SENIORS IN THREE S’S

A closer look at the class of 2023 out of a sample size of 57 seniors

BY GAURI MANOJ

63% would not attend MVHS again

School

87% have senioritis

Substances

14%

29% have been under the influence of alcohol

7% have been under the influence of alcohol on campus

Sex

29% have had sex

58% have seen/read pornographic material

83 is the average Rice Purity Score

Recalling the role geography has played in my upperclassman years

BY MELODY CUI

fter Wordle grew in popularity, a myriad of knock-off “-dles” games emerged, primarily two geography-based ones: Worldle and Globle, which tested your knowledge of the shapes and locations of countries. I was never a fan of geography, so playing these games was like taking a test on some obscure subject I had a minimal understanding of, like astrophysics. I knew the major countries of the world, but my knowledge stopped there.

However, playing the “-dles” became a part of my daily routine in junior year since both of my math table group members grinded those games religiously. They found their way through the “-stans,” the Middle East and even made a dent in Oceania. Slowly, I began to build my geography knowledge from playing with them, learning that Ivory Coast was a real country somewhere in West Africa and that there were two tiny countries embedded in South Africa (I could never remember the names).

However, in senior year, my table group disbanded and I lost the motivation to play the “-dles”. Although I had a better understanding of the countries that make up our world, it was still basic — I was basically blindly guessing from a limited word bank — and it felt pointless to keep playing.

So the “-dles” fell off, to put it simply, around the same time that you could say I fell off. It was second semester senior year and I felt like nothing was happening. My life was monotonous, a stark contrast from what it was supposed to be — fun, exciting and entertaining after three years of the constant grind of high school. But it wasn’t. I was constantly tired and bored, so instead of reading, which I said I would do more of, exploring niche topics, which I also said I would do more of, and just enjoying life, I would be napping or watching Twitch streams, which I wanted to do less of.

I was burnt out, and I was tired of being constantly tired. I knew I needed to do something to jumpstart the determination that got me through the last three years to do something fulfilling with my last semester of high school. I tried reading a book that I had previously shelved, learning how to crochet, researching topics I was interested in, but would get tired after a few minutes and go back to bed for a four-hour nap.

One day, during my haze of boredom and exhaustion, I opened up the “-dles,” failed, and then decided to memorize all the countries so that next time, I wouldn’t fail. I searched up “how to memorize the countries of Africa,” and began the grind — I had nothing better to do anyway.

It took me one day to finish Africa, another day for Asia and soon I had all the games on Sporcle, even memorizing country capitals and general population statistics. Not only was my geography knowledge growing, but rather and more importantly, I was having fun learning more about the world — blood rushing into my fingers as I prepared to spam countries in another Sporcle game; mind sharpening as I memorized the color composition of a flag; a burst of pride mixed with exhilaration as I finished any geography related activity. I revived what I had previously lost: the motivation to learn and do, and as I dispersed that energy to the other activities I wanted to undertake, I began to actually realize those goals (I finally finished that book I had put off!) Now that I found my groove again, it’s a lot easier for me to enjoy and embrace my second semester of senior year.

BY KRISH DEV

s a 4 year old, visiting Disneyland was a dream come true — seeing my favorite characters in real life, surrounded by mesmerizing sights and sounds made me feel like I was transported to another world. Yet, while meandering through the Winnie-the-Pooh-themed attraction, my attention was drawn to a globe in a corner. I spun the globe, pointing my finger at Anaheim and calling my mom over to tell her about my discovery, “Mama, this is where we are!”

Ever since I was young, I have been obsessed with geography. While most kids my age spent their free time watching Disney XD shows and reading the newest “Diary of the Wimpy Kid,” I stayed up past bedtime engulfed in atlases and spent hours exploring Google Earth, constantly in search of new places.

