The Way of the Words

A History of My Personal Literacy. This is my Историја Писмености. Una Historia de la Alfabetización. 識字的歷史. Une Histoire de l'Alphabétisation. eine Geschichte der Alphabetisierung. Istorija Pismenosti. ਸਾਖਰਤਾ ਦੀ ਇੱਕ ਇਤਿਹਾਸ. История Грамотности.  Una Storia di Alfabetizzazione. تاريخ من محو الأمية.

Before I begin any sort of autobiography, I would like express my discontent with the assignment. I am not one, nor have I ever been one for succinctness. Shakespeare may have said that “Brevity is the soul of wit”, but who cares about Shakespeare anyways? Just because he did some good things, doesn't mean that every little thing he has ever said needs to be taken as true. It is ironic and strange to put a limit on an assignment about literacy! I refuse to be bound by such oppression! I have a lot of say, and I think that I am extremely interesting. I feel like editing anything out would be equivalent to committing an injustice against myself. So, I, for one, have no intention of keeping this short and sweet. Now, sit down, pour yourself some tea, and get ready to pay attention to me!

The founder of Moscow State University, Mikhail Lomonosov, said that “...the Hispanic tongue was seemly for converse with God, the French with friends, the German with enemies, the Italian with the feminine sex, and the Slavic with all.”

It could just be my patriotism, but in my mind, truer words were never spoken. My parents were refugees from the Yugoslav Civil War. As a result, the first language I learned was Serbian. Serbian is a completely phonetic, Slavic language that uses Cyrillic script. Today, being someone who is fluent and proficient at Serbian, French and English, I can truly say that Serbian is a language which is impossible to fully master, unless spoken from birth. It features 8 different conjugations, for each tense, for each gender. In layman's terms, it's very difficult. That being said, Serbian is, in my opinion, a far more beautiful language than English. But, let's be real: English simply isn't a nice language.

By the time I was four years old, I knew all the letters in Serbian, according to my mom. Very soon, I started reading in Serbian. It was not perfect, but it was a start. Around five, just before I was supposed to start my first year of school, the Serbian Church in Vancouver hosted a cultural event. They required artists, singers, folk-dancers, and cooks; all to create things that would be reminiscent of the motherland. My father asked me if I would like to participate. My desire to fit in with the adults, and the fact that I was very confident in my abilities, led me to agree. My dad then produced the Aleksa Šantić poem “Moja Otadžbina”, told me to read it and informed me that I would be reciting it.

Being that my days were fairly free, I spent every day, for three weeks, perfecting the poem recitation with my mom. She drilled me hard, until my cadence and memory were perfect. When I got up on the stage at the church, I remember lowering the microphone to my level, and looking through the audience in attempts to find my mom. I saw her, cradling my new born sister in her arms, and already crying hard. I smiled at her, as if to reassure that I was going to be great. I was very confident and my recitation did go off without a hitch. To this day, I can still recite that poem on command. Reading in Serbian was confidence-building and great, but then school came along, and with it came English.

When I started Kindergarten, I barely spoke English. My secluded, Serbian-speaking world was all I knew, and all I loved. The ugly, Germanic-sounding English language was not just hard to accept, but hard to learn. I, however, was lucky. Being that Vancouver is such a diverse city, a lot of my school peers were in the same predicament. With two years of Rosetta Stone and ESL, I learned English, and began excelling at it. In grade one, I completed all the phonics workbooks in my class before my classmates; I was exceeding everyone's expectations.

My school suggested me for cognitive testing. I scored very highly, and this got me put into a special program, at a different school, for gifted children. Even in this special school, my peers writing was not stunning, nor was their reading. Our teachers took no time to give us concrete grammar lessons, or concrete reading; they simply went with the motions. When a mistake was made by the majority of the class, the teacher would discuss it. If no mistake was made by the majority, too bad for you – you would have to figure it out on your own. It was strange schooling system for my mom to comprehend. She was appalled at the fact that our schooling here in Canada was far less rigid than that of hers in Socialist Yugoslavia. She believed, and still does, that repetition is the way to learning. Due to her dislike of the system, she pulled me out of school to home-school me for a year.

