My mother has been telling me to redo my room. She voices my thoughts: I should declutter and paint my walls neutral. And she’s right: it’s too overwhelming.
I decay within the solid colors of my room, the newspaper clippings on the walls, the protest posters tucked away and the mass of stuffed animals thrown off my bed. There’s too much I refuse to let go of; too much I’m afraid to forget.
I like to call myself a memory hoarder. Since the COVID pandemic, I’ve held on to whatever I could grasp. At the time, it was the remnants of 12th grade. The Class of 2020 got our senior sunrise but never our senior sunset.
Like many, I ended high school staring at a screen and graduated six feet apart from everyone else. It was almost comedic to believe my 18 years of living led to this point. I received my diploma in the mail, and that’s… it.
I passed my driving test. I binged Attack on Titan and learned about a criminal tiger keeper. The world descended into chaos, rethinking social justice and dividing itself further.
There’s not much to say about my freshman year of university. Why was everything red? Isn’t a Cougar a creepy lady? The campus seemed giant and empty and very, very lonely. I was probably the only person on Earth doing homework in the M. D. Anderson Library. I learned to enjoy my own company and face my thoughts head-on (screw you, derealization).
I came to campus more often in my sophomore year. My semester began with the Glow Party: my friends and I lasted only a few minutes in the stuffy crowd before we had our fill. Even though we left early, it felt like university had officially started.
I had in-person classes, though connecting with others behind a mask was tough. I mastered smiling using eye squints instead of my lips, but I couldn’t seem to speak properly. My social anxiety rose and I could never find the right words to say. I was back in the shell I broke out of in 12th grade. If high school Zahra witnessed me then, she would have been disappointed I reverted to my old, socially awkward self.
Since I couldn’t connect in person, I made friends through GroupMe, a social app with more problems than the West’s reaction to Squid Game. I joined classroom and club groups which branched into smaller social groups. I met more people than I ever imagined.
Three major switches later, my junior year started. I moved on campus and suddenly, my life revolved around the University of Houston. Red became my color. My thumb gravitated toward my ring finger. School spirit enveloped me and I got involved in more things than I ever would have during grade school. I stayed on campus late, as free as I imagined I’d be. I took interesting courses, made many friends and got involved in Student Government.
I had no clue what I was getting myself into, but joining SGA became the best decision I have ever made. I am a shy, introverted person; campaigning in the middle of Butler Plaza in the heat was not for me. Putting myself out there to be scrutinized terrified me to the core. I didn’t want to shoulder being a voice for the students when I’ve never done anything of the sort before.
That’s why I stayed. I recognized a hole in myself: a fear I needed to overcome. I forced myself to approach others (yes, I became the annoying person who puts pamphlets in your face).
After weeks of this, we won the election. Twice.
Cage Rage in my final year felt like the senior sunset we never had. My high school friends and I sat in the middle of the stadium on a clear summer evening, surrounded by students in red with stories of their own. Each firework explosion reverberated in my heart.
Boom. I’m graduating soon.
Boom. I need to get my act together.
Boom. Time is running out.
I made a list of things to do before graduation: I should take advantage of Houston’s college discounts. I need to raise my GPA. I must jump in the Cullen Fountain at least once.
The semester began with dramatic SGA meetings running until nearly midnight. Alongside the meetings, I became a new version of myself. I connected with the University on a deeper level: advocating for students as a senator, networking in large amounts and learning about policy. I learned how important being proactive is in accomplishing tasks requiring multiple parties. It was time to depend on myself instead of others. One thing I regret is learning these too late. By the time I got the hang of it, it was time to leave office.
I did interfaith work. I road-tripped with my friends. I worked on initiatives I knew I wouldn’t finish this year. I attended the Ramadan tent with a bittersweet sense of “I love my community here. I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again.”
The feelings hit like a truck once I ordered my cap and gown. The future was still unknown — what would I do with myself once I’m done? I’m never going to see some people again. Dark thoughts swirled around my mind, scaring me as they did in the pandemic.
My senior year went suspiciously faster than all the others. Didn’t high school end just a few months ago? I’m back to square one: at the top of the game, completing a four-year-long escape room only to enter a longer, tougher one with no visible end.
Over the years, I grew to love this campus I call home. I loved individuals like my life depended on it. I kept friends close enough that our roots would still be tangled if we separated.
How do I say goodbye to a life I’ve known for so long? How does the dean expect me to take my diploma, give a wave and step down the other side of the stage like it’s nothing?
I complain about choosing between my best friend’s graduation party and the banquet for an org that feels like family. Explaining this dilemma to people is easier than giving them a Spotify playlist and an essay about childhood ending. Somehow, they claim to understand. Somehow, I don’t think they do.
I wish I opened up earlier. I wish I weren’t so afraid. I wish I had stayed longer in moments I crave so deeply to revisit.
To quote Morgan Matson from “Second Chance Summer,” there are “A thousand moments that I had taken for granted — mostly because I had assumed there would be a thousand more.”
It is a given that time is our enemy, but we fail to realize it’s also our friend. The passage of time is what gives value to everything.
Like the monkey trapped by his desires, his clenched fist too big to pull out of the hole, I, too, need to let go of the past to move on. This does not mean I need to forget; rather, to quote a famously controversial figure (Dr. Seuss), I smile because it happened. The past lives in me. I’ve already begun compiling a scrapbook for my bookshelf.
I find it silly how I believe everything is coming to an end. I can always revisit. I have my friends’ socials to check up on them. I can meet people dear to me. There’s much to look forward to. The world isn’t ending yet.
It’s almost symbolic that my graduation will be in the morning. This won’t be a sunset; it’s not the end. It’s the beginning of a new day, a new era of Me. I will let myself grieve as I need to and when I’m done, the dawn awaits.
The University of Houston will always be considered home even though breathing costs money and there’s constant construction. I’ll return when The RAD opens more restaurants and the Centennial project finishes. I’ll return to watch my younger brother cross that stage and experience strange emotions when he flips the tassel on his hat.
Maybe when I’m up there, I’ll imagine my younger self handing me my diploma with a sly grin. She’ll wear fairy wings and a Dora haircut and look up at me with huge boba eyes. She has much to go through and I have much to do, but we get through it together. But first, I have assignments to finish and a room to clean.
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