Despite new responsibilities that came with growing older, my passion for geography continued to thrive. I pored over maps, studied new cultures and sought out any opportunity to learn more about the world. My dedication paid off when I won my school National Geographic Bees in both elementary and middle school, offering me much-needed validation.

However, as I started high school, I began to feel pressure to conform to the expectations of others. Friends, family members and even teachers suggested that I focus on “important” activities that would help me get into college and land a lucrative job. Over time, I began to resent my geography knowledge as it filled my brain with “useless knowledge” and took time away from “things that actually mattered.” I stopped sharing fun facts with friends and scribbling detailed maps on the margins of my notebook and the backs of finished tests.

It wasn’t until the unexpected lockdown my sophomore year that I learned to accept my passion. Forced to spend an unprecedented amount of time alone, I once again fell down the rabbit hole of geography. From browsing maps on Reddit to watching YouTube videos about unusual places, I rekindled my passion — geography was my lifeboat, keeping me sane above the monotony of everyday life, and I slowly learned to appreciate it for its own sake.

As the world of geography reopened to me, I stumbled upon the International Geography Championships, a high school competition like the geography bees I participated in during elementary and middle school. Despite a voice in my head telling me it was not worth doing, especially in the valuable summer before senior year, I wanted to give it a shot and, after passing the qualification tests, ultimately decided to compete.

Arriving at the University of Vermont, I felt intimidated by the other competitors who seemed more deserving of being there. However, as the competition progressed and I managed to string together a series of solid performances, earning two medals, my sense of being an imposter vanished. Instead, I felt grateful to have had the opportunity to meet high schoolers from around the world who shared my passion and appreciated the little moments — joking around during breakfast, quizzing each other on obscure topics and watching movies past curfew in an overcrowded dorm room.

Looking back, my journey with geography has been entirely worth it, even if I won’t be majoring in it in college. From the moment I opened my first atlas as a young child to placing fourth in the International Geography Championships, my fascination with geography has been a rollercoaster ride of passion, doubt and rediscovery that has brought me memories I will forever cherish. The sense of discovery that I felt as a 4 year old at Disneyland, pointing out where we were to my mom, is the same feeling that geography brings me today, and I am excited to learn about the world with that same childlike curiosity as an adult.

BY ANNA JEROLIMOV

ve always been afraid of growing up. I cry on my birthday every year (a tradition that began when I turned 10 and realized that from then on, my age would always be double digits). I’ve been counting down the months until graduation since the start of eighth grade — but with apprehension, not excitement. For me, time hasn’t really flown by, because I’ve always been acutely aware of its passing. Quite frankly, I’m terrified of change.

I think this fear stems from my fear of forgetting: both forgetting others and being forgotten myself. I have already known and forgotten so many people throughout my life. People I once considered close friends have become strangers, their once-important presence in my life reduced to being someone I now think about fleetingly, perhaps whenever I see them post on social media. Considering that I don’t have much of a social media presence myself, I wonder how often they think about me. I wonder if they ever do at all.

Maybe that’s why the thought of college is so daunting. For me, in comparison to the looming challenge of college, high school, especially senior year, has been easy. Comfortable. Familiar. I’ve started and ended high school with the same friends and I’ve become a leader in the same extracurriculars that I joined at the beginning of freshman year. I thrive on familiarity, but next year, I’ll have to uproot my familiar life to go to a place where nothing is the same — not the location, not the people, not even the weather. Everything is going to be different, and on top of that, I’m afraid of forgetting everyone I’ve ever known. It’s terrifying. Unfathomable, even.

But, in the midst of all this uncertainty-driven anxiety, there’s one thought that gives me comfort. It comes from a Tumblr post I read in fifth grade. The idea: we are the products of the people we meet. Our preferences, our quirks, our idiosyncrasies. Consciously or subconsciously, we adopt the traits of the people we love as our own. In the words of that Tumblr post, we are the “mosaics of everyone we’ve ever loved, even for a heartbeat.”