Mom recognized my lack of talent in the writing sector. She, despite her limited English, was more than displeased with my writing after seeing a few samples. She explained that my conventions and grammar, Serbian or English, were terrible. It was time to kick it into overdrive.

She went back to my school and raided the book room, taking any workbook she saw as potentially helpful. First, she studied them. Then, she explained them to me and got me to complete a truly gigantic amount examples. I hated it all, but especially subject and predicate. I still remember her shrill, disgusting and fear-inducing voice yelling at me. She would ask me in Serbian “Where is the subject and where is the predicate?” I would guess. She would look at me with a stone-cold seriousness. At some point, she took it to another level. “Natasa, you're bright. I know that with a little focus you will be able to figure this out. So, I need you to get off your ass, turn on your brain and try. If you don't, I will make you chicken liver for dinner, and take away your toys.” To Anglo-Saxon folks, this sounds inhumane. How could someone speak to their young child like that? But, as a victim, I will say one thing in defense of her tactics: they work. There was a reason that Socialist Yugoslavia and Soviet Russia were prosperous in their times – the intense methods of study. I learned more, and just about everything I know, from my ESL mom's English courses.

I remember reading George Orwell's classic, dystopian novel 1984 in grade 5or 6. At one point in my life, my parents had arrived at the conclusion that the only cure for my intense hatred of reading was force. They pulled out an assortment of classic, English novels. Their theory was that, if they force these well-written novels on me, I would absorb the literary construction of the novels and improve my own writing – they were, again, right. My writing improved leaps and bounds. A small child is very impressionable, and exposing them to excellent writing early makes it stick with them. Even if only subconscious, the effect is evident. I didn't read anything new. My parents knew what was good. I mean, think about it; I hated reading in general – nothing interested me. In that case, why not thrust only the good ones on the reader? They could have, for example, made me read Ned Vizzini's It's Kind of a Funny Story, but that wouldn't have done me any good. That book is as severely riddled with the filler-form of the word “like”, as Kim Kardashian is with fat cells on her overly-plump lips. That wouldn't do me any good.

Rather, they made me read things like The Jungle Book, Robinson Crusoe, Treasure Island, and, my personal favorite, Around the World in 80 Days. The Jungle Book was the first book that ever evoked tears from me. Treasure Island was a thriller, which got me interested in black dots and pirates, and even inspired my Halloween costume. And Around the World in 80 Days was just ineffably good. I felt like I had traveled with the character, and I felt so transported. His journey was just so mesmerizing.

These books were all solid, and my writing was consistently getting better because my mom had devised a way to ensure that I was reading while simultaneously helping my writing – keeping a journal. I had to read a chapter a day, and then write a summary of it in my journal. At the end, I had to write a review of the book I had just finished. Maybe that's where I get it from. All these critiques, which rest lazily on my blog, have only my mom to thank for being born through the ink in my pen. Later, I progressed to reviews about cheeses and cereals. It made me feel important – the fact that someone cared for what I said.

When I grew up a little, and started staying awake until 11:30pm just to see the nightly news. When I started discussing political ideas with my dad. And, when I just generally became more interested into the happenings around me, my dad introduced me to the next book I would be forced to read.

He explained that 1984 was a novel which was prevalent in themes even today. He explained how Orwell predicted that such a society would be in existence in 1984, and that we were, indeed, slowly inching our way to Orwell's dystopia. With my new-found fascination with politics and government, I was, even as a book-hater, a little excited to read it.

After flipping through every page, I was disappointed. 1984 was a slow book, with themes too complex for me to understand and appreciate.

When I went back to school, I was light-years ahead of my pathetically weak-reading peers. I read aloud better, I wrote better and I wasn't even a native speaker. Ha, take that!

Going back to school meant that I was free from the forcible confinement of reading. I didn't have to do anything with books anymore, and I exploited the opportunity.

