I remember the first time I submitted something for The Hoot. I was nervous—okay, really nervous. I kept rereading every sentence, second-guessing my word choices, and wondering if what I wrote even mattered. But from that very first draft, you made me feel like my voice did matter.
Writing for this paper became more than just deadlines and edits. It became a way to see the school differently—to listen more closely, to ask better questions, to care more deeply. I started noticing things I would’ve walked right past: the quiet strength of a custodian finishing their shift, the teacher who gives up their lunch break to help a student, the way laughter bounces down the halls between bells. The Hoot gave me the excuse—and the privilege—to tell those stories.
Thank you, Mr. O, for being the kind of teacher who listens, who pushes us to write like real people, and who reminds us that the smallest detail can carry the biggest meaning. Thank you for the weird jokes, the brutal honesty, the “this could be sharper” comments, and the belief that we can do more—even when we don’t quite believe it yet.
To next year’s staff: Write like you mean it. Don’t just tell us what happened—tell us why it matters. And don’t be afraid to say the thing that feels too honest or too big. That’s usually where the good stuff lives.
To Timberlane: You’re chaotic, confusing, loud, and full of hidden beauty. I’m not sure I’ll miss the crowded hallways or broken Chromebooks—but I’ll absolutely miss the people, the stories, and the chance to be a small voice capturing a big experience.
This isn’t just a goodbye—it’s a thank-you. For the lessons, the laughter, the drafts, and the stories I’ll carry with me.
Thanks for everything, Mr. O.
Write on,
— Layla
