If you had been on my Quizzo team at Smokes last night, you might not guess what my high school senior superlative was. Sitting in our plush, pleather booth with a pitcher of Yuengling, my friend and I formed a not–so–formidable quiz team duo. After mixing up the vaccine discoveries of Salk and Fleming, I adamantly argued with her about how many men had walked on the moon. "It can't be more than six," were my last words before the DJ said the correct answer: twelve.
Being awarded the superlative "Most Likely to Win on Jeopardy" was my high school's polite rephrasing of "Class Nerd." I've always been fine with that label; I was, in fact, a huge nerd. In addition to the cliched, nerdy qualities you might expect(so basically, doing well in school), I was captain of the Academic Challenge team (see: Quiz Bowl). Answering Jeopardy questions was my sport. The buzzer was my weapon, and guessing whether the grandiose quote was by Joyce or Faulkner was my stroke. I was no Ken Jennings (a Jeopardy mastermind, for those who don't prioritize their game show knowledge), but I was happy to have an outlet for all of the seemingly useless knowledge floating around my mind.
I hold my family's love of Jeopardy accountable for why I joined the team. Each night at 7 p.m., Alex Trebek's judgmental voice flooded through my grandparents' living room as my relatives prepared for the categories. We have our own niches of knowledge: my mom is an encyclopedia of music, my dad kills the science questions, I cover history and politics and my grandparents get the sports—and all of the stuff everyone else is a bit too young to know. We play informally, yelling at the television, going over the time limit, never bothering to phrase answers in the form of questions.
Asking questions about topics I was unsure of gave my family the chance to share otherwise unknown stories. My grandparents recalled their shock at the assassinations of JFK and MLK, as well as the pure joy and pride that welled up while watching the moon landing. My dad explained why his friends burned their draft cards during the Vietnam War. When certain musicians were mentioned, my mom told grand stories of seeing them in concert or which of their vinyls she listened to with friends. Watching Jeopardy with my family didn't just provide me with a heap of random factoids to pull out at parties. It was an opportunity that brought me closer to the lives and experiences of those who raised me—and it was these anecdotes I brought to Penn when I could no longer watch the show with my family.
Some of my peers accomplished their superlatives. The winners of "Best Dressed" still look great, and the "Most Creative" students continue to be talented artists. On the other hand, neither "Most Likely to Win an Olympic Medal" champions have qualified for Brazil next year, nor was "Cutest Couple" together a month after graduation.
I walk around Penn with the comfort of my knowledge, and by extension, my family's knowledge. My superlative holds true, and it's one I take pride in. Even though my Jeopardy skills might be a bit rusty (see my Quizzo performance above), I love the show, and I love that my high school superlative reflects something so close to me and my family.
And who knows. Maybe one day in the future I'll make it to the Jeopardy stage, tell Mr. Trebek about my senior superlative, and give my family and high school friends complete confidence that I am, in fact, the "Most Likely to Win on Jeopardy."