Book trends would pass through my school. I would notice kids reading certain books, and feel inclined to read them myself to fit in. I would read the first page, and spend the rest of the silent reading time staring at the word-filled page, glassy-eyed. Nothing seemed to interest me. Until the trend turned to frat-boy books (at least that's what we called them). Bringing Down the House was incredible. I read it and then reread it. It was that good. My parents were naturally happy at the fact that I was reading; they didn't care about the subject matter. Afterwards I read London Calling, by Edward Bloor, which was also an excellent and compelling novel. I finally reached the pinnacle of my reading career when my grade 8 crush lent me The Book Thief. The Book Thief changed my outlook on books completely. I no longer judged books based on their thickness, but rather on their content. It was poignant, and sad, and painful and, a whole spectrum of other emotion.

When I started high school, I joined the debate team because they were offering cake to anyone who did. It ended up being, to this day the wisest decision I ever made. Debate changed my life; it gave me some sort of direction. Additionally, it guided my literary career into unexplored territory. For debate, I began reading articles. The New Yorker emerged to be my favorite because of its provocative and intellectual content. Good stuff. So good, in fact, that it still remains my favorite thing to read. Books simply never appealed to me.

My grade eight crush was intellectual and artistic; he read through books faster than he skated down the school halls on his skateboard. When we parted ways due to his moving out of the country, he gave me one token to “remember” him by – a book. Actually, it was an anthology of poetry. On the first page was a messy note:

“For Natasa,

Poetry isn't bad, or lame.

Read up, as I go to wander lonely as a cloud/ That floats on high o'er vales and hills,...

If you ever feel bad about me leaving, or something cliche like that, flip to page 122.

Love, and lots of it to you, my pleasing but short-lived flower!!!”

This just made things a whole lot more interesting. The note was like an assignment almost. I knew that he had used poetry in it, and to find out which poems exactly, I would have to read through the book.

So, I began. Quickly, I finished. I highlighted the poems used in the note. On page 105 was William Wordsworth's “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud”. On page 97 was Mary Leapor's “An Essay on Woman”, which described “[a] woman” as “... a pleasing but a short-lived flower,...” And on the fabled page 122 was Lord Byron's “When We Two Parted”.

I had hated the poetry that they had made us read in school. I had come to believe that no good poets existed in the English language. Every poem I had ever read in Serbian was beautiful, but no English one thus far could compare. This anthology changed my view.

I realized that it wasn't English literature that was terrible, but just the teachers' selections. In the anthology, I specifically came to love the three poems mentioned, along with “the mother” by Gwendolyn Brooks and a few of Shakespeare's sonnets. I felt like I was getting acquainted with each poet as I read. It was as if each stanza was a glimpse into their soul.

But that time passed. I lost touch with my wandering, lonely cloud. My romantic era was over.

In grade 10, my English teacher forced me, along with the rest of the class, to open a blog. Here we could post whatever we wanted. I stopped ranting at my friends, and started ranting at my keyboard. It faithfully obeyed and listened to every complaint of mine. With a touch of my mouse pad, my words were boundless. Any human being with Internet access could get a taste of me. One complaint, in particular, galloped beyond all expectations and ended up published, alongside Maclean's magazine. Even whining can get you somewhere.

Today, I read articles in Serbian and English. I enjoy being in-sync with society; with the events in the world. I skim through the novels I am assigned at school, as to manage a basic level of understanding, so that I can effectively write an essay. The issue is my reading: I read very slowly. I need to reread one small paragraph at least 3 times before I can understand it. I do not know if this is thanks to a lack of interest or focus, but either way, it's difficult to deal with. In fact, it discourages me from reading altogether, in a way. The only writing I can effectively synthesize in my mind is non-fiction prose, like newspaper articles.

As a young child my writing was pathetic. I had terrible grammar; one sentence of mine was equivalent to a regular person's paragraph. My English vocabulary was very limited, and as a result of this, my writing suffered tremendously. My mom buckled down, and broke through her ESL barrier to teach me how to write properly. My grade ten English teacher gave me a platform – a blog. For some peculiar reason, no matter how hard I try, I just cannot seem to take pleasure in reading. Oh, how I would like to. I take such great enjoyment in writing, so how is it then that I take such depression in reading, especially in English. The Serbian language, like Lomonosov said, has soul and grace, the English does not – it is for business and debate, not art. For the record, I love learning new languages, especially when they sound poetic.