I know that this holds true for me. In kindergarten, I copied the way my friend held her pencil because I wanted to be more like her, and I still write that way. I bring warm water to school regardless of the weather, because my mom always drinks warm water. Mentally, I refer to hand sanitizer as “hanitizer” because that’s how my sister pronounced it when she was four. I discovered the band that topped my Spotify Wrapped for three consecutive years when my eighth grade English teacher had us analyze a song from them in class one day. And I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to simply use an Oxford comma again without reminiscing about editing them out of stories during my time as a journalist on El Estoque.

Next year, when I’m halfway across the country and two thousand miles away from all the people I’ve ever known and loved, I’ll reflect on all the parts of me that were originally from other people. I’ll sip my warm water, cleanse my hands with “hanitizer” and reminisce about memories in room A111. In those moments, I’ll know that I will never forget the people I’ve loved and they will never forget me, because we will carry parts of each other wherever we go.

I don’t have to be afraid of growing up, of getting older or my life changing. Change is a natural — necessary — part of life. My life will inevitably change next year. I’ll meet new people, and some of the people I’m close to now will fade away into memory. But I’ll never truly lose them. Because I will always be part of them, and they will always be part of me.

I am a collage of all the people I’ve met before and all that I’ve held important to me in the past, and that is something that will never change.

Unpacking the weight of the daunting phrase of “I love you”

BY GAURI MANOJ

think I have said “I love you” maybe five times in my life.

Some would say my “Love ya!”s or “<3 you!!!”s over text definitely come close, but I’ve always avoided saying the real scary three words. I probably get it from my parents, who, after every argument with me, leave a plate of strawberries on my bed instead of saying “it’s OK” or “I love you.” And those strawberries have always been enough to dispel any doubts I had about their love — they’ve never given me any reason to believe otherwise.

It’s those words that hold a very uncomfortable amount of weight for only being eight. And, since it’s said so often in TV shows and movies, it’s difficult for me to gauge whether anyone truly means it. I think my fear of saying “I love you” stems from the fact that I don’t actually believe it when I hear “I love you” — if you can prove that you love someone just by repeating the most orthodox string of words ever, then it seems that love is a very simple emotion to prove.

Yet, I’ve come to understand why words of affirmation is one of the most popular of the five love languages. During times when I was anxious, such as during college application season, I could feel the comfort in hearing an actual phrase of assurance more than receiving a plate of strawberries. Since language is a direct pipeline of communication from Person A to B, we can be certain that our message was not misinterpreted or lost in translation. We always say actions speak louder than words, but words are simply easier to use and are sometimes just more practical.

That being said, my fear of “I love you” still stands. I never heard it growing up, so it only evokes feelings of immediate awkwardness that can instead be avoided with some strawberries, which always makes everyone happy. But all this discussion about why I dislike “I love yous” ignores the fact that maybe others would really appreciate hearing it from me.

It is true that we all seek and show love in different ways, but objectively some are just more effective. I know that the absence of my “I love you” does not equate to the absence of my admiration, gratitude or care for others — but do they know that? We want to not only feel loved, but also be assured that we will remain loved when things get rough. And the easiest way to do that is to just straight up say it.

As I embark on adulthood, the importance of “I love you” grows infinitely stronger — there are so many more people to love and it’ll be my job to make sure they know it. I’ll have to put aside the awkwardness and unfamiliarity to reassure the people around me, and with only three little words, this seems relatively easy and the payoff is so worth it. And next year, when the only thing my family and I will share is a phone call, words will become the only way to remind them that I really do love them.

So, to my family and friends perhaps reading this: I love you! You don’t have to say it back. I’d prefer strawberries.

Understanding how my obsession with independence led to isolation

BY KRIPA MAYURESHWAR

he first recollection I have of my thirst for knowledge was in kindergarten. Every other day, I would drag my mom to the library, whining that I already finished the 30 books I checked out a few days prior.

