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Dear Scroll C Board, Publishing a 12-page or 16-page issue in a month is no joke. We, the CI Board, are only beginning to figure this out. It requires a special form of dedication— a passion and commitment so unwavering that transcend the impossibilities constructed by the burdensome boarding school setting. There are simply so many components that must go into an issue, from articles to interviews, from graphics to photos, and the margin of error is so small that these components must fit in perfectly. Yet you have proven to everyone time after time not only that it could be done, but it could be done in a tasteful fashion of professionalism and integrity. Working as a Scroll editor, one barely receives the appropriate recognition. Readers hardly see the arduous and tiresome process that goes into each issue. And I don’t blame them, for receiving monthly issues becomes routine; it is part of the editor’s job to make consistent student journalism a natural and intrinsic part of Deerfield life. When readers do find something interesting, the natural point of contact becomes the author, not you who edited the article. It is a silent position, but one that bears all the responsibilities. So I want to commend you for doing an exemplary job if you have not been told so often. On behalf of the new board, I would like to offer another heartfelt thank you. Thank you, for teaching us that a bit of determination and a spark of passion can go a long way. Thank you, for having faith in us even when we have lost some ourselves. And thank you, for growing us into the writers and editors we are today. I also want to acknowledge John Liu in particular, my mentor and good friend. Last year, I had wondered how you stayed unaffected in contrast to the difficulties of your job. I even doubted that the Scroll was of any challenge for you. I realized I was wrong, very quickly, when I took over in March. There are so many parts of this job that weigh invisibly; seemingly insurmountable challenges block the path. You just carried the weight quietly. Sometimes, this involves traversing the labyrinth of Scroll bureaucracy to find that one missing graphic. Other times, it is navigating difficult conversations with the Academic Affairs Office about an article published accidentally. It might also be an ambitious collaboration with another school newspaper that ended in a logistics nightmare. In all these scenarios, you handled the pressure by yourself and never told anyone else. Failure was likewise not an option. You were the captain of the ship, charting a wild course in the icy sea. So many icebergs that could have struck the ship, yet you have masterfully steered clear of every obstacle and brought it to harbour, intact and better than ever. The crew, the C Board, has served well alike. Each member bears their own burden and offers all they can, so each issue looks effortlessly excellent. Underneath every issue, however, are countless personal sacrifices that had to be made during the stressful senior year. Similarly, failure was never an option. Now the ship has set sail again, and this time without you. The journey ahead will surely be difficult, challenging, but rewarding. Though you will not be on the ship, your spirit very much will. You have inspired us to take the same spirit of resilience, responsibility, and passion to approach journalism. With the rudder now in our hands, we will try our best to sustain and grow this legacy, now passed over a hundred different hands. Thank you again, and you will be missed very much in the Scroll room. Yours in truth, Andrew Li

All of us are familiar with Ms. Brown’s Wednesday phone-free campaign, backed by Phone Down by Lost Kings. Although some may find it amusing, the campaign comes from good intentions. Most students, including many Scroll board members, have tried some version of escaping their phones already—screen time limits, notification blockers, “Do Not Disturb”, deleting social media then redownloading it a few weeks later. As stated in a Pew research, average time on social platforms has dropped around 10% from its 2022 peak, with the steepest decline among 16 to 24 year olds. The desire to escape phones itself has created an industry. Digital wellbeing apps, subscription-based blockers, dumbphones sold at quite a premium, and wellness retreats built around “disconnection” are all trying to turn restraint into a revenue stream. According to research published by The Conversation, the digital detox market is currently valued at 62 billion dollars and projected to reach over 200 billion dollars by 2033. A 2026 study in the European Journal of Marketing describes this process as a co-optation—digital technology repositions itself now as a protector of our attention rather than its destroyer, and the economy that created the exhaustion sells you the retreat as well. That contradiction seems to be uniquely modern, but it is not. There is this man, Edward Bernays, whose work influences modern consumer culture. Before Bernays, you bought a car simply because you needed transportation, and you bought soap to be clean. His philosophies changed advertising permanently. He connected products to personal identities and emotions, and now the product itself matters less than its message. His most famous campaign rebranded cigarettes as “torches of freedom,” breaking taboo around women smoking and linking smoking to female liberation. He staged a publicity stunt at the 1929 Easter Sunday Parade, arranging for fashionable young women to light cigarettes in front of the press, transforming cigarettes into a political symbol. This became a hinge moment in the history of consumerism. Before Bernays, you consumed to live. After Bernays, you consumed to be. Sociologist David Riesman, in his 1950 study The Lonely Crowd, described this broader shift as a move from an “inner-directed” society to an “other-directed” one. In an inner-directed culture, identity comes from personal values, discipline, faith, and community. In an other-directed culture, identity is shaped increasingly by social approval and perception. Once people began consuming to express who they were, even resistance can become something that could be packaged and sold. In the 1960s, a counterculture rejected consumerism entirely, yet within a decade, businesses sold the hippie aesthetic back through fashion, music, and lifestyle products. Minimalism followed; the desire to own less was turned into an aesthetic and monetized. Then mindfulness—a contemplative practice centuries old—was absorbed into what the Global Wellness Institute now estimates as a 4.5 trillion dollar wellness industry. What you have to know is that Bernays wasn’t only selling products; he was a propaganda specialist. He wrote that “the conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society,” and someone will always shape what the public thinks and feels—that it might as well be done deliberately. His insight was that you could sell a version of reality, and if the version was compelling enough emotionally, most people would stick with it. That idea did not die with him, which brings us to today, when that idea arguably takes its full form in social media. The platforms automated and perfected Bernay’s logic. Algorithms sell you attention, rage, identity, belonging, and some enemies. The content itself hollowed out as well. AI-written articles now outnumber those written by humans. According to peer-reviewed journal Organizational Behavior and Human Decision Processes, consumers no longer trust online content, and their preference for AI-generated material has dropped. When you scroll, you come across content produced by no one in particular and for no one in particular—just optimized for your engagement. So the people leave, or they try to. They download the blocker and book the retreat. Which brings us back to that $62 billion industry, and to the pattern underneath it, that every genuine human need eventually finds a price tag. When that need emerges as a resistance—someone notices it and recognizes its market value, packages it, and sells the identity of opting out back to the people who originally opt out. The aesthetic changes, whether you look back at the hippie, the minimalist, or the mindfulness movements. The commercial “detox” industry now thrives because personal solutions are easy to sell, whereas systematic change is hard. Once you see the mechanism, it is difficult to unsee it. And frankly, it's everywhere, not just on screens.

