My family is an Illini family through and through. 5/5 members are alumni, currently enrolled, or are headed off to Champaign in a couple of months (that’s me!). Not only is my immediate family orange and blue, but a large majority of my extended family are also- including all of my parents’ siblings and their spouses (my aunts and uncles), with the exception of one. On top of that, I have grown up with a lot of my parents’ friends from college, and their kids were my very first friends. If

This picture was taken when my sister was a senior at NNHS and had just committed to UIUC!

you couldn’t guess, they all go to UIUC as well, with the exception of one who goes to Purdue. “Illini fate” is the term we use for it, as it has always seemed like the natural path my life would take. So naturally, I pushed against it for a while.

Nobody ever expressly told me that I would be headed to UIUC, and my parents never dressed me in “future Illini” onesies when I was a baby. For a family that has such strong connections to the orange and blue campus, we really have a lack of pride. It’s not like the movies, where the kid is trapped because their parent is forcing their alma mater down their throats as the singular option in life. It felt more like a nicely paved path, headed into the peaceful sunset (with Champaign as the sunset, of course). But for a while, I was convinced that I was different. As my brother, sister, and friends headed into the sunset, I felt like I should turn around. There is this spreadsheet that my sister had made for me when I was a freshman, of the statistics and requirements of the schools I was going to apply to. On that list were schools like LSU, University of Florida, JMU, University of Virginia, the Ohio State University, and other far reaches from what became my actual list. The moral of the story is: I really did not think I was going to UIUC. So, when the time for applications rolled around this past fall, I put my hopes into other schools, like Indiana University and Pepperdine. Pepperdine is really the one that got away. Ugh. It still makes my heart hurt a little

 bit, and for a minute there I really thought I was going to become a Wave. In case you’ve never heard of or visited the school, it is BEAUTIFUl. A far cry from the Midwestern cornfields, it is located in Malibu, in the Santa Monica Mountains that overlook the Pacific Ocean. It is the most beautiful campus you can imagine. All the dorms circle around the main valley, where the heart of the campus lies. I thought I was over it, but writing about it is bringing up repressed emotions. 

In the back of my head, I guess a little voice always knew I was going to end up in Champaign. As a person, I am not really the most spontaneous or risk-taking, and it really just made sense that I would follow in the footsteps of my family. The school is great (especially for my major), I live in Illinois (obviously), and I would already know people on campus. Still, I was convinced I was different. But, it wasn’t until I was sitting in Gia Mia, decision update notification in my hand that I realized I could get rejected, and that I would be so lucky to get to become an Illini. 

At the end of the day, going to UIUC was an opportunity I could not pass up, especially because the education and program I am to enter is a really good one. I am so grateful to be headed to Champaign this fall, and I cannot wait! Though I always saw having my siblings there and so many of my family-friends on campus as a bad thing, I

 have realized that it will only add to the experience and a sense of relief in knowing I alrea

dy have a little piece of home. Right off the bat, I will always have a ride home, and many apartments that I can go to if I ever need non-dorm food. In particular, my sister could not be more thrilled that I will be joining her next year, and she already has a list of places she wants me to go with her and people she wants me to meet. I may not have escaped my Illini fate, but maybe it’s called ‘fate’ for a good reason!

A couple months ago, I wrote a blog called “The Worst Trip”, which detailed the time my brother filled my family’s car with diesel during our cross-country road trip, causing us to be stranded on a Las Vegas highway. That trip has lived in infamy for years because it was truly the worst trip I have ever been on, and I never thought it would be dethroned. Until now. 

My family used to live in Seattle, so every couple years we go back. We moved when I was really young, so I’ve never really felt a pull to the Pacific Northwest, but my dad and siblings absolutely love it. So, when my dad had a work conference in Seattle that just so happened to coincide with my siblings’ spring break, it seemed too perfect to pass up (I really only went because I did not want to go to school). The trip began surprisingly smooth, as TSA is usually horrific when my brother and sister are involved. Our plane flew out March 11th, and we arrived in rainy Seattle a couple hours later. My dad was already in the city, so he picked us up from the airport in our rental car- a gray Chrysler Pacifica. All was well, and we headed to the I-District (or so they called it, I have no idea) for dinner. We had a grand ol’ time, and as we were walking across the street to where we parked, all I could hear was a lady yelling “IS THIS YOUR CAR?” and my sister gasping. And there it was- our middle passenger window smashed and three backpacks gone (mine, my sister’s, and my dad’s). I honestly could not believe my eyes, and the lady with bright 

pink hair continued to yell and shove her phone at us, telling us that the cops were being a word I cannot type here, and that we need to talk to him. She and her husband were residents of the nearby apartment complex, and she was witness to the carjacking, but there were no license plates on the car that broke into ours. As my dad talked to the police, the lady told me about her cat litter! A very strange series of events, and my head was spinning. PSA:

Driving down the highway with a busted, crumbling window is really an experience. 

