This is why the TV shows have to end
“She felt... how life, from being made up of little separate incidents which one lived one by one, became curled and whole like a wave which bore one up with it and threw one down with it, there, with a dash on the beach.” –To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf
As my English class lazed on the quad, soaking in the sun and the sounds of people who just couldn’t bring themselves to actually go to class on that gorgeous Wednesday afternoon, we read Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. Short of being perched on a rock on a beach on the Isle of Skye, laying on the grass with our legs sprawled on the grass definitely seemed like the best way to read Woolf’s shimmering, stream of consciousness masterpiece.
The combination of the sun creating that very specific slant of light, the sticky smell of food drifting from the dining hall and the familiar cries of joy exploding from freshmen playing Frisbee brings back one memory in particular for me—sitting on the quad with my then-boyfriend and his then-friends choking back severely burnt barbeque on that one weirdly warm night last spring. Having spent much of my three years on the quad, I really can’t explain or justify why only that image with me so strongly; memories are so tangible yet intangible, and I think Woolf does an stunning job of writing on that experience, whether she's writing Lily Briscoe recounting that one day on the beach with Charles Tansley or Ms. McNab ruminating the loss of Prue and Andrew. Woolf seems to understand that some memories stick beautifully, hazily, inexplicably—and that others don’t. Sometimes the moments you love most get away. Even if you don’t mean them to.
My mum tells me that when I was little, I would refuse to eat my dinner unless I was sitting in my favourite chair, no one was talking or making noise, and the TV was on and pointing in my direction. I have no recollection of ever being this difficult (ahem) but to be completely honest, my childhood routine doesn’t seem at all different from what I like to do now—I ashamedly admit that TV is my favourite dinner companion. In fact, food and TV almost have to come together for me, and I’m infinitely more happy with both rather than just one. So when my favourite show, Community, was likely to be on its final season, I was absolutely devastated.
When I sat down with Japanese takeout and the Community finale, I was so nervous for such a significant part of my life to end (boarding school life is limited, okay?). The bittersweet finale was Dan Harmon’s gloriously meta, emotionally vulnerable legacy—tying up loose ends, catering to a vehement faction of Jeff-Annie shippers, and passing down one of the most important messages of life to its cult of fans—sometimes, the show has to end.
High school is kind of crazy that way—you feel so ready to leave until the end is so close you have to think about actually saying goodbye. Some of my most incredible memories were made on campus—and a lot of the most mundane, as well. Sneaking food into the library. The familiar feeling of having to swipe a card to get into my dorm. The old timey music playing at prom that everyone loved and danced to like mad. Brunch. The burn of purple paint stripes on my cheeks for competitive dorm dodgeball; the snow falling at night when we ran back after devastating losses and danced happily anyway.
I don’t know what I’ll remember about the amazing place I’ve been lucky enough to call my school and my home, but I really hope I remember the English classes.