Grandma’s Pickleball: The “Old Person Sport”
Bond – Damien Luciano
Andy Vitello
Grandma’s Pickleball: The “Old Person Sport”
The fastest-growing sport in the United States isn’t hockey, baseball, or even football; it’s pickleball (“SFIA Topline Report”). I’ve played tennis since four years old, so naturally this ping-pong-tennis hybrid intrigued me. My friend and tennis teammate, Jackson Walser, competes in open-play pickleball with me at Method Park. We typically play around six o’clock on Friday evenings as an outlet after an exhausting week of school. Unsurprisingly, the courts are full of elderly people covered in knee braces, slowly inching towards the ball with an exaggerated grunt after hitting it two miles per hour. The retirement facility’s shuttle drops them off and picks them up after they… wait… that’s not true. Are there some old people on the courts? Of course. But the majority of players are over-caffeinated college students fiercely competing against each other. Jackson and I excitedly join them and play our hearts out for hours, losing track of time while drenched in sweat. It’s a social sport that brings the community together by promoting healthy competition. Why should that be limited to old people?
Many individuals associate pickleball as an “old person sport” due to its popularity among retirement communities. When I tell people that I play pickleball, their response is usually along the lines of, “Oh, pickleball? I think my 90-year-old grandma plays that.” There’s no doubt it’s a popular sport among retirees, but that doesn’t make it exclusively for them. In reality, 18- to 34-year-olds make up the majority of pickleball players in the United States (Mackie). This is mainly due to the rise of the sport in colleges; Major League Pickleball (MLP) and Dynamic Universal Pickleball Ranking (DUPR) recently launched collegiate pickleball divisions across the nation (Kuhn). For example, the University of Florida created a club pickleball team in 2022 with 200 members, and in March of 2023, over 400 players were a part of it. In Florida alone, the University of Tampa, Florida State University, the University of Central Florida, and the University of Miami also created club pickleball teams (Palus). The sport is easy to learn and play because of its small court size and slow-moving ball — no wonder it’s popular! Many people predict pickleball will become a part of the NCAA due to its staggering growth and marketability. However, tennis players aren’t very accepting of this new sport. The previous animosity between skiers and snowboarders is identical to the friction between tennis players and pickleballers; skiers didn’t want snowboarders occupying their slopes, and tennis players don’t want pickleballers invading their courts. Eventually, the skiing community accepted snowboarders, resulting in snowboarding’s rapid popularity; consequently, snowboarding achieved NCAA status. I predict the same thing will happen with pickleball; once the dominating tennis community accepts it, the NCAA will be more apt to add the sport.
Pickleball isn’t exclusively on the rise at colleges — it’s also becoming more popular in high schools across the nation. Take Ravenscroft, for example; we have a racquet sports club that frequently sets up pickleball courts in the gymnasium. Participants range from freshmen to seniors, some with years of pickleball experience, and others who’ve never held a paddle before. Jackson and I regularly compete in this club, and we frequently see students happily burn off their energy, laughing with friends while swinging their orange plastic paddles around like maniacs. Kids who have never talked with each other before compete, and in some cases, become friends — it’s crazy seeing the power of this sport with such a bizarre name. Before playing pickleball, many students believed the sport involved no athleticism, “proving” why it’s for old people. However, pickleball can be played in many different ways — it’s an adaptable lifetime sport. A 14-year-old high school freshman will not play pickleball the same way as an 80-year-old; the freshman will sprint down pickleballs while the elder cannot physically do that. This is no different than the professional senior golf tour, where the tees are placed closer to the hole — it’s an adaptable lifetime sport. A growing number of high school physical education curricula (including Ravenscroft’s) emphasize the importance of lifetime sports; this means the popularity of pickleball in high schools will only grow, further proving the point that pickleball isn’t only for older individuals.
Pickleball has two professional leagues: the Professional Pickleball Association (PPA) and Major League Pickleball (MLP). Both of these leagues primarily consist of professionals in the millennial generation (and some Gen-Zers). The top women’s player in the PPA Tour is 16-year-old Anna-Leigh Waters. That’s not a typo — she’s 16. The top men’s player, Ben Johns, is only 24 years old. The point? Professional pickleball players, who act as role models, are extremely young. These young professionals, like Waters and Johns, empower teenagers to play pickleball, citing its benefits for physical and mental health. If the sport is for the elderly, then why are the pros not old? As I stated previously, pickleball is an adaptive sport. Younger people dominate because of their heightened athletic ability. I’m not arguing that older individuals can’t play pickleball; I frequently see college kids compete with the elders. Pickleball is for everyone versus everyone, without regard for age.
The fastest-growing sport in America is for all; it’s not exclusively reserved for older individuals. Although the sport gained popularity throughout retirement communities in recent years, pickleball’s rapid growth in colleges and high schools, combined with the presence of young professionals, clearly proves it transcends age boundaries. The beauty of pickleball is its adaptability, as it accommodates players of all skill levels and ages. As the sport continues to gain popularity and attract young athletes, it’s only a matter of time before pickleball becomes more widely accepted (especially by tennis players), potentially achieving NCAA status and becoming an Olympic sport. So, the next time someone sarcastically tells you that pickleball is an “old person sport,” remind them of the diverse community that’s debunking this stereotype. Invite them to visit the courts; they’ll be shocked to see a cluster of college students having a blast.
Works Cited
Kuhn, Steve. “MLP / DUPR Announce Official Launch of Collegiate and Junior Pickleball Verticals.” DUPR Blog, 3 May 2023, https://www.blog.mydupr.com/post/mlp-dupr-announce-official-launch-of-collegiate-and-junior-pickleball-verticals. Accessed 5 October 2023.
Mackie, Brandon. “Pickleball Statistics – The Numbers Behind America’s Fastest Growing Sport in 2023.” Pickleheads, 24 February 2023, https://www.pickleheads.com/blog/pickleball-statistics. Accessed 5 October 2023.
Palus, Joseph. “Pickleball is growing on Florida’s college campuses.” WUSF, 4 March 2023, https://www.wusf.org/sports/2023-03-04/pickleball-growing-florida-college-campuses. Accessed 5 October 2023.“SFIA Topline Report Tabs Pickleball as America’s Fastest-Growing Sport for Third Consecutive Year.” USA Pickleball, 22 February 2023, https://usapickleball.org/news/sfia-topline-report-tabs-pickleball-as-americas-fastest-growing-sport/. Accessed 5 October 2023.
