Oh-sevens were huge. They were Amazon warriors, towering over me as I wove my way through the jungle that was the Lincoln stairway. I so seriously avoided upsetting them in any way, shape, or form. My game plan: stay to the side of the halls and speak only when spoken to. I attributed a simple “Hey Tory!” to divine intervention and whenever I found myself lost in their crowd, I giggled nervously at their shouts of, “Waddup freshman?” before ducking my head and booking it to class.

One could argue that my experience with upperclassmen was unique and that I am just an easily intimidated little girl. Truth be told, I am a front-seater on buses (the rowdy shenanigans of the crazies who sit at the back scare me), but I can be highly confrontational when provoked by someone who has it coming. Although my death stares often cause outbursts of laughter, I’ve smart-lipped my way into a brawl more times than I can count (and I’m not talking about my parents here).

But why am I divulging this top-secret information to you? Because, though I hate to admit it, I was mauled by an oh-twelve the other day.

Don’t bother trying to console me with words of “Maybe it wasn’t a freshman. Perhaps that tiny kid with an unfamiliar face wearing a 2012 Bulldogs shirt was a member of oh-nine in disguise.” He didn’t even heed my threatening warning (“Ummm, please don’t push me!”) before carrying out the deed! This is not a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. Underclassmen shoving has become an everyday nuisance at Garfield and everyone I talk to can attest to that.

Even oh-‘levens are at fault for teasing, pushing, and confidently interacting with upperclassmen entirely too often. Newsflash, sophomores, you are underclassmen too.

Overall, the younger classes don’t remind me of myself as a freshman in the slightest. I tested this phenomenon with a couple of experiments. First, the “too cool for school” attitude. I decided to walk by an oh-twelve I knew without making eye-contact: the old ‘I don’t have time to acknowledge you’ maneuver. Unfortunately, this failed miserably as they stopped me in the hall to say “Hi Tory!! How are you?”

Again, it is not just me. Many other upperclassmen will acknowledge that the youngsters are much too eager to be BFFLs with us.

The next day, I tried Operation Intimidation: walking down the center of the hall without moving for anyone. I thought that if I took on the upperclassman air of owning the hallway, my “younger siblings” would be more likely to move. Two full-on body collisions and twenty steps later, I was back in my comfort zone on the edge of the thoroughfare.

Experiment 3: Shouting “Move!” to the group of freshmen who chat in the history hallway during break. It didn’t work. I know they heard me, too, because a freshman friend of mine, Hannah Snilloc, burst into laughter. And so I walked away, bashful and ashamed of my failure.

All that I can deduce from these incidents is that the freshmen do not understand their role in high school society. Or perhaps they simply have strength in numbers — their student body practically doubles that of oh-nine’s.

I realize that it’s still first quarter and I am willing to cut oh-twelve some slack for not having fully identified who is older than them (hint, oh-twelve: anyone not in your class). However, it’s about time they start acting like underclassmen.

So here is a solution I am presenting to my little friends: Just don’t drop out and you’ll have your fun being big soon enough. In the meantime, purchase last year’s yearbook and memorize the names and faces of all juniors and seniors. Or else just take on the attitude of “everyone is older than I am.”

Whatever your method, make sure that next time you see me in the halls, you get out my way.