Last week, rather than fretting over busy schedules and overwhelming classes, my best friends and I spent Sunday night in Randolph, New Hampshire, preparing for the totality of Monday’s solar eclipse.
Even though I spent last term interning in Washington, D.C. and getting a taste of adulthood, I felt young for the first time in a while driving down I-91 at night, our car packed to the brim. It was cold, but we kept the windows down anyway. The sky was clear and the stars were bright. We debated our eclipse resolutions and horoscopes, ate Nerds and sang along loudly to old music.
After belting out Olivia Rodrigo songs a little too poorly, we decided to switch genres to the “Hamilton” musical soundtrack. Despite not having listened to the album in years, I surprised myself by being able to recite every line. As I — still loudly and poorly — sang along to “Helpless” and “Wait for It,” I was catapulted back to the summer of 2017, when I was in the depths of my “Hamilton” obsession. I was late to the trend, but I embraced it with the dedication that only a 14-year-old can possess — stalking the internet for details about the cast members’ personal lives, buying extremely cheesy merch and performing my own rendition of “Burn” at sleepaway camp.
This period of my life coincidentally included Aug. 21, 2017 — the last “Great American Eclipse.” More likely than not, I was listening to “Hamilton” on my first day of pre-season field hockey training. Though I can still recall my mile time from those days, I have no recollection of watching the last eclipse. All I remember is that my sister tried to make eclipse glasses out of a cereal box, which I refused to use out of fear of blindness.
Looking back at my calendar, it seems like I spent the last eclipse at practice running on the turf. As a freshman in high school, I didn’t know I would quit field hockey two years later and instead join the track team. I didn’t realize I would end up running alongside the president of the Science Olympiad team, who convinced me to join — even though I only did so because I confused astronomy with astrology. I couldn’t have known that same club would introduce me to my love of stars and science, cementing my desire to study engineering, which influenced me to apply to Dartmouth. I didn’t know that I would be admitted and attend Dartmouth, or that I would switch my major, meet the friends I traveled with to Randolph and live a short drive from the path of the “Great North American Eclipse.” As a freshman in high school, the only things I really knew were the words to the “Hamilton” soundtrack.
As I sang those same lyrics as a college junior on my way to a small town in the middle of nowhere, I felt like the same silly girl who memorized all of those words — yet also like someone entirely new and unknown. I no longer play sports in order to follow in my siblings’ footsteps or pick my classes because of what sounds the most impressive. Instead, somewhere along the way, I became the type of girl who likes turmeric and packs a notebook with her in case poetic inspiration strikes. Seemingly overnight, I turned into a person who skips class to hide out in a house with no running water, just to see the sky turn dark for a few minutes.
And, right now, I wouldn’t want to be anyone else.
I spent the morning of the eclipse forgetting about my responsibilities and instead exploring Randolph’s nearby lakes and diners. The world seemed joyful that day, with its cloudless skies and beaming sun. The people did too, dog walkers waving at our car from the street and a cafe worker doodling a smiley face on my sandwich wrapper.
To watch the solar eclipse in its totality, we drove twenty minutes from Randolph to Lancaster, New Hampshire, which was similarly vibrant. In that small town, with a population just over 3,000, every store had lines out the door and handwritten chalkboards informing people there were eclipse glasses and t-shirts inside — capitalism, it seems, never sleeps, even when the sun does. The parks were rife with telescopes and lawn chairs, along with kids who were supposed to be at school and parents who were supposed to be at work.
At 2:16 p.m., everyone put on their eclipse glasses and stared upwards as the sun began to disappear. The brightness of the town changed, to a chorus of oohs and ahhs. When the shadow of the moon completely covered the sun, we stared in wonder as one. The birds went quiet, though everyone gathered filled the silence with applause. Admittedly, despite my love of astronomy and space, I found the total solar eclipse itself to be underwhelming; the human response, though, was dazzling. From New York to New Hampshire to Texas, we all set aside a portion of our Monday just to watch the phenomenon of the moon covering the sun.
I tried to remind myself of my newfound appreciation for humanity when it took me five hours to get home due to traffic.
When the next “Great American Total Solar Eclipse” rolls around on Aug. 12, 2045, I don’t know who I’ll be. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll be 42. The rapid succession of these past two total solar eclipses has shown me how much I have changed in just a few years, and I certainly won’t be the same person 21 years from now. But I wouldn’t want to be.
Maybe I’ll have kids who dislike field hockey as much as I did. Or maybe I’ll be frolicking in Europe and won’t even realize the date’s significance back in the States. Regardless, I hope I become the type of person who forgoes all her responsibilities to witness and appreciate the little things in life — someone who doesn’t forget to look up at the sky every once in a while.
