Within the last two weeks of summer, everything turned into this intensive race against time where the reality was finally settling in that there was a limited amount of time to accomplish everything. My peers and I were slaving over work for these classes. I created a schedule for myself within the last two weeks of summer for all the assignments that I needed to complete. I found out that I had almost half of my work done. With studious and dedicated work, I managed to finish all of my assignments with the last day of summer to spare.
Most of the senior class who were taking AP classes found themselves struggling in several areas. Many students never obtained a textbook before junior year ended, or obtained their textbooks too late into the summer. Other students waited too long to buy the reading materials for AP English Literature. Consequently, most bookstores were out of the books towards the end of summer, or public libraries didn’t have them in stock because they were all checked out. Other students struggled to find materials online or the files necessary to complete diagrams or charts, and at other times, students used incorrect sources to complete their AP Government assignments. Lastly, several students had immense struggles in our AP Statistics course, as much of the material often times needed guidance or online explanations to understand the lessons, and some students even struggled in not owning or knowing how to use a graphing calculator.
To a certain degree, these summer assignments had their benefits and their setbacks, and we all had to adapt to succeed. Some students came in with every single assignment completed and even extra credit opportunities taken advantage of, while other students came in to the class with a D letter grade, failing the summer work exams, and occasionally, a few students dropping the class.
Although these courses were challenging, especially when taken together, I do not regret taking them. I did, after all, willingly choose to take these classes. The motives, definitely, were so that I could look appealing to universities.
But sometimes, I thought to myself—and quite often—what it would be like to take easier classes. What it would be like to actually have free time after school, flexible schedules, fewer deadlines, fewer assignments, and just a generally calmer pace.
Less responsibilities.
And more fun.
Instead of meeting the same hundred students who took the same AP classes or honors classes, I wanted to meet more of the other four hundred students who I rarely got to talk to or interact with. We spend so much time wrapped up in which overachiever passed this AP exam, who got a Legacy Award, who got that internship, the people in the Associated Student Body, or who got the highest grade in this class or that class. It’s always the same damn people.
What about the rest of the four hundred plus students? What about them? They are not less important than anyone else in the school. Does it really matter if one student carries a 3.0 versus a 4.5 GPA, or if one student has 300 hours of community service versus the one that has less than 20, or the student who has passed all of their AP Exams versus the one who has taken no AP Exams?
And sometimes, it’s a complete misfortune that there are hundreds of students with 3.0’s, have less than 20 hours of community service, and have never taken an AP Exam, whereas the same top ten-or-so ranking students carry those three titles and more to an unrivaled extent. They carry a 4.5 GPA, 300 hours of community service, 5 successfully passed AP Exams, and wait to take three or four more AP Exams in their last year of high school as well. It’s a complete misfortune that the same people always get recognized while hundreds of students walk through hallways unnoticed for their own accomplishments.
I believe that one person is no more important than any other. That one lifestyle is just as important as any other, no matter how we choose to live it.
At the end of the day—yes—recognition is important, but glorification is unnecessary.
Chapter 13
Summers are never what they make it seem like in the movies. In today’s age, everything is so competitive, and if students want to make it into a college of their choice, they have to take the more challenging course and receive GPAs higher than 4.0’s.
We found ourselves taking honors and AP classes, and consequently, giving up more and more of our summers to assignments and meet-ups.
And for what? So that we can look competitive. If there are so many students taking these classes, how do we make ourselves stand out? What happens when a 3.6 doesn’t get you into the school of your dreams? Then get a 3.8? If that doesn’t get you in, then try a 4.0? Nope? Well how about a 4.2? Still no luck? Well maybe a 4.4 can get you into the school of your dreams?
Next thing you know, students across the nation find themselves taking several honors and AP classes in hopes of scoring GPA’s of 4.0’s or higher with the extra points from those classes.
The worst part is that we would compete against each other, neck and neck, and that’s so that we could hopefully get into a college of our choice. Towards the end of the college applications, many of us suspected that our 4.0’s wouldn’t get us into our dream school, and at that point, we were fighting for options.
Anyhow, the first day of senior year was not very cheerful. I, and even more so, my peers, were more than exhausted. Many of us found ourselves printing our last assignments late into the night, finally stapling our finished work, getting our binders ready with the assignments that we were going to turn in on the very first day of school. Instead of catching up among our friends, we found ourselves asking each other which assignments we finished and occasionally heard the, “I am so screwed, I didn’t finish that” phrase from other students.
Rather than being excited to be a senior, we were monotonously arriving to our classes waiting for our teachers to finally ask for our work. The only ones that felt like a first day of school were definitely my Sociology and Spanish III classes. Other than that, the pressures to succeed in AP classes were definitely on.
The daily struggles had now begun.
Suddenly, my alarm clock made a small tick as the digits shifted to 11 A.M. Today was Sunday. We had a biweekly group therapy meeting in fifteen minutes.
