October 15, 2002

Typically, I’m not one to choose- I’m no good with choices, for there is always the persistent fear that I am not choosing the correct choice, or that I might regret later. If I was in the situation that the characters in After Life are, I would probably be one of the workers, for I would never be able to choose, for how does one choose the most meaningful memory of her life?

Moving beyond this realization and onto the concept behind the idea, I would now enter my rational self and begin to think of criteria for my “memory.” Personally, I would want my memory to be a happy one, even if it wasn’t as meaningful as some others—for if I were always living that memory, I would never have a chance to contemplate its meaning, anyway. My memory would be that of one of those times when I feel like I’m on the top of the world, when everything is going my way and I am filled with the promise of a perfect tomorrow.

As I think back to all those moments where I felt like everything was falling into place in my favor, I think of the last twenty hours of my middle school years: the eve and morning of my last day of eighth grade.

The night before we were to graduate middle school, the eighth grade had a semi-formal dance. Everyone had looked forward to this night with great ardor; it was the prom of middle school. I had a perfect dress (knee-length, black, of a crepe-y material; it had double spaghetti-straps on each side with a little bow around the waist), and my hair was done professionally—three of my friends and I had gone to a salon which had opened up that day just for us, and we had gotten our hair done, twirling around in the empty chairs and looking at all the pictures of past hair creations.

As the night came, I was filled with happiness—for I had a ‘date.’ Now, this was a date in the most middle-schoolish way possible, it was one of those deals where you ‘go’ with a person, who’s really more of a friend than a date, and you dance for the slow dances, but hide from each other the rest of the time. He was my middle school ‘boyfriend,’ in the same middle-schoolish sense of a way, and we had skirted the issue for years, but still were friends throughout the whole thing.

We took pictures outside the school, both by our parents and the professional, who took a picture of the entire grade (it was a beautiful June evening, still light out at 7:00pm, breezy, and perfect at about 75 degrees). We posed with huge smiles on our faces, at that moment caught between the innocence of youth and the maturity of teenagers, all done up in formal dresses but our teeth still in braces.

We danced; I bounced around to Cotton Eye Joe and Ricky Martin, and ‘slow danced’ to Savage Garden and Led Zeppelin.  I talked to my ‘date’ and finally conquered the shyness that had been plaguing me for years. I giggled with my friends and shared the bittersweet moments of Vitamin C’s “Graduation,” dedicated to all who were leaving us the next year. The last song the DJ played was “Stairway to Heaven,” and I felt that that night was mine.

The next morning was filled with all the joy of the last day of school. First we had the awards, and I was filled with the joy of winning awards for all of my subjects: Outstanding Achievement in English, History, Science, and Math, and a high score on the National Latin Exam. Then we had a huge brunch, put on for us by POSITIVE, complete with nine-foot subs, and yearbooks. We sat outside on the warm cement, basking in the sunlight. I remember gazing up at the clouds and thinking just how beautiful they were, just how perfect.

After that, it was time to go. The goodbyes were filled with the meaningless promises to see each other over the summer, and teary goodbyes to people leaving for good. Then, the buses took us home.

I choose this memory for its joys: how it made me feel so wonderful, how I was filled with the confidence of my potential. I had friendship; everyone was my best friend that night, and all the petty jealousies and quarrels were forgotten with the beauty of the evening. I had romance, limited though it was—I had talked to the boy whom I’d been shying away from years. I had confidence; I did everything that night for me, not for others—as I danced to a song with my date, someone said to me, “is this song even a slow song?” But it didn’t matter; we kept dancing anyway. I had achieved academically, finishing off a year with great experiences, great relationships with teachers, great grades, and all the recognition. There was the promise of summer filled with laziness and fun—whatever I wanted. At this moment, I was in control, I was on top of the world, I was the master of myself. With so many times I feel as though I have lost control, that the future is spinning toward me too quickly and I can’t grasp everything I’d like, when I concern myself with even the most trivial of matters, the control and confidence I had then is all the more important now.

It wasn’t only happy, though. Many close friends were leaving: one was moving to Texas, another to Michigan, many more going off to spend their high school years at private schools and boarding schools. And there was the terror of high school, the time I knew would be stressful and challenging, but another step along the way to my future. I knew I would be leaving the safety of middle school behind, the place I had made for myself, for the rigors of high school, where I would have to start over again, this time in a more challenging and competitive atmosphere, where simply doing my homework wouldn’t guarantee success.

I choose this memory because it bursts with the assurance of future success—the potential for romance at last, the precursors to fun with friends, the confidence in my academic ability. These hours were filled with beauty: the beauty of the moment, the beauty of people, the beauty of soul. They were bittersweet, but nothing that was lost had been wasted. I had formed worthwhile friendships with my departing friends and had made the most of the academic aspect of the year.

In a sense, I knew these hours would be the last of my carefree times at school, both in the academic sense, and in the social sense—that there were so many people I wouldn’t have the same chances with again. It was like the feeling kids get as they graduate high school. At that point I felt as though my future was up to me; I was the molder of my own destiny. I knew that I was ready for what would come, and feeling on top of the world with what seemed like everything good heading my direction, I let go of so many of my inhibitions, and let myself live.