Numbers, Titles, Diploma

This is a response/application essay written for my senior seminar course. 

**********************************************************88

Picture this: The year is 1999. A young high school senior is walking outside, past the windows of her AP Biology class, while it is in session. Her long-suffering teacher shakes his head, as he notices her and her wayward companions out of the corner of his eye. The group of teenagers laugh, then move out to the parking lot to pile into a small blue two-seater. Their class time will be spent buying fountain drinks and gummy candy at the gas station.

            Return to this misguided student at the end of her senior year, walking in cap and gown, to the tune of Pomp and Circumstance, trailing a couple hundred of her classmates. Some of her fellow students have shiny golden cords adorning their matching robes, but not our student. She doesn’t realize it yet, but this lack of bling will be a thorn in her side for years to come, growing into a mental complex and obsession that will dramatically inform not only her later college endeavors, but also myriad other forks in her path through adulthood.

            ****

            My college experience and life in general was not initially influenced by the fact that I was less than one percent away from graduating high school with honors. It was only later, as I saw friends graduating from college while I took sporadic classes between marriage, divorce, and the other drama that characterized my early twenties. Having few accomplishments that I felt proud of, (other than jumping out of a couple of airplanes and having a strong credit score) I remembered the gold cords, and they became a beacon over the next two decades that would comprise my higher education experience. Reading the Menand piece was a revelation. Well, maybe not so much a revelation—as I was already well-aware of my obsession with my university G.P.A., but maybe we can call it an epiphany. I realized, as I read about Menand’s theory #1—the idea of college as a mechanism for sorting people—that I had desperately needed to be properly sorted, funneled into the right category. Having not ended up where I thought I would be by my mid-twenties, college became something of a second chance at proving myself.

            This was in spite of the fact that I had remarried (and happily so), brought three children into the world, and was running a successful small business. I didn’t need to go to college. No one expected me—as a Utah housewife—to take on any kind of capacity beyond child-rearing. I didn’t commit to full-time education with future employers in mind. I took the journey on full time with the singular goal of making myself worthy of my own life, and of the many sacrifices that had made my life possible. After years of taking one or two classes at a time, in between having babies and tending my home, it wasn’t until the final stages of my father’s battle with cancer that I enrolled with a full-time schedule. Part of that choice was a coping mechanism; school kept me busy and left little time to wallow in sadness or despair.

I can relate to Lahiri, thinking of how strongly I’ve consciously and unconsciously wanted to make my daddy proud of me, and to be worthy of his sacrifices as an immigrant. The funny thing is that he never explicitly pressured me in that regard. His emphasis was always on hard work and avoiding laziness—the ultimate sin. This translated in my mind, at that point in my life, to excelling in college. With that motivation in mind, I have focused, to a point of obsession, on realizing the one thing that would not only redeem the short-sightedness of my high school experience, but also sufficiently honor my dad: graduating with honors.

Some people have asked what I planned to do with the degree, most expecting it was only the latest in my vacillating array of momentary obsessions. And indeed, my answer to that question has changed, as has my declared major, many times over the last few years. I have struggled with committing to what I really love, or to instead go with something socially impressive, with a guaranteed payout in the real world. I was headed in the direction of radiology for a time, collecting a bunch of courses that now don’t even apply toward my final degree. I didn’t love what I was doing—but I loved the idea of impressing people with titles and medical knowledge.

Shortly after the first anniversary of my dad’s death, as the grass finally started growing in over his grave, I had the revelation that has led me to this last semester, and about to earn a degree in English, my true passion. It hit me just how much my dad had missed out on and given up, and I saw how in trying to honor him, I was making the mistake of trying to pattern my choices after his, rather than realizing the mistake he had made and avoiding it in my own life and pursuits. The way to really reverence his life, was to embrace my own passion in mine. To live fully, and happily, and to not miss a chance to do what I truly love, as I am fortunate enough to have that choice.

And now, back to the sorting. I’ve done it. Unless I flunk my final three classes, I will graduate with honors. And having been properly sorted into the right category, the one that the obsessive part of me has wanted for so long, I realize that what happens next doesn’t really matter. When people have recently asked what my plans are, what I’m going to do next… Well, I honestly don’t know. And that is scary, but also exciting. My singular focus has been on collegiate success, with no real, solid plans on what would follow. If I’m honest, I will admit that it just doesn’t make a difference what I do next. Having accomplished this one big thing, something inside me says that it’s enough. I could die feeling fulfilled.

Of course, the fluttering, competitive butterfly that is my mind, will inevitably find something else for me to conquer. But as of this moment, if you asked me where I was headed, I’d only be able to confidently say, “Up to the podium to collect my diploma.”