An Open Letter to Stuyvesant

Dear Stuyvesant,


I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but I love you. From walking through the bridge entrance on that very first day (after getting yelled at and kicked out by the security guards at the main entrance), to smiling through my tears as teachers assign my fifth project of the week, I have increasingly fallen in love with your broken escalators and unintelligible morning announcements.


Every day, you continue to shape me into a better person. I’ve become more dexterous as I delicately practice balancing a large hazelnut iced coffee from McDonald’s between my chemistry lab report and AP Euro review book. I’ve become more fit as I run up the broken seven-to-nine escalators, dodging the rolling backpacks and PDA. I’ve learned how to hold my breath as I go to my locker on the fourth floor near the West staircase so that Señor Simon doesn’t come out and impale me with a copy of Descubre 2.


You really play hard to get sometimes, but I’ve come to realize that it’s just a part of your charm. I was ecstatic to get within viewing distance of Ms. Fong’s head at program changes, even if I got turned away after waiting for two hours. I’m absolutely smitten at the fact that we have such sturdy benches, although we’re not allowed to sit on them during normal school hours. And knowing that we have a library, even if I can’t get in because I arrived roughly two seconds after the end bell, gives me a warm feeling inside.


So the next time I squeeze out of the subway, sandwiched in a car full of stressed, half-asleep students trying not to drop their physics study guides as they nod off, I’ll be thinking of you, Stuy. Just know that in four years, I’ll be calling you.




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