The Beauty of the World
Moonrise on the Sea – Henry Zhang
Tessa Lee
The world can be cruel. that’s true. the world can be a dark and unforgiving place, where your every mistake can tear relationships apart and destroy the unstable foundation of your shallow existence. but the world can be beautiful. it’s hard to see at times, i admit, but there will always come a day when the beauty of the world reveals itself once more. it may take a week, or a month, or five years, but that day will come. and when it does, every moment of heartbreak and struggle, of pain and sacrifice, of nightmares and tears shed, it will all be worth it. it is worth it to see the way the sun shines through the leaves of the tree canopy overhead. it is worth it to see the bluebells sprout through the layer of dirt, covering every inch of the forest floor. it is worth it to see the deer turning their heads and galloping into the distance. the world can be so very beautiful, on the days when your mind clears and distances from all the pain and heartbreak from before, and is allowed to truly revel in nature, soaking in every good feeling that buds within you, warming you from the inside out. it’s worth going through all the bad days, just so you can arrive at that one good day, when everything feels okay. when your body feels like your own, when you no longer feel like an imposter treading in the footsteps of its former selves, when you feel the weight lifted off your chest, just for a moment, and you can finally breathe. take a deep breath. the air is clean now. the sun looks so beautiful when it shines through the trees. the flowers are so resilient, appearing year after year, despite the wind and rain and turmoil that may come during their short life, they will always come back. and it’s beautiful. the stillness that surrounds you as you hold your breath, watching the grace of the stag and the doe as they watch you in return, it’s beautiful. the way you smile at the sky, spinning to the music, it’s the first genuine smile in a long time. and it’s beautiful. that feeling inside you is beautiful, so very very beautiful. the ways the trees grow, twisting and turning but growing ever taller, so many years of life in such a sturdy little thing. it’s beautiful. and eventually the feeling will fade, but for now you’re content to just enjoy it while it lasts, laughing in the sunlight and the fields, enjoying your picnic and the adventure that comes as you lose your way in the woods. and week by week, month by month, year by year, that feeling will get more and more frequent. it may take time, but it will come. because the world is beautiful. and it won’t hide that beauty forever.
Its Name is the Future
Isolation – Henry Zhang
Madison Perry
Its Name is the Future
It’s something I think about
When lying in bed
I always feel it
Looming over my head
As much as I try to control it
It finds a way to tame me instead
There are two parts
Named Far and Near
The uncertainty it brings
Is what causes so much fear
Its face is undetermined
Just like the place
It will lead me to
Sometimes I start to wonder
What would happen if I knew?
What would happen if it let me see
The place that I will be
With it as my guide?
Would I laugh, would I cry?
Would I smile, or simply sigh?
Do I want to see its face
See its hands see its eyes
Do I really want to see what the rest of my life will be like?
Its name is the Future
Yes, that is so
And I don’t know where it will take me
Or where I want to go.
To Infinity and Beyond
Tybee 4 – Maddy Goldstein
Maddy Goldstein
I experienced my first-ever heartbreak at three years old. This pain did not occur because of a boy, a death, or a traumatic accident. No, this grief came from the loss of a balloon. With the heavily anticipated Toy Story 3 coming out that summer, my Pixar obsession made it clear that only one option existed for my party’s theme: Toy Story. We lined the walls of Jodi’s Gym with green and purple streamers, and gave out Little Green Men as the obvious choice of party favors. The incident occurred more than thirteen years ago, but my recollection of my third birthday party remains near perfect. I remember breathing in the sweat and cupcake-filled air of Jodi’s Gym, the sound of toddlers shrieking from joy as they somersaulted on the trampoline, the fear I felt as I walked on the two-foot-tall balance beam, but above all else, I remember the cake and the balloon.
I had some serious expectations for this birthday, and those expectations took the form of a cake. After hours of jumping, playing, and screaming, we moved the party into yet another Toy Story fanatic-worthy room, ready for the highlight of the party: the cake. An endless array of signs plastered on the walls, mountains of light purple and ocean blue confetti brightened up the room like flowers on a dirt road. My parents placed small, plastic seats around a large rectangular table with the cheap, plastic table covering that I loved ripping off. I eagerly bounced up and down in my chair, my party hat bobbling as I laughed giddily. My sugar-obsessed toddler mind considered this the high point of the day, one that demanded perfection. First, we ate pizza, lots and lots of pizza. Then came the cake, custom made from Carvel. It had chocolate and vanilla ice cream with extra chocolate crunchies, my favorite, and a true staple of every preschool birthday party. The blue frosting swirled around the edges with the words “Happy Third Birthday, Maddy” written in purple icing in the center of the cake. The decoration had the smiling faces of all my favorite characters: Woody, Jessie, Slinky, Mr. Potato Head, and above all else, Buzz Lightyear. Unlike the others, Buzz took the form of a candle, a bright, captivating light. I had never truly examined a flame before, and found myself staring intensely at the illuminating, mysteriously comfortable one that flickered all but a few inches away from me. Like a moth to light, I found myself in a trance-like state as I reached out and touched the bright flame. HOT. BURNING HOT. I howled in pain as I stared at my throbbing, bright red pointer finger. The excitement I felt vanished in mere seconds. I never experienced pain like this before, sharp and excruciating. A gasp came from the crowd of my friends and family as they watched the aftermath of my pyromaniacal state. I felt scared, but more than that, betrayed. My favorite childhood figure had caused me pain, ruined my birthday party, and worst of all, did it with a smile painted on his wax face, leaving all hope for a happy day destroyed. The sting of the bacitracin my parents put on the wound felt like nothing compared to the pain of disappointment. I bawled as my parents tried hopelessly at distracting me from the pain of the burn and ruined birthday. With this moment seared into my brain forever, all hope for happiness felt forever lost.
I was past consoling, never again could I look at Buzz Lightyear the same. After what felt like hours of an endless stream of tears, I rubbed my blurry and bloodshot eyes, my vision clearing. I looked around the room of concerned adults, at the white walls decorated with posters and streamers, and something caught my eye. In the far left corner of the other side of the room, behind the long table on which sat an array of used plates, nearly hidden by the sea of family members and friends, I saw a Buzz Lightyear balloon. It felt unlike any balloon I had ever witnessed: a cutout of Buzz Lightyear made from foil, had bright eyes which looked so animated that it felt as if he were staring right at me. With Buzz’s fist pointed in the air and feet off the ground, he looked like he truly flew in the air. My parents, having seen the excited glimmer in my eyes as I stared at the balloon, jumped into action. My father shouted, “For the love of God, someone grab that damn balloon!” Faster than the speed of light, the balloon sped into my grubby, outstretched hand. My mood lifted instantly. As I stared at the balloon in awe, I felt a smile plaster itself onto my face and I clapped my hands gleefully. My family and friends all breathed a sigh of relief. My toddler memory no longer recalled the pain of the burn, and I forgave Buzz happily, readily putting the memory in the past.
