Every year, they arrive.
Freshmen.
You can identify them immediately, even before they tell you what grade they’re in. They travel in groups—nay, in small herds—move through hallways with the urgency of someone late for a flight, and carry enough accessories to suggest they may be embarking on a three-week expedition rather than going to second-period English.
The backpack is the first giveaway. There will be multiple keychains. Not one. Multiple. And yet, remarkably, no keys. Just a collection of stuffed animals, miniature shoes, plastic charms, dangling characters, fuzzy objects, and unidentified pieces of personal history swinging from every zipper.
The backpack itself weighs approximately 47 pounds, but at least everyone knows that the owner enjoys… whatever that little thing hanging from the side is supposed to be.
Then come the buttons. Buttons everywhere. Pronouns. Characters. Causes. Bands. Messages. Personal declarations. The backpack is no longer a backpack. It is a mobile résumé of personality traits.
And somewhere in the middle of all this hangs a vintage rock band shirt. “Cool shirt,” you might say. “You like that band?” Blank stare. “Oh. I don’t really listen to them.” Of course not. The shirt is apparently enjoying the band on their behalf.
Meanwhile, some freshmen are wearing hoodies. It is 112 degrees outside. Not warm. Not slightly uncomfortable.
One hundred and twelve degrees.
The kind of heat where birds are reconsidering flight and asphalt has become a potential cooking surface. But there they are. Hood up. Possibly with sweatpants. Why? Nobody knows. It may simply be part of the uniform now. The hoodie must remain on.
Perhaps it provides shade. Perhaps it provides security. Perhaps, like the belt hanging loosely around their waist, it is there strictly for emotional support.
And yes, to be fair, some classrooms can feel a little cold. We educators do tend to like our classrooms rather arctic. There is something comforting about teaching while students slowly lose feeling in their extremities. Somewhere along the way, we apparently decided that if we were comfortable, the classroom was probably too warm.
So perhaps the hoodie isn’t entirely unnecessary. Still, there is something remarkable about watching a freshman walk across campus in 112-degree heat, wearing a hoodie with the hood up, only to enter a classroom where the air conditioning is set somewhere between “refreshingly cool” and “meat locker.”
Perhaps that’s the secret. They’re not dressing for the weather. They’re dressing for the transition. From the surface of the sun… to the frozen tundra of Room 214.
Back to the belt. A fascinating accessory. Not actually tight enough to hold up the pants. Not apparently serving any measurable purpose. Just… present. The pants would continue functioning perfectly well without it. Gravity has not been challenged. There is no structural crisis occurring at the waistline. Yet there it is—looped through, hanging loosely, occasionally dangling like it simply lost interest halfway through its job.
A belt for emotional support. It doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t hold anything up. It doesn’t secure anything. But apparently, everyone feels better knowing it’s there. Perhaps the belt isn’t meant to support the pants. Perhaps the belt supports the student. “You’re doing great,” it whispers. “Keep going. You’ve got this.”
And honestly, who are we to judge?
We all have something in our lives that serves no measurable purpose but somehow makes us feel more prepared to face the day. Freshmen just wear theirs around their waist. And leave it loose. Very, very loose. “I don’t know what I would do without it.” “Your pants would fall down?” “No. I mean emotionally.”
And then there is the water bottle. Not just a water bottle. A 32-ounce Hydro Flask, carried everywhere like a vital organ. Students who will go six hours without eating will suddenly become deeply concerned about hydration. “I need my water.” You have been in school for nineteen minutes. But the Hydro Flask remains.
Always.
It is dropped loudly in classrooms. Knocked over in hallways. Carried from class to class. And somehow, despite holding enough water to sustain a small village, it must be refilled three times before lunch.
Then we have the AirPod. Singular. One AirPod. Never both.
The other ear remains available for important things. Like ignoring teachers. It is unclear what they are listening to, but whatever it is, apparently requires one ear to remain connected to civilization.
Because two AirPods would be antisocial.
One AirPod says, “I am technically available for human interaction.” Technically. The teacher can call their name three times, and eventually the student will slowly turn around with the expression of someone who has just returned from a deep-sea expedition.
“What?”
The fascinating thing is that the AirPod may not even be playing anything. It doesn’t matter. At this point, it has become symbolic. A small, white declaration that says: “I am here, but I am also somewhere else.” One ear for the world. One ear for whatever mysterious soundtrack accompanies walking from Algebra to Biology. A perfect balance between participation and plausible deniability.
And then comes the selfie.
The freshman selfie deserves academic study. Anthropologists should document it. Psychologists should analyze it. Historians should preserve it for future generations who will undoubtedly ask: “Wait… what exactly were they trying to accomplish?”
First, there is the pose. Lean back. Farther. No, farther. Now angle the phone downward. Duck face.
Good. But we are not finished.
Now, cover most of your face. A hand. A phone. A sleeve. Hair. Something. Anything. The goal, apparently, is to take a picture of yourself… without anyone being able to tell what you look like.