We got to the hotel we were staying at, and everything kind of started to sink in. When I pack, I only put clothes in my suitcase so everything else is in my backpack. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad for me (except for the fact my wallet was stolen), but for my sister and dad, it was kind of devastating. My sister is a nursing student at UIUC, and her IPad with all her notes was stolen, as well as her wallet. But, all of my dad’s life work- including all his written notes, ideas, and electronic files on his computer, were just gone on top of his medications, flash drives, and books he had gotten from the conference (as I think it was some sort of writing/author summit?). Not good. But, as we were leaving the car to go inside the hotel, we found a QFC receipt that the carjackers had accidentally left behind, which is the Seattle equivalent of Jewel Osco. When we showed the officer who came to take our case, he laughed. 

It was a wild night, but my dad was determined to fulfill the purpose of our Seattle trip and go down memory lane. The next day, we got another rental car, and headed off. We visited the EEU (the University of Washington’s Experimental Education Unit), which was our first preschool, Discovery Beach (our favorite place when we were little), and drove past all four houses we used to live in. We also visited old friends, all of whom told us their own personal Seattle horror stories, which included carjackings, car thefts, and arson. The guy at Apple also told us how his car was stolen and how he was attacked when walking to Target. Wild times.

The next day, we went on a little hike that we used to do, went up the Space Needle, visited Pike’s Place to see the throwing of fish, went on a ferry to Bainbridge Island, drove to Queen Anne to see the city view, and then met up with MORE old friends. Also, when we got back to our car from the ferry, the car we parked next to had their windows smashed through. Seattle is a very interesting place!

The day after that was our last, and it was time to head home. But, traveling with two missing IDs is very difficult. My sister and I were each taken individually by TSA agents to answer questions about ourselves, which was a very nerve-wracking and time consuming process. I thought I had failed when I couldn’t remember my family’s home phone number (which was disconnected when I was five), but somehow, we made it through! We did end up missing our flight, but we were able to connect through Denver. The very next day, I was at school.

Overall, the trip was very memorable and we did a lot, but it definitely takes the cake for the worst trip. I think part of it was also that the grayness of Seattle constantly made me sleepy, but having our stuff stolen added to my bad mood. I am glad I got to see all our old family friends and breathe the salty pacific northwest air, but I would take a car full of diesel all over again. In conclusion, (1) I do not think I particularly like Seattle, (2) I will ALWAYS take my wallet with me even if I think everything is fine, and (3) I will always put my backpack in the trunk.

If you have read my previous blog posts, you should know that seemingly, the nexus of my high school experience was joining swim my freshman year- “the worst and best sport”. Accordingly, it was the worst decision ever, but somehow also the best one, because it led me to an amazing trip to Florida on a random weekend last February. 

The plans for this trip began last November, when we bought our Southwest tickets on Travel Tuesday (an occasion following Black Friday that I didn’t even know existed). I remember back then telling Jordyn that our trip was so far away, to which she responded “it’ll come faster than you think”. As always, she was right! In the blink of an eye, it was February 16th, and I was driving myself and Evette home following the fourth period so that we could finish packing and get ready to leave. Maizy’s mom drove us to the airport, we (as in Maizy) checked in her massive suitcase, and off we went! Going through TSA with Jordyn, Maisy and Evette really made me realize that the airport is not as difficult as I thought it was, as I am accustomed to the chaos my brother usually ensues when he somehow forgets the liquids limit, or that he has to have his pockets empty, etc.. At 4:30, we were boarded and ready to go! I sat next to Evette on the ride there- a mostly peaceful experience with a bout of turbulence that made Jordyn freak out. 

The first night was very domestic, as we got to the house, swam a little bit, and ate a multitude of food. We had McDonalds, soup, Mac and Cheese- we were really living life. We also decided which rooms we were going to have for the trip, which is a very precarious situation for us. The issue stands: Jordyn needs absolute silence when she sleeps, and Maizy snores. So, Maizy and Evette were in the room across the hall, and Jordyn and I were in the other. Spending every day, all day with somebody really teaches you a lot, and the main things I learned about Jordyn are that she and I are both quite messy, and that she sleeps like she is DEAD. No wonder she needs absolute silence, because SHE is absolutely silent. She would fall asleep in a matter of minutes, and I was constantly worried that she was not breathing. 

