My Dream Died

Whether as a result of my family role as eldest of the siblings, some intrinsic desire to nurture and provide, or a lethal combination of both, I’ve always wanted to be “successful”. I don’t need a mountain of green (or plastic) at my disposal and I don’t necessarily want a frivolously lavish house or car. Despite not having as much money as the majority of my overachiever counterparts, perhaps even because of it, I want to do “enough” with my life to be able to take care of my family’s present and future needs and to do the most with the blessings that have been bestowed upon me. I know I have one of the most ideal situations in the world: living in a first world country, with a house, and a constant supply of food on the table, and two married parents who love and support me. So, with all of the privileges and advantages bestowed upon me, I really should be able to do something right. Right?

Though in the past I never had any interest in labeling or recognizing myself as such, I was what one might call a “high achiever”. Since the dawn of letter grades in my life, I've gotten straight A’s. During high school, I obtained the title of Salutatorian, logged hundreds of community service hours, received multiple scholastic awards annually, kept a job as a tutor, earned professional certifications, held three officer and leadership positions, was named an AP Scholar with Distinction, and invested countless hours in my beloved (still chronically underfunded) school theatre program that named me the ‘Star Performer’ of the graduating senior class, among other things.

My intention is not to sound conceited or boastful. In fact, physically typing out the aforementioned accolades is just as odious and gross to me as it was during college application season. From scholarship essays to the academic resume I composed for the purpose of informing recommendation letters to the applications themselves, I fought my formidable gag reflex as I ground out words of self-exaltation through gritted teeth.

Coincidentally enough, it is that exact process of applying to college that has led me down the winding road of rejection, now seeking catharsis. Let me take the opportunity to acknowledge the paradoxical structure of my rantings. Admittedly, I never saw myself wilfully compiling a list arbitrary facts about my school experience, never saw myself needing an outlet for anonymous expression, and I certainly never saw myself falling head over heels in love with an Ivy League institution.

Until my junior year, I had little to no interest in the Ivy Leagues. I had planned for as long as I could remember to matriculate to the state school where my parents met, and where the majority of college graduates in my family had attended. I perceived the Ivy Leagues as impossibly posh and suffocating. The thought of a chunky, half-brown girl from an incredibly loving and supportive, but unavoidably chaotic, grungy family of seven was ludicrous. Not to mention what I thought would be an insurmountable Ivy encrusted price tag. That was until, at my father’s innocuous suggestion, I at least take a trip to see some Ivies in person, I made the trek up to New England the summer before my senior year with my mom and tia.

I sit here today, wondering if it was a mistake to agree to the trip in the first place. After all, if I hadn’t had such an enlightening tour, witnessed the school’s beautifully quirky culture, learned about the incomparable educational enrichment opportunities, been exposed to the idea that people successfully pursue their passions instead of just a practical degree, and discovered that tuition would be completely covered given my family’s per capita income, I wouldn’t have inadvertently and secretly plunged myself into what was most assuredly a destined failure.

Before I left, I promised myself I wouldn’t become obsessed with just the idea of a brand name education, and I can confidently say I kept my word. We visited two Ivy League institutions. One was exactly as I had feared. The atmosphere, whether I had an accurate perception or not, felt stuffy, pompous, and mind-numbingly boring. The second school, on the other hand, spoke to me. Rather, more accurately—it sang to me. From the introductory video, that quite literally featured a solid seven minutes of singing, I was enamored.

So, my senior year I did what I had tried to do my entire school career, I did everything to the best of my ability. I maintained my grades, raised my standardized test scores through the one free effort afforded me, maintained my extracurricular participation, and even kept up with my at-home responsibilities.

Most especially, I took care with every mention of my dream school to casually address the astronomically low probability that anything would actually come of my application, and I truly believed that. I thought, surely, with that wholehearted belief, I would grow a thick skin to shield me from the brunt of the inevitable rejection I would face.

Come March 28th, Ivy Decision Day, I had already been accepted to the state school where I was slated to attend. With more anxiety than I could’ve explained or predicted, I clicked on the final link to access my admissions decision. My eyes blurred in preparation for the swift, painless death of my dream.

That death never came though, not in the way I had assumed at least. I had never considered the formerly muted third option of the waitlist. I was ecstatic. I couldn’t believe I attracted the slightest modicum of attention from my school of choice. Being placed on the waitlist validated all of my chimerical fantasies about attending. For the first time since my summer excursion, I allowed myself to acknowledge the possibility of attending my dream school. I agonized over each significant update to my status portal and even uploaded a video of an important musical theatre performance to demonstrate my continued interest.

Even so, I was aware from the start that the chances of admission from the waitlist are slim to none. I told myself no matter the outcome, I would be proud of myself for the accomplishment in and of itself. Especially given the obvious time and effort expended to thoroughly and holistically evaluate each application, I thought I was rational enough, pragmatic enough, mature enough to accept my defeat gracefull—inside and out. I wasn’t.

Two months later, packing for my safety school, I can’t shake my sadness. I can hide it, disguise it, pretend temporarily like it doesn’t exist as I usher it into the recesses of my mind, but I am still mourning the loss of a squandered prospect. I had one shot. I missed. I “threw it away”, so to speak, and I will never have another chance like it again. I’m disgusted by my own inability to move on, by my complete lack of genuine enthusiasm for the state school where my parents attended, by the oceans of despair and disappointment that churn in my stomach every time I have to feign a smile when asked yet again where I’m going to school.

I don’t really expect any empathy (though if any other failed wait-listers are open to commiseration, I’m game), and I certainly don’t expect any sympathy. Mostly, this is a selfish essay. No family or friends need to know my annoyingly pervasive self-pity. All I want is one shameless post to an anonymous platform; the last, sputtering remnants of a childish dream cast into an apathetic void.