It is that time again, dear Ramaz family. It is the time Summer’s gentle caress perverts into Autumn’s biting blows, cruelly bringing in a new semester on her wings and your last year reading my glorious and extraordinarily important opinions. Yet as we amble forth, we inevitably gaze back (sometimes fondly, mostly not), reminiscing the road once traveled. It seems as if ‘twere yesterday (last year) when a star, nay a genius, was born as my ‘promising’ satirical career took off. But enough of this nostalgic stalling (I swear it will only get worse as my senior year progresses, and I apologize). My favorite fashion designer, Edna Mode, says, “I never look back, darling; it distracts from the now,” and that is exactly what I intend to do. I shall focus (to the best of my very poor ability to do so) on this upcoming turbulent school year and whatever changes come with it (and there is a big one).
Resolute in my newfound venture to pay more attention to whatever, I decided to pay a visit to school because, contrary to popular belief, I do not live there. It is libelously untrue. I am not a teacher. I have departed from that life. I was at school for an “optional” college workshop. As I strolled through the halls, with my head totally not in the clouds, seeking teachers to greet after a whole summer apart, I heard a noise, plane as day, that instilled the fear of God in me (no, it was not [insert any teacher’s name here] telling me to go to davening) and wrenched me out of my hazy stupor better than my alarm clock ever could.
To be quite frank, it is like being in an airport. Being in a family of five, I can confidently attest that nothing inspires terror quite like a family vacation. The rush to and in the airport is harrowingly fearsome. Despite arriving the mandatory three hours pre-departure, the almost Pavlovian fatherly response to the airport announcement bell–the neurotic jump to attention and the frantic familial hustling–is a familiar experience. And that chime is now practically identical to the new announcement ding-dong Ramaz installed. They want to engender the anxious airport feeling of getting through security and then hearing that you accidentally left a child behind at check-in, Mom…. Whenever they call me to the office over the loudspeaker, I am not going to know if I am in trouble, or if my seat got upgraded from those horribly uncomfortable blue chairs (although knowing myself and the principle of parsimony, but mostly knowing myself, I suspect it might always be the former). Will I finally be moved up to first class, despite not donating the required funds, or will I get chewed out for failing to pull down my Ramaz Skirt™ after it “accidentally” got caught in my leggings post-bathroom trip? Will they tell me my group is boarding, or will they tell me what room to go for my grade assembly? As I take off with spirit, dear Ramaz family, the question I wish to leave you grappling with is: once you have heard it, do you think the new PA chime lands?