As pathetic as this may sound, for the next few hours, that balloon became my best friend. I consider saying that I loved it an understatement, this bond felt like no other. While the other toddlers ran around in the jungle-like play area, I sat with Buzz on a plastic chair in the corner and ate my ice cream cake, alone but content. Even when my parents insisted that I bounce on trampolines and take pictures with my friends, I refused if Buzz did not join. I might as well have stapled that balloon to my side. After a few more hours of partying, the fun came to an end, and, much to my dismay, I needed to head home. Before we left, I reluctantly gave the balloon to my mother, who, with even more hesitation, handed it to Aunt Sheryl so that she could hold me and my sister’s hands. “Whatever you do,” warned my mother, “do not let go of that balloon.” My aunt insisted that she was overreacting. As I trudged out of Jodi’s gym and walked down the gray, stone stairs, I felt a sense of excitement. My special day nearing its end, I realized that balloon served as my favorite and most treasured memento. As I held my parents’ hands and skipped down the concrete streets of New York City back to our apartment, I only thought about the much anticipated moment when I could arrive home and place my new and prized trophy in my room. I would tie it to the foot of my bed, so that everyone who walked in could see Buzz’s smiling face right away.
After only a few minutes of walking and a couple blocks into our journey, my sister and I grew tired. For two toddlers, the trip back home proved a very difficult feat, and a mere fifteen minutes of exercise felt like a lifetime of monotonous walking. My sister, tired after a long day of trampolining, walked right into a stop sign. She started bawling, and while she did not get any serious injuries other than a small bruise on her right shoulder, she insisted that she needed assistance making the rest of the journey. Begrudgingly, my mother agreed on giving her a piggyback ride for the remainder of the walk. Upon seeing this special treatment, I too asked for a piggyback ride, and Aunt Sheryl obliged. As she bent down and picked me up, my mother asked if she should hold the balloon as a way of ensuring its safety. “Stop worrying, Susan!” exclaimed my aunt yet again. As Aunt Sheryl bent down and picked me up, she lost her grip on the balloon. In a feeble attempt at grabbing Buzz, I leapt out from her arms, landing flat on my face on the cold, hard pavement. As I looked up into the sky, tears welled in my eyes. I forced my head up and watched as the wind took Buzz through the clouds. I felt a lump grow in my throat. My mother, in an attempt at lightening the mood, pointed up at Buzz and exclaimed, “Look, Maddy! Buzz Lightyear, to infinity and beyond!” The tears stuck in my throat began pouring out of me as I watched my closest companion float farther and farther away until he became nothing more than a dot, hidden amongst the clouds and smoke of New York City.
Little did I know that birthday would become the one that I compared all my others to. Not only did I experience my first ever heartbreak, it happened on the day I most looked forward to all year. Looking back, I realize that balloon offered me not just a sense of loss, but a life lesson. Nothing good will last forever, so instead of worrying about when it will end, focus on the happy memories and learning experiences. Everything happens for a reason. If I had not gotten burnt by the candle, I never would have noticed the Buzz Lightyear balloon in the first place. The thought of my third birthday angered me as I considered it my worst one to date, but now I understand that only shows the day’s impact on me. I consider myself grateful for the vividness of the memories, not regretful about how they ended. We must take the good with the bad, because love cannot exist without pain.
Always
Ozymandelvis – Jack Hollingshead
Olivia Rivera
Always
When light spills from tiny cavities,
shredding the dark blanket of night above,
When I lie, secure, tucked away,
My grasp on what’s real long since disappeared,
Handed over to the entanglements of my mind,
When I begin to live that life,
One far away from the breaths of this world,
All else is forgotten,
A distant memory.
Eyes,
Not mine,
Look down at hands I don’t know,
Absorb my surroundings,
Blink and blink and blink,
Trying to rid of the fog,
That builds a wall between me and this strange, familiar sight.
Blurred colors embrace,
Then twist with remembrance,
A forged identity,
I am in between the thin stitchings of time and space,
The fabric of my existence,
My past and future,
Every bit of hurt and laughter and every question,
Confusion and love and regret,
Dancing, tears, and flowers,
Then you.
Right there.
The lenses sharpen your figure,
Defining your features,
I never payed so much attention to them,
Never seeing a reason why I should.
The haze of others rushing by,
People you love,
People you never knew,
It makes me dizzy.
Your eyes,
Ones that you must know well
Scan over all,
As the wrinkles in the ridges of your forehead,
I have them too,
But I never knew they could reach such great height,
Push and push,
As if trying to peel back your skin,
Weathered by travels,
To reveal your content expression.
You’re always smiling,
Always still.
I sprint forward,
Stumble over my feet,
Ones that haven’t touched nearly as much earth
As yours have.
I cry out,
Break through,
Trying to reach you.
Looking around me,
I search for others,
To see if they too,
See you beaming.
The sun’s rays feast on your gentle gaze,
And even the air surrounding you knows of your love,
Your never ending,
Forever and always
Kind of love.
Speechless, I am attentive, frozen still,
Wanting to record every moment.
I hear your words,
But they don’t always stay with me,
As if you’re snatching them back,
Right before I lock them away,
So the answers to the mysteries of life will remain woven into the clouds.
We talk until you fade away,
The stars in your eyes
Burn through the flesh of my heart,
Each vein and artery,
Left undone.
And long after the sky sheds its skin of sleep,
I always remember.
I remember your voice,
What I fear of forgetting the most,
The fleeting moments of comfort,
Your ceaseless laughter,
The safety of your arms.
And I know,
That I am going to be alright,
You are always here.
Always.
How to Profit Off High School Students
Haunting in Red – Michai Sanders
Andy Vitello
With the unfortunate rise of consumers caring about their data privacy, it has become increasingly difficult to profit from it, especially when it involves minors. Pesky laws like Section 5 of the Federal Trade Commission Act prevent companies from distributing consumers’ personal data in an “unfair or deceptive manner” (“Federal Trade”). On the bright side, these laws are ambiguous, so they’re arguable — thanks, lobbying. Profiting off high school students is a tricky task, but if you follow these steps, it’s easier than stealing candy from a baby.
Step 1: Register as a 501(c)(3) not-for-profit organization. People inherently love nonprofits because they associate them with organizations that benefit the general public, like the Salvation Army, Feeding America, or St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. You don’t have to benefit the general public, but people must believe you do. Advertise a hollow statement on your website like “Our mission [is] to connect students to college success and opportunity” and throw in a token phrase like support students, equity in education, and promote excellence to seal the deal (College Board Careers). In actuality, the only reason you’re a nonprofit is so you can avoid taxes and become eligible for government grant money. It’s a win-win situation… for you! If you don’t plan on helping the public in any significant ways (and really, why would you?), then make sure you use vague and exaggerated language when explaining your “impact.” Say you apply your “research and measurement capabilities to guide millions of students to college,” (College Board Foundation) even though the college enrollment rate has generally decreased each year, dropping from a 41% attendance rate in 2010 to 38% in 2021 (“COE”). Again, you don’t have to make an impact, but you need people believing you do. Who will actually look up the decreasing college enrollment rate? If social media can successfully delude the population, then trust us, you can too.
