Beaver Diary

Student tales from Beaver Country Day.

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. Please enjoy these talented pieces written by Dr. Fash's class!

Dear Diary:

Monday morning at Beaver is never just a Monday. The Research & Design Level, our modern learning playground, is supposed to be a space for innovation and out-of-the-box thinking. But as I walked in the other week, “out-of-the-box” thinking seemed to mean “out-of-the-shell” thinking because, right there on the floor, was a lone, cracked egg—yolk pooling as if it was deep in contemplation of life at Beaver.

Someone muttered, “it’s a social experiment,” and for a second, I believed them. Maybe it was an art installation? Or a new way to learn about raw materials in a hands-on way? At Beaver, it’s honestly hard to tell. A teacher strolled by, paused, and shrugged before continuing on their way, likely thinking, “Not the weirdest thing I’ve seen here.”

But that’s Beaver. Here, we have the usual lessons and assignments, but there’s this unspoken understanding that, at any moment, things might go off-script. Kids sometimes don’t even show up, yet somehow, they’re still here. We might be absent physically, but our spirit is always…present.

And maybe that’s what makes Beaver, Beaver. You walk in expecting a serious school and find yourself in an ongoing experiment in creativity, filled with people who don’t settle for “normal”. Our student body is like a collection of misfit puzzle pieces that, together, somehow complete the picture.

So, was the egg a failed science project? A prank? A symbol of sorts? Or just someone’s breakfast that met an untimely end? I guess we’ll never know. But at Beaver, it’s just another day—whatever “normal” even means around here.

Dear diary:

I was walking up the 8th fairway at Myopia Hunt Club, Pingree School’s home course. As I got

further down the fairway, my teammates who had already finished their rounds came back to support us.

“Let’s go, guys, stay focused, don’t let the bad shots get to you,” Dylan said.

When we got to the green, Corey, my teammate who was still in the match, had a putt to win the match. By this point, our entire team had come to watch us. All the pressure was on.

“No, pressure, guys,” Eli said, “It’s just like any other hole.”

And with that, Corey sunk the putt. The season was over and we were undefeated champions.

“Good work, guys, you earned this. I'm really proud of you guys for supporting each other the whole year, and I think that’s what’s led to us being where we are now,” Coach said.

All the way home on the bus ride was filled with chatter and loud music from a speaker we connected. I thought about how happy I was that our team had gone undefeated and how my teammates supporting me and keeping my head in the game, lead me to play my best always.

-Drew Young and Henry Stanton

Dear Diary: 

Our history teacher reviewed the agenda for the following week and explained, “Next Thursday, we will have a waffle party to celebrate all of your hard work; you guys deserve it.” Everyone was so excited.

Finally, the end of term 1 arrived: that meant a waffle party! 

As we approached our history classroom at perhaps 7:58 AM on Thursday, we saw our teacher stirring the waffle batter in a large glass bowl with a metal whisk. Eggs, milk, and boxed pancake mix were scattered around the table. We began to look around for what we thought would be a large, clear bottle of syrup.

Someone shouted, “Wait, what are those?” as they pointed to the small glass cylinders we realized were fancy-looking syrup bottles, placed closely together on a faraway table.

Even though class had barely started, we already managed to make a mess. As batter was poured and the lid of the waffle maker was closed, excess waffle mix started leaking out of all four sides. The whole class suddenly looked over at our teacher for help, and she said, “Don’t worry, this happens every time I make waffles!” We all laughed and worked together to clean up the mess. Sitting down to enjoy our waffles, our history teacher congratulated us on our final research paper, and we had a great time relaxing and enjoying this kind gesture. 

-Taylor Wozniak and Hannah Rothman 

Dear Diary;

Today, Harvestfest was everything—food trucks, early dismissal, and a soccer game that had the whole school buzzing. The stands were packed with all-black outfits, face paint, and a humming excitement.

The game itself was intense. We were tied 1-1 in the second half, and the opposing team had just scored. Every touch had the crowd on edge, and the game got scrappy. 

The team was primarily seniors, playing the last big game of their school careers. Despite that, they weren’t just playing for themselves, they were playing for the pride of our school.

The other team took the lead in the closing minutes and unfortunately, we couldn’t recover. When the screech of the final whistle blew through the air, the team dropped to their knees, devastated. 

The crowd didn’t let this defeat ruin the night, clapping and cheering, “B-E-A-V-E-R, BEAVER, BEAVER, BEAVER, G-NAW, G-NAW, G-NAW!” –the school chant– to show their support and pride in the performance.

In the end, the result stung, especially for the seniors, but was soothed by the school coming together, spirited and energetic, united in a way that reminded us all why these moments matter more than the scoreboard.

-Jahbari Dacosta & Dylan Samuels

Dear Diary: 

Today was picture day, and everyone’s nerves were slightly higher than usual. It was hot as it was in September, the sun beating down as everyone lined up to have their photo taken. 