HEIDI LIANG/DEERFIELD SCROLL Palantir Technologies Chief Executive Officer Alex Karp’s opinions on immigration have long aligned with Republican policies. Under Karp’s direction, during the first Trump administration, Palantir provided data analysis software to the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Karp has clearly and publicly expressed his anti immigration beliefs; on The Axios Show, he said that “[t]he idea that somehow it's a God-given right of people of widely divergent cultures to come to our culture" goes against "actual, empirical experience, and none of your voters want it." However, with the second Trump administration, Karp has taken his support of anti-immigration policy a step further. In April of 2025, Palantir Technologies struck a 30-million-dollar deal with ICE to develop “Immigration OS,” an artificial intelligence-based surveillance program to track, identify, and deport illegal immigrants. This deal displays a worrying shift in the fundamental values of Palantir. While it might come as a surprise, Karp’s opinions situate him on the left side of the political spectrum. In 2024, Karp self-identified as a socialist and a progressive. He voted for Joe Biden in 2020 and backed Kamala Harris in her 2024 presidential campaign. Karp has long been an advocate for minority groups in America, and he has publicly spoken about the issue of economic inequality. However, his contributions to Immigration OS run contrary to this past stance, as it allows for the tracking and large-scale collection of data on immigrants, a particular minority group. Aside from this shift in priorities, three aspects of Immigration OS stand out as particularly worrying. First, it significantly shifts the delicate balance of power between the executive branch and state governments in the area of data collection. Currently, federal governments rely on state governments to voluntarily give them data; the United States is simply too large and too diverse for the federal government to collect all the data it wants itself. However, state governments are not required to provide information to the federal government; they have the ability to decide if and to what extent they cooperate. However, Immigration OS completely bypasses this need for cooperation; the software draws from local, state, and federal databases. Second, the interoperability of data—that is, the ability of different programs, computers, and software to seamlessly communicate and exchange data—makes the congregation of data in the hands of the federal government more dangerous. Although Immigration OS only collects and analyzes for the purpose of deporting illegal immigrants, it nonetheless profiles individuals and provides the federal government with the resources necessary for it to successfully mass surveil and target specific minority groups should it choose to do so. 404 Media reported in April of 2025 that a version of Palantir’s case management system for ICE enabled agents to search for people based on hundreds of very specific, personal traits. Some of these traits—such as the individual's nation of birth and their present legal standing—were immigration enforcement-related. Other traits—such as someone’s hair color and license-plate reader data, which allows for identification of the locations that a person travels to—were not. This mass collection of data, especially highly personal data that isn’t particularly pertinent to immigration enforcement, increases the potential for large-scale abuse, as any malicious figures in the federal government will find it far easier to profile and to target. Third, Immigration OS puts the United States at risk of becoming dependent on artificial intelligence. Take Flock Safety, a public safety technology company that produces AI-powered license plate readers and cameras for law enforcement agencies, as an example. In 2021, the city of Troy, New York, partnered with Flock. After their original two-year contract expired, the city decided not to renew its license. However, the mayor of Troy was forced to declare an emergency state to keep Flock cameras on because during those two years, Troy had become so reliant on Flock that if the system shut down, the city would be unable to function properly. Chinmayi Sharma, a Fordham Law School professor specializing in AI and cybersecurity, put it plainly: “[O]nce a jurisdiction becomes so dependent on a technology that they have a contract with, that they use, that they rely on, they've gotten very used to, they might have laid off the human workforce and reallocated resources, you become very dependent on it.” This reliance could be especially damaging because, currently, Immigration OS has no way of distinguishing the credibility of a source; it simply compiles information. But to me, what’s even more worrying than the nature of this invasive data collection itself is the way that Palantir is trying to market itself. Two weeks ago, Palantir debuted its own line of merch. There is certainly irony in the fact that the first item of clothing Palantir launched was a 239 dollar chore coat—a type of clothing that has its origins with 19th-century French blue-collar workers, where it was called the bleu de travail. Despite all the work it’s doing to put power in the hands of the people at the top, Palantir is trying to identify with the common people. What’s even more worrying than Palantir’s attempt to market itself is its apparent success in doing so. Both versions of their chore coat—bright blue and black—are sold out in all sizes on their online store. In an interview with the New York Times, Palantir Head of Strategic Engagement Eliano Younes claimed that, “It’s not political. It’s about people who love Palantir and are aligned with our mission,” and their incredible sales show that generally, people believe him. In claiming that they are “not political,” Palantir is crafting a cult of personality around itself—an ideal image separated from its role in the brutal deportations of the Trump administration and the increased risk for the rise of authoritarianism that their technology is allowing for. Palantir is offering people the opportunity to identify with, support, and represent their brand, and people are gladly taking that offer. To be honest, I’m not certain what the purpose of this op-ed is. I’m not sure if there’s anything that we can do. I just hope that we haven’t become so enamored with branding and narrative that we’ve lost the ability to see surveillance for what it is.