Step 2: Eliminate competition. In a perfectly competitive market, a firm must price its products based on how much a consumer will pay for them. In this market structure, other firms will drop their prices, and consequently, you must drop yours. You also must differentiate from the competition by investing in customer service or providing superior quality; unfortunately, this all costs a lot of money. This is not an ideal situation for you. Instead, you should become one of the only options for your customers; this means you set the price and you determine the quality. Make connections with government officials so you can eliminate competition and avoid those annoying laws. Perhaps you appoint the former governor of West Virginia as the President of your nonprofit and utilize his connections for your benefit. Monopolize the education industry by requiring students to take a standardized test in 20 states (Heimbach), ensure that your advanced placement programs are the only courses that count for college credit in 35 states (“Statewide AP”), and make families fill out a financial aid application that more than 300 colleges and universities require (Kerr). Of course, either the state or the student will pay you for each of these forced offerings. If one of your irritating competitors tries signing an exclusive contract with a state in hopes of driving you out, aggressively lobby and reclaim dominance. For instance, if your only competitor for standardized testing wants a contract with Michigan, outbid them by paying $17.1 million and still make money on the deal (Higgins). Thank you, American capitalism! Who said the American Dream doesn’t exist anymore?
Step 3: Charge ridiculous fees for everything. Make students pay $60 for registering. If they sign up less than a month away, make them pay an extra $30. Maybe they cancel; charge $25… or $35 if they do it last minute since they don’t have a choice. Oh look, they’re moving! Charge $25 since you must change their testing location. The overachiever wants a score report; charge $16, but don’t hand over the answers to the questions — only provide the question’s concept and if they got it right or wrong (that gives them too much bang for their buck). Do they want the report sooner? That’s another $31. Let’s say a student suspects their score is incorrect and wants it graded manually; that’s another easy $55 in your pocket (“SAT Test Fees”). Remember, you also monopolized the advanced placement classes. You must profit from this somehow, so have students take an end-of-year exam for $98. If they’re outside of the United States, make them pay $128 to $146 (since shipping paper costs a lot these days). Oh no, the student didn’t sign up for the exam in time! They better learn their lesson, so charge them an extra $40. A high schooler doesn’t show up for their exam (how irresponsible!); tack on $40 since you already printed it out (“AP Exam Fees”). Let’s not forget about your financial aid forms that hundreds of colleges now require. Even though sending these forms to colleges costs next to nothing, make families pay $25 to send their forms to one school and then $16 for each additional college after that (“What is the Cost”). If you’re in this business, you must appreciate free money.
Step 4: License student data. IMPORTANT NOTE: you can’t sell student data (remember those pesky laws?) — you must license it. Have your PR team remind people of this difference and make it sound like selling and licensing are two very different things. Perhaps your spokesperson will claim, “A license is not a transfer of ownership but rather a right to use, under tightly controlled circumstances” (DeGeurin). What circumstances, might you ask? Great question! Don’t say that the only difference is that you decide what information to send, because that communication is way too transparent for your blissfully ignorant customers. Make sure you only provide a range of standardized testing scores so it looks like the information you provide is vague and not too personal. In reality, you will provide each student’s name, race, parents’ education, and range of PSAT or SAT scores, all at 47 cents per student (Belkin). In theory, a college could search for white female students who play golf on the West Coast, scored 1300 to 1400 on the SAT, have an interest in medicine, and whose parents did not attend college. Colleges, universities, and scholarship programs love this data, so over 1,900 will purchase 2-2.5 million names each year, making you upwards of $120,000 (Belkin). You might wonder: why do colleges really want this data? By using it, schools can market to students who will likely apply but will unlikely get admitted. Why would they do that? Here’s why: after rejecting the weaker applicants, the college can advertise a lower acceptance rate, making them appear more prestigious to students and parents (DeGeurin). Slimy? Sure. Profitable for you and the colleges? Definitely.
Step 5: Take full advantage of grant money. You’re a 501(c)(3) not-for-profit organization, which means you have a lot of opportunities for free money, especially from the government. Beg the United States government to cover your inflated exam fees for the underprivileged. Congratulations! You’ll receive $90 million and you can advertise that you’re dedicated to “equity” in education. Ask around for another $10 million in public money and get an additional $5 to $6 million in direct government funding every single year. Obviously, you don’t need the funding since you’ll make $500 million in yearly revenue from your advanced placement courses alone, but again, don’t turn down free cash (Dorman). All in all, government grants will make up 18% of your total revenue — that’s a decent chunk of money given that your total revenue will be $1.1 billion. However, you don’t want the public getting suspicious, so let’s bring the PR team back and say that this money is “minimal compared to [our] operating revenue” (Dorman). In other words, the $900 million you’ll make is minimal compared to the $200 million of free money you will receive. While the spokesperson is here, have them re-emphasize that your “revenue is reinvested into fee waivers and in programs that expand educational opportunities for all students” (Paterno). That’s not a lie since you will cover fees for underserved communities, but luckily you already received $100 million from the government and other organizations for this purpose. Throw in an extra $29 million (or about 2.6% of your total revenue) to make yourself look good (Paterno). In the end, you’ll claim you “open the doors of college to a much broader range of students,” but you will do nearly all of it with someone else’s money (College Board Foundation).
Step 6: Multiply your profits by siphoning money out of the United States and investing it in the stock market in the Caribbean. You’re a nonprofit, which means you don’t have the burden of taxes in the United States for your revenue. However, if you invest in the United States, the greedy government will steal a hefty percentage of your hard-earned profits. Even though they’ll subsidize you, don’t return the favor! Instead, siphon $162 million into the stock market in the Caribbean where there are no taxes for investment profits. Buy into some more successful hedge funds and confidential investors, and you’ll quintuple $135 million into a whopping $675 million in only four years. In addition to the Caribbean, keep some secret funds in bank accounts on the African island of Mauritius; you’ll never know when you may need it (Paterno). Since this cash is offshore, don’t tell anyone about the specifics — the IRS can be nosy. Instead of putting this money towards promoting education in the U.S., pay your hardworking CEO $1.8 million and your industrious President $1 million; after all, they deserve it more than the struggling students and underpaid teachers. Heck, fly the whole executive team first class everywhere — you have the money! (Paterno).
