In 1963 I won an award for humor from the Washington chapter of the Newspaper Guild, perhaps the most ineffectual union in the history of the American labor movement. It was the only award of my life, making me particularly sympathetic to my loser of a granddaughter, Eliza. From one loser to another, then, I post this paper she wrote last month for her English class. The paper got an A, which of course casts doubt on its whole thesis.

I long for the days when everybody won an award. The days when no matter what you did someone patted you on the back and said, “Good job kiddo, have a nice shiny medal.” Those were simpler days when there were no grades (I went to an independent elementary school where teachers taught to “enrich our minds not to prepare us for a test”) and teachers said things like, “Eliza is an animated, expressive child who brought enthusiasm to our school day. She entered our classroom eagerly each day… She often had a story or point of interest to share with a sparkle in her eyes…” Isn’t that just the nicest thing? What it means, I have no idea, but it is really very nice.

Speaking of that girl, the second grader with the sparkling eyes, I have no idea what happened to her, she can’t possibly be this one here, now desperately trying to get into a good college.

Everyone wants to win, to be the best at something. It doesn’t matter what it is. We all want to have that wonderful feeling that we are better than everyone else. At least that’s what I imagine, seeing as I have never felt that way. Never, in my whole life have I won an award…

Actually, that’s not true — I won most improved in seventh grade swimming. However, even after all that improving, I was still one of the slower swimmers on the team. I am profoundly unathletic, I was always the last picked for games in elementary school and I very quickly realized that gym class was not for me. Being dyslexic, I always have had problems with games involving directions (wait, that’s all of them…) and when I was in third grade I horrified the boys in my class by not knowing whether to run to first or third during kick ball. The darn things all looked the same to me! Then they started yelling and I got flustered and…well you can imagine how well that ended.

I have occasionally gamely tried my hand at various team sports to disastrous results. I gave it my all in field hockey but I eventually had to quit the team since I couldn’t run the mile on a regular basis. (Did I mention I’m asthmatic? I have a bad back too so you can see how ill fated this athletic odyssey was from the start). A foray into lacrosse was an unmitigated disaster, during which I never really got the hang of keeping the ball in the stick, which is apparently important. I think I played in one game that season and only when we were so far ahead that even I couldn’t mess it up. This is all bad enough on its own, but when you compare me to the girl who is a world ranked ballroom dancer (she is second I believe, behind someone from Russia) or the boy who is the fifth best wrestler in the nation, I look even more pathetic. Well, I guess I won’t be going to college on an athletic scholarship.

Sports is not the only arena in which I lack skills. Every attempt by my parents to teach me how to drive has ended badly, either with tears or, in one memorable instance, with me nearly hitting the sign at the dog kennel. This inability to drive has been a problem. In high school, a large part of your worth to your classmates, especially if you are, like me, old for your grade, is the ability to drive them around, something I obviously cannot do. I have lost count of the number of times people have said, “You’re seventeen, you can drive us!” and I have also lost count of the number of times I have had to explain how I cannot drive them, no, not even illegally.

Another downside is the fact that I have to take the bus to school. This may not seem to be a big problem but it is. If you, dear reader, have never heard the amount of noise caused by a dozen seventh graders in a confined space, consider yourself lucky. They are incredibly loud and they simply refuse to shut up. In my days as a j-schooler I was terrified by upper schoolers and if one of them told me to be quiet you could bet I would be. But kids these days do not have that healthy fear. They talk back and yell louder when asked to be quiet. A noisy bus ride is worse after a long day, which I often have.

My days are long because I always have a nagging fear that I am not good enough. I thought my grades were good but the other day a girl, who shall remain nameless to protect the ridiculously talented, said, “ Uh, I am so upset about this grade I think I am getting a A-, I had hoped to go through high school without getting anything other than A’s.” Keep in mind, dear reader, that this girl is a senior who has already gotten into Harvard.

Naturally this started me thinking, “How will I ever get into college?” As a junior, this is a thought that comes up very often. I guess colleges won’t be blown away by my GPA. Maybe I can save my application with great test scores. Alas, I don’t think my SATs are good enough.

A while ago I was talking to a fellow Hopkins student, who shall again remain nameless to protect the overachieving. As we were both planning to take the SATs the following weekend we were discussing our studying strategies, when she said, “I have a 2350 and I really hope I can get that last fifty points.” I was shocked. In my wildest dreams I could not imagine getting a 2350 on the SATs! So I guess I’m no athlete, my grades are nothing special, and my test scores are not that good.

Perhaps I can wow colleges with my community service. Wait — I am afraid I don’t measure up there either. I am not saving starving babies in Cambodia, and I haven’t founded one AIDS clinic in Haiti. I hear about my classmates’ trips to India and Africa and South America where they build schools and hospitals. They and their philanthropic cohorts collect thousands of dollars to send to the disenfranchised everywhere in the world.

This aggressive do-gooding makes my small contributions seem even smaller. I simply cannot find the time to stand on street corners and ask for money for hours at a time or miss weeks of school (or, god forbid, weeks of vacation) running around the globe saving people and I don’t know how others do it. I am perfectly happy to throw a few dollars in a collection pot or even run the pot myself during the canned food drive, and I thought that was enough. I was wrong.

One of my friends (again nameless, to protect…you know the drill) was telling me about her plans to volunteer at a hospital over the summer. I was impressed, then shocked when she told me that she was only doing it because colleges like it, and that she, “hates sick people.” I cannot imagine doing something, no matter how altruistic, just because colleges like it, and I really don’t have the time.

I simply cannot find time to do many clubs either, plus I am just not a joiner. I tried to get involved in yearbook but it didn’t work out. I envy those who have time to be so involved, but I do not know how they do it. I barely have time to do my homework and go to bed on time. Writing papers takes me what feels like an eternity. School exhausts me. I need to go to bed by nine. Every night. This means that when my classmates need to contact me a majority of the time I am not awake. This makes my friends and project partners very angry. I think this is because the average Hopkins student seems to have evolved from a normal, sleep-needing human (like me) into mutant sleep-shunning beings who have hours more time to work than I do.

How am I ever going to be good enough? I’m up against geniuses who get one hundred percent on every physics test, kindly souls who volunteer for every community service opportunity around, jocks of the highest caliber, and people who are in every club. As far as I am concerned the average Hopkins student is like a cross between Mother Theresa, Babe Ruth, and Einstein and I am, well, just normal. I do not get straight A’s, I hate sports, I can hardly ever find time to volunteer, and I am sort of in one club. Long story short, I am a failure when you compare me to my fellow Hopkins students.

Maybe I could go back the second grade — sure it took me two years, but at least the teacher liked me…

Posted by Jerome Doolittle at June 21, 2009 10:20 PM

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