The plentiful buffet ...

For this post, I have handed the intro duties over to my good friend Kiernan Aiston, a former Parker teacher who is now chair of the Social Studies Department at North Shores Country Day School in Chicago.

- C.H.

As a teacher, I have long chased those magic moments during class discussion when the students around me are so locked-in that they cast aside their ironic detachment, forget themselves, and laugh and get serious and laugh some more and we are all there together, fully present and wholly in earnest. Safe to say, those moments are rare. Even after 17 years of teaching, I can count them on fingers and toes.

I bring this up because it was in the midst of one such discussion in the fall of 2012 that Parker senior Sam Bagheri (“Sam” here is pronounced like Tom), a student in my very accomplished 6th period AP Human Geography class, decided to say something “deep.”

In case you are wondering or reading this aloud--yes, these are air quotes.

Here’s the thing: Sam’s statement about identity being how we make sense of ourselves was spot-on --hell, it probably even gave voice to something many of his classmates had been turning over in their minds. But in the moments that followed, as Sam’s eyes darted back and forth at his friends to see if they were picking up what he was putting down and his lips quivered and held fast against a rising smile, the rest of us came to recognize his statement for the pseudo-intellectual zinger that it was. The members of 6th period AP Human Geography would most definitely not be caught caring again, at least not on days in which Sam was in attendance.

For the rest of his senior year, I was bitter at Sam for what he’d done to the class. But I was more bitter at myself for letting him derail the discussion, and for failing to get through to him. Most of all, though, I was bitter because I’d been far too much like him when I myself was in high school. Because his missed opportunity was my own. Because my Gram, who was one of the best readers of people I’ve ever known, used to call me a “little shit”.

Sam is cringing as he reads this, I imagine, but the point of this is not what lies above this sentence, but what lies beneath.

Have you ever wondered what happens to the privileged “little shits” after they leave prep school? Do they continue to launch themselves from station to higher station on trampolines strung tight with their parents' money? Do they still find time to practice lacrosse stickhandling between lectures? Do they go on lifting weights at Tobin’s house, ad infinitum?

The answer, in Sam’s case at least, is a resounding “No.”

Here’s how I knew this even before Sam shared the post that follows: A little over a year after I left San Diego, I found myself back in town. On Friday night, I dropped by a Parker football game and a young man approached me. I was nearly a minute into the exchange before I realized I was talking with Sam. In my defense, there was much less Sam before me than before--he’d lost what must have been 75 pounds in the two years since I’d last seen him. But more prominent than his physical transformation was the change in his carriage, in his eyes. He’d been humbled, that much was clear. The insecurity he’d buried beneath his wit and three layers of who-gives-a-shit armor was right there on the surface. With Old Sam, I would’ve checked over my shoulder, fully expecting to see one of his buddies on all fours behind me, waiting for Sam to give me a shove as he wished me a wonderful day. But this was a New Sam, and he spoke without a whiff of Eddie Haskell on his breath.

We talked. Really talked. He was still funny, only now his humor was more melancholy than manic, and tinged with a bit more self-deprecation. It was an earnest conversation that I’ve since added to my finger and toe tally of ones that count. And I came away thinking, Sam is gonna be fine. Better than fine.

Sam’s post, then, is about making the most of the opportunity presented you. It reads like a call to arms as much to his younger self as it is to any other student who is coasting on charm and cushioned by privilege. In it, he likens Parker to a buffet and urges those students who still have the opportunity to be sure to “use the fork and knife.” He does so in hopes that he can help them avoid returning to the buffet for a second helping of regret.

And if, as Sam offered way back in the fall of 2012, identity is indeed how we make sense of ourselves, he has done the hard and honest work of making sense of himself. In case you’re wondering, Sam Bagheri is a graduate of USD and works as a management consultant with Booz Allen Hamilton in Los Angeles. And though he writes, “I know who I have become and I don’t need to prove it to you,” it seems to me that this generous, thoughtful, honest post announces who he has become in all capital letters.

- K.A.

Dear Independent School Student,

You have been gifted a seat at one of the most exquisite and plentiful buffets in the world. You have been given a large serving spoon, and it is up to you to make the difficult but important choices as to how you fill your plate. Someone has invested in you, believes in you, and hopes you do some great things over the course of four years at this premier institution. Waiting in the buffet line won’t be easy but it will be worth it if you so choose. Make sure to have a great time filling that plate of yours, but DO NOT FUCK THIS UP.

The buffet I was talking about above alludes to the abundance of advantageous and exciting opportunities, experiences, and people that your school has laid out for you. I know you don’t understand this right now, and I know you don’t recognize how fortunate you are, but please trust me. I was one of the kids who had the fork and knife but to some degree wasted away this opportunity. I’d hate for you to do the same. It took me three years after walking off the stage on graduation day to understand what my school was all about. Opportunity.

A little background about myself: like most of you, I come from a background of privilege and was considerably blind to the life I was living. I would show up to school breaking the dress code, nonchalantly sit in each class dismissing the information I was being spoon fed, be disruptive with my friends during lunch, and then show up to lacrosse practice giving a lackluster effort. Moreover, I spent weekends in Del Mar with my friends causing havoc. Take this routine and multiply it by four. This was my high school experience. And let me tell you, for the most part I had an AMAZING time—I spent four years creating lasting memories with lifelong friends, but I wasted something very important, the opportunity in full.

You should very quickly engrain in your mind that you are not normal. Not everyone has access to state-of-the-art buildings, college preparatory academics, a pottery studio, guitar rooms, dance program, athletic teams, and remarkable teachers the way we do. Not everyone has the convenience of staying after school and work one-on-one with their math teacher in preparation for tomorrow’s test. Not everyone can spend lunchtime crafting a salad bowl out of clay. Not everyone is fortunate enough to be picked up by their parent in a 2018 luxury car after a lacrosse game at Bishop's. Not many people are granted the opportunity to spend four years within the walls of a premier institution to receive a top-tier education, explore options, find passions, travel the world, and create memories that will last a lifetime. But you do.

I did not choose to participate in this project so that I could convince you that I have learned from the lack of responsibility I chose to take on from 2009 to 2013. I know who I have become and I don’t need to prove it to you. I am only here to remind you that you have an opportunity of a lifetime and you can do two things with it: waste it or use it. It’s that simple. I don’t want you to have to work so hard to reverse the mistakes you’ve made in the past. I don’t want you to have to be so pent up inside that you one day burst into tears and apologize to your parents for essentially wasting $100,000 on your high school education alone.

I don’t want you to look back when you are 23 and write the same story I just did. All I want you to do is walk through this four-year buffet and use the fork and knife. Not everyone has the opportunity to do so. But you do.



Good Luck,



Sam Bagheri