HEIDI LIANG/DEERFIELD SCROLL It’s no secret that Deerfield is a place built on tradition; whether it's slapping the tiled green “D” on the way to practice or attending sit-down meals seven times a week. Another one of Deerfield’s traditions includes its dress code, which is described on the Deerfield website as a “shared experience and an everyday practice that signals seriousness of purpose and mutual respect within our community.” The Deerfield dress code plays an integral role in shaping our identity as a student body, to the extent that it encourages students to conform to it in order to achieve a sense of belonging. There exists as well a basic level of inequality when it comes to following the dress code, which could result in exclusivity. It's no secret that my and perhaps many other freshman girls’ wardrobes changed drastically from the beginning of the year, simply through experience and exposure. My closet in particular came from very humble beginnings; it went from a few shirts and tops to a plethora of skirts and blouses, with some pieces of clothing finding a place under my bed due to limited capacity. During the Disco Dance last year, every freshman was scrambling to get the same exact sparkly sequin skirt. It's almost instinctive to see another girl with a pretty dress and to ask, “Where is that from?” which only accentuates the “copy and paste” culture we’re experiencing at Deerfield. It makes me stop and wonder, where does this phenomenon come from? Deerfield girls, in particular, have made this intangible but real dress code I like to call “The Imagined Deerfield Girl Dress Code.” Right now, the Deerfield Dress Code website is quite cryptic regarding what girls are allowed to wear, stating that all students should wear, "a blazer or sportcoat (with lapel), an appropriate top like collared shirts, blouses, dresses, and an appropriate bottom layer like pants, shorts, skirts, and dresses.” The “imagined” part kicks in when you walk down the brick paths every morning and see girls rocking blazer-less sundresses, cardigans of all sorts of colors, and most frighteningly, the occasional pair of blue jeans when nobody seems to be looking. Even though this dress code is not too far off from the original, there’s clearly an implied way that Deerfield girls should dress that’s not stated on paper. What makes the phenomenon peculiar is how it’s internalized by students who start to enforce the dress code themselves, rather than a single person or institution. To further understand where this dress code comes from, it’s helpful to catch a glimpse at what an imagined order truly is. Coined by Sapiens author Yuval Harari, an imagined order is an intersubjective belief that has historically increased mass-collaboration amongst societies, and can also shift into becoming an “imagined reality.” Some of the most famous examples include everyday things like the value of the dollar bill, laws, or, for a more niche example, our dress code. What makes these imagined orders so attractive is that they create cohesion, which provides security. I can’t lie, wearing those billowy sundresses and comfortable cardigans makes me feel a part of something. That desire to belong is precisely what gives imagined orders their power. I could have just failed my math test or suffered an embarrassing slip and fall, but it would feel like an undeniable fact that I belong to the Deerfield community. Although nearly everyone experiences psychological pressures to conform, not everyone has the ability to participate in the trends that define our belonging. When appearance starts tying to social acceptance, fashion stops being a simple form of self-expression. Hence, the social unity and community bond created by consumer culture reveals its inequalities. Highly regarded sociologist Zygmunt Bauman described two main consumer groups that he referred to as the “seduced,” the ones with the resources to follow trends, and the “repressers,” the ones unable to buy in due to financial restrictions. These designations sought to highlight the basic level of inequality that consumerism poses. Most importantly, this directly represents how “consumer choice” is only truly available to those who have the necessary financial resources to afford the latest trends. Especially because how we look dictates our belonging, “consumer choice” can turn into a “consumer necessity” for fitting in, and the “repressers” become outliers. The “Imagined Deerfield Girl Dress Code” is a tough code to follow for students with less financial resources, which leads to a greater sense of alienation. To end off this Op-Ed, I challenge you, the reader, to do two things: one, look at the contents of your closet, and two, ask yourself, why? Gauge how your closet has changed over time, and most importantly, why you made the fashion choices you did. Then ask yourself, were those choices really yours, or the result of the influences from the people around you? In a consumerist society, do we really have consumer choice? Or rather, have we been getting complacent with the illusion of a choice, dictated by the ones around us?

HEIDI LIANG/DEERFIELD SCROLL This time last year, in April of 2025, I was on my phone when I received two Instagram notifications: a follow request from user @kwasi4prez2025 and another from @pzhangforprez. A couple of weeks later, another account—@elloraforpres—popped up on my feed. I remember scrolling through their posts, watching Ms. Heidi Valk’s biology class yell “We endorse Ellora for President” and Prof John Taylor say "You're the best Patrick!”, enthusiastically pumping a fist into the air. With both the 2026-2027 Deerfield Student Body President Elections and the US Midterm Elections coming up, I’ve been reflecting a lot on how campaigning has changed in recent years. As candidates, what does it take to win someone's vote? As voters, what does it mean to give someone our vote? Unfortunately, I believe that the answer to these questions has become increasingly based on shallow impressions rather than comprehensive understanding. Before I continue, I would like to recognize that there is value in the digestibility of information, especially in an institution of any kind that seeks to promote civil discourse and the interaction and exchange of diverse ideas. I think that American academic and author Walter Russell Mead best describes the need for it when he writes in his book Special Providence: American Foreign Policy and How It Changed the World, “Democratic society depends on myths; without such a convenient historical shorthand that compresses and simplifies extremely complex historical events and political questions into ideas and images that nonspecialists