“Mom, did you know that your ears never stop growing?” I asked my mom earnestly as she shoved random books from the children’s section into a tote bag, not paying much attention to the content because she knew I’d read it regardless.

Though my mom wasn’t particularly enthused by my descriptions of bodily functions, I wasn’t discouraged. I had discovered an unending source of knowledge, and I was determined to learn everything.

Throughout elementary to middle school, I spent hours scouring Wikipedia for random biographies of celebrities who had died centuries prior. I also started picking up random hobbies that I learned about through my excessive consumption of howto YouTube videos. I learned how to make stamps, sew, crochet, build furniture, replace light fixtures — and furthered my quest to learn how to do, well, everything.

My teachers and parents alike were bewildered with the strange skillset I had grown, but I was rewarded for my knowledge through praise from adults around me, who complimented me on being so self-sufficient. I was filled with pride by the notion of being independent.

My independence was confined to being able to do practical tasks because of my obscure hobbies, but as I grew older, my desire for selfsufficiency gradually pervaded my entire life.

I used my independence as a safety net — if I could do everything myself, I wouldn’t need to rely on others. Although it initially made me proud, I began to feel increasingly stifled by the expectations I had set for myself.

When I entered high school, I was constantly frustrated with my inability to resolve my problems by myself. At the same time, I refused to sacrifice my pride and seek help when I struggled, and after my first semester of junior year, I just couldn’t function anymore.

Under intense academic pressure and strained relationships with my friends and family, years of bottling everything up culminated and rose to the surface. My overthinking kept me awake all night, leaving me barely functioning in the day and unable to keep up with my work. Midway through the semester, I found myself failing all of my classes except one.

I had no energy to interact with anyone, and I stopped talking to my friends. My safety net of independence suffocated me, and I was left to deal with the fact that the predicament I was in was entirely my fault.

Toward the end of second semester, I completely broke down over the phone with one of my friends as I sobbed for hours.

Everything I had been suppressing for the past year — navigating my first relationship, struggling with my classes, having increasingly tense relationships with my parents and being closeted in my own home — poured out alongside my tears. y fifth-grader heart was beating out of its chest as I examined the words written on the paper. I’d gotten a love letter from my crush.

When I was done, I felt awful for not being able to support myself and burdening someone else with my problems. And yet, I felt a weight off my shoulders, relieved that I wasn’t handling everything alone.

Frankly, it’s ridiculous to think about how my love for learning culminated in destructive self reliance, but now that I’ve identified the problem, I can go about fixing it. I cannot undo the damage I’ve already caused, but I can work on being more honest and vulnerable. Sometimes, I need to rely on others and ask for help — but now I know that there isn’t anything wrong with that.

Although I’m still learning to not feel guilty about not being self-sufficient, I think the little girl from so many years ago who was just happy to learn for the fun of it would be proud of the person I’m becoming again.

I had dreamt about this moment for so long, thinking of all the things couples do in the movies: hold hands, look at each other, share straws in our drinks, and laugh at each other’s jokes. I would imagine myself impressing her with my imaginary special powers, causing her to confess to me right then and there. In the end, we’d live happily ever after, skipping away into the sunset holding hands.

So why had I felt like running away as soon as I read that simple “I like you” scribbled on the yellow sticky note? Why had every inch of my body want to hide in the corner of the classroom until she left?

It was a moment that I would come to wrestle with for a long time. I was embarrassed, angered even, that I had felt that way. Everyone else had been so comfortable talking and discussing it as I grew up, so it was obvious then for me to pretend as if I was like how everyone else was, despite it being a blatant contradiction to my own emotions.

I simply had to try again, I thought, and later when a similar confession occurred, I had found myself feeling that same nausea. Tied in knots, I felt utterly conflicted with making my decision. Do I distance myself from this person or do I pretend to have feelings that I don’t have? If I chose the first option, I’d regret not having the courage to be with someone, but with the latter, I’d simply not want to be part of that relationship. Each and every time, I took the first option.

