March of the Titans

Kate Casper outsider Instincts

I’m in the A ce building, and I promise I’m the least productive person here (besides the guy who’s been napping for the past hour next to a box of Girl s cout c ookies). I’m surfing through my high school newspaper archives, reminiscing about those simpler times at my alma mater, T. c . Williams h igh s chool. And, while a part of me really wanted to go to the hockey game tonight because I love hockey (boys), I’ve decided there’s no place I’d rather be than here.

h ere I am, wearing my pinnacle college outfit in my college body, running on five hours of college sleep from a chaotic college weekend and I’m reflecting on my high school self.

And of course, I’m feeling that all-too-familiar pang of emotion as I read through articles I wrote when I was 15, 16 and 17—those years before I had my driver’s license or first glass of wine or first kiss, those years before I knew I’d end up here, in the A ce building on a m arch day with the stress of my Italian midterm oral presentation and marketing analysis essay looming over my head (I haven’t started either).

h ere I am, feeling something like nostalgia and dissociation all at once, as I confront, for the first time in a long time, the profound space between who I am now and who I was in high school, the world I’m creating here and the world I created back home, on the cusp of adulthood.

h as it really been two years since I graduated? And three years since cov I d -19 hit on some random Friday in m arch?

h ow long has it been since I put on my Titan tennis uniform and played number three doubles versus the West Potomac Wolverines? h ow long has it been since I took one of those extended bathroom breaks during m s. Z’s class to wander the halls and chat with friends? h ow long has it been since I packed into our sweaty gymnasium for homecoming dances and basketball games and pep rallies?

h ow long has it been since I spent every business day inside that massive building on King s treet, walking the halls alongside kids who couldn’t afford school lunches and kids who drove bm Ws?

These were events that shaped me, moments that would forever color my coming-of-age story, and yet I’ve never felt farther from them than I do now. And a part of me really misses it.

o f course, I don’t miss the hallway fights and cliquey social groups—I miss the beautiful, trivial aspects like senior night festivities and poster-making or the April Fool’s edition of the school newspaper (where I’d reveal intimate details about my nonexistent love life).

b ut, above all, I miss the people—the beautiful diversity, the dozens of different languages floating from classrooms in our International Academy and the pockets of different cultures and backgrounds reflected on our sports teams and in our student sections.

In short, I miss being a Titan.

It’s funny—the way people here talk about n otre d ame being a rite of passage is how I talk about T. c . Instead of wearing a green n otre d ame bib, I wore a “Future Titan” T-shirt. Instead of going to collegiate football