All that aside, the next day (as all the days were) was very laid back. We went shopping, went back to the house, swam a little bit more in the 85 degree weather, changed into nicer clothes, and went to a sushi restaurant Maizy had made a reservation at. But this was no ordinary sushi restaurant- the music was dialed up to 100, the DJ was having the time of his life, literal sparklers were going off, and we could not hear one another whatsoever. Every time our waiter checked up on us, he would look at us, give us a thumbs up, and we would give a thumbs up back. Turns out he didn’t even speak English

, but we chalked it up to the music being really loud. We then went and explored Naples’ famous fifth avenue, which is truly the fanciest place I have ever been; Bentleys as far as the eye could see, dresses and suits for miles. 

On Saturday, we went to the farmer’s market, where I had the most amazing olive, beignet, and crab cake. We also ran into a Naples resident who was from Medina, Illinois, and had friends

 with him from Naperville. The world is truly a small place sometimes! We went back to the house, swam a little, and then changed into our nicest attire for Jordan and Evette’s birthday dinner. We ate at a place called Verginia, which was a fancy restaurant in the front, with a dance floor and DJ in the back- a common Floridian theme we were beginning to pick up on. Sunday was a picturesque day, the epitome of a Florida trip. We went to a European brunch place, and then took our co

olers and towels to the Naples beach, where we spent the rest of our day. Evette and I dug a heart out of sand, and we stayed for the sunset. It doesn’t sound like we really did much, but I guess that’s what it’s all about!

Sadly, we left Florida on Monday, and flew back home. On this flight, I sat by Jordyn because Maizy ‘wanted to sleep on the plane but if she sat next to Jordyn she wouldn’t be able to’ . Another thing about Jordyn- she’s terrified of air-

planes, so I held her hand and talked to her practically the whole flight. We also made a new friend, Greyson from Omaha, who communicated with us with his ipad through the crack of his seat. 

Really, it was the best time, and we made so many memories that I will hold onto as we soon part ways and start our new lives! It’s kind of weird (we know), but we call ourselves the Quadruplets, and the Quadruplets taking on Florida was a time I will remember forever as a highlight of my senior year- the best trip, with truly the best people.  

The poem “O Captain! My Captain!” by Walt Whitman is a fascinating poem to break down in attempts to gain full meaning, because on the surface level, the wording and content is not necessarily difficult to understand. Unlike in Emily Dickinson’s works, there does not seem to be an enigmatic “it”, and unlike E.E. Cummings, Whitman (for the most part) adheres to conventional English literary standards. Upon a first read, I had interpreted the poem to be more like a eulogy- the remembrance of a successful life that is intertwined in the mournful sadness of grief. The beginning lines of the stanzas would begin jubilantly, and then suddenly take a sorrowful turn where the lines visually are shifted to the right. It would be simple to see the poem as a collection of happy-then-sad, but there are numerous clear and distinctive stylistic choices Whitman made that make his work more difficult to understand- highlighting an underlying meaning a quick primary read skips over.

Upon a second read, I began to pick up on certain literary devices that indicated a much bigger meaning than I had originally thought. First, I noticed that not all sentences begin with a capitalized letter, but the “captain” was always spelled with a capital “C”. For example, the very first line of the poem states, “O Captain! my 

Captain! our fearful trip is done”. Clearly, “captain ” is always capitalized, but “my ” and “our’ is lowercase even though it follows an exclamation point. I began to notice a pattern- following every exclamation point, the next word is lowercase. This is observable in line five which says “But O heart! heart! heart!”, and line nine that states “O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells”. Whitman clearly constructed these lines with a lack of capitalization in mind, to draw attention to a certain concept. Through the dismissal of this standard English literary convention, Whitman portrays the stark contrast between celebrat

ion and tragedy that is observable through the meaning of the words themselves. The entire poem is a juxtaposition; a jubilant occasion in conflict with the sudden catastrophe of death, which is perpetuated through Whitman’s use of capitalization. 

Furthermore, there is also an obvious and visually notable shift in the poem that again seems to convey the stark contrast between triumph and woe. Each stanza is made up of eight lines, the first four formatted normally, but the last four indented so that they sit shifted

 to the right. I think this reinforces, in a much more obvious way, the concept of a jubilant moment gone tragic. The beginning four lines of the first stanza depict ringing church bells and high amounts of excitement, but as the boat approaches, things take a sharp turn when the Captain is on the dock of the boat, dead.

