This began as a short piece reflecting on a memorable experience that involved writing. At the start, I assumed I knew how I wanted to conclude it. However, as it unfolded, the substance of it darted off towards the horizon. I started running after. Unfortunately, this all happened at dusk. Now, under evening's darkness, the damn purpose has eluded me.
So now this post has become a long backstory that ends abruptly--I am too exhausted to pursue it any further.
(Also, I should be more careful about viewing documentaries about black holes.)
My apologies.
Buried deep in an earlier post, I shared how my ninth-grade English teacher inspired me to write. Although I was her student for only a year, somehow I managed, during the rest of my high school career, to spend most mornings before school started hanging out in her homeroom. Even on the morning of graduation, I snuck in some final words, before marching off to the buses that would drag me to the ceremony. Before I left, she handed me a gift, a blanket woven with various landmarks from our town. To this day, I consider her one of the most important mentors that have blessed my life.
Like all mentorships, there were special opportunities for personal growth.
During my junior year, she brought to my attention an intensive summer writing program at the College of New Jersey (at the time, Trenton State College). It would involve a week or two (I do not remember), of writers' workshops. Only one student from each high school in the state could apply to the program. Out of all those students, less than two dozen would be accepted to participate. Believing I had enough skill, and knowing I needed to get out of my comfort zone, my former English teacher nominated me as the representative from our high school. I was honored, and excited. While I suffered from social anxiety, I had discovered that some times taking social risks can be rewarding. And for a week, I was the only one nominated. Then other teachers within the high school discovered the program. They put forth their own students. Now I had competition.
In the end, school officials who had never met me, would decide my fate.
The only thing I remember of that process was that I had doubts. In the end, out of four or five fellow students, I was selected to apply on behalf of the high school. Elation and hope overwhelmed me, and I my daydreaming kicked off into high gear. Until I discovered how many other schools were involved.
One-hundred-and-fifty.
Sigh.
I do not remember how many months I had to wait, or what was going through my life during that time. It may have been just long enough that I had managed to put it out of my mind. In any event, at some point during my junior year, a letter arrived. Again, the details are hazy, but I am fairly certain within those sentences that I read, was the number of applicants selected for the final round. It read something like thirty-six. It also mentioned that I was one of them.
Now my head was spinning, and my daydreaming racing forward. I pictured myself walking about campus, taking classes, charming my instructors, and making new friend. Somewhere among those fantasies, I am sure, there were book deals. Hell, I would not be surprised if there was even a scenario in which I saved someone from a burning building. Yeah, my imagination is that wild.
There would be an interview process. We would meet on the college campus. The thirty-six students would be broken up into groups of four or six. I am still not quite sure how many were in my group. I definitely remember another boy, and a girl. Oh, how I remember that girl. And not for the reason you may think.
One or both of my parents took me, and dropped me off. I found my way to the building. We were brought inside a classroom. There, we sat around a table, with the instructors on one side, and the students on the other. I think I remember an older female teacher, and a younger, male one. There may have been two others. They described the program, and how only half of us would be able to attend. Something about budget restraints. Then they began asking us questions.
There was only one that I remember. I am fairly certain the young male professor had asked the girl, whom I mentioned earlier, to read a poem of hers. All I can recall of that poem was a verse about a homeless man pissing his pants.
[Now, I have tried my hand at poetry--all of it written during high school, and all of it sits fading away, in a mouldy folder, within a small plastic file box, stashed away in my closet. I was not good at it. Nor had I been exposed to professional versions, except by the usual suspects, like Emily Dickenson, Robert Frost, and Shel Silverstein. Worst of all, I had never been in an interview, especially a group one. The structure and interactions were overwhelming. Clearly, I had not been prepared for what happened next.]
I tend to wear my thoughts and emotions on my face. During that fateful moment, confusion was probably written all over it. And that young male interviewer must have caught it. His next question was to me.
"What do you think of her poem, Richard?"
Somewhere in this blog, I must have mentioned how my Catholic upbringing taught me humility. Well, the Church did not just teach me to be emotionally humble, it also inspired me to be intellectually honest. To admit the limits of my knowledge and intelligence. To confess without reservation that I may not know something. To willingly say, "I do not understand".
And that is exactly what I did.
"Um, I do not understand it."
I have no recollection of the ensuing conversation, whether he asked me to elaborate, or whether he turned to someone else. Though, I am sure that I turned a bright red.
The interview continued. Later on, my overly-analytical mind replayed the moment, over and over. Did they admire my honesty (my optimistic side), or ridiculed my ignorance (my cynical side)? Was it a trick question? A way to trip me up? Was her writing really that deep? Was that why they chose it? How did my own pieces compare? Why was I even there in the first place? I never learned the answers to those questions.
However, what I did discover, later, was an answer to a more important question: was I accepted into the program? It arrived in a standard-sized envelope, and I stole away into my garage with it. Alone, in shadows cast by an afternoon sun, windows and doors shut, I opened it. And read the standard introduction that begins all letters of this type: the obligatory congratulations of coming so far. Then I read what usually follows: the meaningless regret for being unable to invite you to participate in this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
I cried. Alone.
Now, this is the place where I tell you the valuable lessons I learned from this experience. How little I knew about poetry, and how naive I was about the power of personal bias and preferences when it comes to human interactions. How failures can become a portfolio upon which to build successes. That no matter how special I think I am, or how much I think I deserve something, there are thirty-five other people who are just like me. And some of them are indeed better, and deserve it more than me. Finally, that all moments serve some greater purpose, and even a sad setback can put me on a trajectory to attend that very college, and meet people that can lead to future opportunities, which may redefine me as a person.
To be honest, I am not sure what lesson to take from this memory that keeps cropping up. I know I am not bitter with what happened. Interviewers have their expectations. Some of my peers are better than me. We are all human. And it opened up other doors. Therefore, there is another reason for my continuing to reflect on it. However, what that is, I am not certain.
[EDIT: Perhaps it is time for me to reach out to my former mentor, and say "thank you"? Or, it might be time for me to pursue the promise she saw in me so many decades ago?]
(To be continued...)
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