can understand and use, democratic debate would simply disappear” (Mead, 2001, p. 61). However, there also needs to be a balance between digestibility and accuracy. Yes, if the communication of an idea is too accurate and complex, few people will understand it enough to make sense of it and formulate their own opinions about it; this prevents its propagation and widespread discussion. But, there is danger in making an idea too digestible; if it is too simplified to be even somewhat of a representation of its original meaning, the opinions people form about it aren’t applicable. When candidates reduce a complex argument, idea, or policy to a catchy slogan, they lose its original meaning; in this regard, I believe that campaigning has swung too far towards digestibility. Recently, I read a New York Times Guest Essay titled “The Old Way of Campaigning Won’t Cut It Anymore.” In it, author and veteran Democratic political strategist David Plouffe argues that “[a] successful campaign in 2026 must operate like a full-time production studio.” He claims that in order to run a successful campaign, a candidate must cover all of their bases; they must “harmonize” their message across Facebook accounts, Tiktok reels, Twitch livestreams, in-person events, and everything in between—that is, they must convey the same cohesive and simple message to as many people as possible. In terms of campaign strategy, I agree with him. In a period in which new voters are increasingly disinterested in politics— a 2025 Associated Press-NORC Center for Public Affairs Research poll revealed that only 20% of adults under age 30 follow politics very closely—outreach through short, memorable clips and slogans seems crucial for garnering widespread support. Candidates in Deerfield elections use the same strategy. Current Student Body President Patrick Zhang ’26 described, “I just went into [my campaign] with a mindset of trying to emulate stuff that I’ve seen online, like creating funny videos and eye-catching videos that make you feel good…I think I focused a lot more on the social media aspect than anybody else. I think the videos were a big reason that I won.” This approach worked for Zhang and for 2024-2025 Student Body President Billy Tang ’25, who both had Instagram accounts with significantly more followers than anyone else in their respective election cycles. However, I believe that with this model of campaigning, we lose a crucial level of deeper understanding that is necessary for us—as voters—to make informed decisions that truly align with what we want. Scrolling through Deerfield Student Body President candidates’ Instagram accounts, I noticed that they included starkly little to no information about what changes candidates were seeking to carry out in office. None of them spoke to the ways in which a certain candidate was unique in their vision for Deerfield. Reflecting on my personal experience with last year’s election, I was surprised to realize that I couldn’t recall what any of the candidates’ speeches were about. I struggled to come up with any memory of what promises they campaigned on. Even now, I honestly cannot come up with a single campaign-based reason why I voted for the person I voted for. Beyond Deerfield, while I don’t believe that US voters are randomly throwing their votes around, the shift towards slogan-based, overly outreach-focused campaigning makes it more difficult for them to identify the true implications of the policies candidates advocate for. In that sense, we increasingly cast votes based on the digital aesthetic appeal of candidates rather than their ability to propose realistic and effective policies that align with our personal values. In the same article in which he advocates for studio-production-like campaigning, Plouffe himself admits that this new system isn’t a good predictor of candidates' performances in office. He writes, “Is this a great way to audition and select our leaders, especially for executive offices? Not particularly. The abilities to communicate and rally and comfort the public in a crisis are essential ingredients in a strong leader. Those skills, at least, a voter can gauge through video. What’s harder to judge are the routine aspects of those jobs — how you hire and fire, make decisions and operate day to day.” When we start making choices based on impressions instead of thorough and well-researched comprehension, we’re bound to be disappointed with the results. Voter dissatisfaction rates reflect this: a March 2026 survey found that the majority of both Democrats and Republicans—69% of all adults—are unhappy with the way democracy is functioning in the United States. In conversation, I hear complaints about how the Deerfield student council doesn't seem to do anything more than I hear about what it does. So what can we do about all of this? How can we, high school students, try to change a country-wide, decades-long shift in campaigning strategy? Fundamentally, I believe that change needs to start from the bottom up; as voters, we need to start being more curious about the issues that matter to us and pushing candidates to get into specifics. Candidates can only campaign on false promises or vague ideas if voters don’t ask hard questions. We need to educate ourselves enough to know what questions to ask, then care enough to ask them. The meaning of campaigns is not in single-dimensional, single-sentence slogans that simply sound good; anyone can come up with those. The meaning is in the complexity, in how people respond to difficult situations and in their framework for achieving universal goals. If we push for nuanced campaigning that addresses the intricacies that exist in any position, the narrative around the most effective way to garner support must follow. We can’t change the nature of US politics, and this problem doesn’t have a quick fix. But at least in our small preparatory high school in Western Massachusetts, we can begin to shift the culture. Three days ago, @blytheforpresident requested to follow me on Instagram. Two days ago, I received follow requests from @votenateugwonali, @dimakforda, and @tedfreedmanforprez. I’ve begun to see campaign posters pop up in the Dining Hall and in academic buildings. Once again, it’s time for us as the student body to decide who we want to represent us this coming year. Before you cast your vote, I would encourage you to try to understand the candidates. Don’t just listen to their speeches. Don’t just watch their Instagram campaign reels. Don’t just go off of impressions. Reach out with questions, talk to them in person, or engage actively in another manner, because with our right to vote comes the responsibility to vote informed.

