No One Knows Where to Sit

“Don’t even think about it.”

That’s what my older sister told me the night before my freshman year. She wasn’t referring to drinking or drugs, but rather the cafeteria. 

“The top floor is sacred,” she said. “Seniors only. Maybe some popular juniors if they’re lucky. But you? Don’t dare.” She stared at me, eyes dead serious, to make sure I understood she wasn’t kidding. 

I nodded, absorbing this information like a little highschool survival guide. The cafeteria had two floors—downstairs for the underclassmen, and upstairs for the well deserved seniors. It was an unwritten rule. Simple enough. 

And for two years, I did exactly that: stayed on ground level. I’d watch as booths overflowed with people, legs swung over chairs, speakers blasted inappropriate music, and seniors leaned back like they had nothing left to prove. It was stupid, maybe, how much a space could mean status. I imagined the view from above—literally looking down at the underclassmen. One day, I told myself, it would finally be my turn. 

The summer before my junior year, though, they tore it all down—leveled everything to one flat space. They’d “modernized” it, they said. Created a “more inclusive dining environment.” But all I heard was: “Your turn got canceled.”

There’s photos of my friends and I, buried deep in my camera roll, sitting in the bottom floor cafeteria staring up at the seniors. The future felt like such a distant destination back then—somewhere I’d arrive at, finally ready, finally knowing what to do. I keep thinking about those photos as I begin to pack up my bedroom, as I practice walking across the graduation stage. Each year of high school, I thought I’d finally figure it out. And here I am, two weeks before graduation, still feeling like that freshman girl who got lost trying to find her lunch table that first day. 

My sister called from university last month, voice echoing through her graduate school hallways. She mentioned her new student orientation, how she keeps getting lost on this new campus. “It feels like you always just have to figure things out all over again.” My sister went from knowing exactly where to sit, which booth belonged to which ground, to wandering around a college dining hall with a plastic tray. Twenty-two and still learning how to “be an adult”— learning new places, new unwritten rules, and new ways of navigating spaces and status. 

Maybe that’s why commiting to college felt so daunting. Stepping into a new campus, maybe even a new bottom, where I'll have to find my place all over again. I’m trying to imagine all the people who already know where to sit, and how out of place I’ll be. Still, this time, I’ll lean into it. Perhaps the real freedom is in letting go of the need for seniority, in choosing to be a beginner again and again. Maybe it’s about not waiting for that moment when I finally feel ready, but moving forward anway, even when my path is uncertain. 

I’ve eaten lunch next to confused freshmen throughout my senior year. They had no idea they were sitting where only seniors used to be allowed. Sometimes I wanted to tell them—especially when my table got taken and they refused to give it back. I never did. I just watched them settle in, find their own tables completely unaware of the unspoken rules that used to rule this cafeteria. I wonder if that kind of ignorance was actually a kind of freedom; they aren’t waiting for their turn, just living each moment for what it is.