Beaver Diary

Introducing Dr. Fash's Fall Term 2025 View Within class!

In Dr. Fash's View Within class, students (in pairs or solo) write "Beaver Diary" entries, short scenes that express the heart and soul of Beaver and that are inspired by the "Metropolitan Diary" column in The New York Times. The activity allows students to employ the skills they've developed in writing creative nonfiction, including fashioning engrossing scenes (often with dialogue), using action to express character, and thinking about openings and endings. These are just a few examples of the many wonderful pieces from the winter term class. Happy reading!

I was sitting in the R level, trying to do homework and losing the battle. Hard to think when the entire school decides to hold a conversation directly around your head. So naturally, I gave up. I’m mid conversation with Kaili when she suddenly looks behind me and starts dying laughing.

I’m confused, maybe mildly offended—until I hear a voice right behind me.

“Put your feet down,” says Mr. Manning.

And that's when I realize:

1. My feet were laying on the table, something Mr. Manning hates.

2. He must have been standing there for a while.

Advisory Turnaround

Dear Diary:

Today’s advisory was supposed to be one of those quick “How’s everyone doing?” check-ins—you know, the kind where people shrug, stare at the table, and hope the teacher moves on. But somehow, it turned into one of the realest, funniest, and most unexpectedly wholesome moments I’ve had at Beaver.

It all started pretty casually. Someone mentioned they were exhausted, another said they’d forgotten their breakfast, and then a couple of people started telling random little stories from their mornings. Nothing dramatic—just real, everyday stuff. But somehow it opened the door for everyone else to talk too, and before we knew it, the whole room felt more relaxed, like we’d all finally stopped pretending to be half-asleep.

After a few minutes, the whole advisory just… loosened up. People started sharing small mix-ups from their week, passing jokes back and forth, and laughing in that easy way that feels like everyone’s actually comfortable. It wasn’t loud or chaotic—just warm. Someone casually pulled out a deck of cards, set it on the table, and instantly, a group was like, “We should definitely play.” Even though we never actually started, just knowing we all wanted to make the room feel even more connected.

For a random 20 minutes, school felt lighter. Closer. A little more Beaver.

-Darrell Nderitu 

Dear Diary:

I sat down in the front row of Bradley Hall for the last Upper School meeting of the year. I cannot wait to get through this and get to summer already, I think to myself as the hall fills up with loud voices and laughter. The meeting soon begins, and our class president tells us we’ll be doing something different and “fun” today. I hear that and instantly know I’m not gonna like whatever happens next.

Dr. Wilson walks up to the microphone and snatches it out of the stand as the slide changes to possibly the worst words it could show: “Karaoke”. I groan, but not loud enough for anyone to hear, while Dr. Wilson begins to “hype up the crowd”. The slide changes once again, this time revealing the song "Pink Pony Girl." The music begins, and Dr. Wilson immediately starts singing his heart out, and I can only think about how I could’ve been in bed right now.

Dear Diary:

My friends and I were sitting in the cafeteria one rainy Wednesday, eating the pasta lunch. We could have been discussing what we did in our classes or what our plans were for the night. Nonetheless, we all suddenly focused our attention towards the food line, where a tall, lanky kid who we had never seen before, was approaching the breadstick basket. He seemed like he was either in middle school or just barely a freshman. 

Slowly, he looked from side to side, checking his surroundings as if making sure no one was watching. He then opened his zip-up sweater to reveal a hidden inside pocket, into which he jammed handfuls of breadsticks. My friends and I were stunned. The conversations we were previously having came to a halt as we all stared in disbelief at this little kid sneakily packing the greasy, soggy breadsticks into the pockets of his cashmere Patagonia.

It was almost as if he was not allowed to have the breadsticks—like they were stolen contraband he was bootlegging out of the cafeteria. He zipped up his sweater in a hurry and jolted out of the front doors, to which my friends and I let out bursts of laughter that we had been holding in. We were left with so many questions: Was he going to eat them later? Was he going to give them out? And why not use a plate? 