It was my class's turn for pictures, but as we waited outside for our turn the 7th graders were finishing up. I stood by one of the photographers—next in line—and a younger girl called to me and asked if she looked good. I knew middle schoolers weren't allowed their phones, so of course, I said yes and offered my phone screen to make her feel a little better. I said I had lip gloss if she wanted to borrow it, and her face lit up. She eagerly took it out of my hands while saying thank you. I felt like a big sister.

-Arlinda Leka 

Dear Diary: 

I arrived at Beaver country day school during 9th grade. I was hesitant and unsure what I would find, but my experience quickly became one of support and encouragement. One of the most remarkable moments in my time at Beaver was in my math class at the end of the year spring term. I was struggling with grasping the concept of our topic, and at first I held back and didn't ask for help.

 My math teacher at the time noticed this and created an environment where asking for assistance wasn’t just okay–It was supported and encouraged. He had noticed I was reluctant to ask for help and took time to approach me with patience, time and understanding. He stressed in his own experiences he had felt the same and that's what made him stand out, he could relate to me. 

His willingness to stay after class during lunch or meet during office hours multiple times a week, whether I needed to go over a problem again or understand an equation better. Going at my own pace helped me actually learn. I felt heard for once and I learned to not be afraid of asking for help when I needed it.

 The support I received from him–and the rest of the Beaver school community–showed me that at Beaver, it's not just about grades but about growth. Beaver Country Day School made me feel welcomed, valued and motivated to thrive both academically inside and outside of the classroom. 

Dear Diary:

It’s a mid-April Tuesday. My friends and I are sprawled on our favorite blue couch, chatting and exchanging jokes. 

My friend Hannah abruptly stands up, “Who wants to come to the bathroom with me?”

The stereotypical girls’ bathroom trip. One cannot make the journey alone.

The girls in our group and I stand up and begin to follow her down the sunlit hall of the C-Level.

“What do you guys even do in the bathroom anyway?” Asher calls after us.

We shrug.

One by one we push through the bathroom door. As we gossip and reapply our lip gloss, Zoe screams. Or rather shrieks. Screaming is relatively normal for us–– we are a very energized group. Shrieking, however, is not.

“THERE’S A COCKROACH IN THE CORNER!”

Before this moment, I had actually never seen a cockroach before. 

It’s repulsive. It’s nauseating. It’s horrid, and it’s right in front of us, skittering across the beige, tiled floor.

All seven of us scatter in a state of panic. What do we do?!

The showdown has begun. With the cockroach blocking the bathroom exit, we know we have to find a way out. But there are no windows. There is no emergency exit. 

In a blur, Zoe jumps on Hannah’s back as Lily slingshots a paper towel at the revolting insect. This is our chance!

“GO!”

With the cockroach temporarily unmoving, we know we have to act fast. Like lightning, we sprint out of the torture chamber and into the safety of outside. I’m shocked we made it out alive. We breathe a sigh of relief as we catch our breath.

From the couch, the guys exchange a glance.

“What do you do in the bathroom?”

-Leili Singer

Dear Diary:

The gym was full of energy during Dam Jam, with the crowd roaring as students dressed in school colors filled the bleachers. The chant of "DEFENSE! DEFENSE!" echoed loudly, shaking the floor as fans stomped and clapped in rhythm. Everyone was fired up, their faces painted, and their cheers full of pride for their team.

On the court, the players moved at the speed of light. Every pass and basket makes the crowd go wild. When a player hit a three-pointer, the gym erupted, the cheers so loud it felt like the walls were shaking. Every steal, every block, and every fast break brought people to their feet, hands in the air, shouting their support.

The noise grew louder as the game got closer, with the crowd pushing the players to give it their all. It wasn’t just about the game—it was about school pride, with everyone united, cheering their hearts out, and showing what being part of the school meant.

-Gus Knoedler and Tucker Cali

Dear Diary:

During lunch, I spot a group playing Spike Ball. As the new kid, I sit alone, eating my grilled cheese and watching from a distance. Suddenly, a student walks up to me.

“Want to play? I need a teammate.”

Startled, I look up. He’s smiling, and relaxed, like he’s just genuinely inviting me in. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” he says, holding out his hand.

After a quick hesitation, I take it. “Alright,” I reply with a small smile.

“I’m Gus, by the way,” he says as we walk over. “You’re new, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, admitting I’m not great at the game. He laughs, assuring me it’s just for fun.

Gus introduced me to the group, and I felt a surge of nerves, but everyone was friendly. As the game starts, I notice they cheer, laugh, and joke, making me feel welcome. When I mess up, Jake gives me a thumbs-up. “You’ve got this!”

The lunch bell rings, and I’m sweaty but lighter. “Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, smiling, feeling like I’ve taken my first step toward fitting in.

-Logan Spector and Lino Sanchez

Dear Diary:

Today I went to Upper School meeting at Beaver Country Day School.

Today’s the day. Here he is in front of the school.

“B-E-A,” he whispers ‘V-E-R.”

This is a yearly ritual.

“B-E-A,” “V-E-R.”

We all look around at each other, and I turn to my friend.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this again.”

Others do the same to their friends.

“B-E-A,” “V-E-R.”

I want to disappear.

“Beaver Beaver Beaver.”

We reluctantly join in.

