There’s a certain art to people-watching.

It extends beyond the creepy cliche – it’s an act, one near-poetic, of noticing. This very art has rewarded me the gift of seeing the unseen, listening to the unheard.

I’ve been granted such privilege through my time in Crier. I’ve borne witness to new staffers too afraid to pitch in during Crier’s editorial brainstorming flourish into masters of their own creations. I’ve watched fragments of Google Docs achieve some of the sharpest of journalistic achievements. Most importantly, I’ve witnessed a staff, once of confusion and loss of direction, mature into one of legacy and headship.

I’ve seen it in my peers–from excelling athletes to student-founded organizations, it takes a flicker of a flame, the ignition of a question, for one to realize they have a story they believe worth telling. That very conviction, led by my peers – by you – has been the guiding force of my journalism in publications.

Now, in my senior year of high school, I’ve allowed myself the privilege to slow down and simply observe. Whether it be the senior sentimentally soaking in or the byproduct of my time in Crier, my training specialized in detecting the stories between the lines, I’ve read the stories and watched the chapters write themselves. In each and every one of you.

As the days edge closer to the end for us seniors, I’ve found myself watching impossibly closer. I relish a group of laughter just a breath longer. I observe a sea of bouncing legs anticipatory of their upcoming class presentations, or the bubbling giggles when people accidentally yank on the “push” door to the media center – in the smallest of moments, our characters are an

interconnected web of hilarious synonymity, stitching our individuality into a beautiful tapestry.

My parting piece of advice: Preserve your passions. If you look just close enough, every single one of us has a story worth listening to. Someone ought to listen.

Thank you for letting me see yours.

Sincerely,

-Emily Dywan

Editor-in-chief