Another thing I noticed in my re-reading of Whitman’s poem was his deliberate choice in words, pointing to the ultimate backstory of his work. If I have learned anything about poetry this past month, I have learned that EVERYTHING means something. There is no word that is not an intentional, carefully considered choice. So, when the joyful tone is developed utilized with phrases such as “the bells I hear, the people, the people all exulting” (line 3), “for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills” (line 10), “the swaying mass, their eager faces turning” (line 12), I realized that there is something much deeper than just happiness. When I first read the poem, these lines made me think of a celebration, but my second read made me realize how massive and ‘war-like’ the celebration really was. It was reminiscent of pictures and videos I had seen in APUSH; of soldiers returning home to packed train stations- the flag raised high and bells ringing all around in a moment of national pride and unity. 

So, all of this combined (and my reading on Walt Whitman that helped me understand he was a very patriotic poet, as seen through other poems such as “I Hear America Singing”), I was able to piece together that Whitman had encapsulated Abraham Linconn’s sudden death following the end of the American Civil War. Every aspect of the poem’s ‘solution ‘ then made sense to me (in a very Perrine-esque way!)- the emphasis on such a massive celebration, abruptly ended by the Captain’s death, displayed through capitalization, shifts in stanza lines, and commemorative diction. Upon first reading, I thought that this poem was simply about a sea captain who dies following a successful journey/life, but through these literary devices that added to the difficulty of the piece, I was able to understand the full backstory.

It was the second day of freshman year, first-period Algebra/Geometry. We had been seated alphabetically, so I was sitting next to somebody new. Mrs. Roesler asked us to open our notebooks so she could check our homework when my blond desk partner exclaimed, “Oh, shoot! I forgot!”. So, like the seating chart buddy I was, I gave her the homework from the previous day. Who would’ve thought that four years later I would be sitting in Panera right now, next to the same girl. 

Us Freshman Year!

Since that day, Jordyn Marla Cleary and I have become friends. She no longer asks me for the homework she forgot, but she does ask me to go off campus for lunch. Looking back, much of my high school experience has been tied to her, and I would not be the same person had she not asked me for those homework answers. It was in Mrs. Roesler’s pairings that she mentioned Student Government to me, and it was her company (among our other friends’) that made swimming so much more enjoyable. To be honest, I have very limited memories of freshman year, but what I do remember is completing our first FERP together, campaigning for Student Government together, and when she kindly comforted me when I was crying because I had quit swimming halfway through my event at a meet (the most embarrassing moment of my life). At that moment she definitely thought I was an emotional psycho, but thanks be to god that she was kind enough to see past it. I also remember our tradition of going to breakfast on late arrivals on the birthday weeks of our swim friends- something we still do today. 

Junior year is what I personally think of as our paleozoic period (I don’t remember anything about sophomore year); an explosion of memories and time spent together. We carpooled together, with Maizy, every morning. Each night we would claim a day to drive, and the next morning at 6:15 we would be on our way to fifth avenue. I cannot count how many Starbucks/Dunkin runs we made, and all the songs we sang and gas we burned. These mornings on fifth, what woudlv’e been a miserable time, were made better through their company and something I will always remember as a huge part of my junior year. On top of that, we had Spanish, Junior PE Leadership and lunch (because of Student Government) together. Looking back, we were very

 disruptive in Spanish (sorry Sra. Ulrich!) and didn’t really speak in the class’s language often, but it was still a good time. One of my favorite moments has to be when I got Jordyn a saxygram for Valentine’s Day, or when she got a spray tan and combed all of her hair over her face so nobody could see. Once it is time to put all of my memories on paper, they all seem to leave my head, but I think this because I have so many small, micro-moments stored from these mornings and classes that I don’t know where to start. These are the moments, however, that make my memories of high school a little less stressful and blue, and a little more golden. Ten years from now, I know that I will look back on these times as some of my most carefree and happy. 

