Stand Tall My Sweet Dandelion Girl

by Jimenez, Javier

  Eventually, I fell into this grade-obsessed craze. It seemed like all I discussed was schoolwork and the grades we received. Looking back, I gave our assignments more attention than they actually deserved.

  Sometimes, I would tell myself that I had to be different from the other students in my high school. That I had to be ‘a someone,’ and that the other students here were my competition—that the students in my AP classes would be the students that I would be fighting for a spot in the universities that I would be applying to. I gave myself this motivation to be successful, but at one point, I lost sense of whether I was motivating myself or pressuring myself, and looking back, it saddens me that I couldn’t differentiate between the two.

  During that year, the three AP courses and the two honors classes made me lose almost all my friends. I would get home late and my grandma would never be quite sure when I would get back, because I stayed after school so often, either for clubs, tutoring, or simply to study. Throughout the course of the year, I also found myself giving up sleep. As the school year progressed further, my hair began to fall out, and I would forget to eat. By the end of the first semester, I had lost fifteen pounds.

  I made myself believe that I was winning, that I was succeeding, that I was being triumphant, that I was achieving. I told myself that my organization and my study habits were giving me unrivaled results. And yet, when I finished my first semester of junior year, I was upset, because I had gotten two B’s. That was the most B’s I had ever gotten in a semester, and I was distressed and agitated.

  My hair had thinned out, I had lost weight, I would sleep six hours or less during school days, I lost almost all my friends, and my biggest worry was that I got two B’s that semester. The worst part of it all was getting home when the semester ended and remembering that I sank into a silent cry, because I received two B’s. I didn’t sob when I would forget, or didn’t have time to eat, I didn’t cry when my clothes felt baggy or when my bones and joints became more apparent as they poked through my skin, nor when I would be studying for six hours and suddenly, it was 1 A.M. Or when I stopped going out.

  But that day when I was alone, I cried as if I had ruined my transcript by getting those two B’s. I felt like I had let myself down, but most of all, I had a fear for the unknown, whether having my GPA drop that semester would hurt my chances of going into the academically competitive universities that I pictured myself in since the first ‘motivational’ poster that I saw in middle school.

  My grandmother never saw someone sacrifice, or as she perceived it, “beat myself up,” to the extent that I did. She never really understood why I was so hard on myself. She wondered why I was in so many clubs and why I would volunteer at events for “free,” as she put it. She was worried when she would wake up and she wouldn’t find me in my room in the mornings because I was already at school studying or in tutoring with my teachers. And she would worry about me when she would get home from work at 4 PM, because I still wouldn’t be home yet. She couldn’t find reason in all of this, partially because she didn’t understand the struggle to get into a competitive university. As time went on, she began developing serious concerns when my hair would fall and when I lost an unusual amount of weight.

  She would always advise me to take care of my health, but when it got out of hand towards the end of my junior year, she began taking me to our family health clinic. The nurses and doctors recommended me I sleep more, eat more, and most importantly, minimize my stress levels. They informed me that my health decline was more of a lifestyle situation rather than an illness, and the nurses and doctors also told me that they would only give me stress-relieving medications if my stress became much more severe. They measured my slightly high average blood pressure, my thinning weight of 95 pounds, and my height of 5 feet, 4 inches. The nurses and doctors had particular concerns about my weight and advised me to eat more, because my weight was not healthy. They always told me to eat more, and I always said that I would. But I still would forget, or I would just never have the time in between my rushed mornings or my sleep-deprived nights where I dropped to sleep on my bed before I ever made it to the kitchen.

  It was a sad sight. By the end of junior year, my grandma would have to turn off the lights to my room because I would fall asleep as soon as I finished my schoolwork. Some nights, she would find me passed out on my sheets of papers and textbooks.

  I remember on a night much like those, right before I fell into a deep sleep, she came in to turn off the light in my room. However, she walked over to me and brushed my thin strands of hair away from my thinning face accompanied with dark circles under my eyes. And right as I fell asleep, I remember her muffling, “Oh, Sam,” as she stroked my face. She sounded so sad, so heartbroken.

  Her tired, aging body found sympathy for my withering figure, despite my youthful age. I could only imagine how much it hurt her to see me like that, but at the time, my priorities were not set on my health.

  Chapter 21

  Halfway into the summer before I became a senior, College Board, the company that grades our AP Exams, released our scores.

  One of the components of taking an AP course is to take an AP exam that corresponds to the course that we took. We are tested in May, and our scores are released during the middle of summer. Receiving a 3 or better on an AP exam is considered a passing score and allows students to opt out of taking the course in college—this saves money and time.

