t’s orientation day, and you step through the gates of Jamaica College, the sun beating down on the long driveway lined with boys in blue and white. This isn’t your first time—it’s your second year, and that changes everything. No longer are you the wide-eyed first former who didn’t know where to go; you move with a little more confidence now, a little more purpose.

The older boys still tower over you, but their stares don’t shake you the way they did last year. You’ve earned your place. You know the layout of the campus, from the Chapel Walk to the Karl Hendrickson Auditorium, and today you walk straight there with your friends, laughing about who got taller over the summer and who cut their hair too short.

Inside, teachers are lined up at the front, reminding everyone of the standards: discipline, respect, academics, and carrying yourself like a JC man. Their voices echo through the hall, and though the words are serious, you know this drill already. You sit straighter, nodding when the principal speaks, understanding that this year is meant to push you harder.

Around you, the energy feels different from first year. The new boys are easy to spot—nervous, fidgeting, still unsure of themselves. You remember what that felt like, and in that memory comes a quiet pride: you’ve moved past it. Now, you’re in second form, a little older, a little wiser, and ready to take on the next stretch of the journey.

By the time orientation ends, the halls are buzzing again—students swapping schedules, joking about which teachers give the most homework. And as you step back into the sunlight, you realize it clearly: you belong here now. Second year isn’t about learning the school anymore—it’s about learning yourself within it.