Something about my daily routine tells me that senioritis is hitting. It started right after we got back from Winter Break. It’s not second semester yet, but I act like it is. I haven’t gotten into a college of my choice yet, but I act like I have. Yet, by all practical definitions, I have senioritis. I’m not suffering and I hope that I won’t. Second semester is only a few days away, which is a nostalgic and bittersweet thought.

David Kim, a former valedictorian of Great Neck South, described his experiences with senioritis as intensifying during his senior year, not developing during senior year. It’s been a few years since he’s posted this on Facebook somewhere; however, it’s an interesting thought that’s always struck me as a thought-provoking. I’ve debated this in my head several times ever since I first read it. Well, anyway, how do we classify senioritis? Is laziness the only criteria for senioritis? You see, I always thought of it as more than just that. Senioritis is characterized by the lack of motivation and effort that seniors show. This is evident by the lower grades, tardiness and absences of the seniors. Technically, senioritis is not synonymous with laziness, but rather, laziness is just a symptom of senioritis. Perhaps, the Facebook post needs to be edited – just slightly.

After getting home from swim practice, I jump onto my bed and hid under my blanket and set my little Netflix watching station. My sister complimented me on its ingenuity, and she never compliments me on anything. So, it’s a big deal when she does. Anyway, I have this bookshelf-stopper-like thing that locks my phone from sliding. It puts my phone at a perfect angle for me to watch it while having my back reclined against the wall. After an episode or two on Netflix, I grab a bowl of cereal and orange juice. For the last two weeks, I’ve been watching several episodes of Grey’s Anatomy a night (it’s actually kind of unhealthy). I always tell myself just one more – and one more after that – and I’ll shower, eat, or do homework. Not surprisingly, my homework isn’t done until the period before it’s due. Thankfully, my grades haven’t really responded negatively to my lack of motivation and lack of effort.

I’ve always been lazy, but I’ve managed so far. At some point, I know it’s going to haunt me. TV represents fiction, but multiple producers and directors paint pictures of all sorts of things. Grey’s Anatomy, the show I’ve been streaming for a while now (I don’t know why, but I’ve been marathon-ing Shonda Rhimes’ works), highlights the extreme work schedules of surgical interns and residents. It’s insane! To be frank, I probably couldn’t handle the sheer workload and intensity of their work schedules. I know somewhere in my reserves I’m capable of diligence and dedication; I know this because I have used my reserves for swimming and Quiz Bowl. And, my mother always believed that if I worked nearly as hard as I do for swimming and Quiz Bowl, I would be valedictorian. Pfft, yeah right! Nevertheless, the point and message is clear: I need to work harder in everything I do because I am capable of greatness.

Do I have senioritis? I’m not sure. I tell everybody I do. It’s like when I tell everyone I’m six feet tall, but I’m actually a quarter inch shorter. My lack of motivation and lack of effort is definitely apparent, my laziness is apparent; however, I don’t think I have senioritis and I’m not in denial. For now, I’ll simply think of it as laziness, a terrible and terrifying habit that I have yet to break.

 

Dear Chinua Achebe,

            Things Fall Apart sounds like a gloomy way to grab a reader’s attention. The title seems so daunting and radiates negative energy. Yet, in a way, it makes you really wonder. What falls apart? What are the “things”? Why did they fall apart? Even a short title can wreak havoc within a mind that’s still free to roam. But after reading your novel, Things Fall Apart, I began to truly grasp the subtle messages that you had left behind. I read the novel shortly after finishing a first-year, introductory Global History course where we had briefly touched upon African colonialism by European empires. However, no textbook reveals the African tribal groups’ point of views and struggles. Things Fall Apart not only showed the struggles of African tribal groups during the colonial period, but also elicited the internal conflicts within a single member and within a group.

            I appreciated your novel because it provided me with an interesting narrative about the struggles of the African tribal groups   . My freshman year Global History course taught me the facts about African colonialism (i.e. many European nations colonizing and claiming control of different regions in Africa). Our approach to the unit was more holistic and covered the global perspective of colonialism; however, we never looked at narratives by African tribal groups. Perhaps there were few that are readily available. Although your novel is a work of fiction, it appears to be an accurate reflection of the time period. The second part of the novel focuses more heavily on Umuofia after a Christian influence has developed during Okonkwo’s seven-year exile. In the end, Okonkwo’s traditional upbringing and values finally results in his suicide. When I compare your novel to the accounts of American colonist, I notice that the cultural values had a larger impact on Okonkwo than it did on American colonists. It’s no secret that people want their own freedom. Okonkwo’s response to change seems fairly typical especially because he believes that the system was working.

