Joey Bandelow, Grade 12
UWC Maastricht
I storm at lightning speed through the halls: poignance in my step. Ecstatically, a million projects, ideas and to-do lists twist and turn like a Rubix cube in my mind. And on top of those to-do lists lie others crumpled like discarded notes in my periphery. Everyone-similar to schools of fish-flicker and dart about the reef: Scattered and skittish. We are all running on three cups of coffee; sleepless nights; or our parents expectations-and yet buzzing in unison. Buzzing with a sort of vibrance and electricity I would only come to experience again in writing.
There are documents and documents of papers to hand in; first drafts- planning, citations, organization due. Diagrams and differentials; philanthropy and physiology. But everyone is alive. And everyone has a clear and decisive direction.
Halls echo with the passionate splices of debate as you walk past. Before me: Posters a prism of colours, every electromagnetic shade. And then I turn the corner-
Gold pours into the classrooms, we sit gilded with light. Coated with midas' glow. All the sleek surfaces and clean lines. I stare out the window intensely, up into the sky:
Out at it's reflection along the cover of the moat. A thin, veiled sheet. A fine, laced print. Dotted with the ochre of far reaching evergreen's and skeletal stretches of boughed limbs. Blotted with white clouds and the cool sweet of blue. Truly a picture:
The wafts of thistles are like small snowstorms or falling cherry blossoms. Reflecting the glimmer of the sun. Dainty as fluffs of feathers.
Over there, past the edge of the moat, is the bench we sit on at lunch. The bench overlooking it all and the-
"Can I interest you in the enlightenment?"
I'm brought back to the room, to my teacher, with her neon dangling earrings and printed shirts. She is waxing lyrically, alit and animated with the arts. Self-deprecating and satirical. All the students are absorbed into the wisdom of her words. The class laughs intermittently, but all are quiet and focused.
And then it is lunch. Free time for homework and CAS and study. We develop our climate strike documentaries, our human rights conferences, our Model United Nations. We prowl the hallways and leap up the stairs to heaven. Knowing we are the future of the world. The changemakers, the peacekeepers, national intelligence. Truly anything we want to be. And there is so much we want for ourselves. So much of a difference we are waiting to make and are already changing around us. NGO creators, Princes and Princesses. Nationally televised, implementing policy in women's shelters.
And amongst us, a world of different individual experiences. Escapees from poverty, from war-torn countries, who all share their stories. Some are studying in their fourth language. Some separated from their families. Some having spent exchanges in Argentina and some with perfect pitch: who scale the octaves of pianos and glide with precision through classics. Some who paint and embellish great, vast works of detailed realism. But they all had a story.
All are winning prizes. Humanitarian awards. All with blood, sweat and tears. All are a success. And all-I just know-you can just feel, are the leaders of tomorrow.
And it's this very thing that throttles us forwards.
So UWC, for me, was never particularly significant to one moment. There was never a humbling experience in specific: making children stuck in a centre's day a little brighter, learning more than I otherwise ever would have.
It was the culmination of every fleeting day, every moment in fact, and every diverse person, that made up all the excitement and passion and prosperity that was UWC.
There are documents and documents of papers to hand in; first drafts- planning, citations, organization due. Diagrams and differentials; philanthropy and physiology. But everyone is alive. And everyone has a clear and decisive direction.
Halls echo with the passionate splices of debate as you walk past. Before me: Posters a prism of colours, every electromagnetic shade. And then I turn the corner-
Gold pours into the classrooms, we sit gilded with light. Coated with midas' glow. All the sleek surfaces and clean lines. I stare out the window intensely, up into the sky:
Out at it's reflection along the cover of the moat. A thin, veiled sheet. A fine, laced print. Dotted with the ochre of far reaching evergreen's and skeletal stretches of boughed limbs. Blotted with white clouds and the cool sweet of blue. Truly a picture:
The wafts of thistles are like small snowstorms or falling cherry blossoms. Reflecting the glimmer of the sun. Dainty as fluffs of feathers.
Over there, past the edge of the moat, is the bench we sit on at lunch. The bench overlooking it all and the-
"Can I interest you in the enlightenment?"
I'm brought back to the room, to my teacher, with her neon dangling earrings and printed shirts. She is waxing lyrically, alit and animated with the arts. Self-deprecating and satirical. All the students are absorbed into the wisdom of her words. The class laughs intermittently, but all are quiet and focused.
And then it is lunch. Free time for homework and CAS and study. We develop our climate strike documentaries, our human rights conferences, our Model United Nations. We prowl the hallways and leap up the stairs to heaven. Knowing we are the future of the world. The changemakers, the peacekeepers, national intelligence. Truly anything we want to be. And there is so much we want for ourselves. So much of a difference we are waiting to make and are already changing around us. NGO creators, Princes and Princesses. Nationally televised, implementing policy in women's shelters.
And amongst us, a world of different individual experiences. Escapees from poverty, from war-torn countries, who all share their stories. Some are studying in their fourth language. Some separated from their families. Some having spent exchanges in Argentina and some with perfect pitch: who scale the octaves of pianos and glide with precision through classics. Some who paint and embellish great, vast works of detailed realism. But they all had a story.
All are winning prizes. Humanitarian awards. All with blood, sweat and tears. All are a success. And all-I just know-you can just feel, are the leaders of tomorrow.
And it's this very thing that throttles us forwards.
So UWC, for me, was never particularly significant to one moment. There was never a humbling experience in specific: making children stuck in a centre's day a little brighter, learning more than I otherwise ever would have.
It was the culmination of every fleeting day, every moment in fact, and every diverse person, that made up all the excitement and passion and prosperity that was UWC.
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