By now, you will have successfully profited off high school students. By collecting their information when signing up for standardized testing or advanced placement courses, they’ll believe they have a better chance at going to college, but in actuality, you’re giving them false hope at top schools — you don’t care, though, since you’re making money from it. You can make more money by accepting generous funding from China so they can influence certain parts of your curriculum, but we don’t have time to get into that (Peterson). The point is that there are many more money-making tactics, even if the public believes they’re unethical. If you have any questions, reach us via email and we might get back to you in 5-7 business days — we don’t waste too much money on customer support.
Works Cited
“AP Exam Fees – AP Central | College Board.” AP Central, https://apcentral.collegeboard.org/exam-administration-ordering-scores/ordering-fees/exam-fees. Accessed 12 March 2024.
Belkin, Douglas. “For Sale: SAT-Takers’ Names. Colleges Buy Student Data and Boost Exclusivity.” The Wall Street Journal, 5 November 2019, https://www.wsj.com/articles/for-sale-sat-takers-names-colleges-buy-student-data-and-boost-exclusivity-11572976621. Accessed 12 March 2024.
“COE – College Enrollment Rates.” National Center for Education Statistics, https://nces.ed.gov/programs/coe/indicator/cpb/college-enrollment-rate. Accessed 12 March 2024.
College Board Careers: Make a Difference, https://careers.collegeboard.org/. Accessed 12 March 2024.
College Board Foundation | Home, https://foundation.collegeboard.org/. Accessed 12 March 2024.
DeGeurin, Mack. “College Board Gives SAT Student Data to Colleges to Reject Students.” Business Insider, 6 November 2019, https://www.businessinsider.com/college-board-sat-student-data-colleges-to-reject-students-admissions-2019-11. Accessed 12 March 2024.
Dorman, John L. “College Board Rakes in Cash With AP Exams. but Do Students Benefit?” Business Insider, 19 November 2023, https://www.businessinsider.com/ap-exams-college-board-taxpayers-college-prep-millions-test-fees-2023-11. Accessed 12 March 2024.
“Federal Trade Commission Act Section 5: Unfair or Deceptive Acts or Practices.” Federal Reserve Board, 11 March 2004, https://www.federalreserve.gov/boarddocs/supmanual/cch/ftca.pdf. Accessed 12 March 2024.
Heimbach, Alex. “Which States Require the SAT? Complete List.” PrepScholar Blog, https://blog.prepscholar.com/which-states-require-the-sat. Accessed 12 March 2024.
Higgins, Lori. “Michigan to dump ACT for SAT as high school requirement.” Detroit Free Press, 7 January 2015, https://www.freep.com/story/news/local/michigan/2015/01/07/michigan-replaces-act-sat/21385299/. Accessed 12 March 2024.
Kerr, Emma, and Sarah Wood. “Everything You Need to Know to Complete the CSS Profile.” USNews.com, https://www.usnews.com/education/best-colleges/paying-for-college/articles/everything-you-need-to-know-to-complete-the-css-profile. Accessed 12 March 2024.
Paterno, Susan. Forbes, 3 June 2009, https://www.forbes.com/sites/susanpaterno/2021/05/21/dropping-sat-wont-diminish-college-board-clout/?sh=2f9d97813cd5. Accessed 12 March 2024.
Peterson, Rachelle. NAS, 3 June 2009, https://www.nas.org/reports/corrupting-the-college-board/full-report. Accessed 12 March 2024.
“SAT Test Fees – SAT Suite of Assessments | College Board.” SAT Suite of Assessments, https://satsuite.collegeboard.org/sat/registration/fees-refunds/test-fees. Accessed 12 March 2024.
“Statewide AP Credit Policies – Reports | College Board.” College Board Report, https://reports.collegeboard.org/ap-program-results/statewide-credit-policies. Accessed 12 March 2024.
“What is the cost of the CSS Profile? – CSS Profile | College Board.” CSS Profile, https://cssprofile.collegeboard.org/help-center/what-cost-css-profile. Accessed 12 March 2024.
Procrastination
Home – Chloe Fox
Mo Zheng
Oh, procrastination, my faithful friend,
I’ll start my work, but let me just pretend,
I exist in a land, where time stretches endlessly,
Oh, what a delight, with traces of effort out of my sight,
I’ll put it off until tomorrow night.
The to-do list grows, and the deadlines loom,
But Netflix calls, and so does my bedroom,
To begin my labor now, is a time too soon,
I’ll work on it later, I promise, I swear,
As I gradually lose myself in the digital lair.
So the days turn to weeks, the weeks to months,
My productivity tanks, my deadline confronts.
Hastily, wracking my brain,
Submitting work that sounds insane,
Envisioning the zero, destroying my grades with the brutality of Nero,
I wallow in pain, as my parents’ look of disdain,
Render myself with I to blame.
Yet, despite the grief and sorrow,
There’s always hope, for there’s another tomorrow.
The Duality of Strength
Go Fish – Henry Zhang
Mo Zheng
The concept of origins relating to roots has always seemed backward. While the “roots” of a person might mean their starting point, the roots of a tree are complex pathways that, in reality, branch out from the seed. Being a traveler and a foreigner my whole life, I was, ironically, foreign to the concept of home. Our family traveled from China, Canada, the United States, and different cities (Leshan, Toronto, Central, Greenville, and Raleigh) and states (Sichuan, Ontario, South Carolina, Washington, and North Carolina). Although there are infinitely different pathways or locations I can steer from in my current state of life, I can always trace back to my seed. If my life is a timeline, my grandpa defines my starting point, my home.
He was a splendid musician. As a violinist, the more I advanced in the field of music, the more I appreciated my grandfather’s musical talents. Most times, while we bustled about in our apartment in the city of Leshan, Sichuan, he hummed a plethora of tunes, spreading his joy along with others in the family. He also played the violin at a young age, but his music influenced me through this ancient Chinese instrument called Er Hu. Like the violin, it utilizes a bow gliding between its strings, producing colorful, vibrant music. Unlike the modern violin, this instrument had a humble two strings, only half compared to the four violin strings. Regardless, the four seasons materialized in the room whenever he set hands on the Er Hu. From the sweet, gentle, and blossoming tunes of spring to the sharp, burning, and fiery orchestras of summer, only two strings captured and conveyed them all. I froze in awe, ensnared by the nets of music reverberating throughout the room. Unlike the separateness of Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons,” the music my grandpa created finely interweaved all the seasons. The memory of his daily routine—leisurely playing with his beloved Er Hu—will never leave my mind.
Apart from his musicality, my grandpa showed the true meaning of strength. On the surface, like the stereotypical definition of strength, my grandpa was extremely built, even at his age of past seventy. Though not very tall, he had a huge frame–accentuated by my perspective as a small child–because of his earlier years of training with weights. Although past his prime, it was as if Godzilla swung its massive arms or took monstrous steps whenever my grandpa moved. However, there was gentleness infused in his strength. His presence compelled authority and respect wherever he went, but it also left room for kindness. His physique led to my passion for lifting as I grew older because I desired his strength and his figure. I found solace whenever I pushed myself on every rep of an exercise at the gym, knowing I was one step closer to my grandpa’s strength. However, while people only saw the surface of strength, my grandpa possessed the entire ocean. His true strength was one of which I was completely unaware of in my childhood, yet inspires me forevermore.