            I feel like I can empathize with Nwoye in many ways. Okonkwo fears that Nwoye will be like Unoka, he fears that Nwoye will not succeed because he doesn’t show the dedication and diligence necessary in the tribal group to prosper. My father fears that I will follow a similar path. Both of my parents immigrated to America as teenagers; they’ve struggled and fought the language barrier and cultural barrier to provide me with a comfortable living style, a comfortable home environment. They fear that the comfort that they’ve been able to provide has made me (my sister, me, and our generation) complacent. Like Okonkwo, they worked hard for years to define their reputation (albeit for different reasons). Although I sense disappointment when my parents interact with me, I haven’t lost faith in my parents and my parents haven’t lost all faith in me, yet. Another way I empathize with Nwoye is through a similar attitude to assimilation. Nwoye accepts the Christian influence, something that differs from the religious beliefs of tribal groups. I’ve accepted and identify myself as a mix of Chinese and American cultures. However, I recognize that I’m beginning to distant myself from my ancestry. It’s unintentional. Unfortunately, I’ve begun to lose touch with my roots and many of the principles that I follow tend to fall on the opposite side of the cultural spectrum in relation to the Chinese culture.

            Things Fall Apart changed my perspective when facing hardship. Okonkwo’s final decision was desperate; even though suicide was a sin in his culture, Okonkwo struggled to live with the adapting world. The Chinese culture is centered on a belief that venerating and honoring elders (living and deceased) is critical to success. One way to continue honoring your family is by following family traditions. I understand where Okonkwo is coming from; however, after reading your novel, I’ve become wary about my willingness to hold onto certain traditions. The world we live in today requires people to be adaptive and be willing to accept change. When there’s a readily available stream of “new” technology, an inability to adapt results in internal chaos and a feeling of disgust. And with suicide being a problem, recognizing that a solution that is so final should not be an option that’s brought to the table often.

            After my freshman year of high school, a senior that I really admired was reading your novel and recommended it to me. I read your novel and I really admired and appreciated it. Reading Things Fall Apart was out of my comfort zone, and I was ready to expand my reading habits into a more mature setting and a wider variety of themes.

Sincerely,

Christopher Zheng

             

            

"One story says that a man at this location said, "Come out, you old rat!"" My thumb triggered the red button, attacking it as if it were small prey roaming the savannahs, while my other fingers lined up perfectly with the finger grip provided on the black "ring-in device". I felt the adrenaline rushing through my veins right in the middle of a History Bowl game - a game where one might play against future valedictorians, Ivy League graduates, and Mensa members. At the time, I was still relatively new to buzzing. Yet, as a freshman, I was in the Sewall-Belmont House in Washington D.C. competing at the National Championship.

Almost three years later, I still participate in History Bowl - currently preparing for a fourth straight National Championship berth even though I have not been able to attend the last two. History Bowl, a derivative of Quiz Bowl, has been rewarding because it provides opportunities to meet quirky personalities and allows me to reinvigorate a previously lost interest in reading within me. I'm surrounded by people who think reading is defined by the assigned words in class materials or people's social media updates. It's toxic. And, it's contagious! Somehow, my personal investment in Quiz Bowl and History Bowl kept me quarantined from such an outrageous epidemic. However, History Bowl's greatest influence was creating a thirst for knowledge, regardless of its triviality. Many Quiz Bowl and History Bowl enthusiasts try to make it clear that the knowledge one needs to know to succeed in Quiz Bowl is different from trivia. I did not care about the distinction; I cared that I learned unusual facts about a wide spectrum of topics.Who knew James Garfield provided a unique proof of the Pythagorean Theorem while a U.S. Congressman? It was interesting and that's all that matters.

My eighth-grade social studies teacher was an avid fan of Fareed Zakaria's The Post-American World. (He wasn't the only one; President Obama was photographed reading this book prior to his election in 2008). I was part of a self-select social studies honors program in eighth grade, which challenged students to reading and writing about advanced texts. Reading The Post-American World was influential for the following two reasons: my teacher finally learned my name and I developed an interest in global affairs. More importantly, my teacher helped me set sail on a long journey toward pursuing law.