KAYLEEN CHO/DEERFIELD SCROLL At the end of every year, students at Deerfield Academy scroll through the course catalog with calculations running through their minds. For many, the central question is rarely “What would I like to learn next year?” but more like “Which course will serve me the best?” With this mindset, Latin and Ancient Greek are usually the first casualties. They are almost always disqualified because they are dead languages, as if this designation disqualifies them from being relevant. The term “dead languages” is, in essence, a misnomer. Dead languages are defined as those without any remaining native speakers. Latin and Ancient Greek do fit that criterion, but that in no way implies that the languages are now irrelevant. The Latin language retains an active presence in English vocabulary, especially in academia and law. Perhaps even more importantly, Latin serves as the root language of an entire family of spoken languages, like French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, and Romanian. This means that by studying Latin, a student has, in many ways, learned the basic building blocks of five living languages. The practical argument for studying Latin, while underappreciated, is not baseless. But Ancient Greek offers a completely different, and in some ways, more convincing rationale for study. Whereas Latin has obvious practical uses, Greek has none. There is no family of related languages, nor does it significantly improve a person’s writing skills in English. If a student chooses to study Ancient Greek, there is little doubt that it is because they find the subject interesting. And I would argue that this quality, far from being a weakness, is actually one of Ancient Greek’s most crucial aspects. We live in an age where the very concept of intrinsic motivation has been severely eroded. We have developed a tendency to demand explanation and justification for almost everything we do, asking questions like “What is this for?”, “What does this produce?”, and “Where does this lead?” These are important questions, but they become problematic when they are the only questions asked. The gradual loss of intrinsic motivation, the ability to recognize and appreciate things for themselves, is a significant intellectual loss, one that is reflected in the manner in which subjects like the Classics are approached. This begs the question: What exactly does the study of the Classics contribute? Ancient Greece gave rise to Western philosophy, political theory, dramatic theater, and medicine. Philosophers like Plato, Aristotle, and Socrates grappled with questions of fundamental importance to human existence, posing questions like “What is justice?” and “How should a person live?” These are not abstract relics of an ancient curriculum. They are the same questions that Deerfield students encounter in History, in English, and in the ethical dimensions of nearly every discipline taught here. To engage with the Classics is not to step outside of a Deerfield education; it is to access its deepest roots. Furthermore, there is simply no substitute for reading a work of literature in its original language. Every translation is an interpretation, in which the translator makes judgments about tone, emphasis, and ambiguity that color a reader’s experience in ways that may not align with the author’s intent. Studying the Iliad in Greek or Cicero’s work in Latin can be a linguistic exercise in a textbook, but it can be a journey of unparalleled intimacy with the great minds of the Western world. I recognize that students’ time is limited and focusing on subjects like the Classics takes away from skills that are demonstrably useful in today’s world, such as coding, economics, or modern languages. This objection is valid, but it is also not the point of this piece. There is no need to mandate the study of Latin and Ancient Greek. Intellectual diversity is very valuable, and compulsory study is not helpful. But it is important to recognize the error of dismissing these subjects on the grounds of practicality, the assumption being that since they do not have any readily apparent value, they are not worth a student’s time. That attitude reflects a fundamentally narrow perspective on education. A good secondary education is not just meant to train future workers but to create individuals with the ability to think independently, tackle difficult ideas, and maintain genuine intellectual curiosity. For centuries, the study of the Classics has served this purpose. To discard these subjects on the basis of practicality is to misunderstand what the Classics offer and the purpose of education itself. Structural changes can help. Deerfield has already taken meaningful steps, allowing Ancient Greek to fulfill the language requirement and offering Latin up to Six Honors, and expanding access further would be a welcome development. But the more important shift is cultural. Faculty can play a role by openly affirming the value of humanistic inquiry alongside technical preparation, and advisors can encourage students to not only ask “Will this help my application?” but also “Does this genuinely interest me?” As a student body, we should resist the habit of measuring every intellectual pursuit by its immediate usefulness. Latin is not a dead language in any meaningful sense, and Ancient Greek, whatever its limitations as a practical credential, remains one of the most direct pathways into the intellectual heritage of Western civilization. Both deserve a place not merely in the course catalog, but in the genuine intellectual life of this school.

HEIDI LIANG/DEERFIELD SCROLL At the end of each term, students receive grades that are meant to reflect their academic performance, yet these evaluations often lack the explanation necessary to interpret them. Since comments are only provided at the midterm, the end-of-term grades can often seem unjustified. Paired with the intentionally obscure grading systems that prevent students from seeing their class averages before grades are released, term-end grades can often seem like a random ruling rather than a proper assessment. A lack of clarity leads students to see grades as inaccurate rather than understanding the rationale behind them. These unexplained discrepancies between midterm and final grades fundamentally undermine a purposeful Deerfield education. Instead of prioritizing the learning process, students are forced to reduce their performance to an arbitrary number, rather than being explicitly told the reason behind changing grades at a crucial checkpoint. This leads to mistrust and misunderstandings, widening the gap between teacher assessment and student performance. This issue becomes especially evident when grades or effort marks fluctuate between the midterm and the end of the term. The significance of a grade or effort mark fluctuation is not limited to declines; it’s arguably even more important for a student to understand why or how their grade or effort has improved so that students can be made aware of the conscious changes they can make to replicate improvements in the future. Without that explanation, students are left without a clear sense of what behaviors or strategies led to their progress. In the past two iterations of grade releases, I’ve noticed that my grade in some classes has improved without an explanation since the midterm, and after the initial wave of grace and relief, I’m also met with a sense of uncertainty. What did I improve on after the midterm? Was I more attentive during class discussions, warranting a higher participation grade? Did I do better in graded class discussions? While these behaviors may seem minor, they could warrant a higher effort grade in the eyes of the teacher. However, without explicit feedback detailing the reasons behind improvement, the student never learns what works and what doesn’t. This leads to the broader issue of grading transparency within Deerfield’s curriculum. Many of Deerfield’s courses intentionally obscure course grades from students, especially in the humanities. Dean of Academic Affairs Dr. Anne Bruder states that this approach “makes students more invested in the risk-taking process that is becoming a better writer,” and helps avoid a “transactional or strategic tendency” in learning. She also notes that “every teacher has a grade book and every teacher should be able to have a conversation with any student about where they stand,” suggesting that conversations can help resolve confusion. However, being able to have a conversation with a teacher does not substitute for providing context at the moment grades are released. While it is important for students to have conversations during the term, it is equally important to provide explanations for grade changes when or before students see them. When grades are released during breaks, confusion cannot be immediately addressed, and by the time conversations occur later, that confusion may have already undermined the trust between teacher and student. The other issue with substituting comments with teacher-student conversations is the staggered nature through which students would be receiving their feedback. Aside from the obvious logistical issues with students each having separate conversations with teachers after any instance of confusion, speaking with teachers after term-end grades contradicts the very reasoning behind a pivotal policy change years ago that moved the release of comments from the term-end to midterms. Regarding midterm grades and comments, Dr. Bruder stated, “We disaggregated them to make students actually attend to the growth-oriented feedback before they think about the grade.” By this logic, students should be given constructive, growth-oriented feedback before numerical grades are released during breaks after the term to ensure that they attend to academic growth before considering numbers. Structured midterm and term-end comments can provide explicit constructive feedback at both junctions, helping students understand reasons for upward or downward trends, allowing students to maintain a healthy relationship with their grades, seeing them as valuable metrics for assessment rather than punitive and arbitrary numbers. At the same time, requiring full comments for every student may not be realistic, as it would significantly increase teachers’ workload and potentially reduce the quality of their feedback. A more practical solution would be to require comments only when there are notable changes—such as shifts in participation grades or numerical changes of two and more points. In these cases, brief explanations attributing the change to performances on certain assignments or assessments would provide much more clarity while making the workload manageable for teachers. This approach would also create a stronger foundation for the student-teacher conversations that the school encourages, making those discussions more productive and focused. Dr. Bruder said, “One of the most important things to learn at Deerfield is that you're driving the bus of your learning.” While student ownership is important, there should be an additional step in between the release of grades and those conversations. Providing students with clearer feedback at the moment would help ensure that grades support, rather than obscure, the learning process.