And this is where the scientific mystery begins. Because the resulting photograph is posted with the unmistakable message: “Look at me!” While simultaneously communicating: “But not my face.”
The camera roll becomes an extensive photographic record of a person who may or may not exist. A forehead. One eye. A portion of a cheek. Possibly a shoulder. And somehow, everyone knows exactly who it is.
Then, of course, there is the inevitable caption or phrase—something cryptic enough to require interpretation by a team of specialists. But the pose remains consistent: Lean back. Phone up. Face partially hidden. Duck lips deployed.
Click.
Another masterpiece documenting a moment in time that nobody will ever be able to fully identify. The freshman selfie. A photograph of yourself… without actually being seen.
Then come the phrases. The declarations. The expressions repeated so often that eventually you begin wondering whether they are part of the curriculum. At some point, you hear the same thing enough times that you begin looking through the course catalog. English I. Algebra I. Biology. Baddy Closed.
Perhaps there is an elective we weren’t informed about. Because suddenly, everyone is saying the same thing. And they say it with such confidence. Such conviction. As if the phrase was handed down from the mountaintop sometime during lunch. “Baddy closed.”
Apparently, we all know what that means. Or perhaps we don’t. Maybe that is the point.
Then there are phrases like “your world and mine,” delivered, printed, posted, captioned, and repeated with enough frequency that eventually you begin wondering whether you’ve accidentally wandered into someone else’s conversation.
Every generation has its slang. Every generation has expressions that make perfect sense to the people using them and absolutely no sense to anyone over the age of thirty. But this generation has elevated the process.
A phrase can appear out of nowhere on Monday and, by Wednesday afternoon, be spoken fluently by half the freshman class. No explanation necessary. No dictionary required. They simply… know. Meanwhile, the rest of us are standing nearby, trying to determine whether we have missed an announcement.
And just when you think you have finally figured out what something means… It’s gone. Replaced by another phrase. Another declaration. Another mysterious collection of words that will eventually be repeated so often that you begin wondering whether it should be added to the curriculum.
Perhaps next year.
Period One: English.
Period Two: Math.
Period Three: Whatever That Phrase Means.
Period Four: Baddy Closed.
And somehow, despite having absolutely no idea what is happening, the freshmen will look at you with pity. Because apparently, everyone knows. Except us.
And that brings us to perhaps the most fascinating characteristic of freshmen: They genuinely believe they invented everything. The clothes. The slang. The accessories. The music. The attitude. The individuality.
All of it.
They have discovered vintage clothing. They have discovered oversized clothes. They have discovered old music. They have discovered irony. They have discovered rebellion. They have discovered being misunderstood. And they are absolutely certain that nobody before them has ever experienced any of it.
“Nobody understands our generation.”
Oh, sweetheart. Every generation has said that.
“Nobody dressed like this before.”
They did.
“Nobody listened to music like this before.”
They did.
“We’re different.”
Of course you are. Just like everyone else who was different before you.
And individuality?
Oh, they have that in abundance. It’s just fascinating that so many of them are expressing their individuality with the exact same hoodie, water bottle, backpack accessories, poses, phrases, and facial expressions as everyone standing next to them.
And perhaps that is what makes freshmen so entertaining. Every year, a brand-new group arrives convinced they are breaking new ground.
They aren’t.
They’re simply the latest participants in a tradition that has been going on for generations. They don’t realize they’re participating in it. They think they’re starting it.
And that’s the magic of being young.
You don’t realize that the clothes, the music, the slang, the rebellion, the poses, the accessories, and the insistence that nobody has ever understood your generation have all been done before.
Many times.
By people who are now standing in front of you asking you to put your phone away.
And here’s the uncomfortable truth: We were them. We just don’t like admitting it.
We thought our clothes were original. Our music was better. Our slang was cooler. Our generation was different. And somewhere, some exhausted adult was watching us walk around thinking: “Good Lord. They really think they invented this.”
So perhaps we shouldn’t be too hard on the freshmen. Let them believe they’re breaking new ground. Let them believe their generation is different. Let them wear the vintage band shirt. Let them carry their emotional-support belt. Let them walk through 112-degree heat in a hoodie while carrying 32 ounces of water, one AirPod, fourteen keychains, and a backpack covered in buttons.
Because someday, Lord help us, they will be the adults standing in a hallway watching another group walk past wearing something ridiculous, speaking a language they don’t understand, and carrying some new object nobody needs.
They’ll shake their heads.
They’ll complain about the music.
They’ll wonder why everyone dresses alike while insisting they’re individuals.
And they’ll say the exact same thing we said.
“What is wrong with these kids?”
And somewhere, someone older will smile. Because nothing is wrong with them. They’re just young. And being young has always looked a little ridiculous from the other side of the hallway.
The species isn’t new.
Only the accessories are.
There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com.
Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing—one post at a time.
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© 2026 Mariano Velez ~ InkBlotz Press
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