I was faced with a hedgehog’s dilemma.

In times of cold weather, hedgehogs have to huddle together to help keep themselves warm, but can’t stay too close because of their prickly spines. It wasn’t that the hedgehogs don’t want to huddle together, but rather that they just can’t, no matter how much they want to. Much like the hedgehogs, I just couldn’t take the feeling of reciprocation, no matter how much I wanted it. Desperate to find an answer as to why I couldn’t, I decided to talk to someone about it.

I described how each time someone had confessed to me or tried to connect with me, I’d feel that nauseous feeling each time. I felt like running away and that prevented me from wanting to pursue relationships with others.

“Could you be aromantic?” they asked.

Well, could I be? I thought. I eventually decided to answer the question later that day. Opening up Google, I decided to try some internet soul-searching, reading all about what it meant to be an aromantic person. While initially on the fence as I read its medical definition, what connected me to this label was the experiences of other selfidentified aromantic people. It shocked me that among the community, a common, persistent emotion was that all too familiar nauseating feeling that rest in their minds after each confession. I began to connect the dots to my past encounters, and things suddenly came into clear view.

While I was initially insecure about how I dealt with romance, I now found confidence in the fact that it wasn’t my fault, rather it was just how I am. I couldn’t change that — I just had to try and embrace that part of me.

In some strange way, I was relieved. It wasn’t that the problems simply disappeared — I’m still struggling to find romantic connections with people. But coming out as aromantic did give me that feeling of self-respect — the idea that fifth grade me was simply being true to himself at that moment in time no matter how alien he felt at that moment. Much like those hedgehogs, I’m still struggling to find warmth, but I’ll at least be true to myself in that desire.

BY JIYA SINGH

ow’s the josh?!” my dad asked me loudly.

“Um … high,” I responded in a mumbled, annoyed voice.

And just like that, I saw my dad’s face fall, my weak answer falling short of his high expectations.

Contrary to popular belief, “josh” is not just a nickname for the popular name Joshua — it also means confidence or enthusiasm, in Hindi. After watching the Bollywood movie “Uri,” which portrays the lives of Indian army officers, my dad picked up on a phrase the lieutenant in the film would yell to his soldiers before every battle — “How’s the josh?”

In the movie, the phrase was used to hype up army officers as they responded to the question with a unified yell of, “High, sir!” The question was intended to remind soldiers of the joy that existed amid the mentally taxing toll of going to war. While I am no army officer, my dad has asked me this question every morning since Jan. 11, 2019, when the movie was released.

If there’s anything I’ve always known about my father, it’s that when he fixates on something, he doesn’t just appreciate it for a week — he sticks with it. For example, when he wanted to start exercising, he spent six hours in our home gym making sure he would reach his desired weight goal. When a neighbor made a slightly snarky comment about our sloppy front yard, he spent months mowing the lawn to perfection. Yet while I’ve always admired my dad’s extreme commitment to every little thing he does, I simply wasn’t that way at all.

Instead, I have always been more of a tries-something-out-and-likesit-until-she-gives-up kind of person. My achievements — from publishing my own book at age 10 to being an award-winning tennis player — were all accomplishments of mine that I’d just tossed away when things became more difficult. In fact, being given the label of “quitter” by my parents at a young age created a mental understanding that I would never be enough for my driven father, and his over-excitement of the phrase, “How’s the josh?” was just another reminder of our differences.

I couldn’t understand why I needed to be dragged into my dad’s hyperfixation of the movie dialogue when my josh was most certainly not “high.”

And so, walking down the stairs each morning to my father passionately yelling “How’s the josh” was not a fun experience for 13-year-old me. As my years of reluctant, “High, sirs,” my dad finally took the hint that I did not care about his childish ritual, he slowly backed off. And so, my junior year, after three years of endless eye-rolling and mumbling, our daily exchange finally stopped.

