered up by new memories, or their color may just fade but the ones that have changed us the most may just be hidden by a few old birthday cards and all we have to do is unpin them. You can’t know where you’re going, unless you know where you have been, so before we, the Class of 2013, take the next step in our journey through life, we all have to take the time to look back. We all have to remember the people we have met, the places we’ve been, and the mistakes that we have made that have molded us into who we are now because without them, we would still be the 12-year-old kids we were on the last day of sixth grade. We also have to remember that we can accomplish anything, and with the opportunities that we have open to us, we do have the power to make them real. All we have to do is believe.
Emily F. '13 delivered the following reflection on the occasion of the Eighth Grade Closing Ceremony, June 8.
About three years ago, on the last day of our sixth grade year, we were all tired but excited for the freedom of summer. I was sitting at my desk right near Mrs. Bitz; the heat was intense so the lights were off and my bare legs were stuck to those infamous blue plastic chairs. On the last day of school I expected to see Mrs. Bitz roll in that huge, black TV cart, so we could see her “cousin” Bill Nye appear on the screen, but on that last day, she had only one thing on the agenda, a poem. Now remember, it’s about 85 degrees, the sun is shining and all we can hear is Rock Shop tuning up for their concert. How could she really expect us to listen to a poem? As we sat in misery, she handed out the purple sheet of paper and told us that that she had gotten the poem from her high school lacrosse coach and when he gave it to her it truly told her how much he really believed in her. I took the paper and stuffed it my back pack and I guess it got lost in the mound of books, papers, and pieces of clothing I had found in my locker in the annual end-of-the year clean-out. But somehow, my mom got a hold of it and put it up on my wall of memories that is full of pictures, letters, and invitations from years past. The poem hung by a small pink thumbtack for two more years while the wall and I grew around it.
One night recently, I looked at my wall and spotted a picture from the sixth grade camp-out. I remember we did a six-mile hike led by Mr. Bakewell that made me and probably the rest of the group feel like out of shape idiots because we couldn’t keep up with our forty-year-old social studies teacher. On that trip we kind of forgot someone when we were leaving, but it worked out we went back and found him sitting on a stump. He got home okay. Then I thought about the seventh grade camping trip and the thrill of going white water rafting that included, if I remember correctly, three kids overboard, four lost paddles and one boat that had five hormonal 13-year-olds and one instructor.
I laughed as I remembered that group being the last to shore, they were soaked and the rest of us were dry for the most part and I can just see the face of the traumatized rafting instructor. I traveled over to the snapshot of my group for the Bay Trip. I remembered how while the rest of my classmates went on a three-hour drive to their assigned island on coach buses, my group hopped into two McDonogh vans driven by Mr. Aaron and Mr. T. We traveled to Claggett Farm for a very interesting experience that included almost getting hit by three school buses, secretly racing our canoes across some small part of Chesapeake Bay, and walking in the woods, at night, alone. I was petrified; I did not want to do it.
I was one of the last to go and I remember that Mr. Aaron was in front of me and I could almost make out his silhouette in the light of the campfire that was waiting for me at the end of the walk. As I finally reached the end, my friend came running up behind me, screaming her head off, as she jumped on top of me. I freaked out and realized that I am not a nature person. Just like that time in the woods, our years in the middle school were not always fun and games. We all had our hard times whether it was losing a friend who moved away, failing a test given by Ms. Grant—and let’s face it, it happened to the best of us—or getting our first taste of Mr. Scocos in sixth grade study hall by asking, “Can I go to the bathroom?” and the minute you walk back in the room he asks “So, how did it go?”
After I looked at all the memories that I pinned up on my wall, my eyes glimpsed a flash of purple under a bunch of old birthday cards. As I walked over to my wall, the purple paper brought me back to the sixth grade as I sat in that blue chair right in front of Mrs. Bitz.
When I read this poem I get goose bumps, just like when I hear Mr. Ford tell an inspirational story at a morning meeting, or when I watch a seventh grade boy get up in front of the entire middle school to fight for his little sister. This is the original copy of the poem, all the way from the last day of sixth grade; it’s called I Believe In You.
Over the years, just like this poem, the memories that were so clear to us when they first happened are going to be covered up by new memories, or their color may just fade but the ones that have changed us the most may just be hidden by a few old birthday cards and all we have to do is unpin them. You can’t know where you’re going, unless you know where you have been, so before we, the Class of 2013, take the next step in our journey through life, we all have to take the time to look back. We all have to remember the people we have met, the places we’ve been, and the mistakes that we have made that have molded us into who we are now because without them, we would still be the 12-year-old kids we were on the last day of sixth grade. We also have to remember that we can accomplish anything, and with the opportunities that we have open to us, we do have the power to make them real. All we have to do is believe.