The summer between junior and senior year was spent with a lot of time in conjunction; between

us collecting leaves!

swimming at Steeple Run, all of the nights we spent watching movies and tv shows in my basement, when we went to New Buffalo and Lolla, and all of the lunches and dinners we had. To me, it was so classically summer, leading up to all the endings our senior year was yet to bring. Obviously the pages are still being written and our final year in high school is wrapping up rapidly, but there is still so much to look forwards to. I am so excited to see where the Evans Scholar (CONGRATS!!!!!) decides to send her, and if it all works out so that we can also spend our college years together. It is crazy for me to think that she was the person I cried to during that horrible swim meet, and now she will be one of the people I cry about most if we have to split ways. So, if you’re reading this Jordyn, thank you for everything and for sharing enough life with me that I am able to write an entire 700-word blog about you!

My last first semester of high school has definitely been a difficult one. Originally, I had my schedule planned so that I would have the easiest year possible, but in the hopes that one of my friends and I would have all the same classes, my Senior Foods got switched to a Research and Design, and my Blended Honors Senior Rhetoric became an AP Literature. All that, and we got absolutely no classes together (I really do not know how that is possible, especially because we both had to have early dismissal and fifth-period lunch for Student Government). 

I have grown greatly this past semester because I was pushed far out of my comfort zone. A lot of my classes, especially Research and Design and BusinessINCubator are heavily group-project based, and being in a class where I had no friends forced me to meet new people. I am also somewhat of a textbook learner in that I usually do much better when I am tested on something that I read in the textbook the night before, making projects to build pinhole cameras out of wood difficult for me. However, I feel that I have learned a lot more about myself this year and my ability to problem-solve. I have learned how to use power tools, 

My pinhole camera! It is very ugly but It worked!

give business pitches, derive functions and how to make sense of streams of consciousness, teaching me how to do things I never thought I would have to- expanding my schema of what it means to learn beyond the words of a textbook. Growing past the type of education I was so used to has made every accomplishment so much more rewarding, and I feel much more proud of every milestone I was able to achieve. That a-ha moment when Vardaman’s fixation on fish and vultures makes sense, or when my pinhole project is light-tight and able to take a clear photo are truly some of the highlights of my educational career. Though it has been an unexpectedly very difficult semester, I have found it to be one of the most rewarding because I have had to work a little bit harder for everything. 

I know that everybody says that junior year is the hardest of high school, but I have found senior year to feel the longest and most arduous. This can probably be accredited to the fact that the end to my 12+ years spent in a District 203 classroom is coming to an end. The anticipation of college decisions and graduation also scare me greatly, making me want to skip to the next chapter so I don’t have to wait anymore. Unlike a lot of my friends who have had dream colleges since Kindergarten and have always known what profession they want to get into, I have always been unsure. My entire family (my brother, sister, mom, dad, and all

My UIUC siblings! Go Illini!

aunts/uncles on both sides) have gone to UIUC, so when I am asked where I want to go, I often just say Champaign because it is the easiest. But, if the college-application process has taught me anything, it is that there are so many incredible schools out there, and a place out of Illinois exists, and I need to consider all my options. Although UIUC is still an amazing school that I would be truly privileged to attend (and I am definitely not ruling out), I also need to consider all choices so that I have no regrets. So, my advice is in a time of making huge, life-changing decisions, make sure each one is for yourself. 

The last six months have taught me that sometimes the harder path is the more rewarding one, and that big life choices are ones that I can’t feel forced into. These are both lessons I have taken away from the first semester that I will carry into the second and the rest of my life, as the beginning of my next chapter has only just started. I have also learned many other smaller lessons, such as I will not miss swimming, how to quit a job, ice skating is not bad, and to put an Airtag on my wallet so that I don’t lose it (or my connected keys) for a month, have to cancel all my family’s credit cards and order a new driver’s license only for the tennis team to find it on the Huskie bus. So, even though the first semester ha s been a hard one, it deserves a big thank-you for all these lessons, the big and the small, all things I will carry into whatever comes next. 

One day after school, I was scrolling through my TikTok feed, when I came across a video asking the question: “What could you give a 40-minute presentation on with absolutely no preparation?”. This video really got me wondering what topics do I know enough about and am passionate enough about to give a full monologue on? So, for my last blog, I thought I would deviate from my narrative stories a little bit and write on a topic that I could talk forever (a speech that I have given to my family many, many times)- the importance of Botox, and its impact on society. 

Most people would never willingly put a deadly poison into their bodies. However, the injection of botulism toxin, a bacterial neurotoxin that, in its natural form, is a lethal substance, has become the most popular cosmetic procedure in the United States, under its more well-recognized and much less intimidating name: Botox. During World War II, it was even rumored that Germany was prepared to use botulinum toxin as a biological weapon, which is a very dark history for a product millions of people use. Annually, Botox sales reach into the billions, because of its famous ability to smooth complexions, reflective of its obvious cultural impact. But, it is more than just cosmetics- it is a revolutionary treatment that has helped patients in many ways, such as migraine and phantom pain relief, and many urinary issues, among many other applications. 