My entire life, I have had people ramble and throw words into my ears about how important and wonderful reading novels is. My entire life, I have doubted such a notion, but now, I guess I'm just not sure what to think.

Thanks a lot for confusing me, Ms. Thomson. But hey, at least you're making progress in this fight against reading-phobia.

Back to School. Mortified.

Here you are: My longest post to date! A whopping total of 7133 words.

I just looked at a thesaurus. I was looking for a synonym to the word "petrified". I'm tired of using "petrified" and "very scared". I want to use something fresh to ring in the new school year. More importantly, I wanted to use something stronger; something emotionally evocative and potent. I've stumbled upon "mortified"! Yes, that works! How exciting!

In just a few very short, very sweet, very speedy hours the first full week of school will begin. September 14th will mark the beginning of of my end. By "end", I mean both demise and literal end. In layman's terms, it will be the mortifying start of grade 12, the mortifying crescendo of high school, the abrupt opening of the doors of adulthood, the real world and all its responsibilities. This is the unpackaging of me from the bubble wrap emballage (wrapping material) I have spent my life thus far in.

Subconsciously, this is the matter which pierces and paralyzes me with fear in the depths of my heart. Superficially, it is the applications and rejections that cause me the most preemptive grief. The notion that I will now have to advertise myself like a cereal box to the very qualified folks at admissions boards around the world is tear-inducing. I have always had trouble and reluctance at directing glassy eyes to stare at me. Coming from an avid debater, this might sound strange, especially when you consider my "line of work". So much of debating consists off of adequately displaying your strengths. Actually, the communist inside of me hates it. Scratch that, it's not the communist - it's the lazy, parasitic turd that is well aware of her own shortcomings and lack of advertising material. Naturally, this scares me; no, mortifies me, because I know that this ability to advertise is the sole solution and glimmer of hope I must cling on to. That is what my years of "living life" have reduced me to - a blank cereal box.

As a cereal box, I have no brand name on my label. In fact, you've probably even heard rumors about my icky taste. If not, then all you have to do is flip to the back of the box, find the ingredients list, and see that I am full of shit. Unlike my competitors, I have no brand name, no pretty advertising, and most of all, I have no nutritional value. Of course you aren't going to serve me as breakfast to your kids.The fact is that, in my generation, there seems to be more and more good-looking cereal boxes. I look increasingly dull; you might not even notice me. If you do, you'll either put me down, or even chuckle at how sad and tragic my appearance looks amidst all those shiny boxes. You will have rejected me.

Again, who could ever blame you? Why would you pick a lack-luster box, which contains sub-par ingredients? 

Just why?

Next to me, we have boxes that have won countless award; boxes' whose manufacturers have worked tirelessly at making them special in some way. So yes, it is obvious that you would reject me. And get this: I don't blame you. I wouldn't pick me either.

Rejection is tough. It's not something that I am accustomed to.

And this is the case that plagues so many universities. This surplus of impressive students. This overproduction that means that even some of the good ones won't get in. There just isn't enough room. So, where does this reality leave the decent, average Joes (i.e. me) at? It leaves us with a broken heart and a letter of rejection. Some can shrug it off, find a silver lining, be an optimist, and so on. Others, well, others just can't. They start meticulously looking back  at where it all went wrong. Regrets flood their mind, they fret, they enrage themselves and they get whisked away to the darkest pits of melancholia. The saddest part of it all is that all that retracing, all that regret, fret, anger and depression amounts to nothing. It doesn't get you accepted; it doesn't change anything but your own mental state. It's that terrible feeling where you don't see a purpose in something negative, but you do it regardless. And that further perpetuates sadness. Now, you're sad that you're pointlessly sad, and so on, and so forth. You become pathetic.

It's that rejection that mortifies me superficially. I know, I should've kicked it into overdrive a few years ago, when my mother pleaded me to do so with tears in her eyes. Out of plain laziness, pure indifference, or rabid spite, I did not. I assured myself that I was better than the rest; that I stood out and that any university worth its salt would see that. I failed to recognize that I was a sum, a number. My SAT score, plus my school grades, plus my awards, equals me. However unfortunate, it's true. We can debate that these factors do not determine success, we can raise ethical concerns about the process, we can take the stance that a person is more than just the sum of their parts. We can do all that, but it won't change anything. 

