By Ririsoony

I was born and raised with a purpose. 

A baby whose only purpose was to crawl. 

An infant whose only purpose was to stand. 

A toddler whose only purpose was to walk. 

Run. Jump. Soar. 

A teen whose only purpose is to change the world. 

Achieve more than anything I could’ve bargained for. 

And I did it. I achieved more. Better than my older sibling, better than my older cousin. 

Earn an A+ on a math quiz. An A+ on the physical science fair project. An A+ on the history packet. An A+ on a writing assignment… with extra credit, of course. How could I resist?

How could I resist the praise, the joy, the attention I received from my parental figures? How could I go without the approval of the only adults, the oldest, the wisest people I know, in my life? If they don’t approve of me, I might as well dig my own grave with tiny fingers and bare hands. 

A B+ on an assignment…

Although I cry and shriek, my parents repeatedly tell me, “Do your best; it’s okay.”

Is it really okay? Is there more to me than my achievements? I thought I could do better — this is not my best. 

I’ve always been an academic aficionado. A scholar that absorbed and memorized information like a phone catalog collecting phone number after phone number. And a driven, diligent student I was. 

I succeeded beyond mastery. My academic career, my only braggable subject. What else did I have time for, if not for my future? An art aficionado? Art as a hobby, a pastime? Art as an assignment, a project? Art just to make my name bigger than the art itself?

What do scholars do?

We raise our hands. We answer questions. We get 100%.

I prioritize my career. I work towards my future. I learn how to pay taxes without a math course teaching me how to pay taxes. I learn how to be a decent person through daily interactions. I learn how to manage my mental health with only two days out of the week to stabalize myself. I learn how to balance school, extracurriculars, socializing, work, and sleep. 

But it’s okay. It’s worth it in the end, right? All of my hard work will pay off, and I’ll finally get that diploma. That achievement. Because that 100% is the only way I’ll survive in a world focused on achievements. I will do better; I have to do better. I’m going to fail if I don’t achieve greater than my peers, greater than myself. 

And my dear Iago, you and I. Why was Cassio, Othello’s lieutanent, promoted instead of my dear Iago, Othello’s ancient? I felt his pain, his embarrassment, his feelings of inauspicious ends. I, too, know how he feels. Iago, the antagonist from Shakespeare’s Othello. I understand his jealousy. 

Cassio’s not even that cool. Why was a “fellow almost damned in a fair wife, that never set a squadron in the field. . . mere prattle without practice is all his soldiership” (Act 1.1 lines 21-28) promoted instead of my dear Iago? Why was someone so incompetent during war, someone so talkative and foolish, promoted instead of my dear Iago?

Iago, you and I. We’re so different. You, a villain. You, a jealous, envious villain who manipulates all but himself. Me, a jealous, envious student who manipulates no one but herself. What did Cassio have that you didn’t? Of course, I didn’t cause my enemy to kill his wife, but still. 

Why didn’t I receive the Principal’s Honor Roll in 5th grade? Why didn’t I earn the position in my middle school’s Associated Student Body (ASB)? Was I not good enough? 

What did my competitor have that I didn’t? 

What could I change about myself to be better? To do better? To achieve more?

To change the world?

I thought I was good at this. I thought I was good at maths, the sciences, the arts. My education’s… diminished. I thought my actions were beyond satisfactory. Why is this scholar achieving more than me? It’s obvious that they’re going to be valedictorian, if not salutorian. Why aren’t I first in my class if I’m achieving as much as them?

Am I really worth anything, if not to achieve beyond mastery? 

Jealousy. A disease. Envy. 

I know how to fix this. I know how to be better. 

I’ll learn more. I’ll exhaust my mind of knowledge and collect as though I were an encyclopedia. Ask me anything. I know the answer. I know the questions. I’ve heard it all-

What do you mean, this scholar knows more about a topic than me? Am I just unskilled? Am I… failing?

Perhaps the Dunning Kruger effect is taking its toll. The skilled revealed to be unskilled? An egotistical phenomenon? No, I’m not. I’m better than that. I know my age, and I act like it. But perhaps I am just unskilled and overestimating myself. Perhaps. It’s okay. I’ll take a step back. 

But that scholar knows more than me. That child knows more than me. Why don’t I know more? Why don’t I know as much at my peers? I know my age, my competence. I can achieve their level of knowledge — I should be achieving their level of knowledge. In fact, I’m so skilled and knowledgeable — I should be first in my class. In fact, all of my tests enter my grubby, needy hands as 100%. Am I succeeding beyond mastery? Do I finally belong with my knowledgable, intelligent peers?

That connection flows through my school’s walls. It trails behind each student and teacher. I crave that connection like a baby that craves their mother’s milk. A student that craves connection, a purpose, a goal. 

It’s just the connection. A lone phone booth found in an isolated desert. I desire to be heard, to belong, in a world where our achievements define our worth. I want to be heard, like the lone phone booth’s ring in an isolated desert. I desire to be heard before being discarded, alone and unused, like the last phone booth in a Southern California desert. I want a purpose. I want to have something to hold onto before I collapse in the sea of exhausted scholars and dejected humans. 

What gives me purpose?

Art. 

Clarity. Clarity in everything other than my academic career. 

Art, a form of self-expression. Art, a burst of colors and drama. Art, my escape, my love, my fortune. 

An art aficionado, there I was. Thriving. Living. Living and spreading my words through swipes of a brush, drags of a pen. Art for the sake of art. How I survive now. 

Because I’m worth more than 100% and the diploma. I’m worth more than the praise and the attention. There’s room to grow for me. There’s room to grow for everyone. 

Because you’re human. 

You’re made of stardust and smell of rain and the earth. You’re decorated with shades of green and peach and brown. A diploma and certificates are just paper. Paper is disposable and recycled and ordinary. You are not.