Mr. Zakaria focuses onto an idea that developed several years before he published his novel: the rise of economies in developing countries. Although I was years from understanding basic economic principles, I understood the need for politicians to recognize the changing world. Specifically, Mr. Zakaria mentions the absurd growth of the Chinese economy - the country my ancestors call home - and its potential to start the "post-American" world order. My heritage and cultural identity stem from the crossroads of two eras in modern history - the American global order and the "post-American" world order. Although I've assimilated within the American culture, I'm tightly clinging onto a final thread of the Chinese culture: language. As a result, I embody that crossroad and being proficient in English and Chinese - while learning other languages - has served me well in past, present, and future.

My interest in The Post-American World made me more interested in the relationships between countries. Before I knew it, I was constantly checking the "World" tab under the CNN and The New York Times websites. My parents criticized me for pursuing intellectual thoughts beyond my next graded assessment, for "learning more about nothing." However, History Bowl gave me my excuse to learn more about nothing and I abused that excuse.

In case you were wondering, the location was Fort Ticonderoga. Ethan Allen of the Green Mountain Boys purportedly said "come out, you old rat" to Captain William Delaplace of the British Royal Army at Fort Ticonderoga moments before seizing the fort from British control.

            “CITYYYYY!!”

            “SOUTHHHHH!!”

            The screams echoed throughout the pool at Great Neck South Middle School. The warm, musty air has nowhere to escape. The entire area reeks of chlorine. This was it. The final home meet of the swim season was here. The one that the Nassau County swimming community would not stop talking about; the one that Newsday was ready for; the one that I was swimming in. At each of the prior meets, the other team wished us good luck in our clash with the other titans, Garden City.

            We were huddled together in the locker room. Why are thirty guys in Speedo swimsuits huddled so closely together? As we waited for our coach, a small chitchat buzzed around the room. Many side conversations started to build up, but the whispers were obvious. Are we going to win? Is this the meet that we finally lose after all these years? What’s happening?

            My coach walks through the door and authoritatively shouts, “Shut the f*** up! You boys listen up. I’m tired of this s***. I’m tired of no one ever believing in us. WE ARE THE G-D DAMN FOUR-TIME INCUMBENT COUNTY CHAMPIONS!” My coach looked like a heart attack waiting to happen. I stared into my coach’s eye with fear. Goal accomplished. My hands were trembling so violently I had to sit on them to control it. My heart was pounding so loudly that my neighbor was making weird faces at me. I had no idea what to believe. Nevertheless, I wanted to believe my coach. I needed to believe my coach.

            “Event Number One: 200 Medley Relay. Swimmers step in,” the referee said. “Take your mark.” An uneasy pause filled the room as six swimmers moved into their ready position. Without much warning, the referee fired a loud gunshot which was quickly masked by the splashing and the screaming.

            “CITYYYYY!!!”

            “SOUTHHHH!!!”

            The two swim teams alternated chants throughout the meet. The referees warned both teams and both coaches to minimize the spirited chants. But, no one was ready to do that, yet. It wasn’t distracting the meet; what referee in his right mind would prevent teammates from cheering on their fellow teammates? Looking around, faces were red. No, they weren’t just red: THEY WERE RED!!!!!! People not even in the races were fighting to take a quick breath as if the entire pool area became an oxygen tank with little left.

            “Alright boys, let’s pack it in. This is event twelve coming right up. We are TIED. Now I can proudly say we gave it all we had, but we still have two more races. You hear that boys? TWO MORE RACES! TWO MORE OPPORTUNITIES TO WIN THIS F****** MEET! DON’T LET THEM WALK IN HERE, OUR HOME POOL, WITH THAT ATTITUDE. DON’T LET THEM ACT LIKE THEY ARE THE KINGS IN HERE! BECAUSE, THAT’S US! THE REBELS OWN THIS POOL, YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!?!?!? COME ON,” my coach screamed. I know it’s bad to stare, but all I could pay attention were the veins bulging out of his neck and arm with each syllable he had forced out of him.

            “CITYYYYY!!!”

            “SOUTHHHH!!!”

            The last time I heard alternating cheers like that we knew we had lost. It came down to one thing: a touch at the wall. It was done. 93 – 92, Garden City. The streak was over. Five years since we last lost a meet. And just like that, the dynasty, the Golden Age was over.