Maybe, I'm just really lame. Maybe I'm not special.

For a prestigious school like, say, Harvard to shuffle through 37307 applicants each year with a highly personal approach would be impractical, inefficient, and really stupid. They have a limited time. Time is a commodity. Time is money. And so they have better things to do with that time.

Back to cereal:

Why spend hours at the cereal aisle in the supermarket contemplating the intricacies of brand A and brand B, when you could just grab the first good one, and be on your merry way?

If you've ever heard the song Changes by the small-time band Stars (Before you click the link note that the video features a naked woman dancing. She has boobs, a perfectly shaved vagina and a strange Splice-like tail. They are all visible, so if that mortifies your Puritan mind, just skip the video and check out the lyrics instead.), you may be able to recall some pertinent lines: "Changes, I've never been good with change/ I hate it when it all stays the same/ Caught between the cold and the wave/ My heart beats up again"

That's the predicament I'm in.

My whole life, I've looked forward eagerly to the graduation of high school. (Always pictured myself as valedictorian, by the way). Now that it is so close and I'm supposed to start making accommodations for the path past my secondary institution, I'm getting cold feet. I want the change; leaving high school is what I crave. I would hate it if it stayed the same, but I'm mortified of change. This is deep down, of course. Because superficially, I'm not afraid of making that blind leap, I'm afraid of not being given the opportunity to do so (i.e. not being accepted to university). Sure, I think well, and my grades are OK. I have a lot of extra-curricular activities on my not-really-existent resume. I even have a few awards under my belt. But I lack one fundamental thing: work ethic.

I'm like Greece, on a small scale, and without all the debt. I think that I don't have to do anything, but that I can still live lavishly.

I know a boy who just started school at Berkeley. According to Facebook, he's studying political science. I remember taking the bus with him to school many mornings in elementary. I remember taking the bus home with him many afternoons in high school, in my grade 8 year. I look back, and I think of him. I reflect on how we have both grown and how our paths have diverged. In hindsight there were probably subtle signs that made that diversion foreseeable. I'll give some examples: In elementary, he knew a lot relative to the rest of our class. Our class was even a class specifically for kids with high I.Q.s. To stand out academically there? Well, it's no small feat. Most vividly, I recall how, during a class research trip to the library, as I was daydreaming and wasting my time away, he was looking at something in a book. The question of who invented the train drunkenly tumbled into my mind and I set out of a quest to find the answer, and disturb as many people as possible in the process. No one knew as I blurted out the question to people ignorantly. Until I arrived at him. He looked at me seriously and responded "James Watt". I was taken aback at the fact that he actually knew and so I stood there with a dumb face. So, he elaborated: "James Watt invented the Steam Machine."

I shook the feeling and said my clearly brilliant reply of "Cool, thanks."

Then, as I further reflect, I remember him sitting on the bus everyday and reading. He seemed so deeply enthralled in the content on the pages of his fat books. He loved reading. I remember one time when he missed his stop on the bus because he was too into his book. I so envy him. His enjoyment of reading was something I was not born with, but something I so wished I had. In fact, I remember the teacher of our class consistently checking up on him to make sure he was doing his work and not reading for pleasure, instead.

When I left the school that we both attended to go to my new one, I loosely kept in touch with him through Facebook and text message. We didn't talk often, but we were aware of what was going on in each other's lives. After all, that's the purpose of Facebook, right? I would see him post new photos, I would like them, as to acknowledge that I have seen them. I texted him once accidentally. His name was next to the name of another one of my contacts on my phone. I had meant to send that other contact a message about meeting for a project of some sort, but it ended up going to him. He responded, informing me of my mistake. I apologized and figured that I may as well use this mistake to see what he's been up to since my departure from his school. He informed me about how he was soon going to leave for about a year on a trip around the world. The very notion was fascinating to me. Apparently, his father had a sabbatical in Australia, and decided that he should extend it to a full-blown trip. Pretty cool, eh? I suggested some places and that was about that.