  During that summer, I distinctly remember pulling up the College Board website and logging in to my account to check my scores. I clicked from menu to menu on the website till I was finally able to track down the AP Exam scores. It asked me to punch in my password again, and I did. The page showed a pending icon till it finally loaded all my scores. The scores were posted on my computer screen and read,

  “English Language and Composition: 2”

  “Art History: 3”

  “United States History: 3”

  I was amazed! I was so psyched that I managed to pass two out of the three exams. My studying did pay off for me, and I was doing very well for myself. However, English Language was a bit harder for me. I wasn’t upset that I didn’t pass the exam, and I felt understanding of my score. The test itself was actually more comprehension and analyzing than matching events or terms, so I struggled a bit as that was one of my weak points, and besides, my clarity has never been the best, and it still isn’t.

  Still, I was so thrilled that I had done so well for myself. This update on my performance only motivated me to pass more AP Exams in the senior year that was about to begin.

  And so, I continued my perilous journey into the even bigger pressures, workloads, and responsibilities of the four AP courses that I planned to take during senior year.

  Chapter 22

  And so, my senior year began before I knew it. One moment, I was signing up for four AP courses with my counselor; the next, I found myself checking out several textbooks, novels, and workbooks. And as the summer occupied of reading, completing, and submitting assignments ended, the race to pass my AP Exams in seven months began. Within the first month of school, my four AP instructors began to drill me, along with the rest of the class, with large amounts of materials. My AP Statistics teacher intensely encouraged us to buy graphing calculators. Our AP Environmental teacher required us to buy an AP workbook for the class. My AP Government teacher, along with our daily assignments and packets of materials, made us print political articles and create responses to them. Our AP English Literature instructor drilled us with novels, short stories and poems within our first two months there. I had never checked out literature from our school’s library so frequently. Eventually, the librarians began to recognize us, because we would finish one novel and come back for another. But to be frank, I’m sure the librarians became familiar with the AP English Literature students from the year before us, and the year before that one, and the year before that one.

  Hundreds of students before me had become familiar with these
librarians, instructors, courses, and facilities. I just assumed it was a norm for those students, and that they turned out fine. So I never said anything. I told myself that I wasn’t any different from those students who had graduated, and if they were able to take these classes and do fine, then so could I.

  On the first day of school, I had a test for every AP course that I had been placed in. I hardly managed to scrap up a C average for all of my tests. Very few students received A’s or B’s on the tests for any of the AP classes that I was in. The average scores were either C’s or D’s, and a couple of F’s for the students who didn’t commit to the summer work. The first week was hectic, and the majority of us were terrified.

  By the end of September, I fell back into my old routines. I would stay up late when we had huge assignments or projects. I would spend six or more hours doing homework. Most of the studying was almost always for my AP courses.

  By October, I began losing weight again.

  Over the summer, I pulled my weight back up to 110 pounds again. But as the late nights and busy schedules became more recurrent, my stress levels began to peak once more. And once again, my weight began to decline. I would forget to eat, I would run short of time, and sometimes, I got so anxious over the extensive amount of schoolwork that I would just end up losing my appetite. By the end of October, I had shriveled to 100 pounds. Again, my bones poked through my skin and appeared jagged, as they seemed to almost pierce my flesh from the inside out. I felt frail and eventually, fatigued. Soon, the strands of my dark brown hair began to fall out again. My skin flattened against my cheekbones, and when I looked in mirrors, I felt like my face was withering away. It felt like I was being eaten from the inside. And soon enough, the black circles began to take occupancy under my eyes again. And just like that, I had fallen into the same pattern that caused my grandmother such sorrow—to feel heartbroken.

  Chapter 23

  By the end of October, I couldn’t keep up the fight. My schedule began collapsing on itself. I stopped going to clubs. I had to resign my position as the vice president for the community service club at my school. I quit both school activities and my community service. Soon enough, I couldn’t fit a whole day of homework into one day. Assignments kept getting pushed over by one day, then two, then three, then a whole week. Eventually, I was turning in all of my assignments as late work. And I kept getting marked down ten to forty percent for late work. I just kept turning them in awkwardly and shamefully. I felt shame for myself that I took these advanced classes and that I would turn my assignments in late. I felt a sense of chagrin and grief. And my teachers never bothered to ask me why I turned my work in late and I never made an attempt to tell them. And if they did, I would have only looked at them, and said, “I am struggling,” and that would be it. I was a maturing adult, and I convinced myself that I should not give excuses. That I was responsible and that others shouldn’t have to sit and hear me whine or give explanations. To me, it was a late assignment, and it was completely my fault, no one else’s. That’s what being adult meant to me. Taking responsibility. But I secretly wish that they had asked me what was wrong, why I was really turning in my work late and not having to give the simple ‘I am struggling’ response. Maybe then I would have been able to tell them that I couldn’t handle any of it and that I needed help. But at the end of the day, these superficial instructors never made the effort. They never got to my level as these instructors worked with over 150 students every day, and I never worked up the courage to tell anyone that I was a failure. The rank 35 Sam Azalea, managing three D’s, two C’s and One B. I had already been in school for two months and I just kept spiraling downward. I convinced myself that I was resilient, like always, and that I would bounce back, but I never did.