To explore the science behind the product a little bit, Botox is from Clostridium Botulinum, a bacteria with properties that are able to cause paralysis in the human body, which botulinum toxin can be derived from. The Botulism toxin operates by stopping the release of acetylcholine, halting muscle activity by blocking this neurotransmitter. That is how the product Botox smooths wrinkles; by paralyzing them away temporarily, also allowing it to paralyze muscles and treat spasms, giving it numerous medical applications.

The impact of Botox has reached into all of our lives, in some ways more obvious than others. It has shifted the way we take care of ourselves and changed the ways of popular culture, mass media, and the world’s beauty standards as a whole, promoting the prevention of aging. However, its purpose has extended into usage well beyond these bounds, and into arenas such as health, wellness and the economy, which is why it has been so important to society. 

Health and wellness, a person’s holistic state of well-being physically, socially and mentally, is a subject in which the usage of Botox has impacted greatly. Botox can greatly improve an individual’s health and quality of life, especially for people who struggle with different chronic ailments and disorders, including blepharospasm, hair loss, excessive sweating, cervical dystonia, muscle spasms, and cerebral palsy. These are just a couple of the utilizations Botox has, providing a medical basis for the usefulness of the injection. 

Furthermore, Botox has massively impacted the economy, stimulating a new and booming industry that is continually progressing. Botox has left a clear mark in culture and the way we take care of ourselves and present ourselves, but it has also paved the pathway towards growing the cosmetic procedure and osteopathic fields. Osteopathic medicine is a more holistic approach to medicine that can help their patients manage chronic pain. The field has experienced exponential growth in the past decades, and is one of the fastest-growing medical fields. Its growth is parallel to the popularity of Botox. Botox is known as somewhat of a “beginner” cosmetic procedure, along with lip injections and filler, because it is non-invasive and non-surgical, making it easy for osteopathic practices to use and market, simultaneously increasing the popularity of botox and osteopathy. Similarly, the cosmetic procedure industry has experienced astronomical growth, which can be greatly credited to the increased usage of Botox. The product draws in a large number of consumers each year because it is such a normalized, non-invasive procedure, making it a well-known and trusted treatment with high amounts of effectiveness. Botox not only has cultural and medical benefits, but has also fostered growth in the economy and built massive industries.

So, now you have it- the importance of Botox, and its importance in modern society, a subject I find absolutely fascinating. This blog definitely comes off a lot like a Botox ad, but there are also a lot of downsides to the usage of the product, relating to an unrealistic standard of beauty and affiliated problems. But, the downsides of Botox is another 40-minute presentation for another day, but the effect the product has had is undeniable. Its impact extends far beyond its plastic surgery fountain-of-youth reputation; it has single-handedly grown both the cosmetic and osteopathic markets, and revolutionized culture and mass media, truly changing the world, one injection at a time. 

My family has always been a big fan of road trips. I’m not really sure why or how we decided that vehicular travel was our preferred mode of vacation, but I think it has something to do with how frequently we went and visited our family in Virginia and Boston, and that constant airfare expenses were not ideal on the salaries of two students, one getting their masters and the other their Ph.D. However, the thing about road trips is that they are awful at the moment, but they make for really good memories. It seems to be that the worse the road trip, the more I remember it. 

I’ve been to countless places via road trip. When I say that my family drives everywhere, I mean it. Texas, Georgia, Alabama, Massachusetts, Washington, Washington D.C., Colorado, Montana- the list continues to grow. However, the craziest and most memorable trip was the second 30-hour drive to Buena Park, California, to visit my grandmother. For some reason, my parents had decided to do it non-stop. I made this journey twice, once with just my parents in May 2020 and again a couple months later with my parents and siblings. To be honest, I don’t really remember much from the first trip. It’s mostly a blur of books, TV shows, food, rest stops, and my back hurting. The second time around is when things took an interesting turn. 

The ride there was uneventful, just way more cramped in our old minivan due to the added presence of my siblings, Jonathan and Sarah. The infamous ride back started on December 30th, 2020, two days

 before New Year’s Day. It started normally, but sometime around 2 A.M, about two hours outside of Las Vegas, our car started to shudder and make a really weird sound. Our red Honda Odyssey slowly came to a stop in the highway median, where we were stranded, when a state trooper kindly came and helped us call a tow truck. Waiting in the car for the next couple of hours, stranded in what was basically the desert of Nevada, felt unreal. What happened, you ask? My brother put diesel in the car. 

