by Justin Miller
 

When I graduated from the Bromfield School on June 2, 2006, I barely had any time to look back. None in my class did. Between my 87 classmates and myself, there was probably a maximum of five of us who shed a tear. Even fewer of us actually listened to what was being said during the ceremony, as we were still bitter that we did not have the privilege of being on the town Common for our last moments as high schoolers.

The Bromfield school. (Courtesy photo)

Perhaps the moment that most revealed the class of 2006 wanting to launch itself into its collective future was in our singing of the Beach Boys hit, “Wouldn’t It Be Nice?” Believe it or not, we did practice this song many times before singing it on stage. Yet, even with the lyrics in hand, we somehow managed to turn the moment from one of solemn thoughtfulness to all-out hilarity.

In a class meeting earlier in the week, Mr. Hoffman, one of our two advisors, hinted that we were not to run off the stage of the auditorium, due to the possibility of injury, and were to “walk” up the ramp into the lobby. Mr. Hoffman taught my class in seventh-grade social studies, possibly before our class started developing the reputation of doing (or not doing) whatever we wanted. Needless to say, we sprinted onto the ramp, and in a more extreme case, as illustrated by Christopher Payne, leapt from the stage. The future was waiting.

Despite my lack of true attention, I can still remember the last moments of my high school classmates together on the stage: Doocey getting every award and scholarship imaginable, seeing a rare-but-pleasant serious side to Nate, and everyone burning alive from the hot, sticky air that encompassed the stage. That pretty much sums it up.

Now, in my second year at St. Michael’s College in Colchester, Vt., I often find myself looking back, the thoughts of high school lingering in my mind. While I could never have picked a better place to continue my education after high school, nothing will ever compare to Bromfield. Despite the changes that were made to the school system while I was in it, some more negative than others, it was always a place I felt, and still do feel, very welcome.

In my college search, I discovered that all college pamphlets say the same thing. Something along the lines of: “Big school opportunity, small school attention . . . you’re not just a number, you’re a person.” After seeing this phrase or something similar to it in about 20 different college publications, I chose to ignore it. The education portion of college is simply earning a degree. The experience outside of education is what actually shapes the type of person you become and where you go in life. Although I never saw a pamphlet trying to get me to come to Bromfield, I think the same rules apply in high school. I could have gotten a high school diploma anywhere as long as I worked hard (sometimes) for four years. But in Harvard, you know everyone; everyone knows you. Most of my college friends find it phenomenal that I knew the names of all my high school classmates and, even more, knew what they were like.

I am probably the only person at St. Michael’s who gets seriously frustrated when a professor I had the previous semester does not remember my name and does not even turn to acknowledge me when passing by on campus. This has to stem from the circumstances which surrounded me at Bromfield. If Mr. DeGara was silent as he walked by me in the hallway any time during my high school career, I would have thought the world was ending. What would I be left thinking if Mr. Besold did not wave to me while standing outside his door in between periods? Even teachers I never had, like Ms. Deneen, knew my name and would say ‘hi’ when I walked by her classroom. So, how should I feel in college when a professor who saw me three times a week and gave me a grade at the end of the semester does not know my name and doesn’t even care to say ‘hello’ when we cross paths?

After thinking about this question over and over again in my dorm room, television on in the background, schoolwork piled up on my desk, I have finally come up with the answer. The problem isn’t them. It’s me. I was trying to block the reality that I must move on to another stage in my life; I have to acknowledge the fact that this world is made up of myself, along with seven billion other people, almost all of whom will never know my personality, or even just my name. I need to accept that not everyone is willing to bicker over the Red Sox and Yankees series, and not all math teachers are going to love talking about the Bruins.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Vermont and my school here—the overwhelming hippie mentality, the never-ending snowfall during the winter. But it isn’t Harvard, Massachusetts.

The main target of this article is the upperclassmen—the juniors and seniors—of the Bromfield School today. Don’t let your dreams take you too far from the present. Don’t let these shining moments of your life pass you by, and do not for one second think that you “can’t wait to get out of Bromfield.” Trust me, we all miss it. I am not saying that all of us graduates would instantly turn around if we got the chance, but after we left, I think we all realized what a special place it really is.

So, while you still have the chance, remind Mr. Hill that he is both the craziest and funniest person you ever met, and tell Mr. Jones and Mr. Besold how bad the Yankees really are. Sit in the fishbowl and talk about how awful your class is at doing anything and share thoughts on why one member in particular of the maintenance crew scares you the most. Trust me, it is hard being the only person in a class of 50 students who cannot keep a straight face whenever the word “chainsaw” is said.

Justin R. Miller is a 2006 graduate of the Bromfield School, and is currently a sophomore journalism major at St. Michael’s College in Colchester, Vt.