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.