Milton Magazine - Milton Academy

SportsJasmine Reid ’09,Milton’s FastestMustangLansing Lamont ’48 when he served as foreigncorrespondent in Time’s London bureau, 1971.unused to. Shortly, he became the mostsubversive, liberating influence in ouracademic life.A.O. prodded us to avoid the banal, tothink critically and argue succinctly. Hepumped us up with the intellectual oxygenwe needed, and did so with infectioushumor. He seemed free of pedantry, ablithe spirit thumbing his nose at churchschoolformalities. He became my friendand mentor.A classmate and I put out a mimeographedfour-page newspaper for the lowerclassmen, my initial foray into journalism.But the writer in me wouldn’t crystallizefor a while. My first short-story effort wasreturned with the comment that it lackeda plot. I began polishing my letters home,describing the terrors of boarding life.That would prove a more useful run-up tothe trade I eventually chose.I wrote for the lit magazine and took upsmoking. The ads and movies suggestedcigarettes lent spice to life, Bacall languidlyblowing smoke into Bogart’s eyes, Bogiesingle-handedly turning the cigarette intohis personal swagger stick. Cigarette-wise,my father was the essence of cool. At thebreakfast table he inhaled the nicotinethrough a silver-and-black cigarette holderhe’d bought under the illusion it was afilter. He’d blow a ring or two, then restthe holder in the ashtray, letting tendrils ofblue smoke from it curl alluringly acrossthe table’s mahogany surface. So I wentout and bought my first pack of Camels.Nice girls didn’t smoke, at least not theones in cashmere sweaters who strolleddown Milton’s Centre Street. But then we58 Milton Magazineweren’t interested in nice girls, we toldourselves. We figured that with the rightdate, a smooth line, and a few suave Camelexhalations, we could turn nice into bad. Itdidn’t work out that way, but I fantasizedabout it along with the rest of my hormonallyactive little pals, especially whenspring prom rolled around.There in the gymnasium, strung withcrepe paper decorations, dimmed coloredlights and a revolving sphere that sprayedflecks of blue and tangerine gleamsacross the dance floor, we lost ourselvesin a bower of gardenias and romance.All those girls in red velveteen dresses oroff-the-shoulder tulle gowns, me and mypanting pals in our scruffy black shoesand crooked bow ties—shuffling cheekto cheek through the perfumed air. For acouple of hours we foxtrotted through adarkened world full of ridiculously imaginedpromise.I’d made good friends at Milton, somewith stars in their futures. One wouldbecome a Harvard dean, another a classicaldancer; one or two would becomespies. Flender would become my banker;Richardson would marry my first cousin.Stevenson, son of a soon-to-be presidentialnominee, would become a U.S. senator.One classmate would confide years laterhow thoroughly he abominated his yearsat Milton. Another would commit suicide.The boys in the class above us would gooff to Korea to die and win posthumousmedals for gallantry. We clung to our ownlittle Zeitgeist. Our senior class voted “Li’lAbner” its favorite comic strip and, wonderof wonders, Harvard decided I was anacceptable risk.Avoice echoes across the track andfield calling runners to assemblefor the next event. The top 100-meter hurdlers in New England collect atthe starting line. Among them, Milton’sJasmine Reid ’09 sets in lane four. Fora moment, Jasmine studies the runnerslining up against her. A girl she hadbeaten by only a fraction of a second in thequalifying heat earlier that day stretches inlane three. Beside her is another threat, ahurdler whom she has not yet run against,but forewarnings by teammates haveattested that she is fast and hungry to win.Milton’s coach, Richard Buckner—a manJasmine describes as “a grandfather figureand a sort of life coach”—shouts from thedistance, “Don’t worry about them! Yougot this!” She focuses on her lane. Thegun fires and her body races ahead of hermind. She only gains a clear perspective ofwhere she is at the final hurdle of the race.Jasmine crosses the finish line neck andneck with the girl in lane three. Too closeto call with the naked eye, the runners waitfor the official results to be announcedover the loud speaker. Ten long minutespass. As the times are read, Jasmine turnsto see her life coach pump his arm inexcitement. “Yes!” he shouts. She catchesa quick glimpse of her mom jumpingup and down in the metal stands justbefore her teammates lift her up into theair. Jasmine Reid at 16.03 seconds FullyAutomatic Timing (FAT) is the 100-meterhurdle NEPSTA champion—the best inNew England.The 100-meter high hurdle wasn’t theonly title Jasmine took home at this year’sNew Englands on May 17, 2008. Breaking