I think about this moment every now and then. Sometimes when I pass a middle schooler in the hallways, I can’t help but wonder if they have a secret stash of breadsticks in their pockets.

-Miles Kim

Touring 

Dear Diary,

I finally walk back into Beaver after the long Summer. I’d be lying if I say I am not upset to be back, but more content to return as an upperclassman. I know all of the faces, the rooms, how to park in the terrible lot, so I decided I would give tours to the new freshmen. 

The first tour I have is with a girl I coincidentally was just chatting with on my walk in, perfect, this should be easy. She hands me her sheet of paper with all of the room numbers alongside her class list. I scan the room numbers, completely blanking on where they are, but make sure to hide my feelings of being lost. Me, feeling lost – I have been at this school for over two years – in front of a girl who is brand new to the building. I try to distract her from this by walking in circles around the building spinning it as a grand tour of the entire campus. 

As I managed to find 3 out of her 4 classes from walking across the C-Level and US hallway, lastly was art. Art rooms at Beaver don’t belong in a wing, but instead scattered across the entire building. I look over at her in full embarrassment. 

“Do you know where your art class is?” I bring up, completely humbling myself.

“No idea. Is this your first tour?” She replied knowingly. Yup, first and last tour I will ever give.

The thing about Beaver that I hope she got across from that experience isn’t that the room numbers get complicated, but that there are all those smiling faces. The community that Beaver is. That even if you were to get lost, everyone around will be willing to help.

Upper school meeting shenanigans Dear diary, 

I thought it would be a normal upper school meeting. I was wrong, oh, so wrong. It was a normal announcement until our student council president announced a “fun” activity. Teachers were asked to volunteer for the activity and define Gen-Z slang. I hated listening to this. “What does skibidi mean?” “What does slay mean?” “What does chopped mean?” “What does 6 7 mean?” It was the corniest thing I had to listen to, ever. 

“6 7 originated from…” Why do you know this, Sansoni? I have never cringed so hard. What does 6 7 mean anyways?

Quesadilla Catastrophe 

Dear Diary:

It was taco day, but honestly, the ingredients were practically begging me to make a quesadilla instead. I grabbed a slightly damp plate, and slapped two flour tortillas onto it, praying that they wouldn’t soak up the water like sponges. I sprinkled a generous handful of cheese between them and headed over to the panini press. 

I took a piece of brown parchment paper, and placed my soon-to-be masterpiece in between it. I lowered it into the sizzling press, with confidence in my cooking skills. And, since it always takes a few minutes to cook, I wandered back to the buffet to load up on sour cream, guacamole and salsa—the holy trinity of Beaver taco day dining. 

I set down my plate and sank into conversation with my friends, feeling extremely pleased with myself. . . Until about five minutes later when one of my friends wrinkled her nose and asked, “Does anyone else smell something burning?” 

Immediate panic. A full-body freeze. My quesadilla, my poor neglected quesadilla, was not on the plate and was still in the press. I shot out of my chair, sprinted to the panini press and flung it open. Inside sat my charred, sizzling, tortilla tragedy. I grabbed it, tossing it between my hands like a hot potato until it hit the table. 

How did this happen? I thought. I had one job, one. I looked over at my friends across the lunch room and held up my brunt disaster and started laughing. 

Because honestly, who burns a quesadilla on taco day?  

-Michela Fletcher

Dear Diary: 

One of my first times skiing was a trip with my dad and sister, and I was determined to prove I was ready for more than the bunny hill. After much convincing, I finally got my dad to let me try the gentle green slope by myself. Feeling on top of the world and a little reckless, I pushed off, enjoying the thrill of the powder rushing past my skis. My dad, standing at the bottom, pulled out his phone (as any proud father would) to film my solo run. Everything was going smoothly until it wasn't. From my dad’s perspective behind the camera, the calm advice quickly turned to panic. "Pizza slice, buddy," he started, gentle encouragement quickly dissolving into a yell. "PIZZA SLICE! PIZZA SLICE!!!" I came flying down the slope like a runaway freight train, my skis pointing straight ahead as I yelled. The camera kept rolling right up until the point of impact. I didn't slow down; I didn’t turn. I simply collided with the only solid object in my path: my dad. The phone went flying, the snow exploded, and we both tumbled into a tangled heap of skis.