HEIDI LIANG/DEERFIELD SCROLL We stand at a strange time for both the Scroll and journalism. Upon the arrival of the radio a century ago, the newspaper industry went into a state of panic. The newspaper industry lobbied politically, pressured advertisers, and monopolized the news—a period known as the Press Radio War. Those efforts succeeded in 1933, when the press forced the major wire services to stop providing news to broadcasters altogether. The press was trying to strangle this new medium in its cradle, yet the radio, ever accessible, won over the rural and working-class households unable to afford daily subscriptions. Radio became credible because specific people dedicated their lives to make it so. Edward R. Murrow arrived at CBS in 1937 with no reporting experience. Then, the radio barely reported the news at all, mainly just announcers reading headlines. What Murrow built, broadcasting live from London rooftops during the Nazi bombing of Britain, was something refreshingly different: eyewitness journalism, staked to a real person’s real presence at a real event. His reporting on the German occupation of Austria and the Munich conference demonstrated what the new medium could be. He made the radio credible through his well-known phrase, “This is London.” Then, in the 1950s, television came, and journalists dismissed it initially. Walter Cronkite became the most trusted man in America not because the new medium earned him that trust, but because he himself did, story by story, for two decades. The internet arrived, and the obituaries for journalism ran again. Bloggers would replace reporters, they would say. Anyone with a laptop could now publish. But the truth is unchanged, for the medium itself was neutral; only the serious work done within it gives it credibility. Which brings us here. Now, The Washington Post is hollowing out. The NYT has survived twice, ironically, by the political chaos of a single presidency, which drove subscription spikes. Sources of funding that sustained journalism for a century are no longer sufficient. A lot of people, especially high schoolers, get their news from social media feeds and algorithm recommendations, which are all systems that care about audience engagement rather than much accuracy, profiting off disseminating polarizing and exaggerated news. A 2026 Pew Research Center analysis tells us that a majority (57%) of Americans report having low trust at all in the press. The state of the industry is, to put it plainly, bad. And yet more people have access to more information than at any point in history. Voices that used to be excluded from the press now have platforms to speak. Credibility, however, needs to be earned by aspiring individuals. This is what the board has spent 100 volumes trying to learn how to do. We are no Murrow. We are no Cronkite. Many of us do not crouch on London rooftops, nor do we risk our lives. However, the principles that make up their work are not reserved for war correspondents and professionals. They are available to anyone willing to practice them, at any scale with any sort of medium. This is also partially what the Scroll is for: a place to practice. Every member of the board has shared a similar sentiment. When a writer publishes a story, they always feel a bit of discomfort knowing that their name is on it, that when someone mentions their article, they might need to buttress and defend it. The discomfort is the entire point. It is what separates a published report from a random post. A name is like a ledger, holding weight and context—every word makes a deposit. Cronkite’s broadcasts were authoritative through his work; his name, therefore, was synonymous with verification and trust. We have found, after over 100 volumes, that people who are inspired by the spirit of journalism are not hard to find on Deerfield’s campus. Everyone has an opinion about journalism—what it should be, and its shortcomings. Most people in 2026 might go about their entire lives consuming information without ever experiencing what it feels to be accountable for producing information. In order to facilitate true change, someone needs to sit down, put in the work, and put in their name. To attempt closing the gap between holding ideals of good, honest journalism and practicing them, we show up. We show up semester after semester, united by our will of getting the facts right, willing to say so publicly as well. The journalistic world outside changed many times over in the span of these one hundred volumes, and this paper was present for all of it. The Scroll became a place where each generation of Deerfield student editors worked out, in their own small way, what it meant to carry out student journalism honestly in the moment they were living in. The publication we inherit is 100 years of people who showed up and 100 volumes of bylines, headmasts, and writers putting their names up to their work. If you believe in the spirit of journalism and think the Scroll could better embody it, come join us to change that.