I shifted my body so that my back was completely flat on the bed. My eyesight now locked with the white ceiling above me. I interlocked my hands and let them lay on the top of my head.
The birds continued to chirp.
I inhaled and exhaled slowly, and remembered the incident with the mirror that had happened not too long ago.
“This is your life now... You really can’t go back,” echoed in my head. The chirps were slightly muffled by the glass. I gave a forced smile and finally stood up.
I went to my bathroom to brush my hair quickly, grabbed the orange capsule, and put it back in my drawer.
I pulled on my pastel green uniform to get rid of any unevenness, looked at the door, and let out a long sigh.
I clutched onto the doorknob and turned it till it finally opened. I felt like I was greeting my current life once more—or more so, being reminded rather than greeted.
It seems like I was monotonous before, and still monotonous today. It made me a little sad, to be honest.
I took a step outside and closed the door to my room. A tile tightly screwed onto the door displayed “6C.” I turned my body to the rest of the hallway and continued to walk. There were no more dark shadows, nor shifting walls. The hallway was brightly lit by the steady illumination from square tiles on the ceiling. I began moving my legs toward the staircase once more. I placed my hand on the ramp as I headed down.
Arriving in the dining room, I saw that the tables were desolate, and so was the rest of the room itself. Everyone must have been in the Commons Area, returned to their rooms, or gone outside to the patio area.
I continued my way shuffling through the empty room and reached the entrance to the Commons Area.
I passed the painting of the nightingale that was perched on a branch and entered the room. Several of the people who were in the dining room in the morning were here. Many of the
older women were together, chatting or murmuring. Some men were also together conversing about several topics. I would assume everyone talked about their lives, and for the most part, had normal conversations. I began making my way to the other side of the room where Nurse Jackie’s front office was located. Between the commons area and the front office was a small hallway that was filled with a few small rooms. That’s where our therapist, Mr. Jenkins, would hold our group therapies.
I continued to shift through the combination of wood and carpet, passing the old women sitting down who chatted about a daughter who came to visit a week before who came back from a heavy rain in New Orleans. Further on, I passed a few men who were playing cards on a coffee table, and talked about a job that one of them used to have as a machine operator a few years before.
I couldn’t help noticing that the men here were always younger than the women here. All I thought about was the boy who sat alone at one dining table earlier this morning. For the most part, everyone here was talkative, and to a certain extent, social. But there were a few individuals who talked very little and did not have many friends, or strong friendships to begin with.
Finally, nearing the small hallway that led to Nurse Jackie, I heard a chattering from outside where the glass windows and cement patio were located, as well as the doorway that led to the outside. There were people walking outside, either in pairs or alone at times.
I broke my gaze from the left side of the room and looked over to my right. There was that boy again, sitting alone on the tan-colored beanbag that I was sitting on earlier. He had a photography book in his lap that had long passages as well. My walk slowed as I finally approached the small hallway. As my motion came to a standstill, I was able to distinguish the photos, noting that there were railroads, coalmines, and factories. He flipped the page and there were very young people whose faces were covered in some sort of soot. Holding on to the book, his eyes gently swayed from left to right as he read the description for the photo.
Without notice, a soft screeching arose from one of the rooms. Mr. Jenkins was probably preparing for the therapy session.
I looked over to a door to the left of the hallway from which the sound emanated. It was slightly open. I took one last look at the boy, who had not looked up, nor noticed me. I finally turned away from the Commons Area and everyone else there, and headed for the door.
I grabbed onto the slightly open door, pushing it a little bit further so that I could fit. I didn’t close it just in case Mr. Jenkins was still bringing things in.
As I entered, I found him picking up chairs from one side of the room and organizing them in the center of the room, forming a circle.
Mr. Jenkins had this brown and blonde mixture of medium-long hair and sun kissed skin. He had a rough dark brown stubble beard with occasional gray hairs on his face. He had a brown, collar shirt that was tucked into gray slacks, which were held firmly by a black belt. The outfit was finally topped off with a pair of black dressing shoes.
On a far-off desk, a book bag was set flatly. Near the book bag was a novel, a slim textbook, and a few folders. Adjacent to the desk, a dark green blazer was set on top of a rolling chair.
The door had squeaked a little due to my entrance, and, atop the noise of chairs being moved, he managed to spot me. He was pushing a rather small plastic chair with metal legs closer to the circular collection of identical chairs, and simultaneously shouted; “Sam Azalea! How are you doing today?” He sounded very excited and optimistic. He straightened his posture and brushed his hands together—and I simply assumed that he was trying to rub dust off his hands.
“I am doing very good, Mr. Jenkins,” I said, smiling. I was being very cautious, making sure not to tell him, or anyone, of what happened this morning.
“You are here almost ten minutes early, Sam” he said, still smiling. “Wanna take a seat while I get ready?” he asked me.
I nodded and said “Yeah,” and so I took a seat where I would be less likely to get in his way.
