By Faith Gonia
Throughout my four years at Westmont, I have almost always felt safe, and respected, and had a general sense of camaraderie. I would not consider it farfetched to say that most Westmont students share this sentiment. The teacher who ensures each student feels welcome, the classmate who lifts their peers up—Westmont High School has an abundance of warm-hearted people.
However, I say “almost” for a reason. Despite our love for each other from 8:30 a.m. to 2:40 p.m., all solidarity vanishes once the dismissal bell rings. Students shove their way out of the pearly gates and enter the car-ridden plot of asphalt, where kindness does not exist. I join the mob as I rush to the Student Parking Lot, in hopes of reaching my car before the line of others locks it in. But alas, I never succeed. Nobody does.
Once I sit down in the driver’s seat, I take a deep breath—navigating the Student Parking Lot requires mental strength, for which I must dig deep after a long school day. I back out of my favorite spot and take the one-way aisle to join the twenty-car line. Yet, before I can reach the aisle’s end, another car suddenly turns the corner into the lane, and we meet head-on. Locking eyes, I wonder if perhaps today will be different. Perhaps they will mouth “sorry,” back up, and let my Subaru through. But alas, today is never different. I back up and let them pass.
Scouring my heart for a crumb of patience, I join the line of students eager to go home. Painstakingly, inch-by-inch, at a snail’s pace, the line moves forward. As brake lights turn on in the parked cars, I fight the unfriendliness in the air and leave a gap for them to back up. Unfortunately, this small act of courtesy has yet to catch up with me. In the Student Parking Lot, karma is not your boyfriend. Karma is not a god. Karma laughs at you for even suggesting such a relaxing thought.
After what feels like an eternity, I turn left to face the driveway onto Westmont Avenue. Naively, I feel a sense of relief at the sight of only five cars between myself and freedom. Nevertheless, a student driver never fails to remind me of the cruelty of the world. Bypassing the organized line of cars, one driver zooms in front of me and cuts off the car trying to zipper in. (Side note: does Driver’s Ed not teach zippering anymore?) Disappointed, but not surprised, I do not risk the paint job on my car to prove a point. I will get home eventually.
There has yet to be a day where the Student Parking Lot does not tarnish my view of humanity. Why student drivers choose savagery puzzles me. On the other hand, even though I spend twenty minutes after school in a battle with my peers, I spend the six hours before surrounded by my favorite people. So I think it’s worth it.