HEIDI LIANG/DEERFIELD SCROLL Time is limited at Deerfield. Between academics, co-curriculars, extracurricular activities, socializing, and engaging with the Deerfield community, there is a lot that we need to fit into our 24 hours each day. I chose to come to Deerfield because of this business, reflective of the countless diverse opportunities that Deerfield offers. Throughout my freshman year, I chased these opportunities as fast as I could: I challenged myself to pursue excellence in every facet of my life. How well could I work in tandem with my chamber music group to produce our best possible performance? How fast could I improve as a writer for the Scroll? How special could I make my friend’s first birthday away from home? After hearing Head of School Dr. John Austin’s speech, in which he told the Deerfield student body that we were all here for a reason, I was eager to prove that I was worthy of my heritage. However, entering into my sophomore year with a heavier course load, bigger goals, more commitments, and a deeper involvement in programs and clubs, I’ve found that this pursuit has begun to feel more and more overwhelming. My commitments have begun to conflict, and I’ve felt like I have less energy to spend on pursuing excellence. When I spoke to my dad about this issue, he told me that I was trying to do too many things. He said that I should quit the Scroll, as I’ll likely be applying to college with an intended major in STEM, and recommended that I be practical with the activities I choose to continue. Similarly, when I asked one of my friends for advice about which co-curriculars I should sign up for next year, he told me that “sophomore spring and junior year is where you have to start being really logical about what you do.” He told me that if I don’t think that an activity will further my college application, I shouldn’t continue doing it. For the majority of my sophomore year, this mindset made sense. While perusing the internet during the summer, I’d come across a website called PrepScholar where a Harvard alumnus named Allen Cheng writes and publishes articles advocating against the well-rounded student archetype. In the particular article I stumbled upon, he wrote that “[t]here's no question that my work in science was my ‘spike’ and was the strongest piece of my application.” He argued that an activity doesn’t matter much in a college application unless you’re extremely good at it. As a result, I pared down my activities. I stopped going to French club meetings because I wasn’t particularly good at French. I stopped signing up for the rock climbing trips to the Central Rock Gym because I didn’t believe that rock climbing was an integral part of my identity. Quitting these clubs gave me more time, but recently, I’ve begun to regret leaving them behind. To an extent, I agree with Allen Cheng’s claim about the usefulness of extracurriculars, and at Deerfield, a college preparatory school, I’ve often found myself falling into the trap of believing that getting accepted into a prestigious college is the end goal. However, I also believe that this mindset, which results in rapid specialization early in life, is detrimental to long-term success and happiness. Take early sport specialization (ESS) as an example. ESS is when a young athlete focuses, often exclusively, on participating in a single sport, training with high intensity year-round. While committing to a sport early might seem like a good way to give an athlete a head start, setting them up for success, recent research has revealed its negative long-term effects. An Adelphi University professor who studies youth sports named Meredith Whitley said, “There’s this push to specialize earlier and earlier. But at what cost? For those young people, you’re seeing burnout happen earlier because of injuries, overuse and mental fatigue.” Research on ESS is still preliminary, but as more and more studies are done, results only seem to support her statement more. In the same way that early sport specialization limits young athletes to a particular lifestyle, specialization in high school limits us to specific engagements and interests. I have felt that my specialization has limited the scope of what I allow myself to participate in. Looking back, this is exactly the opposite of what my freshman self wanted me to do. Deerfield offers so many opportunities. Why shouldn’t we take them? At its core, high school is meant to be a time of discovery, of exploring interests so that we can figure out what we enjoy and want to dedicate more time to. Rushing through this process compromises this crucial goal. Further, specialization also restricts us to interactions with specific, set groups of people. I believe that the connectivity of the Deerfield community comes from students’ sometimes leisurely participation in a variety of activities; the reason why I miss the activities that I quit this year is partially because I miss the subjects, but mostly because I miss the interactions I had with people I wouldn’t normally talk to. What makes the Deerfield community a community is students’ willingness to take time out of their busy days to interact with people they may not know well. The narrative of specialization pushes people away from opportunities for these interactions. The Deerfield administration already recognizes the value of having multifaceted Deerfield students with their policies: underclassmen aren’t allowed to do concentration as a cocurricular, and upperclassmen aren’t allowed to do concentration for more than one term. As students, it’s up to us to change the narrative. If you ever find yourself feeling rushed to find something to focus on or externally pressured to quit an activity you genuinely enjoy doing, I would urge you to think carefully about your decision. Kristen Faulkner is an Olympic cycling champion. She started cycling when she was 24. Mira Potkonen is a two-time Olympic medalist in boxing. She started boxing at the age of 28. They found success in their sports, despite beginning later than their competitors, because they truly loved them. Time at Deerfield is limited. But spending it on building community and finding our passions is worth it.

HEIDI LIANG/DEERFIELD SCROLL Magnify, to increase the apparent size of, as a lens does - Dictionary.com The word “Magnify” commonly conjures the image of a microscope, scientists in white coats and bulky plastic goggles fiddling with glass trays and pipettes, staring at particles through a lens. However, people rarely associate the term “magnify” with human lives—our own existences. I certainly did not, especially when I arrived at Deerfield. Before, everything seemed “normal”: wake up, go to school, go to dance, drive home, homework, sleep, repeat. The regular routine. Now, ordinary occurrences seem like we experience them through the heightened vision of a microscope. Freshmen declamations took place during Winter term, and I waited eagerly for the assignment to reach my classroom. As 4 weeks passed by, it was finally time to declaim. I psychotically paced around my room, declaiming my piece repeatedly. Recordings on my phone stacked up, each slightly different in meter, tempo, and intonation. “It's a tie!” Immediately, I felt relieved; at least my piece was “good” enough to tie. Pre-Deerfield, I infrequently exaggerated the gravity of assignments that involved competition. After I lost, I was elated for my friend, but part of me still itched, “what if?” Thus began my days of snarky remarks about my loss in casual conversations; somehow, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my