Leaving memories behind for old ones

When class ended at the end of October, I was more than ready to go home for fall break. A week of midterms and writing papers had left me stressed out, sleep-deprived, mentally drained and in desperate need to unwind from the busy life I had been leading at Princeton. I wanted nothing more than to plop asleep on my old bed and wake up to the summer that had passed by so unbelievably quickly. But time would not be so kind.

As I walked into my room and looked at pictures of high school friends, I thought about the graduation parties, the reunions and the final gatherings where we laughed and retold stories from the past four years before saying our farewells. I thought about my teachers, the ones with whom I had developed close relationships and who had written my recommendations, and my guidance counselor, who had once boasted to anyone who would listen about getting a student into Princeton. Even my school itself — the old, overcrowded building that lacked air conditioning and whose bathrooms were likely to be out of order at any given moment. That was only a few months ago, but apparently even a few months was a long time to be away.

When I stepped into the halls of JP Stevens High School again, this time as an alumnus, I felt different. Some things were familiar: I could still tell which students were freshmen and which were seniors by the way they walked, a mad rush of students down a certain hallway still occurred at a certain time and the display of green and gold school colors that greeted me in the front lobby will probably never change.

But though some things seemed the same, I couldn't help but feel out of the loop. For instance, how does one describe not being allowed to park in the senior parking lot anymore? How does one describe not being allowed to buy lunch because one no longer has a school ID? One can't. Even as I made friendly conversation with old teachers and younger students, I could not help but feel like an outsider in my own school, as if I no longer belonged in the community.

Looking back on my visit, there were many awkward moments that could have been avoided if I just knew what the person was talking about. For example, I had no idea that a club of which I was an officer had dissolved from lack of interest. Meanwhile, the stress of college applications, something I was aware of, is no longer a part of my life and therefore not something I can truly empathize with, just as none of them could relate to my complaints about the Wilcox Dining Hall.

Of course, I can always say that I am now part of the Princeton community, one in which I can find a new group of friends to take joy in my successes and sorrow in my failures. But if I wanted to say that, I could have done so from the beginning. I could have thrown away the pictures on my desk and erased the memories behind them from my head. I could have, as some of my friends have done, vowed never to enter the old, overcrowded building I call my high school again. Just a week ago, I would have never considered it. But after spending a week visiting friends and teachers back home — and feeling strangely out of place — it seems like the only option.

Many people have told me that college changes people. I guess I never accepted that until now. Certainly, I am ready to move on and resigned to moving four years of my life into a small corner, but the idea makes me wonder about what will happen four years from now. When we graduate from Princeton, are we no longer part of the Princeton community? Everyone says no. But I'm sure when I step into Frist Campus Center, into a McCosh lecture hall or into a dorm as an alumnus — just as when I stepped into my high school over fall break — things will not be the same. George Xing is a freshman from Edison, N.J. He can be reached at rxing@princeton.edu.