A slave to grades. An addict gaining an injection of satisfaction from the sight of a high grade percentage, pulsing through my veins and arteries to sustain my wavering self-confidence. The permanence of the red-marked number, caged within its oval shape that bled through the lined paper crowded with graphite marks, shaped my mood for the rest of the day. Throughout the school day and after school, I was a gambler swiping my cell phone screen in a downwards motion, like the pulling of a slot machine lever, awaiting the newly imputed grade percentages to load in the online grading portal. Fingers double crossed and eyes sealed shut, praying for the machine to give me favorable numbers I worked hard for.
Cha-ching! Cha-ching!
Eyelids slowly peer open as my dry, cracked fingers release from its tight hold on one another. My heart drops to the floor of my stomach as my pupils rapidly enlarge in size upon seeing the score and percentage of my analytical literature essay on Hamlet. It was a 6. B minus. I repeatedly blink, trying to shift the numbers into more favorable combinations than the one on the screen. My mind adds decorations in an attempt to dress up the numbers with justifications. A heavy sigh shifts the eyes’ focus away from the screen and towards the future, motivated to work towards achieving a higher grade. Ready to throw my precious coins into the slot machine again, dedicating all my efforts to complete other assignments whose higher grade percentages would hopefully outweigh that 6. Craving that injection of satisfaction followed by praise from family and teachers. Ah yes. That’s the life of a studious student whose main life goal is to be picked by an Ivy League college and successfully achieve a high-paying job. A stamp of ideal happiness. A’s and a 4.5 GPA are what get you there.
After studying for exams and completing homework for the school day tomorrow, I turn off my desk lamp and snuggle beneath the fuzzy bed covers. As my eyes seal shut, I transform into a character maneuvering around the knee-high, bright colored tables, arranged across the carpet covered with numbers 1 to 10 and the alphabet written in italic form. In the back of the room, I see a figure clothed in a cotton, magenta, knee-length dress covered with pink and purple flowers overlayed with an oversized smock. Hair pulled back into high pigtails. Her white velcro shoes planted firmly on the step stool, balanced evenly on the linoleum floor. An easel twice the size of her height held the white paper intact as it was dotted with rainbow streaks from her paintbrush. The brush moved freely, choosing to place the streaks anywhere without any doubt imposed by outside influences or external judgments.
Her eyes reflected the sparkle from the beam of afternoon sunlight entering the open window behind the easel as she intently focused on each brush stroke. A front-toothless smile formed with the parting of her lips upon stepping back in genuine awe to view the clash of colors on the white background, coincidentally matching with the color-alternating, blinking lights arranged across the bottom edges of her velcro shoes. I eagerly reach my hand to touch the back of the familiar-looking easel as my feet stagger towards the easel’s edge to sneak a peek of the canvas’s front. As my hand approaches the easel’s back frame, the easel and the girl transform into a glittering swirl that slowly ascends towards the sky, blurring the image’s clarity. Out of my arm’s reach. Leaving me in the pitch black darkness...
How did she end up becoming a figment of my imagination?
Ring! Ring! Ring! Snooze button. Ring! Ring! Ugh. I’m up. I’m up.
Mr. Persimmon hands back our literature essays on Hamlet that are labelled with our final grade on the back side of the paper. Right after each essay descends front side down on each desk, students anxiously flip through the graphite-marked pages to see their score marked in red ink. Whispers ripple across the classroom, forming high sound waves bouncing back and forth between groups of desks.
“I got a 6.”
“Hey, me too. We can do better next time! There’s more essays to come!”
“I got a 9! That's 110%! I finally got a perfect score under Mr. Persimmon’s hard grading standards!”
6. Branded across my frontal lobe. Defined my essay performance. Defined everyone’s essay performance by their ability to hit all the standard points of a 5-paragraph analytical essay. Did this determine how sucky a writer I was? Was there anything else that could validate my writing abilities?
Yet, I continued to engage in trying to earn that 9 for my literature essays, yearning for the glory of completing the perfect essay.
The results of fulfilling the usual tasks of completing assignments, participating in discussions, and studying for and taking tests for eleven and a half years all contributed to the shaping of the esteemed Valedictorian trophy awarded at the official graduation ceremony. I continuously stared at the building progress of my trophy daily, with a microfiber cloth and squirt bottle filled with cleaning solution in hand. The sight of a single question on a college admissions application sent an electric shock through trophy making operations, abruptly stopping the final touches to my perfect “Grade A” trophy.
“Why should we especially consider you for admission to our college, amongst the rest of the applicant pool?”
Yes, I am hard working and always give 110% effort in each assignment no matter what, but a lot of my classmates also put lots of time and effort into their work too. I have a 4.5 GPA, I took AP and Honors classes, I completed community service hours, and I participated in a number of extracurricular activities…
which everyone else has also done.
I followed this path meticulously, focusing on achieving the “Grade A” trophy that would supposedly open doors to any top ranking or Ivy League college and a guarantee of high-paying jobs to secure a comfortable lifestyle. A display of pristine accomplishment. One of the largest injections of satisfaction. Yet, why do I feel lost? Who am I?
With the guidance from college counselors, who questioned my current aspirations and goals and withdrew the cell phone screen loading the grade portal from my raw, peeling hands for six months, plans for my future became clearer. My attention was now directed towards looking within myself for what I truly wanted: to be free to exhibit my skills without being tethered by grades. My cracked skin peeled off my fingers and body, revealing a tiny girl dressed in a magenta dress and white shoes tucked under the folds of a large, deflated balloon that had once formed my physique for eleven and half years. A balloon that had brimmed full of injections of satisfaction from receiving high percentage grades. A balloon that formed a person who believed grades were necessary for encouraging and motivating better personal future performance. The tiny girl stepped out from amongst the piles of dead skin, ready to reassume control of my body.