The entire morning felt a little different – a different vibe. Just last night, I'd been watching TikToks on what to look out for during the eclipse, such as the 360-degree sunrise or the faraway planets that may be shining bright enough for us to see. The cheerios I ate seemed to foreshadow the scenic view of the corona that awaited my eyes.
School also fell out of order: I tried out a new look – glasses. I tried out a new lunch – combining the dry cereal sold near the everyday pizzas with the milk found in the cold aisle (my friend Will Mishra told me it was the "new meta"). Our usually 50-minute physics period was cut down to 15 for a simple presentation on the science behind eclipses.
Luckily, I had a free period at 2:05 PM, so I didn't need to rush out at three to catch the celestial show.
My friends and I took our bags and raced down to the baseball field – there were too many people by Brewster Entrance and sports teams were hosting practices on the turf. I hadn't realized that the eclipse already started until Alex Tian pointed it out.
The moon was nibbling away at the sun from the bottom right corner – Tian and I ran across the field laughing and high-fiving, exclaiming "This is so f'ing sick!"
Some friends were "too cool" for the eclipse. Some were waiting for their moms to bring them glasses. Some were "sock wrestling" in the batting cage. For me, I just couldn't resist the temptation to continue gazing and snapping pictures, trying to physically see the movement of the moon. I'd missed the one in 2017; I wasn't going to miss it again.
At about 3:15, the sun really began to fade.
The ambiance outside wasn't "dark" but rather "muted" – dystopian-like. Conversations dwindled to murmurs, as people turned their attention skyward. The now cool air waved around my face and tickled the hairs on my skin. My psychology teacher asked me to photograph her and her group of other teacher friends.
In moments like this, time seems to lose its meaning. You're stuck staring. Amazed. Humbled. You're trying to get the best picture for your Instagram. You have some intrusive thoughts tempting you to remove your glasses because you're curious and because maybe you won't get permanent retinal damage if you're quick enough.
But, you're also hoping.
You saw the news. You saw the map. You live in New York. You know you don't fall within the "path of totality". You know there's a reason your neighbors drove over five hours to Montreal. Yet, if you're anything like me, you couldn't help but be a little bit disappointed.
"I know it said 91% coverage, but I don't see how it won't be 100%," I said to Tian. From my POV, the moon was covering the sun evenly. All it had to do was continue moving towards the top left corner. For some reason, despite all the evidence I'd seen throughout the week, I'd convinced myself that Scarsdale would see totality.
Instead, it moved straight up. People began leaving. Phones returned to pockets. Garbage bins filled quickly with glasses.
Why is it that we hope for things when we know the inevitable outcome? We hope we did well on that test knowing we didn't sufficiently prepare. We hope somebody will like us back even if they've already rejected us twice. We hope a loved one will miraculously recover from a horrible illness, even when we know it's terminal.
Something inside me was hoping the folks at NASA somehow messed up their calculations. Maybe they forgot to distribute the negative sign. Maybe they forgot to carry the one, but I guess they work at NASA for a reason.
Hope is almost never shown as a bad thing. It motivates us to keep pushing – to heave and ho, but is there always room for it? In other words: should there always be room for it? When should we be hopeful then? Do we let ourselves be hopeful at the risk of being even further destroyed? Surely the eclipse would've been more exciting for me had I not been searching for more.
Maybe it's that I was being selfish – I wanted more control over my life. I wanted to see things I shouldn't and physically couldn't, but some things just can't be directed, can't be tailored to your liking.
Perhaps the only thing you can tailor is your suit. Yes. Each individual button – perhaps you want them moved up an inch. Maybe there aren't enough buttons. The sleeves may need a bit of shortening. Perhaps the waist-length hugs you too tightly.
Maybe it's the buttons, the sleeves, the tightness of the waist-length that matters most – because at least you can manage them. Maybe the rest of your day matters more than that one disappointing, uncontrollable hour.
The rest of mine proceeded as normal. Tian and I went to the library. Mom and I bought some index cards at a local CVS for my history project, picking up some Pringles and gum on the way. As we walked out, I dropped my eclipse glasses into the garbage bin.
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