Walking is a Myth to Middle Schoolers 

Dear diary,

By the time the clock hits 11:30, I'm already bracing myself. History class is my period before lunch on Thursdays. And before lunch means the middle schoolers are coming out of chorus. I sit at my desk, peacefully trying to understand why the Ottoman Empire collapsed when the first tremor hit. My pencil rattles. The floor gives a subtle vibration. 

That's when I know: the middle schoolers are on the move again. 

No one knows why they run, or where they are running to. Maybe they're escaping something only middle schoolers can. Or maybe—my strongest theory—they simply believe walking is for the weak.  

The thudding gets louder. Even Mr. Henry pauses mid-sentence. 

“Is that … is that the middle schoolers?” he sighs, staring at the door like it has personally wronged him. 

It has. 

Yesterday, it almost caved in when a middle schooler running, slipped, and banged into the wall, nearly missing the door. But of course, he got right back up and kept running. 

Suddenly, the stampede arrives. Through the glass doors, I see the blur of backpacks far too big for the size of a middle schooler pass by. One kid's untied shoelaces flap behind him as he runs past, like he's trying to catch a flight. Another holds a briefcase that looks like it's carrying a trombone while running full speed. 

Our class pauses, and a mild fear comes over us. The hallways echo like someone shook a box of wild raccoons. Then, as fast as they come, they disappear around the corner, leaving the faint sound of their voices. 

Mr. Henry pinches the bridge of his nose.“Why are they always running?”  

We all shrug. No one knows. 

It could be instinct. It could be the fact that middle schoolers refuse to lose a race that no one is having. 

Whatever the reason, one thing is certain: at Beaver Country Day, walking is a myth for the middle schoolers. 

-Kaili Griffin

Rock

Dear Diary,

In my first year at Beaver, I earned a spot on the varsity volleyball team. My position is Libero, which is a fancy way of saying a defensive specialist. As one of two liberos, it’s my job to not let the ball hit the floor and to motivate my teammates.

I bit my lip in anticipation, knowing what was about to be shown on the screen. Winsor's player watched the ball as I bounced it five times. Clearing my head, I lifted the ball one step after the other. I jumped, slamming the ball in the net with such force that it shook. There it was, I thought, the moment my confidence crumbled.

We all watched intently as our coach criticized my mistake during such an important game. As we watched our serve receive, I cringed as I saw my mistakes. One, two, three balls I lost. Looking at the player on the TV, I didn't see the loud, confident, skilled player. Instead, I saw the player who let their mistakes get into their head.  

“I don't even know how to say this.” My Coach said, looking at me in thought. “You know Simone is like our rock of the team,” He said, turning to the team and making a fist with his hand. “And unfortunately for this game, the rock was melted.” With that, everyone erupted in laughter, even as I thought of my coach's metaphor. “Laugh all you want, but what's important in this scene is no one was there to help the rock.” He now pointed at me on the screen. I never thought one shitty game would lead to me receiving a nickname that everyone would call me. And even more surprising, I never thought it would be Rock.

Simone Gagnon

Middle School Recess

Today was…embarasing. I had just finished lunch and I was heading to upper field, just like I would any other day. I get to the field and I see all my friends lining up to play football one on ones, I need to get in on this. I stroll over with all the confidence in the world, “I can guard anyone here” people looked at me and laughed, a quick summary of my football skills. 

“Ok, let's run it.” said my opponent.

I waited for them to write up the play, and then we lined up for our battle. It was time…

He sprinted straight at me, followed by a fake to the left—This was all he needed. Right then and there my feet swept from under me, and I landed right on my face. I ate more sh*t than a dung beetle. 

Everyone was watching, even(and especially) all the girls.

-Zico El Abd