On the Want of Good Grades

DISCLAIMER: I wrote this after getting only 7 hours of sleep this since Friday (basically 7 hours of sleep during the past 65 hours). I hope this makes sense...

Anyways, literally and truly, one cannot get on well in the world without perfect grades. This is what I have been constantly told while growing up. However, after reading "On the Want of Money" by William Hazlitt, I realized a life set on an unhealthy goal is not a life worth living. Now I understand that even if I get good grades and become president of the world, I still might not get into the college of my choice. I can't be scared of failing as high school will become a place of "little credit or pleasure" (Hazlitt).

By junior year, everyone has the formula of good grades=good college=set future drilled into their minds. Grades are like bullies, they make you feel depressed and you end up beating yourself up for getting knocked down by them. Hazlitt's piece about how life becomes a blur is very relatable to high school. During the first week of first semester, I get extremely motivated to study and not procrastinate at all. I think I can "change" from my past habits so it's a very clear period of time. However, as the weeks progress, the year becomes muddy. This middle section goes by without much thought. To put it bluntly, I wake up, go to school, and go to sleep. This mundane schedule shows that "one cannot get much more mechanistic than that" (Didion). By accepting the need of a 4.0 is to "accept, consciously or unconsciously, a deeply mechanistic view of human behavior" (Didion). My actions become reciprocated so many times that I don't feel anything while doing them anymore. I don't get to experience high school to its fullest extent or even hang out with friends. The time between the first and last week of school can be seen as the worst, because I can rarely enjoy pure fun. Finally, at the end of second semester, my memories become clear again due to finals. I gain newfound ambition to give myself the decisive push to an A.

Just like how Horace Miner satirizes the ridiculousness of American culture, I feel as though I am following the "body ritual among the [stneduts]" (aka students). I may believe that this is the best way to succeed, but to other people, it seems like "an example of the extremes to which human behavior can go" (Miner).

  

Silly Bandz: An American Fad

As I was reading Jennifer Price's essay, my first thought was that Americans in the 1950's were weird. I mean who would buy a flamingo when there are so many other cool things out there? But then I realized that I don't have the right to judge these flamingo buyers because I've done the same thing before (not that I have bought fake flamingos but that I have bought into a trend before).

Silly Bandz. Ah these two words bring the feeling of nostalgia. I still remember trying to convince my mom 6 years ago to buy me all the different types of Silly Bandz. These rubber bands were so fun and colorful that all the kids wanted them in 2010. They came in many different themes such as sports, dinosaurs, rainforests, or cars. I think I still have some of them stashed away. Anyways, they were cheap and enjoyable to play with just like how the "sassy pink" (Price) flamingo was "the hottest color of the decade," (Price) showing "leisure and extravagance" (Price). The Silly Bandz parallel the unique popularity of the flamingos as they were once considered boring and mundane. I still can't believe how both of these items became popular just because they were different. The flamingo because it could be "tangerine, broiling magenta...methyl green" (Price) and the bands because of its cheap price and variety.

This is why American culture astounds me as anything can become popular overnight. On the other hand, these types of fads can also die within a few months, never to be seen again. I am very excited to see what else United States culture has in store for us.

The Fault in Our Identity

The search for identity is a journey taken by everyone. The first major "identity crisis" usually takes place during high school-a place where students are trying to determine what they want to do in life. Many teenagers are insecure and scared about their future. They ask themselves, am I going to go to a good college? Am I going to be able to have a bright future? Is this worth it? Meena Alexander's piece, Fault Lines, is very relatable as I feel like high school students, like me, are going through the same issues she mentions in the essay.

Every day I worry about my grades and standardized test scores. My life is composed of waking up, going to school, eating some food, checking schoology, studying, and then going back to sleep. This cycle repeats, making my mundane life even more uneventful. Just like how Meena Alexander "caught [her] two eyes crooked, face disfigured," I see myself littered with flaws. Just like her, I've lived in different cities and countries since birth: Daegu, South Korea; Rochester Hills, Michigan; and now Troy, Michigan. Just like her, I ask myself "what of all the languages compacted in my brain" (Alexander): Korean, my parents tongue, the first language I ever learned; Chinese which I started to study as a middle schooler; and English-the one I picked up from ESL classes.

Daydreaming is also an unhealthy hobby of mine. I imagine scenarios where I become a famous doctor or rich engineer or even a talented athlete. However, I'm fearful that I will never amount to anything, that "everything I think of is filled with ghosts, even this longing" (Alexander). I sit here writing my 11 AP English blog at 11:39 on Valentine's Day, knowing that in a year, my future will be set. All that is left are the same questions that I cannot answer. Will I succeed? What could I ever be but a mere extra in this world? How am I going to discover my true identity in this chaotic society?

After finishing Alexander's work, I just sat down and thought about life. I realized I have two choices going forward: I could either be depressed about my shortcomings, or I could embrace my faults and enjoy life to the best of my ability. I wholeheartedly believe this path is better than slipping back to "the shelter of memory" (Alexander). I want to lead a life where I take charge instead of sitting in the back seat. I will not let my fractured identity hold me back; it will be used as an advantage instead.

Ping Pong with my Father

These were the moments that led up to my eventual victory against my dad in a ping pong match.

     I don't recall who suggested ping pong that day. We hadn't done it for a long time, for weeks. But there we were, across the table, face to face, extending our right arms holding our paddles. Our racquets were different. His resembled a worn out tree branch, one which had annihilated me with spinning shots countless times before. It was red and brown with some black dots scattered about. It looked sturdy, to be sure, though not so sturdy as it had in past years. I expect that back in his
youth it had looked even sturdier. In high school he had played ping pong and had been labeled as "best ping pong player" of the senior class. Between work hours he had worked on ping pong techniques and on ping pong drills. I admired him for that. I had begun to play in 8th grade and that accounted for some small wear and tear along the paddle, but it did not seem to be enough experience. The paddle I extended was relatively new and unused. Even so, he insisted that he would lose the match, that he was certain I'd win. I had to ignore this, however, because it was something he always said, whether or not he believed it himself.

     Our warm hands shook once, much the same way we had high-fived the day after I aced my test. Fingers twisted and wrapped about the handle once again, testing for a better grip. Feet slid up and down making their little indentations on the flat carpet. My eyes narrowed in concentration as I tried to focus as much as possible on his position of the paddle and ball. Ping pong, I knew, was a competition that depended less on big movements than on one's reflexes and experience. I shifted my gaze toward his eyes and was ready. He looked back, smiled at me, and said softly (did he sound anxious?), "You say go."

     It was not a long match; we only played up to 11 points. I had expected him to be more accurate, more agile. I was conditioned to lose and would have accepted defeat easily. However, after a few rallies, the ball yielded to my efforts and began to pass by his paddle a millisecond before it got there. I worked against the ball with all the strength I could find. He was working hard as well, sweating, breathing strained. It seemed that this time was different, that I was going to win. Then something occurred to me, something unexpected. I discovered that I was feeling sorry for my father. I wanted to win but I did not want to see him lose.