Thanks to the kindness of the tow truck driver, who let us all in the truck cabin despite COVID policy, we made our way to a small town (I have no idea what its name was) and parked outside of the auto repair shop. At this point, it was probably 4:30, and the only place to go to the bathroom was the sketchiest 24 hour casino I could have ever imagined. I try to block it out of my memory, but the smell and the squish of the carpet are permanent remainders in my brain. To fast-forward, we somehow got our car fixed (thank goodness the auto shop was open on New Year’s Eve), slept in a hotel for a couple of hours, and then were on our merry way. And so the story continues, with about 22 hours left until we were home, when things seemed to go wrong yet again. The whole point of leaving December 30th was to miss this large snowstorm, and because of the diesel mishap, we were right in it, plowing through the Rocky Mountains with only one headlight (one went out somewhere in Utah), driving at probably only 25 miles an hour. But somehow, we made it home safe and sound, and that was the last big road trip

the five of us took. 

The moral of the story is: do not put diesel in the car, because if you do, you’ll be stranded in the desert of Nevada, forced to celebrate New Year’s in the backseat of a minivan. However, I also think that through this experience, I left with an understanding and greater appreciation of the value of life’s moments, all the highs and the lows.  Road trips were always something that I complained about when I was younger, but now I realize that hours spent in an airport pale in my memory compared to the time a bull charged at our car, all the hours I spent playing car games squished between my cousins’ car seats, or the sight of tunnels opening to mountain ranges, or looking up at the brightest stars I’ve ever seen. Don’t get me wrong, I would still much prefer flying to California, but I would also never want to take back the time I’ve spent driving to those places with my family, because it gave me so many memories, all the good and all the bad. 

I never really liked my name. “Joanna” always just felt dated, and I hated how choppy the syllables were. I hated its affiliation to a certain fabric and craft store, making me feel about twenty years older. For the longest time, I was jealous of my sister’s prettier, flowier name “Sarah”, and I even lied to my kindergarten class, telling them that my real name was actually “Lily”. Even though it was not my choice the six letters of my name and its three syllables hold the essence of who I am and convey the person I have become. However, it was the shorter versions of my name that truly carry the story of my life, marked by the people who have taught me the lessons that make me the person I am today. 

For as long as I could remember, I’ve been called nicknames by my family. “Jojo” was the very first one, and in every home family video, there is a smiling, crawling Jojo. Not Joanna; strictly Jojo. I was around five when I realized that the nickname meant that I was Jojo Cho, and a change was needed. So, to this day, the only people that call me that name are my family, but when they do it, I don’t mind. It brings back memories of running through my grandparents’ old dry cleaning store, them calling for me in 

their heavy Korean accents so I could help make hangers, making my name sound more like “Cho-do”. It reminds me of the way they would teach me to phonetically write my name in Korean, the way my dad would tuck me in at night after work, or playing hide-and-seek with my siblings. So, in a way, Jojo is the very first version of me She was the young girl who learned what love was, and the importance of family. She is the girl with short hair and awful bangs who learned what hard work and selflessness was from the examples of her family, and what it means to sacrifice and to have ambition. 

This is a picture of me and Naomi (she’s wearing the top hat!)

For the latter part of my life,“Jo” was the appropriate nickname. Short and easy- it’s what all of my friends and family-friends call me. Most people still use the abbreviation today, and it is what I respondto on a daily basis. It marked a new era of my life, one that was dominated by friends, school, and laughter. As much as my family has formed me into the person I am today, the friends that I have made along the way are also fundamental parts of me. The nickname first originated sometime in elementary school, when my friend Naomi decided that “Jo” suited me much better. We went to church together, so naturally, everybody at church began to call me Jo. These were the people I really grew up with and experienced life with- the slew of my church friends that I’ve known ever since I was a toddler. Together, we read books, went trick-or-treating, organized secret santas, celebrated birthdays, saw movies, went to each other’s band/

orchestra concerts, went to prom, celebrated graduations, and waved goodbye as college finally separated us. The people who call me Jo are the first people I drove when I got my license and the first I call in crises. They have seen me through my highest and lowest moments, and are the ones who taught me that friendship means sticking with your people through the thick and thin, no matter what life throws at you. 