My grandpa had suffered from Parkinson’s disease since I was born. Upon diagnosis, this insidious disease brings the inevitability of pain and suffering. Yet, in my early childhood memories with my grandpa, I never noticed one moment in which he seemed resentful or affected by his disease. I can only recall feeling joy in the time spent with him, from shopping together at the neighborhood market to the long walks throughout Leshan, Sichuan. At the crack of dawn, we wolfed down some simple bread and xian cai, meaning “salty vegetables,” which were essentially pickled cabbages sliced into strips. My taste buds grew a mind of their own when coming into contact with the xian cai, immediately salivating at that distinct, spicy flare. During the afternoon, my family and I wandered among the hectic but lively streets of Leshan, watching hordes of people swarm popular restaurants and flea markets like a swarm of starving mosquitoes. The melting pot of aromas in the air greeted my nose with the exotic spices and mouth-watering dishes exuding irresistible smells. At night, we soaked up the festive atmosphere of the nightly collective street dances, consisting of many elderly and children. Old-fashioned songs played by the speakers blended in with the odd noises of the streets diffused throughout the atmosphere. It certainly was a joyous time of my childhood, when I felt at “home,” and when the worries and stresses of life had not yet grasped me in their palms. Now a popular tourist destination due to the giant Buddha carved upon the side of a mountain, Leshan was my earliest “home.”
While my family and I were walking through the streets of Leshan, one peculiar but persistent memory kept nagging at my mind:
“Swing your arms,” my grandmother chided my grandpa. “Keep them swinging.”
I kept asking myself the question, Why such a random phrase? As a side effect of Parkinson’s, my grandpa could not naturally swing his arms due to the loss of motor functions. People with this disease experience the degradation of the substantia nigra, an integral part of the brain that controls these involuntary movements. At the time, my family had kept me shrouded in darkness in light of my grandpa’s disease. Although my grandma was only correcting my grandpa, secretly admired his uncontrollable quirk. It made my grandpa special compared with other people, from adults to children.
He had both arms fixated at his side, not moving one inch as he traveled through the streets and parks. People in society may look down on or ridicule this odd habit; nevertheless, I interpreted this action as how my grandpa held or composed himself. When a person walks, their arms involuntarily swing with their body. If the path of a walk represented the journey one undertakes during a lifetime, the constantly moving and shifting of the arms symbolized the unpredictability and inevitability of change. One day, a new concern or worry may materialize. Swinging to the next, an accident or a missed deadline could occur. However, my grandpa’s fixated, motionless arms set him apart from others. His unique walking motion represented stability, as he only took persistent, steady steps. I even purposefully copied this movement, as I saw him as my role model for my ideals in life. I wanted that steadiness–that unwavering poise–as life continues. As life slaps one upside the head with Parkinson’s disease, many may collapse or mourn. Instead, my grandpa “faced it all”, and still “stood tall”, and did it “his way” (just like the Frank Sinatra song “My Way”).
My grandpa passed away last year. To this day, I have not shed a single tear out of sadness. Although I am still unsure if this was an unnatural reaction, I know I loved and respected him. I also know that he can finally be at ease without worrying about showing his struggles. Overall, my gratefulness overtook any room for sadness. My grandpa showed me what true strength and resilience were. He can face an inevitable, overpowering enemy waking up every day, yet he has the strength for spending time with his family with a face full of happiness. To this day, he still resides in my internal engine, my heart, not only as a figure who has shown me the secrets of strength and resilience but also as someone who brings me the idea of home, wherever I travel in the infinite pathways of the roots of life.
The Accident
Hazel – Maddy Artinger
Luke Thomann
I felt like jumping off. Death is better than the stomach-dropping, astral projecting, gut-scrambling 208-foot drop on the Raging Bull. As I gawped at my surroundings, time seemed distorted, stretching and warping, elongating each moment into an eternity of apprehension. I couldn’t believe I was at the top of what looked like Mount Everest. Until suddenly, I felt it come out. It went all over my underwear. Humiliation washed all over me as reality set in.
It all started on the last day of school when my seven best friends and I planned a fun, beginning-of-summer outing together. I had just finished fifth grade and had a crippling case of FOMO, the fear of missing out. Thus, I agreed begrudgingly when my friends told me Six Flags was our destination. I had never been to Six Flags, let alone an amusement park besides Disney World. My history with rollercoasters was practically nonexistent; the only ride I had ever gone on was The Mad Tea Party since I cried out of It’s A Small World and the famous Navy Pier Ferris wheel. Equally important to my FOMO was my demobilizing fear of heights; I had avoided airplanes, bungee jumps, hot air balloons, helicopters, spiral staircases, mountains, skyscrapers, rock walls, ladders, pyramids, blimps, zip lines, ledges, and, most importantly, roller coasters, all my life. I had never told my friends about my acrophobia in case they thought less of me because of it. I believed they might call me names and drop me from the friend group if they found out.
Going into the day, I knew I had to suck it up. I needed an unfazed appearance despite the blood-curdling behemoths of rollercoasters if I wanted my secret to remain undiscovered. Convincing my friends of my fearlessness seemed like Mission Impossible. My friends were not some wannabe amateurs; these people were veterans of Six Flags rollercoaster riding. All my friends owned season tickets for Six Flags; they went at least ten to twenty times per summer. My peers knew every drop, every loop, every turn, and every track of every ride better than they knew the back of their hands. Then there was me, who quivered at the thought of climbing a 6-foot tree. I knew this was a long day in the making.
After an hour-and-a-half long car ride, we finally arrived at Six Flags. A whirlwind of stimuli overwhelmed me as I stepped out of the car and into the towering gates. Immediately, the Sun’s blinding, golden arms sucker-punched me, leaving me grasping for my sunglasses. Once I regained sight, I saw a kaleidoscope of vibrant pigments as the hulking roller coasters dominated the skyline. The rollercoasters’ tracks weaved a hypnotizing tapestry contrasting the canvas of a clear, baby-blue sky. Distant screams of debauchees intermingled with the buoyant melodies from various attractions, electrifying the air with palpable energy. The invigorating breeze carried the aroma of freshly popped buttery popcorn and sugary confections, prompting my stomach to rumble as if I hadn’t eaten in a millennia. Laughter and cheers echoed from every direction, creating an almost infectious feeling of joy.