I saw his travels on Facebook and I was naturally a little jealous of his year-off. He explained that he was still keeping up with all his schoolwork on the trip, which, in my mind, kind of sucked. If anything, it took away from the premise of travel. Why would you work during such an incredible experience? But I digress.

He came back to Canada in the Spring or Summer, I think. I left a brief comment on a post of his on Facebook, and, apart from a message wishing him a happy birthday in August, it was basically the last I heard from him until the next school year. That's when I had to take my SAT. What mortification.

Since none of my friends could provide any insight unto the daunting SAT, I turned to him. I fired him a quick message, which was less intended to get any information than it was to calm me down. He did calm me, and truly expended quite a bit of time answering all of my questions very adequately. At one point, during a text discussion, I put my Psychology 11/12 class knowledge to use and mentioned id. "Id" is basically the opposite of superego. Here's a quick explanation:

Supposedly, we have two voices in our head that determine our decision making. One is superego, the other is id. Superego is the voice that strives for perfection. It adds up all the things your mind has declared as ideal (i.e. finishing your homework on time, washing the dishes immediately, exercising, not consuming the whole chocolate bar etc.), and encourages you to take actions in accordance with those ideals. Then there is id. If superego is the angel on your shoulder, id is the devil. Id goes for indulgence over moral superiority; id gives into temptations. For every decision you make, both id and superego are at play. They provide their arguments for their respective sides in your mind, and your mind decides which one to listen to. Now, some people usually go with id, others usually go with superego - and it is this statistic that labels you as either more id-driven, or more superego-driven.

Here's the scenario that our teacher gave to us to see if we were more id or superego driven: You have a paper due tomorrow for school. It's your average essay, on your average subject. Your teacher wants it in tomorrow, and if you don't hand it in, she will take off 10% for every day that you're late. Today, your friend calls you. Surprise! S/he has just come over from the adjacent province for a vacation, and will be in your city for 5 days. S/he wants to hang out right now. You were best friends a year ago, but s/he moved and now you only message/Skype each other. You really like your friend, and you obviously want to see him/her, but your paper is due! So, do you put off the paper, and go hang out with your old friend, either accepting the 10% late consequence, or telling yourself you'll get it done in morning? Or, do you tell your friend you'll hang out in few days because you really need to finish this paper, and risk either not making the most of your friend's short time in your city, or having other things come up which would further jeopardize the chances of you seeing each other in the short 5 days?

If you pick the former option, the chances are that you are more id-driven, and if you pick the latter option, the chances are that you are more superego driven.

I would drop everything and head for my friend, but I know that most of my schoolmates would not.

So, I mentioned that I was more id-driven, and for the first time ever, he asked me a question. He asked me what the term meant. He hadn't taken psychology because of a timetable conflict So, I explained it to him almost exactly as I did above, and asked him where he sees himself. He responded that he was probably more superego, and soon thereafter, he pulled a superego move on me. He ended the conversation, telling me that he had some sort of track and field race in the morning, and needed to rest. I smiled a sad smile, not at his statement, but rather at the fact that I knew that I would never be able to make such a statement myself, and said "sleep well".

I distinctly remember my friend once blabbering on and on to me about something completely pointless one night, and me patiently listening and responding until she finished. By the time she finished, it was 2 in the morning. I was similar in stature to a corpse, and my brain felt as if it had undergone shock therapy (i.e. fried and scrambled). Now, that would've been just fine if I didn't need to wake up the next morning; it would be just fine if I had nothing brain-requiring to do the next morning, but I did. I had a huge debate competition to attend - the biggest of the year, in fact. I needed to be rested physically, so that my body could tolerate the travel to the tournament location, the long hours of debating on food with no nutritional value, and the waking up at 6:30 in the morning. But more importantly, I needed to be rested mentally. How do you think of points and draw on information deep in the crevasses of your mind, when your mind feels like a plate of greasy spaghetti? It's excruciating.