“GAH-NAH. GAH-NAH. GAH-NAH.”

I look around and everyone is either laughing, confused, or locked in. The new freshmen especially seem lost, even though I’m a Junior it still is quite strange.

This is a chant we do each year—we purposely pronounce the “gnaw” like “gah-nah.” No one really knows why.

He repeats three more times—each time 25% louder. The last one is essentially a scream.

Finally it’s over—until next year.

-Gibran Ashai and Lauren Wagner

Dear Diary:

It was the night of the big game—the annual dam jam game between Beaver Country Day and our biggest rivals, Marianapolis Prep. The gym was buzzing with energy, like the whole school was packed into one room, just waiting for the action to start. The stands were full, and everyone—students, teachers, even parents— turned the gym into a sea of Beaver pride. You could hear the chants echoing from the bleachers, “B-E-A-V-E-R Beaver, Beaver, Beaver, gah-naw, Gah-naw, GAH-NAW,” getting louder and louder.

The game itself was wild. The players were on fire, pushing themselves after weeks of practice, and the whole team was feeding off the crowd’s energy. But honestly, it wasn’t just about the game—it was about the vibe. As our point guard drained his fifth three pointer the crowd erupted with a roar that shook the gym.

-Roee Josephy

Dear Diary:

I walked into English class at 8:05 with a suede cowboy hat on my head, leather boots on under my jeans, and a flannel top to tie it all together. The class had already started, and when I walked in, everyone’s heads turned to me. Perhaps the fact that I was late drew their attention. Maybe my outfit? As I approached my seat, my table mates laughed. 

“You two look great.” They said. “But, what is the occasion?”

I was unaware that the JV volleyball team also had a cowboy spirit, so when they said, ‘You two,’ I was a bit surprised. I turned my head to the girl sitting next to me, who also played volleyball. She was sporting a red bandana around her head and bell-bottom jeans, but no boots or flannel. It made me imagine an old-fashioned Wild West cowboy standoff between us.

“Well…” I said. “Whose outfit is better?”

They looked at me, then her, then me again. With an apologetic look, they turned their eyes back to her and declared me the winner.

-Neeyah Erold and Claire Larsen

Dear Diary:

My blades hit the choppy ice on a school skating trip. Almost no one knows how to skate well, but that doesn't matter. 

My friends are struggling, skating in shaky circles around the rink. I pass by smoothly.

“You need any help?” I ask my friend as she almost falls over.

“I'm good! Watch this!” she calls, and skates from one end of the rink to the other with much difficulty, almost falling down again. I’m laughing so hard because something so easy for me was so difficult for them but we are all having fun. 

She also is laughing, because she knows she is not very good, but is having so much fun anyway.

I do a spin and skate in the other direction.

As I turn, my other friend grabs my attention and I come to a stop. “Watch this,” she calls from the other end of the rink. She is trying to mock that spin. She falls flat on her face as I’m laughing. She is laughing too.

“You and I are friends but I'll pick you up after I finish laughing,” I tell her through giggles. 

Dear Diary:

One day, for our music concert, my friends and I arrived three hours early as instructed. As we had nothing better to do, my bandmates and I wandered around the school.

We found a tennis ball in the third floor art studio, and wanted to find something to do with it. 

While we were on the third floor, we talked about throwing something all the way down the stairwell to the bottom. One guy threw his goldfish bag down to the bottom to see what would happen. 

“Why don’t we use a tennis ball?” one of my friends asked. 

What started as a minor distraction turned into a full on game, as we took turns throwing the ball as far as we could, throwing it up one floor at a time to each other, spiking it as hard as we could from the third floor to the bottom. It was surprisingly hard to throw the ball straight up without getting it stuck on the ceiling of the other floors. 

One guy thinks he can throw really well and tries to teach the rest of us. He leans back and winds up, demonstrating the motion. He winds up again, ready to throw this time, and hurls the tennis ball at full power into the gap between the ceiling and an air conditioner. We wait under the air conditioner, waiting for it to drop out the other side, but it never does. It is gone.

Now that the tennis ball was lost to our “pro baseball player”, we gave up, and returned to the concert hall. We have found a way to waste forty-five minutes. 

Dear Diary:

It was a Wednesday morning and I was leaning against the wall waiting for my advisor to finish up teaching. Everyone around me was looking down on their phones anticipating an uneventful advisory. As our advisor opened the door to welcome us in, she noticed the weary expression on our faces.

She exclaimed with a slight smile, “Let’s go on a field trip!”

There was a look of confusion on everyone's faces. No one understood what was happening. We followed her as she took us down the stairs, out of the back entrance of the building, and to where her car was parked. She stood right behind the trunk of the car. We gathered ourselves around her as she opened the trunk. To our surprise, there were boxes of cookies and bags of Tostitos chips with dips. Everyone beamed with excitement as we sat down and ate the snacks on the bench.

I told the person next to me, “If you told me 30 minutes ago that I would be sitting outside, eating Tostitos and cookies from my advisory’s car, I wouldn't have believed you.”

-Spencer Sarkis and Milin Chhabra