Personal Narrative: The Yearbook

The intact blue and green wool tartan-covered yearbook in my hands softly rekindles memories of my boarding school friends, faculty and fun. Yes, we girls studied and goofed off like most teenagers; perhaps more intensely because we were cooped up together for four - often fantastic - years. While the title and date of the yearbook are clear on the binding, the nameplate on the cover now only partially reveals my then-name. This little gold plate with fractured black letters makes me think of how my name changed (more than once) over the years and how my long-ago self remains deeply embedded in the person I have become - and will yet