My exuberant mood quickly vanished as my friends decided that our first ride of the day was the Raging Bull. My stomach plummeted, filled with a twisted knot of hopelessness and dread. My overwhelming sense of anxiety gripped my mind like a vice, eclipsing any feelings of glee. Suddenly, the air felt colder than it was, and a muted hue spray-painted the world around me. The Raging Bull was the tallest rollercoaster at Six Flags, and I grasped that making it out alive was impossible. Failing my mission seemed imminent.
I peered at the slender wait time sign when we arrived at the Raging Bull. I halted as the bold, illuminated numbers taunted me; the sign displayed the number ten. I was flabbergasted since a short wait time was unheard of at Six Flags.
“Why is the wait time absurdly short today?” I queried.
“The wait time typically ranges between an hour and two hours,” noted my friend, Izzy. “We got extremely lucky.“
“Are we sure we should start on this ride? It may make us sick for the rest of the day,” I posed. “Should we not save the best for last too?”
“The Raging Bull will get crowded later, so starting with it is the best use of our time,” declared Cassie, one of my other friends. “Now, let us go!”
My mind was erratic, like the Flash darting all over the place. As I freaked out, I tried maintaining a tranquil image and devising an escape plan. I feared that if I did not make a getaway, this might be the last time my friends ever hung out with me; too ashamed of associating with a loser. I floundered like a baby thrown into a pool, scrambling to stay afloat.
I felt a subtle dew on my neck that glistened like quartz upon my skin’s surface. The sweat culminated from the sweltering sun beating down on me and my skyrocketing anxiety levels. As I paced through the metal barriers and painted fences of the undulating, serpentine waiting line, the tiny droplets on my neck multiplied and united into rivulets that trickled all over my body. My clothes started clinging to my skin, becoming a second layer that absorbed my salty secretions. As I inched closer and closer to my final destination, the distant screams and rumbling roars of the rollercoaster intertwined with conversations of those eagerly awaiting their turn. Unlike others, I waited anxiously, knowing I might momentarily make a fool out of myself in front of my friends. My palms felt clammy, and my fingers uncontrollably fidgeted, seeking solace in small gestures. As I crept toward the end of the line, my eyes drew to the looming structure of the rollercoaster, its steel tracks spiraling and diving with menace and eeriness. My heart rate started quickening, with the imminent decision of whether or not to ride the rollercoaster daunting me. The mechanical clatter of the rollercoaster’s wheels screeching against the track constantly interrupted my thoughts, prohibiting me from choosing. Before I knew it, my friends and I reached the end of the line; we were boarding next. My anxiety came to a crescendo as my mind oscillated between fears of looking like a loser and qualms about the ride’s safety. Suddenly, I felt a harsh breeze brush my shoulder: my ride of doom had arrived.
The gates opened, and my inner thoughts were the only thing standing in the way of mounting that coaster. “I feel queasy and cannot ride!” I exclaimed. However, my friends ignored my request, and before I knew it, my friend Abbie grabbed my sweaty hand, pulling me onto the train. I resentfully plopped onto the worn-out leather seat beside Abbie and questioned my life decisions. I shifted uncomfortably as the thick, cool metal lap bar imprisoned me almost suffocatingly. I tried letting out a yelp, yet only air came out. I reached for a seatbelt or harness, but there was nothing. The lack of restraints on my upper body deeply perturbed me as only a mere bar on my legs protected me from falling off the high-velocity coaster. The neon worker talking on the intercom probably said something supportive and reassuring; however, my heart’s drumming in my chest drowned out his staticky voice. Suddenly, I lurched forward as the coaster came to life and embarked on its ascent.
A gentle climb up the 208-foot hill offered a panoramic view of the amusement park; however, I only saw an ebony abyss as nerves glued my eyelids shut. I tried imagining being in a car or bus instead of a cart heading toward heaven, but the clunky noise and movement of the rollercoaster prevented me. As the rollercoaster started slowing and the light chatter faded into silence, I knew we were creeping up to the edge of the chain hill. My stomach churned as my butterflies rapidly materialized, fluttering all around. I asked myself about the infinite what-if possibilities: What if I fell off? What if my sunglasses fell out of my hand’s clutch? What if I became paralyzed with fear? What if my friends judge me for looking like a chicken? Once the rollercoaster came to a complete stop, I knew I reached the top of the coaster. My curiosity got the best of me, yanking my eyes open. My senses heightened as I felt the vibrations of the car beneath me, the hum of the mechanisms, and the subtle swaying of the cart, all contributing to my uneasiness. I looked at the vast track in this tortuous ride and transformed into a pale ghost; everyone could see right through me. The track entailed lethal loops, detrimental drops, and tranquilizing turns without end. I did not feel like a raging bull but a tortoise, wanting to relinquish back into my shell. After what felt like a century, the train suddenly accelerated in a downward plunge.
My body jerked forward as the ride started, and it petrified me. I was so frightened that as the train started, a high-velocity atomic bomb dropped from my butthole. I unleashed a thunderous brrrrppp sound, along with a rotten egg-like fetor. I felt a moist substance smear all over my underwear as if Edvard Munch was painting The Scream using my panties as a canvas. As the poop left my body, so did my dignity. Unlike my heart, the ride did not stop; it kept going faster and faster. I no longer focused on the intense sensation of shame that recently washed over me; the ride distracted me from all of my qualms and humiliation. Thus, a new sensation glossed over my disgrace as the ride embarked on its colossal drop. I felt the wind whipping against my face and a sense of weightlessness pulling me from my seat. Adrenaline surged through my veins as if it were an electrical current. Previously, I associated adrenaline with fear and anxiety; this time, it aroused every sense in my body and electrified every fiber of my being. The epinephrine drove my fear into courage, calming every unease I formerly possessed.
For the rest of the ride, I screamed, not from fear but from the thrill and adventure of the attraction. The coaster pushed me to my limits, roaring through loops and curves, clattering on the tracks. Pure exhilaration washed over me with each rise, fall, inversion, and corkscrew. The ride ended as suddenly as it began, gliding to a gentle stop and leaving me with my heart racing, ears ringing, heavy breaths, and a disastrous hairdo.
After my friends and I got off the ride, my friends smelled my tiny accident. All the enjoyment abandoned my body. I apprehensively informed them about my defecation, and they started chuckling. Initially, I believed they were laughing at me, but I soon realized they were laughing with me.
“Are you all not embarrassed around me after finding out I am a wuss?” I questioned.
“We all knew you were terrified of heights, Luke. It was obvious,” admitted Abbie. “We just wanted a fun day with you!”
“And you all do not care that I took a fat one?” I asked.
“Nope, but go and clean up,” exclaimed Abbie. “We have many more rides to go on!”
WWDGD? (What would David Gring do?)
