I hate driving, but Hanover makes me crave the peace of life behind the wheel. I spent interim chauffeuring my little sister to and from middle school. I listened to her chatter while methodically navigating the pothole-ridden roads of Connecticut suburbia, dodging protruding mailboxes and the high school track team and women in their 60s walking dogs too close to the middle of the road. The rides were amusing; I had forgotten how uniquely excruciating life as a seventh-grade girl is.
My sister went on and on: about the chorus teacher feuding with the English teacher over play rehearsal schedules, about Max getting a week of in-school suspension for chucking his Chromebook out the bus window, about Katie being in love with Tommy — except my sister is convinced Tommy likes her instead because he keeps pulling her hair in Social Studies and laughing when she whips her head around to catch him. Tommy’s friends emailed my sister asking for her phone number so they could give it to him. She wasn’t sure how to respond, or how to bring this up to Katie.
These are all fake names, of course. I can’t embarrass my little sister in case Katie and Tommy somehow stumble upon this editor’s note. Hi, Scotts Ridge Middle School students!
It’s been a long time since my own contact information was the subject of middle school politics. Back in my day — yawn — we’d text on Google Hangouts during class. It was a constant barrage of messages: I forgot to finish my project on francophone countries, Kiera got new white Converse, Mrs. Tangney is pregnant with her seventh baby, meet me in the second floor bathroom before English and bring your new Victoria’s Secret lotion. One of my best friends started dating a boy in our pre-algebra class. I sent him screenshots of engagement rings. I was an annoying seventh grader.
Now, I’m deeply afraid of being annoying, or an inconvenience, or too much of anything. This is why I despise driving. The student pickup lane at SRMS is chaos. The clock strikes 2:50 p.m. and suddenly I’m dueling Ridgefield’s grandpas and soccer moms and “Please Be Patient”-bumper-sticker-wielding 16-year-olds for a spot near the front of the line. I don’t delude myself into thinking I have a strong resolve in these situations; I politely wave cars to go in front of me while I wither away at the back of the line. By 3:05 p.m., my sister is blowing up my phone: I’m awful for making her wait so long, she’s basically the last kid left, I need to get over myself and grow a goddamn spine.
How does one begin to grow a spine? I certainly sprout one in pitch-black basements when a frat brother waves his arm too wildly and dumps Keystone on my friend’s head, or keeps stomping on her foot and she’s too shy to say anything. The men around me don’t seem to be afraid to take up space. To be frank, I don’t often move through life at Dartmouth aspiring to behave more like its men, but perhaps this is an exception. But it’s not just men that possess the self-assurance I covet. I envy girls sitting on the Green alone reading “Anna Karenina,” busy actually reading instead of nervously glancing around to see if anyone’s watching. I envy the tops of silent heads in the Tower Room that don’t raise to meet my eyes because they’re so transfixed by their assignments while I can’t bring my eyes to focus on my computer screen. I envy bodies sprinting on treadmills around me as I methodically walk through another round of 12-3-30. My AirPods are in but silent since I’m scared everyone around me knows that I don’t belong there because I’m not really a gym girlie, not like that.
Life has moved on from the melodrama of 2017, but the jumbled emotions linger. My best friend didn’t marry pre-algebra boy, but I stalk her situationships for her, creeping through their tagged photos on Instagram because they have zero posts, analyzing the fish they hold up and the straight faces they put on for the camera. The Cucumber Melon lotion didn’t heal the roughness of my hands in seventh grade, brought on by a brutal January frost and my strong aversion to gloves, but I methodically spray my hair with Vanilla Rebel perfume every morning before I head to class. Buying shiny new white high-top Converse didn’t convince Kiera to invite me to her disco skate birthday party, but I clank through 4FB in my squeaky platform Mary Janes, desperate to find an empty seat so I can pretend to read “Sense and Sensibility” while resisting the urge to scroll on Depop. My hands shook as I stood at the front of the classroom and blabbered about Belgique in incoherent French, and they shake just the same as I blindly change lanes on I-91 as I make my way back to Hanover to once again supposedly reinvent myself over the course of 10 weeks.
This week in Mirror, we embrace who we are and who we’ve been. One writer reflects on his final First-Year Trips experience. Our relationship column offers advice on beginning a new relationship with an acquaintance. Our upperclassmen Mirror staff members give advice to our incoming class of writers.
I’m 20 going on 13, still uneasy behind the wheel, still uneasy about who I am. There’s no point in being overly self-critical; I don’t need to change everything about myself anytime I feel restless, stagnant, boring. I know this, and yet I don’t put the knowledge into practice. I’ve maintained a juvenile queasiness in my own skin.
Still, maybe there’s value in the small consistencies. At least I’m the kind of girl who thoroughly vets her friends’ romantic partners because she cares about their happiness. At least I’m the kind of friend who confronts men for making someone uncomfortable. At least I’m the kind of sister who shows up in the pickup line, even if I’m late, even if my hands are trembling on the wheel. Maybe that counts for something, Mirror.
Aditi Gupta ’27 is a Mirror editor from Ridgefield, Conn. She is majoring in Biology with minors in Global Health and English. On campus, she spends most of her time working in a cell biology lab. She hopes to pursue a career that integrates her love for scientific research with her broader academic interests in health and literature.
