2022 Valedictorian Aman Singh

There are still moments when I look back and wonder if it was all a dream. Every time I tell someone that I went to a boarding school in the Himalaya mountains, where every day I had to hike up to school through a rhododendron forest chased by monkeys, I find myself disbelieving my own words. Woodstock tends to elicit that reaction. It’s an almost mythical place, something only heard about in stories, untouched by time, untainted by the world outside. Even now, a whole six months later, I catch myself reminiscing about the mountains. It’s seven o’clock back home as I write this. Mr Pholkan and Mr Huten must be conducting check-in. I would have just gotten back from dinner, walking down the ramp to Hostel, lamps lighting my way. I might stop to chat with Mr and Mrs Peters or maybe go upstairs to check if my clothes have dried.

Of my two years at this school, I only spent four months truly being a Woodstock student. The pandemic meant three semesters of virtual school, sitting in front of my computer at home. So it didn’t feel right when I had to say farewell. Some of my friends had been at Woodstock for as long as they can remember, and I know I speak for them when I say that we left too soon. However, what I’ve come to realise is that Woodstock gives a little piece of its heart to us. It pours a little bit of its soul into the empty vessels that we are, moulding us, nourishing us, preparing us for the world ahead. We end up leaving this beautiful, unshakeable paradise, walking down that mountain with a part of it in our hands (I actually stole a little piece of the wall from the Quad dining hall, so you could interpret this both literally and figuratively. You decide). So we never really say goodbye, do we?

I miss the people. The times we bonded over setting off the fire alarm at two in the morning by burning grilled cheese sandwiches. The times we pulled coffeefueled all-nighters to complete IB assignments and ended up so delirious we couldn’t help but laugh at anything and everything. I miss the sanctuary, the safety net that was created for us; we knew that if we fell Woodstock would pick us back up. I miss Woodstock’s sense of permanence — its old walls and wise rooms. And maybe most of all, I miss the simplicity, the life that was clear and laid out for us. Because the world outside Woodstock is a scary place for us eighteen-year-olds, uncertainties weighing us down. There are times when I’ve wished I was back home in Hostel, wrapped up in its safe cocoon. And then I remember what we’ve done to get to where we are. Woodstock stands tall behind us, to this very day, giving us strength. Woodstock did so much more for us than give us a home and an education — our teachers, our dorm parents, and everyone on that mountain prepared us for the inevitable. Now, more than ever, I am ready.