I stood on stage alongside ten of my fellow peers, smiling at a stadium filled with proud parents and families. At the end of our high school careers, we had accomplished what many strive for and only few achieve. It was blatantly obvious as we stood on the graduation stage that we weren’t just the run of the mill high school graduates. My chest full of honors, tassles, leis, and the heavy valedictorian medal front and center made that all too clear. I can’t speak on behalf of my fellow valedictorians, but for me, the pomp and frills behind that moment left me uncomfortable. I wasn’t nervous about the moment, but about the future. The smile plastered across my face did not match the confusion inside of me. “So what? Is this all it is? What now?” I felt guilty for not feeling pride in my successes and hard work. For some odd reason the knowledge of how to write a five page essay, with quotes interweaved in MLA format didn’t give me as warm of a feeling inside as it did my English teacher. I felt empty, cold, let down.

It was difficult soaking in the glory of that moment because the dream I had fulfilled wasn’t my own. I did not choose to become a neurotic, compulsive “A” student by my own accord. I had “privilege,” more specifically, white middle-class privilege. My parents realized the importance of an education and hammered this fact into me. But what I realized was the more they stressed the unacceptability of B’s and, god forbid, C’s, the greater the separation between them and myself. From the look of the honors I adorned, one would have thought me to be an astounding intellect. I knew the reality. I knew that anyone else placed in my circumstances would have made the same achievements. The thing that set me apart from the rest of my peers was my competitive edge to prove my worth to my parents and my ability to adapt to the educational circumstances that came with each higher grade level. What those medals didn’t show was the free-spirit I sacrificed or the resentment I harbored. They didn’t show the toil and spiritual agony that came with excelling in disciplines that did not speak to me.

Despite all of the success, well-wishes, and pats on the back I had received along the way, I felt that something, or someone, very dear to me had been taken during this process. I graduated with skills, but without any relationship with myself or my family. I had spent four years putting in very hard work toward goals that were set by people two or three times my age, and at the culmination of it all I had to identify my “major” and leave home to pursue this life’s passion. In those four years love and support got pushed out while the spaces were filled with studies. I had no goals, passions, nothing that I stood for; only an ability to mentally compete. What I truly craved were creative skills, or a warm heart for volunteer work or helping the poor. I wanted to speak to others about ideas, theories of being, and anything that mattered. In those K-12 years, the good grades were what I lived for; my reward and motivation. I was depressed, self-loathing, and yet anxious for more. The fundamental qualities of my personality had been morphed and distorted. Learning turned from release to addiction.

It hadn’t always been this way. I hadn’t always been this way. When I was young, learning was my bliss. I was the most connected with the world when I had a book in my hand. My father, a college graduate in mechanical engineering, opened the gates of learning to me, starting with reading. He made sure I had an enviable book collection at a young age, was enrolled in a top notch daycare and preschool, and dedicated his time to my learning after his long days at work. I realize now that this is a privilege not given to many. Some of my favorite childhood memories were, as Deborah Brandt might put it, “advancing my literacy” with him. On weekends, we would practice my typing skills from some of his old keyboarding books. We read the Bible together before bedtime, occasionally some children’s stories, and of course, our absolute favorite, “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe. My father was my absolute hero, the most intellectual man I ever wanted, or needed, to know. At a young age I knew that
“my father loved books, and since I loved my father with an aching devotion, I decided to love books as well” (Alexie 12).

Throughout the years, as the difficulty of educational standards progressed, our moments together became less and less precious. Our time of learning no longer involved exploring common interests. Instead, we studied and analyzed the homework that was sent home for me to complete. A sense of obligation overtook our enjoyment during our study time and over the years my frustration increased. I knew that no matter how unpassionate I was with the memorization of rock types or perimeter problems in my algebra classes, opting out or failing was never an option. My pursuit of school excellence became obsessive. While this gave me somewhat of a resiliency, I realized in the midst of my graduation that that there is a price for not following one’s passions.

Government determined education has a much wider scope than, I hope, anyone would have intended. While the government sponsors the education of the masses, the clear cut educational path leaves little room for what I believe is more important than “acquired knowledge”: creative thinking. Mandates that determine what a population should learn ultimately limit the skills of students to those that are suspected to benefit the society and economy. The passions of the individual are not taken into account, only the fruition of the country. Francis E. Kazimek stated the solution well in his article, Living a Literate Life. “We should be asking ourselves how we can help students recognize and value their own unique journeys and help them see that they are links in a chain of stories that stretches from the individual to the wider economic and social world. We should also be asking how we can help students better understand the various ways that literacy sponsors shape (for better or worse) their literate lives.” Our global economy would benefit most from a diverse population of many skill sets and interests. This would allow for a well-rounded economy with a content web of people who form it.

Young and naïve, I always figured the sponsors of my literacy knew best. The young, curious little girl inside of me couldn’t imagine that gaining knowledge could be detrimental to one’s life. But in my experience, I learned it absolute can be. Not only did the small scope of literacy I was fed direct me down a path that wasn’t intended for me, but it meddled in the relationships I had with the people I love most. My parents fell into the way of thinking that the grades that I obtained determined my worth, and just like all parents want the best for their children, they strictly enforced that I was the best.

During the time of my graduation, I felt immense confliction as I struggled to find my purpose in life. Paulo Coehlo’s novel, The Alchemist gave me great comfort during this trying time. There were two truths I took from this novel, and try to live by each day of my life as I continue on through the California State University system of higher education: “To realize one’s destiny is a person’s only obligation” and “people are capable, at any time in their lives, of doing what they dream of” (Coelho 22, 23). I am confident that if I am courageous enough to live my life according to these teachings, happiness will never be far from me.

 

Alexie, Sherman. “The Joy of Reading and Writing: Superman and Me.” The Most Wonderful Books: Writers on Discovering the Pleasures of Reading. Eds. Michael Dorris and Emilie Buchwald. Minneapolis: Milkweed, 1997.  Web. 4 September 2015.

Brandt, Deborah. “Sponsors of Literacy.” College Composition and Communication. 49.2 (1998): 165-185. Jstor. Web. 29 August 2015

Coehlo, Paulo. The Alchemist. N.p.: HarperOne, 1988. 22-23. Print.

Kazemek, Francis E. “Living a Literate Life.” Journal of Adolescent and Adult Literacy 47.6 (2004): 448-52. Web. 8 Sept. 2015.