But soon, walking down the stairs to a bagel sitting on the dining table and the sound of peace — what I thought I wanted the most — began to make me feel lonely. Despite the corniness and seemingly stupidity of it all, the simple call-and-response of my father and I each morning was unintentionally hyping me up for the school day.

My father’s look of disappointment when my, “High, sir!” wasn’t happy or loud enough would make me to try harder for his approval.

I realized that my dad didn’t derive joy from childlessly yelling to me — it was my passionate screams of response that made him satisfied in knowing that I retained my self-confidence. Even if I was having a bad morning, the practice of yelling and training my brain that I had high spirits completely removed the idea of me being a “quitter.”

And so, as my father is currently going through some personal struggles, it is now me who asks him how his josh is every morning, condemning him when his responses aren’t loud enough, to make sure he too can get his confidence back the way I did. As it turns out, whether someone is the commander of the Indian military or a normal Bay Area resident, everyone’s ‘“josh” can use a little uplifting.

Facing toxic productivity

BY ANGELA ZHANG

Ohen I talk to people about my struggles with procrastination, they usually assume I want to procrastinate less. In fact, my goal is the opposite: I want to learn to procrastinate more and let go of my toxic productivity mindset.

My harmful habits developed at the end of freshman year when the COVID-19 pandemic first sent us into lockdown, giving me more free time than I knew what to do with. Since I had a lot of spare time, I completed every assignment immediately after it was assigned — the start of my extreme anti-procrastination habits.

My sophomore year was also online, intensifying the toxic productivity mindset that I had developed during the lockdown. Before, when we went to school in person, I would spend my lunch break socializing with friends — with online learning, I had nothing to do after eating lunch, and I would end up using my breaks to get a head start on homework. Continuing my habit of completing assignments early, I would often be the first in my class to write my discussion post, an entire week before the deadline. In the case that I did have to wait to complete an assignment right before the deadline due to another commitment, I would feel anxious and worried about not having enough time to finish, leading to my avoidance and fear of procrastination.

My motivation for my work ethic was thinking that if I completed everything early, I would have more time to rest and do what I wanted later on. But this never happened. I always found more tasks to do by working on longterm projects in advance or taking on another extracurricular activity. I was stuck on a hamster wheel — doing endless work, even if it was unnecessary.

By junior year, the consequences of my toxic work habits began to emerge

— I learned that one of the tradeo s of having a strong work ethic is experiencing frequent burnout. After a rough week of tests and papers due, I would completely crash after getting home. However, even when I would get burnt out, my fear of falling behind prevented me from “doing nothing” for an extended period of time, as I often tied my self-worth to how much work I completed.

When I submitted my final college application last year, I finally felt like I could let go of my need to be productive, or so I thought.

The stereotype of second-semester seniors is that we slack o , and I planned to fully embrace this to heal from four years of burnout. But my plans were quickly sabotaged. Once we returned to school after mid-year break, I suddenly had a lot of free time again. Even after completing my homework, I felt restless and guilty doing nothing. I had wired my brain to be a productivity machine to the point where I didn’t know how to be unproductive anymore.

After enduring this vicious cycle for so long, I decided that in order to enjoy my last semester of high school, I had to embrace unproductivity. This period between the end of high school and college was the perfect time to break free from my toxic cycle of productivity.

Over the past few months, I have built up a balanced work ethic that I like to call “intuitive productivity.” If I feel motivated, I will do my work and study for tests. But the minute that I feel tired, I’ll allow myself to binge Netflix for as long as I want. Now, I let myself start my homework the day before it’s due, and procrastinate studying for tests until the night before.

In my last semester of high school, I have become a marginally worse student, but my mental health has improved infinitely. I value myself regardless of how many tasks I’ve completed in a day. Instead of starting weeks before, I only began to write this senior column a few days prior to the deadline — big progress compared to a year ago. I was finally able to break free from the productivity hamster wheel, and have learned to embrace procrastination.