The entire time while she was rambling, I was asking myself "how?" How was I going to do tomorrow? I debated how I would wake up, how I would think, how I would avoid passing out. And to every doubt, I provided an answer. The same way I always thought of an excuse for not finishing my homework, the same way I always managed to assure myself that things would work themselves out, I managed to convince myself that the universe had a plan for me, and that, if I failed tomorrow, it would be destiny. I told myself that I would find a way. I would manage, even if that meant fainting once I got home. And I asked myself the most important question: Is it my moral duty to listen to this girl? And the answer was yes. I knew that I wouldn't be nearly as upset to do badly at my tournament, as I would knowing that I was too busy to lend an ear. If anything, I was bringing myself good karma prior to the day.

I went to the competition and did well, as per usual. I scored in the top 8%, I think it was.

I felt like I did the right thing. My id allowed me to hit two birds with one stone. We can argue that I was could've done better had I been well-rested, or that I wouldn't have gotten sick afterwards had I slept, but who cares? But, maybe it wasn't my id, maybe it was just my father's words resonating with me.

But I'll discuss that a little bit later. Let's just talk about a few small points I endured with my Berkeley friend:

After a few years of not seeing each other face to face, a free day at my own school gave me the opportunity to visit to his school. I wasn't going with the intention of seeing him specifically, but I knew it would be nice if I ran into him. I found my best friend first and walked around the school with her. I noticed some of the changes, and greeted some of the familiar faces. I texted the Berkeley Boy (good ring to it, eh?) to find out where he was. He gave me his locker number, and I decided that I would pay him a visit, when I had the chance.

I saw him walking outside during the lunch break, but I was occupied with some old friends, so I couldn't quite meet him. I later saw him walking the halls with a girl, while I was sitting in on my best friend's class. I quickly debated running out of the class and catching up, but I remembered that my best friend had told her teacher that I was a non-English-speaking Serbian girl. Running out and saying "hi", in English, to the Anglo-Saxon Berkeley Boy would be suspicious, to say the least. So, I waited until school was almost over, and made my way to his locker. He was there talking to a friend, and I greeted him with a smile.

The encounter was slightly awkward. In fact, I still feel as if he wasn't even sure that it was me greeting him. He gave a rigid smile and an alienated "hi". I thought that he was going to stop for a second and ask me about how I had been, but he didn't. Instead, he made a confused face and told me that he had something to do. In the spur of the moment, I responded "Oh yeah, me too. I just wanted to say 'hi'. Good to see you!". Naturally, I didn't have anything to do, but I didn't want to come across as chronically available, either.

When I was very little, I vividly recall my father telling me "Natasa, it is the ugliest thing in the world when a person doesn't have time. Always have time for people. Always." To this day, I hold my father's words as true. It's so ugly, for lack of a better word. When I see someone saying "sorry, I gotta go!" in the middle of a conversation, it upsets me. I know that, in reality, it's unfeasible to always have time. We aren't all unemployed, careless, whimsical students like me, but I wish we were. I think that people would be a lot happier. If you ever doubt it's possible, remind yourself of this: my father is a Ph.D, and a big shot at his company, and he is the one that said those words to me. I don't know if I'll make it far in Western society where time is a commodity, but I don't want to be heartless and say no.

This Berkeley Boy ended up travelling Europe for a month, or so, during summer break, before touching down in California. His time was so wondrously allocated. It was as if he was a living spreadsheet. Every moment of his being seemed meticulously dedicated to one thing. He had a time for his academics, a time for his sports, even a time for his fun. His life seemed planned out to a tee. I was slightly envious, of course. Most of my life is spontaneous. A friend calls me and asks me if I'd like to go on vacation for 3 days with her, starting tomorrow. I say yes.

So, of course I would not have turned him away, if he had arrived at my school. I mean, realistically, I would've stopped and chatted with him regardless of the affairs I had planned. Being late to my sports practice, or even missing it altogether, wouldn't render me, or my day, worthless. I would make the time to catch up with him, but I respect his decision nonetheless. He obviously has a different priorities list set out for him.

In my mind, there are very, very, very few things that cannot wait. If you are rushing to the hospital to support your wife in childbirth, I understand telling someone that you can't quite chat right now. The same goes for, say, a very special kind of doctor's appointment (you know the kind that you have to sign up for months in advance?). But the majority of things can. Work can wait, in most cases. So can school. So can practice, and so can dinner. What can't wait, or what takes priority in my mind, is people. But that's just me.

