Boxes and suitcases are scattered in my room. The big day approaches.

In the midst of graduation excitement, I find myself going through my closet, sorting through my old clothes, deciding which faded T-shirts will join next year’s professional wardrobe. Graduation is coming, and I have to get packed. Georgetown, my gracious host for the last four years, will celebrate my accomplishments during Senior Week, applaud me at graduation and then kick me out the gates Monday morning.

I rummage through familiar friends: Quiksilver, Hurley, Ralph, Calvin. Red, blue, green, solid or striped, nothing can escape the clothing reaper. With a toss to one of two piles, the clothing’s fate is sealed – salvation in next year’s closet or the “fashion purgatory” of a Red Cross bin.

I toss my old black dress socks to the discard pile. I’ve worn them to so many job interviews, debates and internships that they’ve developed two small holes near each toe. Now that I’ve got a job for next year, I have to buy some new pairs.

I fling my well-worn Birkenstocks to the other side of my room. I bought these in Germany, and negotiated the price down despite hardly knowing a word of German. The soft brown leather is stained with the seawater, beer and sweat I accumulated while trekking through Eastern Europe with my best friends. Atop the “keep” pile, the sandals are safe.

Next come the shirts. I pick up a white long sleeve that lost its bottom button sometime last year. White Long Sleeve has the name “Stockton” written on the tag, but it’s not because of me. White Long Sleeve belonged to my father; it was one of the first shirts I brought to Georgetown. It reminds me of simpler times, when dads had all the answers and could fix any problem with duct tape and a screwdriver. I keep White Long Sleeve.

Blue Short Sleeve is hanging neatly, recently ironed. There is hardly a trace of the butter stain on the left side. While studying abroad, I was eating at a Spanish tapas bar, and the waiter brought us some fresh bread and real butter. You know, that hard butter that maintains its rectangular shape and refuses to be spread. Well, the butter fell off the bread and landed on my shirt, where it spread from the third to the fourth buttons. The problem was that I was traveling “light,” so I only had one nice shirt. Instead of washing Blue Short Sleeve, I decided to buy a new one. I settled on Brown Short Sleeve, which worked well in the hot Spanish weather. Apparently, living in Europe for seven months had affected my fashion sense. My family in California did not like Brown Short Sleeve – “It makes you look like a Cuban drug lord,” my father said.

Brown Short Sleeve and Blue Short Sleeve don’t make the cut. Hopefully the Salvation Army can send it to a more understanding continent.

I pick up Faded Blue Jeans. Sure enough, three nickel-sized droplets of long-hardened white oil-based paint are still on the right pant leg. Faded Blue Jeans take me back to sophomore year, when I traveled to Tennessee during Spring Break to help construct a house for Habitat for Humanity. I remember working in the small living room of the house with people who would become my best friends. I remember sanding and painting the drywall all day long as the fumes and dust grew thicker and thicker. Whatever path my friends and I took in life, I knew we would be friends for life. I also remember seeing the solitude and beauty of Appalachia, experiencing Wal-Mart and interacting with rural people who have little material wealth but so much spirit.

Faded Blue Jeans will last another year.

Grey Short Sleeve still needs to be washed. It reeks of champagne. Each semester, THE HOYA editors celebrate the end of their terms with a high-class champagne bash. I’ve worked with many of these characters for years, but a certain side only comes out on champagne night. What’s important about this tradition is that in addition to our working relationships, I consider all these people friends. I’ve been involved in many activities at Georgetown – I never wanted to pigeonhole myself into only one – but journalism is the one in which I have most consistently and eagerly participated. I’ll miss champagne night, stains and all.

Grey Short Sleeve, once washed, will be kept.

It seems sort of funny, but many of my greatest memories at Georgetown can be condensed into small specks of paint, butter, tomato sauce or beer.

But it’s all right. My clothes aren’t worn out – they’re well-lived.

Bryan Stockton is a senior in the School of Foreign Service. He is a former GUIDE Editor, Viewpoint Editor, Contributing Editor and member of THE HOYA’s editorial board and board of directors.