I stepped onto Legacy High School’s campus nearly three years ago as a sophomore with no idea where the J-hall was. AJ115 was printed on my schedule which was by now soggy with palm sweat. J-hall- J for journalism is how I remembered it. I found it eventually- perpendicular to the main entrance and somewhere below Ms. Bennett’s second story classroom.

That is where I sat, in the far corner of the classroom where I could see a few of my soon-to-be partners in newspaper, my future editors-in-chief, Brynnon Walker and Maria Castillo. And diagonally across from me was Mr. Mallett, (we all learned to drop the Mr.) who was, I’m sure, eating his ritual morning oatmeal. This was my introduction to a class that has prepped me for my foreseeable academic future and to comrades who have carried me through highschool like a lifejacket.

In short, I can’t say who I would be on this big, overwhelming campus without journalism.

Now, fast forward to May 2014. It’s not as flowery as I was expecting. Similar to how the late 90’s MTV and Nickelodeon prepared me for a high school experience that never was, John Hughes totally set me up for disappointment as a senior. There’s no Simple Minds’ “Don’t You Forget About Me,” no cumbersome feelings of nostalgia and the whole year has been far less ceremonious or even rewarding. Nothing is moving in slow motion.

I’ve steered clear from all things senior-y: no senior pictures, no walking the stage and absolutely no senior prom, which hopefully doesn’t cost me any anxiety-ridden side effects in my later years. (Hopefully you got that Pretty in Pink reference.) I’m far more concerned with bulldozing through these last few weeks with little-to-no emotion in tact and far less interested in savoring a minute of it.

I see other seniors- fresh faced, the sun on their skin, ready to enter the next step into their academic career. I, on the other hand, am my disheveled self, unaware of who I am, where I’m going or where I’ve been. I’ve hardly ever hit the ground running in regards to school. If anything it seems like I’ve dragged my knuckles through, caveman-like, avoiding all things extracurricular like an AP’s fixating eye when I’m in a desperate attempt to hide my lack of an ID (or, more accurately, dunk and cover after an all-night experiment of dying my hair from brown to blue). I’ve never reveled in high school, never pinpointed where I fit in and I can’t imagine myself yearning for it after June 7.

However, E102 I will miss.

The newspaper room, which I’ve grown to recognize as a safe space where I can be most myself to my team of staff writers and fellow editors and say the things weighing most heavily on my brain, this is the sliver of high school I will look fondly on.

The newspaper room is a comma in the mind-numbing 45-minute increments of class wedged in between fifth period lunch and seventh period art where I’m free to laugh and encouraged to speak up. E102 may be a debate class at in one sitting and a government lesson in the next. It’s a class that’s expanded the way I see media, news and writing. I can’t pick up a New York Times without seeing the flaw of a dreaded be-verb in the black and white print or watch TV without asking myself “Who is this rash ointment being marketed to?” And I love Mallett for that.

I’m so grateful for what this school has given me – a voice in a cluttered hallway. The Rider Online is my outlet.