Toasted Thermal Heartbreak – Chloe Fox
Shea Baker
Before David Gring, boys were a predacious species I was afraid of. My once positive outlook of men shattered at the thought of the boys in my 8th-grade class. My grade consisted of typical immature jerks who found pleasure in mocking girls in avoidance of being perceived as a “simp.” These boys made me slowly and reluctantly lower my standards, making me normalize their douchebag behavior. That was until David Gring.
My sister Ashley started dating David during her senior year of high school. Although I was delighted my sister sparked an interest in a boy for the first time, I did not want her to get a boyfriend. After all, we had limited time living under the same roof, and David threatened Ashley’s and my precious quality time together before she left for college. This was a big deal to me. Despite our four-year age difference, Ashley and I are ridiculously close. The thought of Ashley leaving for college already upset me, as I feared it would tear our relationship apart. So, you can only imagine how thrilled I was about sharing her for the next eight months.
David, the first boyfriend introduced into the family, needed the approval of my brother, George, and my father. Thankfully for me, impressing my father is virtually impossible. Like many fathers, he holds expectations about boyfriends and their actions towards his three daughters. George, being in the grade below David, did not pose a major threat as an underclassman but still outwardly voiced his protectiveness over his older sister. Ashley valued both of their opinions when bringing David to our house for introduction and approval.
In preparation for David’s arrival, I contemplated all the possible outcomes. What if he refers to my father as Brian instead of Mr. Baker? Or doesnt shake his hand? Or maybe he will act like a stereotypical Ravenscroft asshole who thinks he owns the place. I heard the front door creak open and immediately hid behind my couch as “The Downfall of David Gring” commenced. But it wasn’t a downfall; he nailed everything. A firm handshake with my father, check. Such a handshake delivered with a sustained look directly in the eyes? Check. Warmly hugged my mother and gifted her flowers? Check and check. What the hell? Why is he doing everything perfectly? Little did I know, David dealt with his own handful of Ravenscroft douchebags as his older sister Katherine dated them. David learned from the mistakes made by the careless boys who dated his sister and used them to his advantage. As Ashley and David fled the kitchen, my parents reiterated how impressed they were. But I wouldn’t let him fool me; this could all be a facade. David Gring was going down.
Being the annoying yet determined younger sister, I didn’t let David’s successful first impression stop me. I didn’t want another roadblock in the way of making memories with Ashley, an already occupied high school student. My plan was quite simple: annoy the hell out of David until he broke up with my sister. Disrupting their time together challenged David’s relationship with Ashley, giving him a taste of his own medicine.
The next time David came over, I stealthily approached the doorway to our bonus room and patiently waited for the perfect opportunity before bursting in. At some point, I expected David to find the disruptions intolerable and break up with Ashley. But, to my surprise, David never turned me away or kicked me out. He asked about school and what I had been up to that day while sporadically throwing in his sarcastic jokes. He thinks this is funny, eh? Just wait, David, I am going to make your relationship with Ashley a living hell. But he didn’t mind my presence; he simply welcomed me in.
Around my 15th birthday, I had trouble with friend groups at school, fell into extremely bad habits, and started making several careless decisions. Typically, my mom or sisters gave me advice as they dealt with being a high school girl before. But I was sick of hearing ¨This too shall pass¨ from my mom; I needed real advice. So, I confided in Ashley, who coincidentally was with David most of the time. I didn’t mind David hearing intimate details about my life and, quite frankly, never thought he cared. That was until my 15th birthday. David gifted me a Vanderbilt (the college he attends) shirt and wrote me a letter. This letter changed my whole perspective of David.
First and foremost, the letter was handwritten. My mom always ingrained in me that handwritten notes make an exceptional impression. Her reasoning was that handwritten notes exert more energy than sending a friendly text, and she was right. In his letter, David offered his unsolicited advice on navigating the upper school, a new yet scary place I had entered a few months prior. He related to my situation and insisted that I texted him whenever I needed a third party’s opinion. Although I found his gesture kind, I doubted his relatability with superficial, mean girls. But as the year went on, I found myself asking him for more and more advice. David was right; he could relate. And we surprisingly had a lot in common. His thoughtful letter pivoted our relationship: David slowly transformed from my arch nemesis and competitor for Ashley’s time and affection into a reliable and trustworthy friend.
For David and Ashley’s two-year anniversary, David texted me requesting my assistance in preparing Ashley’s gift. He had plotted an elaborate surprise for Ashley involving a customized painting easel. His creative idea was not only functional but super thoughtful. For some context, Ashley had a challenging first year at college and dealt with severe homesickness, feeding her anxious tendencies. Sitting on the beach and painting was the only activity that shifted her mind off missing home. This gift allowed for convenient art therapy, equipping her with paint supplies whenever she had a rough patch.
That day, David and I ventured to Walgreens, printing out several photos that summarized the evolution of their relationship. After picking up the images, David insisted on getting Ashley flowers. As we were driving, I questioned David’s directional awareness.
“David, why don’t we get flowers from Harris Teeter across the street?” I asked.
“I want to pick them from the garden in my backyard. I know what she likes,” David explained.
David’s attention to detail struck me that day. The intentionality in hand-picking flowers from his backyard touched my heart, as he knew exactly what flowers and colors Ashley liked. We spent the rest of the day in Ashley’s room painting a canvas that said “Happy Two Years, Ashley!” in big bubble layers and covering the easel with photos. David and I took four hours perfecting the gift, laughing at the photos of Ashley and our terrible artistic skills while catching up on life. That was a good day.
That night, I sat hidden in her room, phone in hand, and captured the surprise moment on camera for David (who had work that night). David put endless thought into this gift without expecting any credit or boyfriend points. His selflessness spoke volumes about his character. He did not go above and beyond for praise or a reward; he did it because he cared.
Now, three years into their relationship, I don’t burst into the bonus room plotting their break up. I gently open the door, greet David (usually before Ashley, might I add), and ask him how he’s doing. I text him regularly about teachers who ask if he’s still dating my sister, and we laugh about stupid high school drama. He lets himself in through the front door and greets my parents the exact same way he did upon his first arrival.
But every time I invite a boy over to my house, my stomach drops at the thought of my family comparing them to David. Did he nail meeting the parents like David? Is he observant and considerate? Does he interact with and include my siblings?
David is the blueprint. Anything less than David is utterly unacceptable. And even if David and Ashley part ways one day, he won’t be the boy my sister dated; he will be the man who raised my standards back to their original state. To this day, Ashley, David, and I share laughs about my elaborate plan to sabotage their relationship. Who would have guessed the boy I feared might tear my sister and me apart, ultimately brought us closer together? Without knowing it, these minute yet powerful interactions with David slowly restored my faith in men. My standards that once seemed unrealistic aren’t anymore. David not only restored the bar for men in my life to live up to, but he also unknowingly raised it.