A few seconds had gone by before I asked him if he needed any help, but he refused and told me not to worry.
Fluorescent bulbs in light fixtures brightly lit the room. Mr. Jenkins finished organizing the chairs. There were about twelve chairs: one for him, one for me, and ten for the other patients. Usually, the group therapy sessions were done in three different groups of fifteen to twenty minutes each, to make sure that everyone had a chance to participate in a session. Mr. Jenkins was the only therapist, so he saw about eleven of us at a time for about an entire hour.
He was now at his desk and was flipping through some papers from one of his folders. There was a continuing silence, which he dissolved when he asked me “So, Sam, how have you been? How is your treatment so far?”
“I have been well,” I responded. I further added, “The medical treatments have helped me a lot. So that’s good.”
“I am glad to hear that, Sam. So how many months do you have here so far?” he asked me, knowing that everyone here has different entry dates.
“Well, it’s been sort of a long time now. I think it’s a little under a year now,” I informed him.
“That’s good,” he said, and continued with “Have you had any visitors recently?” He was still flipping papers from his folder.
I smiled, and contentedly responded, “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. I saw my mom.”
“How was that?” he asked with a genuine sincerity accompanied with a smile.
I pressed my palms together and intertwined my fingers, and finally laid them gently on my lap. “It was really nice. I don’t see her very often.” I added.
“Did everything go well?” He asked, smiling and slightly curious. I think he was asking to see if anything had gone wrong.
“Yep,” I responded. “We chatted a little about school, and she gave me advice. But she had to leave for a business meeting.”
“Well, I am glad to hear that, Sam,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Now,” he continued, as he shuffled through his book bag. “Eh, how long ago did you say it was that you saw her?”
“Oh, it was this morning, around seven.” I responded ecstatically.
His eyes darted upward, as if he was trying to recall something and finally said, “I didn’t know you guys could get visitors so early.”
I had no explanation either, so I simply said, “I guess Nurse Jackie let her see me, on account that she is my mom. Besides, she was on a tight business trip, so I’m sure Jackie let her see me, seeing that it was the only chance she could see me.”
He gave me a strange look and continued to shuffle through his binder.
Mr. Jenkins only worked here part time and was not too familiar, so he didn’t interrogate me too much, and consequently, took my word.
He proceeded to pull out a clipboard with a very thick pen. The pen looked like it could have been very expensive and professional; pens that important people might have, like lawyers or recognized professors.
Suddenly, the door squeaked once more. It was that young boy again. The lights from the room struck his pastel green uniform. He had long black hair and if I had to make an estimate, I would say it was about four inches in length. It was slightly wavy and very thick.
“Hello, Fidel. How are you doing today?” Mr. Jenkins initiated.
The boy widened his mouth and responded feebly, “Good,” as his voice cracked a bit. He didn’t seem to be very confident in himself.
“That’s superb, Fidel. Well, class is about to start soon,” Mr. Jenkins informed him. “Take a seat anywhere you’d like,”
“Okay,” he said, very shyly.
With every step he made, it seemed like he was almost shuffling his body through the room with his black, thin-lace shoes. His shoe size was actually rather small, and his height was actually very similar to mine, and we were both not very tall to begin with. He was incredibly young in comparison with the other men and women here.
He sat down on the circle almost across from me and remained sil
ent.
“Oh, shoot,” Mr. Jenkins whispered to himself. “It’s almost 11:30. The session should begin, and we are still missing people.”
He walked over to the doorway, pushed the door open, and stood outside. I could hear murmuring outside and a few of the women and men laughing.
“Group A, the session is about to start. Walk faster,” Mr. Jenkins shouted.
The boy and I were still sitting in silence. Even though Mr. Jenkins was distracted, I don’t think either of us made an effort to talk, let alone make eye contact. We stayed immobile, but I stole a quick glimpse at him again and then stared down at the cold floor. Nothing was really happening.
Mr. Jenkins returned, quickly darting into the circle and emerging onto the other side. He was compiling some papers together, and proceeded to pick up his clipboard.
Suddenly, the door opened and women who were in their early thirties entered, followed by a group of men who must have been around the same age. Two women chattered and chuckled as they walked towards the seat. A conversation emanated from the entrance as well, which was followed by two men entering and laughing amongst themselves.
A good portion of the individuals seemed very social.
The men and women staggered into the circle—trying to find a seat that they would feel comfortable with. And for half a second, I looked up and saw the boy through the clustered shifting of bodies. He seemed to be distracted staring outside the door. He didn’t seem to be very happy.
I looked over at Mr. Jenkins and he was reading something from the clipboard and pushed back his brown-blonde hair to the side.
The murmuring of people slowly subsided and Mr. Jenkins proceeded to finally walk to the group.
I had my legs slightly tucked under my chair and my palms were interlocked and lay gently on my lap. I bit my lips as I waited for Mr. Jenkins to start.
Stand Tall My Sweet Dandelion Girl Page 6