Alex Laffitte

The Palisades was just where everyone hung out. It wasn’t deep at the time—it was just easy. After school, instead of going straight home, we’d end up there. You didn’t even have to ask who was going. You’d just walk over and people would already be there.

We’d drop our backpacks, complain about tests, talk about teachers, replay things that happened during the day. It was like school didn’t really end until we sat in the grass and went over everything together. If something embarrassing happened, it got turned into a joke. If someone had a bad day, we all kind of carried it.

It wasn’t just our friend group either. You’d see different grades, different teams, random people from class. It felt like our whole school existed there after hours. The park and the village lights just became part of the background of growing up. It was loud and messy and sometimes chaotic, but it felt like ours.

At night it slowed down. Fewer people, quieter conversations. Music playing from someone’s phone. Talking about stuff that actually mattered—stress about grades, family things, who we wanted to be. It felt safe in a way that’s hard to explain. Like for a few hours, everything made sense.

But even without it, we still have what it gave us. The inside jokes. The group chats. The habit of showing up for each other. The Palisades was where our school community grew, and even if the place is gone, that part isn’t.