It’s oddly categorical, how I organize the people in my life according to what they call me. Anybody who calls me Jojo is my family, Jo is for my friends, and Joanna is a formality reserved for everybody else. All in all, my name isn’t my favorite thing and it probably never will be. But, I’ve grown to appreciate the life it’s led me through so far, all the people I’ve met and all the lessons I have learned. These shorter versions of my name represent people who have taught me to love and persevere, synonymous with family dinners and late night drives. They are all people who form the person I am today, and the nickname they call me signifies the stake they have in my life. So, though my name is not what I would have chosen for myself, each era in my life is marked by a different nickname,  making me who I am today, which is something that I love and would never change. 

When my siblings and I were little, we tried out a bunch of sports. For my brother, baseball was what stuck and my sister ended up with soccer. As for me, I ended up choosing swimming as my sport, which seemed like a small decision at the time but has ultimately become one of my most formative.

It all began one summer, when my mom decided to sign Jonathan, Sarah, and I up for our neighborhood swim team. At the age of seven, I became an official Huntington Estates Seahawk. I don’t have that many memories from back then- it’s all a blur of water, sunshine, awful tan lines, tents, and late-night swim meets. I wasn’t great at the sport, but I wasn’t too bad. Mainly, I liked it because there was no pressure of playing on a team.

So, after many summers of swimming, I decided to join a club team. That is when things definitely took a turn. I had no friends on the new team, and I left every practice exhausted and discouraged. The saying that ‘there’s no crying in baseball’ definitely was not a universal sports adage. Every practice and every meet, the racking anxiety that I was embarrassingly slow took hold, thus teaching me what panic attacks were. But, I also learned what it meant to not be the best at everything, and the value in persistence. Even though being last was, and still is, the worst feeling in the world, it taught me to better regulate my emotions and pushed me to do things I was uncomfortable with, humbling my expectations while teaching me that my self-worth was not tied to being the best. 

I trudged on through my anxiety, feeling as though I needed to do a sport simply because both my siblings did a sport. Somehow, I made it to the summer before my freshman year of high school, when I decided that I would join the swim team, which has proven to be a conversely horrible and incredible decision. On the negative side, balancing academics, extracurriculars, and athletics on top of my family life was a struggle. Early mornings andlate nights dedicated to the pool were extremely time-consuming and tiring. There is nothing better than falling into bed after an especially difficult practice, but this is not feasible when homework and studying need to be done. Pre-meet anxiety was still ever-present, especially because the events at the high-school level are often longer and thus more difficult. The fear of being last and forever embarrassing myself is constant, especially because it still happens quite often (again, I wouldn’t consider myself great at the sport).

But above all, swimming is cold, especially when it is 5:30 in the morning. I would wake up cold, get into the freezing pool, get back into the freezing pool hours later, and sometimes walk outside in the cold. There were many mornings when I would wonder why I picked swimming, internally yell at my parent for not putting me in dance, and question if I would ever be warm again (admittedly very dramatic, but it feels very valid at the moment). 

But, through all these negatives, choosing to swim is perhaps one of the best decisions I made in high school, because I met the people who would become some of my best friends. It all started on day one of practice freshman year. I was put into lane twelve with a bunch of other freshman girls, and we all had one thing in common- we were cold and tired. We ended up spending a lot of time together, and by the end of freshman year, a little group had formed. As the years and the swim seasons went by, my little group was refined to a pack of four. Looking back on these past couple of years, I have an endless amount of memories in the pool and outside of it. There was that time we snuck goldfish to our lane and smacked the entire practice, all the meets we spent freaking out, the time we poured water 

 on our heads so our moms thought we went to practice, or our senior relay that we swam in matching fish caps. There were other times when our swim friend group ventured outside the aquatic arena, eating birthday breakfasts and fifth-period lunches, or the times we spent taking trips to places like New Buffalo and Springfield. One time, we even got within six feet of Dua Lipa. And the strangest part is, I can accredit all of that to swim, something that I don’t even like. The best way to describe it is that we hated it, but we hated it together, which is what originally bonded us. 

To me, swimming is synonymous with tears, cold, and anxiety. But, if I could go back I wouldn’t change my decision because it is also synonymous with early mornings on fifth avenue, late-night movies the Sugar Factory, and so, so much laughter. The people that I have met are the first ones I text when something exciting happens, and have become some of my favorite people in the world. So, even though I dislike the sport, it deserves a heartfelt thank you, for teaching me perseverance and giving me some of my best friends.