I do not belong.

In the pinnacle of my life, I have finally found that I do not belong.

I enter my fourth period class, everyday, with a tired look on my face. English is my favorite subject.  I take an AP course in the subject, which, obviously, shows a certain level of competence in the subject; however, I never quite feel successful. 

Everyone in my class basically seem Harvard-bound. Eager hands shoot straight up when my teacher asks a question; I have much to say, but the timing always feels off. While over half the class seem to be in Arista, the “honor” society, I sit with little distinction, and even less knowledge. The chalkboard towards my right spell out “BINGHAMTON 2015” with several names underneath the jeering letters. Soon, I might just see “YALE 2015,” OR “MIT 2015.” I hate my envious eyes evoking unjustified hatred. I hardly belong in this class.

People often view me as an amazing student – someone with a ninety average and perfect accolades to accommodate my grades. But I’m not. When I tell people I have an eighty four average, they stare at me with disbelief, and I don’t blame them. I make myself seem like a well-rounded student, and many believe I am a great writer. Regardless, there is nothing I can do about my dismal numbers. I played off freshmen year like it didn’t matter, scurried through sophomore year with slightly more care, and finally exerted effort in junior year. By then, however, everything was too late.

I just don’t belong with these people. My reach schools include institutions such as Binghamton, Geneseo, and Swarthmore; the first two colleges are other people’s safety schools.  And, in the end, that’s what college really is – a number-based game where the highest numbers receive the golden ticket, while everyone else whithers to dust.

I think I’m better than what my transcript shows. I guess what makes me disappointed is the fact that, although I try hard and love English, my work never seems good enough. The impression I have on other people, that I’m a good writer, hardly translates when I receive my essay tests back with a grade of an 82 or 85. The worst part? Knowing I’m trying to make a career out of writing, and earning poorer grades than people who want to pursue fields on medicine or business.

I simply don’t belong in that society.

Tomorrow’s another day in that lovely, yet torturous, room. Maybe I’ll actually have something intelligent to say.


About khong91493

an avid, yet not typical, teenager.
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