efforts weren't enough. I noticed my actions, yet I couldn't hold back. “Winning” rose to prominence, encompassing my existence and highlighting personal shortcomings. Starting at ten, I danced competitively. My earliest memories are of my instructor guiding us through the competitive environment with pressure. We were urged to aim for perfection, which can often be a commendable goal for athletes. Thus, a main focus of my life became competitions; specifically, winning them by any means necessary. The success-driven mindset I obtained at a young age stayed prevalent throughout my life and translated into academic atmospheres as well. My declamation was a manifestation of the competitive avarice I received from competing early in life. Additionally, Deerfield breeds a setting where people are surrounded by exceptional persons, “weapons.” Upholding and navigating one’s place in academia becomes a priority, and students tend to emphasize not being viewed as “lacking” in a daunting milieu. Competition is not always a negative. It can be an excellent motivator for people aiming towards success. Athletes can thrive in challenging environments that push them to win. However, the pressure to achieve frequently morphs into something that limits people from flourishing. High expectations implemented on individuals can create hyperfixation, and that enlarged -focus can cause students and athletes alike to err. Often, the minds of significantly stressed students before a test will go blank, or athlete’s worrying about their coaches' desires to win will perform weaker than usual in a game. These instances are an example of the adverse effects of having astronomically high -expectations that can be impossible to accomplish. According to Stanford neurologist Andrew Huberman, in stressful or challenging moments, humans have a propensity to narrow their field of vision. Peripheral locations blur as one’s eyes pivot towards their nose. A certain task physically becomes an all-consuming focus. In the cognitive field, humans in closed atmospheres - like Deerfield - “zoom in” on previously insignificant issues whilst outside elements grow cloudy. The first step towards “zooming out” is ameliorating turbulence; putting things into perspective. Placing aside personal obstacles or outside pressures to appreciate what's in our periphery—what has become leftovers in our psyches. My eyes had narrowed towards the declamation’s result, and uncrossing my eyes became a necessity—to peer around at what was now blurry by my own consent. Just as researchers amplify minuiscule microbes with microscopes, or athletes stress over unreachable -expectations, I amplified the declamation’s gravity, allowing the result to engulf features of my life. However, I quickly pulled my eyes out of focus and began to visualize the “bigger picture.” The declamation was a mere step on an infinite staircase, not worth travail. Magnification is not a quant issue specifically pertaining to a select group of people; it applies to every Deerfield student. One bad math grade plunges us into disarray, a “lousy” sit-down meal dictating whether or not students show up, 2,000 word essays encompassing endless hours of time. These events understandably impact our lives, especially in environments like Deerfield, where our entire lives center around a three-hundred thirty- acre campus. In a close-knit atmosphere where the majority of endeavors are academic or athletic, it is easy to prioritize those concerns over outside life elements. Putting things into perspective is not disregarding taxing or stressful events, but rather “unfocusing” enough to clear the hazy bounds of our perception. The desire to succeed should not stand as something that people completely disregard, nor should having high -expectations for yourself be. Rather, it is more beneficial to approach disappointing scenarios with a broader mind. Remembering that not every dilemma is catastrophic, and eventually it will fade from importance. Curtailing hyperfixation isn’t giving up;, it is managing expectations and mental disturbances by accepting outcomes, even if they are unsatisfactory. Switching scales of view is a skill that protects human well-being. Without it, we are standing at the center of a circle, unable to see the circumference. Zooming out requires initiative, but once one’s mental/physical vision is cleared, and the desire to achieve resides to a rational degree, issues tend to resolve, and the brief four years of high school become extensively more enjoyable. I offer a more adequate definition of “Magnify.” Magnify, to exaggerate physical attributes or nominal conundrums; as a lens does.

Spring is here! Look outside, and you’ll find passionate games of spikeball, hacky sacks flying through the air, and just maybe a disgruntled junior exclaiming “I’m so cooked” after receiving their latest grade, yet your gaze is soon averted; students lying in hammocks and lounging in chairs, all whilst cries from the river are heard all around. Goodbye winter-blues. Hello Spring! Fear not, Deerfield. Here is your foolproof guide for the Spring. For the underclassman reading this list, spend more time with your proctors! Although the constant “I’m gonna miss this place” and “it goes by so fast” can be quite tiring, proctors have great wisdom to pass on (even if it doesn’t seem like it). You’ll be saying the same thing as them before you know it! Most importantly, enjoy the rest of the year. Spring as an underclassman is fleeting, and soon the feared junior spring will arrive. Despite the constant whining, spring as a junior really isn’t nearly as bad as it may seem. Juniors do experience an uptick in work, between finals, co-curriculars, and AP tests, but the truth is that we students love to complain, and playing the victim is a whole lot easier than owning up to subpar time management. Junior Ted Freedman ’27 touched on his experience amidst the onslaught of work. He said, “It’s definitely the busiest I’ve ever been, but I can definitely organize my time.” Many juniors also experience a “Deerfield midlife crisis”. As they say goodbye to their senior friends, the inevitable end of Deerfield begins to creep in. Still, most take it in stride. Ted said, “I’m already super excited for my Senior Spring. The last few months will be great!” For juniors “going through it”, the light at the end of the tunnel comes in the form of the coveted Senior Spring, the final stage of senioritis. It is truly a time to be “un-locked”, as the students say. Seniors can be found taking it easy in their classes, homework, and forgoing general responsibilities. Senior Bryan Gianvecchio 26’ said, “ Being so unproductive actually kind of stresses me out because it feels so weird having nothing to do.” He elaborated on how he makes use of his time, adding, “I have been able to spend a lot more time with my friends.” Seniors, spend your extra free time cherishing the fleeting moments with friends. Soon enough, you’ll find yourself blanketed by a melancholic nostalgia, reminiscing about the days of glory. Be prepared to see a few tears at graduation!

SENIORS Last Train to London — Electric Light Orchestra Recommended by Addie Williams-Ness Focus — John Summit Recommended by Bryan Gianvecchio JUNIORS Say Why — Zach Bryan Recommended by Eliza Todd Welcome To Japan — Strokes Recommended by Jason Ko SOPHOMORES Weird Fishes/Arpeggi — Radiohead Recommended by Jewel Suh Harvest Moon — Neil Young Recommended by Heidi Liang FRESHMEN Killer Queen — Queen Recommended by Julia Pantano Brasilian Skies — Masayoshi Takanaka Recommended by James Leung