Eighth Grade Culmination

As Mrs. Horton tried to console me, along with a few others, right after being told we would not be one of the four people with a chance to read their speech for the entire eighth grade, I was newly unsure of myself. I wasn’t mad, nor was I jealous of the other students who had tried out. I was very happy for the people who were picked. I was just confused.

How could I have done better? Where did I go wrong? Should I not have changed my speech so many times? Nobody answered my questions, and I could not answer them myself. All I knew was that these questions were eating me alive.

It was my dream to speak at my middle school culmination. I had written my first draft on the very first day of 6th grade; and since then it was all I thought about. Everyday I looked forward to culmination: the end of middle school. It was the light at the end of the tunnel--the celebration that made the constant anxiety and awkwardness of preadolescence worth it.

When I found out my speech wasn't chosen, my spirits and dreams were crushed. One of my very close friends had been picked to speak instead of me -- she had started working on her speech just a few weeks prior. Culmination was becoming bleak, and I needed something to hold onto. So, I distracted myself with other culmination activities and eventually stopped sulking.

I set great expectations for myself. Since I couldn't share my speech, I needed to compensate for the loss I felt. I wanted to win the science award and brag to the popular girls, I wanted to have a cinematic moment when the school played my choice for the culmination song, and I wanted the school to pick my artwork for the culmination pamphlet.

“I just want to let you know that I am willing to accept the science award,” I told Mr. Pot, my science teacher.

Every time I saw him walking through the halls and every time I'd enter his classroom, I'd urge him to nominate me. Receiving the science award would provide me with the reassurance I couldn't get from the speech. It would even motivate me to continue exploring the field of science in high school.

As I came closer to culminating, I crossed more things off of my list of expectations. One day, they announced that our culminating song would be the overplayed "Celebration", a song I did not include in my long list of suggestions, which I had turned in extra early in hopes of being considered.

I had two more chances to have a great day at culmination. The school could pass out a culminating pamphlet with my drawing on the front or the teachers could announce me the winner of the science award.

As I got ready for culmination, all I could think about was how the teachers would announce my name, how I would accept the award, where I would hang it up, or how people would congratulate me. I also imagined the bliss of seeing everyone at the event holding my drawing in their lap.

The clapping my friend got after she gave her speech made me burst into uncontrollable tears. My tears turned into a loud panic attack, and soon enough everyone was turning their heads to watch me gasp for breath. They smiled at me -- they thought I was crying out of happiness and nostalgia. Tears aside, I guess I hid my devastation well.

“Now for the academic achievement awards,” the principal said, handing the microphone over to the first teacher.

I gathered myself. I watched and waited for my time to come as all of my friends received awards in math, social science, and english. Then, the microphone was given to one of the science teachers. He made a long nerve wracking speech and finally announced another friend of mine winner of the science award. I fell back into the panic attack. This time, the people around me asked me why I was crying -- I lied. I told them I was really happy.

After culmination, I found my mom, holding a culmination pamphlet. I ran over to her in desperation. I grabbed the pamphlet out of her hands and looked at its cover to find not my drawing but that of a girl I knew.

It finally sunk in that I had not gotten one good thing out of culmination. I did not hear the music I liked, I didn't get an award to hang up in my room, I didn't get to keep a pamphlet of any importance to me, and most importantly, I didn't get to speak to my eighth grade class about how I felt about finally being on the other side of the wretched tunnel.

Worst of all, the light I had expected to reach was nowhere to be found. The world still appeared dark, just as it was throughout my entire middle school experience.

The night after culmination, I sat my family down and read them my speech in an effort to make up for the crappy day. It was only then that I realized I had it all wrong.

The theme of culmination was “Celebrate Every Achievement.” In my culmination speech, I had focused more on the outcome of a journey rather than the achievement every journey is in and of itself. I realized that my own speech applied to my very situation. Throughout middle school, I had been so focused on culminating that I could never enjoy the present. And at culmination, I had focused so much on how nothing went my way that I forgot to appreciate how much fun I had working toward the milestone of middle school graduation.

Turns out, the tunnel was nonexistent; I was just wearing sunglasses. I was in a scary, blinding world, and instead of fearlessly facing it head on and seeing it for what it was, I put on my shades. I thought that they would help me see better, but in the end, they made the bright world seem dark.

Had I gotten what I wanted at culmination, I would have never gained the knowledge that the journey is more significant than its outcome.

I've grown to realize that the outcome of any given project or event isn't always within your control. So, when you take your sunglasses off and bask in the moment, even an unfavorable outcome is outshined by a journey that's worth remembering.