  By early November, I had an F for my AP Government and AP Statistics courses. After much contemplating, I decided that I wanted to drop out of those two classes. The classes were too much for me, and I couldn’t make any improvements academically.

  I went back to talk to my counselor, and I told her about my situation. I remember that she was vey upset with me. I told her about how I couldn’t improve, and how those two classes were the hardest for me and that I just couldn’t handle it.

  I remember she gave me a very grave look. It seemed like her passive and almost, non-observant character took a 180-degree turn. “Sam,” she said very grimly. “You have been in school for over two months now,” she said in a very serious and inhospitable tone. “What makes you think you can drop even one AP class this late into the semester?” she asked, with hostility.

  “But I’m having a lot of trouble,” I explained to her. “I really can’t continue with these classes. I’ve tried everything, and I spend almost all my time in school, and I still can’t get my grades up. I can’t do this,” I told her.

  “Listen, Sam, there’s not much that I can do right now. The semester ends In January, and we are halfway there. I can’t just all of a sudden drop you from classes,” she said reluctantly.

  “But you don’t understand, I can’t be in those two classes. I am going to fail them,” I said once more, trying to convince her.

  “Listen, Sam, there’s no way that I can do that. The school wouldn’t allow me.”

  I gritted my teeth as I remembered how she was the one who was encouraging me to take four AP’s just a couple of months ago. And it had just gotten me more upset. I became irritated at her unwillingness to assist me in my state of urgency.

  “What we can do, Sam,” she continued as she clicked on a few windows on her computer screen, “is wait till the semester ends in January, and whatever classes you fail, you can complete credit recovery for.” She pulled out a small chart with the California, and our Golden Heights High School, credit requirements. “Well, a fourth year of math is not required, so you can just switch to CP Statistics for your second semester. And for AP Government, if you fail it, you can take CP government for your second semester. However, since it’s a requirement to graduate, we can put you in online credit recovery so that you can earn back the credits you lose,” she explained.

  “Those are your only options, Sam. If you get a D or F for those two AP’s, then come talk to me second semester, and we will see where we can put you,” she looked at me with no sign of sympathy. “And same goes for any of your other classes. In second semester, we can either switch you out, and if you need the class to graduate, we can put you in online credit recovery.”

  She gave me solutions, but my concern only grew bigger as she pitched this to me. All of this meant that I would eventually fail my classes, and those grades would show up on my transcript, meaning that my chances of getting into a competitive university were next to zero.

  “But what about my colleges? Wouldn’t that affect my chances of getting in?” I asked her.

  “Well, it depends, Sam. For the UC’s, you only have to report your grades for your grades from 9th to 11th grade. So they don’t have to know about senior year until they accept you. As long as you don’t fail any of your classes, you will be okay,” she explained. “So if you apply to UC Irvine, and they accept you, then you just send them your transcript of the second semester in late June. And as along as you don’t get a D or F, then your admission is still valid.”

  I gritted my teeth again. I knew that I wasn’t going to win. So I just kept biting my teeth harder. I just didn’t want to be in those classes, they made me feel incompetent and I hated every goddamn part of it. What good was getting a job in counseling if she was just going to give me these dead-end solutions? I was going to suffer all the way till the semester ended. My problem had not been how I would make up the credits, but the distress that I was dealing with simply by being a part of those two classes. And at the end, her solution was to simply leave me in two months of struggles and desperation. It felt as if I were in an external locus of control that was every bit abominable, I was having very little success in my life and felt that my efforts were ineffective, no matter how m
uch I studied. I was beginning to feel that I had no say in whether I could get myself out of the academic train wreck that was soon to transpire.

  “Thanks,” I said to her.

  “You’re welcome. Please come see me again if you need any help okay?” she said to me, as a line of students formed outside of her office, waitingto talk to her. There usually seems to always be students waiting for her right outside.

  She handed me a pass to class, with my name “Sam Azalea” and her signature at the bottom and the time.

  I remember grabbing it and walking out of her office and exiting the counseling center after that. I was upset and agitated. I had problems and no one seemed to want to listen to me.

  I felt my face getting all tense and red from fury and the thought of how I had very little control. I was mad. And no one seemed to pause and ask me how I felt anymore. No one tried to relate to me anymore. I was just supposed to be this stable adult now. I had to be responsible and be mature.

  But I felt like no one was there for my needs.

  I was walking back to class and felt my face swelling with heat. I felt powerless. I kept making my way through the quad of the school and I was looking straight down. I had never been so upset. She convinced me to take those goddamn classes for these goddamn colleges, I told myself. Staying up late, trying to prove to these schools, these teachers, these students, these counselors, that I am worth something in life and that I am intelligent. That I am important. I stay up for hours on end every single day. And I have never felt less important in my life. No one ever asks me how I feel anymore. Not even this damn counselor.

  Heated tears swelled in my eyes and ran across my face. They began to drop so quickly as they dripped across the darkened circles under my eyes and my hollow cheeks. They slid down my face quicker and quicker. I held my breath and began to crush my note as I walked even faster.