Plans Subject to Change

I was at a Paris Baguette near Times Square with a friend, having just finished shopping for school supplies. I was rapidly tapping the screen. Schedules were supposed to come out that afternoon, and, judging by the flurry of Instagram stories on my feed, they had just been released. Talos, however, was being Talos again, so it just kept loading. And loading. And loading. And loading. Oh, and loading some more. 

I wasn’t too worried about my schedule because I thought I knew the general shape of my day. Jazz Band would be first, then Mr. Hanna’s Advanced Studies U.S. History course, then the Calculus BC double periods eight and nine. I thought I had at least the basics down. But when Talos finally loaded, Jazz Band was not there. I refreshed the page multiple times, convincing myself it was just being slow. No change. I checked again and again, trying to convince myself it might change if I looked away for long enough. I texted multiple people, who replied with their own schedules and confirmed we no longer shared the expected classes. I also, warranting a major apology, vented quite dramatically to my friend. 

Band has been a major part of my life. I have been in a regular band class since seventh grade, and I’ve been in Jazz Band specifically for the past three semesters. My routine has been built around seeing Dr. Winkel at 8:00 a.m. every day for months. I was the only girl in the ensemble for a year. I’ve made friends, learned a lot, and continued to play even as the other ever-present demands of Stuyvesant High School surrounded me. I, by no means, consider myself a “music kid,” and never intended to take music farther than a school ensemble. But it would be disingenuous to say that being in band hadn’t become an important part of my life. 

In theory, I was guaranteed a seat. Students are often placed back into their ensembles every semester. Additionally, due to changes made to the band program last spring, the administration promised that any student in a band class who wanted to stay would have a seat again in the fall. I had even been contacted by the program office in August because I had more than 10 periods of classes on my request form; I was told to choose one of four classes to drop, one of which was band. I did not drop band. I made my choice.

When I got my schedule, it was a shock to not see Jazz Band as my first period class. I was confused because at the time I didn’t understand why it had happened, and I was angry. I had spent the summer assuming that I would have a guaranteed seat, the same friends with me in period two history, and that familiar structure. I had mapped out my whole year around an assumption that didn’t pan out. I’d imagined what my mornings would look like, my study schedule, who I’d see throughout the day, and my movement up and down the escalators. I’d begun to inhabit the year ahead of me. I eventually learned that the drop was due to an incompatibility between when my various AP courses were offered, something that had nothing to do with whether I wanted to stay or had made “good” program requests. 

I plan things. A lot. Losing band made me realize just how much of my life I had already built around a plan I could never actually control. I’m the person who knows deadlines and holidays and conference days and tournament dates months in advance, even when they aren’t relevant yet. It’s a way for me to convert general, unfocused anxiety about the future into something concrete. I like to plan because it feels like I have some control over what’s going on. 

Stuyvesant makes planning feel necessary. There’s the obvious logistical dimension: the school is huge, and there’s limited time. You have to plan your classes, your extracurriculars, and your possible external roles and opportunities around the school day and homework. But trajectories, too, are a very real phenomenon. Choices from freshman year—especially in terms of extracurriculars—shape senior year choices down the line. Choosing one “track” and not choosing another can quietly shut down opportunities that might otherwise have been appealing.

Planning at Stuyvesant is also, unfortunately, tied to the reality of college applications and pressure to have a defining narrative. At some point, planning shifts from what fits in the calendar to what fits in your life. In the later years of high school, each choice is no longer an independent action but rather an intentional part of a larger goal. Planning is knowing that I have a tournament on Saturday. Curation is understanding that I have a tournament because Speech is something I love and have chosen to prioritize, even when it competes with other parts of my life. Suddenly, that Saturday isn’t just busy; it’s evidence of a choice I’ve made about the life I want. 

Having interests is not the issue. Rather, a problem emerges when multiple interests have to compete for the same limited time and energy. Eventually, you become conscious of the story created by whichever wins. “Well-rounded” gets complicated when you’re caught between limited time and narrow ideas of success: leadership roles, tournament placements, and achievements that look nice when listed together. Part of what kept me in band was the fact that I have a very demanding schedule otherwise. It was a class that didn’t carry the cognitive load that an AP class does, ensured I had no tests during first period, and gave me just a little bit of extra balance in my life. I liked having something in my schedule that made me feel a little more well-rounded, even if only in a small way. Band wasn’t a choice I made because it would somehow make my academic record more impressive. It was a choice I made in order to preserve something that I knew was good for me. 

 And yet, carefully made choices assume that choosing is the same as deciding. It isn’t. I don’t believe that Stuyvesant students are powerless because we cannot control every outcome. I have access to many choices, but they don’t necessarily give me control. There are thousands of other students who need their schedules to work too. I may have made a choice, but I was not the only one making a choice. 

When I found out I was no longer in Jazz Band, I was angry, not only because I really wanted the class, but because I felt that something I had control over was being taken away from me. I wasn’t only mourning the class itself; I was mourning the version of junior year that had existed in my head for months. I had built routines, relationships, and expectations around this version that I’d assumed was certain. The ability to make choices is meaningful, but it’s not the same as control. Institutions, other people, timing, and, honestly, just plain luck play major roles in shaping our lives. It’s inevitable. Getting upset about losing something isn’t necessarily evidence that planning for it was a waste. Sometimes, it can even be evidence that it was worth wanting in the first place. 

I’m going to continue to plan, though, even if it can lead to disappointment. Even if planning can’t guarantee I get what I want, it might make it easier to understand what I want. In relation to band, I don’t know what will happen. I might try to play somewhere else outside of school. I might end up rejoining the band senior year if my schedule allows. I might also just end up losing this part of my life. If anything, my reaction to losing it showed that it mattered to me. I cannot curate my future, but I can curate my choices and decide what to do when the future doesn’t follow the plan.