The Berkeley Boy did try to make it up to me, in a between the lines sort of way. I think that this was because he recalled our relationship in grade 8. In grade 8, we used to wait for each other, take the bus, and sometimes even literally go out of our way to hang out. We would sometimes get off ~6 blocks early, just so that we had more time to talk. Occasionally, we would stop at a coffee shop along the way, and enjoy our coffee. It was very chilled out. Sometimes, he'd even bus the entire way to my part of the city. I doubt that he would do that right now, and that's just a life lesson - people change.

Anyways, The Berkeley Boy texted me later that faithful day I visited the school with a piece of information. He let me know that he and his friends were on their way to see a movie in my part of town. This was sent to me in the form of a statement. He didn't invite me to see this movie with his friends. He just let me know that that was what they were doing. I think he was informing me of this, so that I would come along, but he didn't make that clear, so I didn't show. I appreciate openness. If you want to see me - tell me straight up. That's why I appreciate a certain boy at my new school, but we'll get to that later.

There you have it - Berkeley Boy:

There you have it. That is the profile of a person that successfully gets into Berkeley, and likely goes on to have success in the future. There you have it.

I wish him all the best because he's a great guy!

But, do I stack up?

I'll never be able to so perfectly prioritize tasks, and manage time. I'll never be able to so miraculously deny temptation, and go do what I have to do to achieve that higher goal. I'll never be able to pinpoint that one goal and perseverantly pursue it. I'm a failure. And, as a result, I will not be accepted into Berkeley, unless God Himself descends on Earth and uses his mighty whatever to get me in. The same goes for all the other good universities. Honestly, I'm questioning if I'll even be able to get into my local, solid, decent university of BC. I don't know if I have what it takes.

Maybe I am just an uber-pessimist. However, when I take a look around my high school, I see what all the other kids are putting in. Girls are suffering nervous breakdowns, people are on the brink. I have been told, on two separate occasions, but two of my friends, that they were seriously thinking about killing themselves. Yes, that's how bad it is.

Take another example. I got 4 tickets to see a play tonight. My mom, dad and sister have all already seen it, so they don't feel like going again. I have 3 extra tickets, and I don't want them to go to waste, so I turn to texting as a method to get them used. I send a text message to a few kids I feel will be interested. My best friend has a hike to go on, so she can't make it. My other best friend has a band practice at 7 in the morning on Monday, and cannot risk getting home at 11pm. Fine. So, I guess I'll have to find some less-close friends. So, I fire a text to a girl who graduated last year. She took me on a 3 day vacation for free, so I guess I kind of owe her. This girl didn't go to university. Until January, she is doing nothing, and she has never said "no" - she always has time. Nothing changes this time, and she accepts the offer gladly, on 4-hour-notice. Her boyfriend's sister will tag along. That's two down. I have one more ticket to give away. But who will take it?

If I got the offer, I would gladly take it. Not because I'm a big fan of theater (I'm really not), not because it's a 55$ value (I don't need the money), but simply because it would be fun to go with a friend and because it would be something a little out of the ordinary. Instead of sitting home and wasting away, I would be watching a play.

I text one guy first and he says "I'm sorry, I can't. I'm afraid I'm too busy this weekend."

I text the second guy and he says "Oh my gosh that sounds so dope! Unfortunately, I can't come with my tight schedule, but have fun and tell me all about it tomorrow!"

Did you hear those responses? Would you expect such grown-up replies from teenagers? Moreover, note that it is the first week of school. We don't have pounds of homework yet, so why are they so busy? It's that competitive. I have given up. It looks like that final ticket is indeed going to waste. I can't bear to hear another "My busy schedule won't allow me." The only people that ever have time are the people that aren't going to university; the people that are destined to be failures. How does that make sense. It seems that you cannot be successful unless your schedule is jam-packed. I don't want that.

My parents think that it is possible to be super successful and still have tons of time for fun. They couldn't be more wrong. The fact is that my parents raised me to be this way. To have time, and to have a life is what they saw as important. If you want to go to university, both life and fun need to be put on an indefinite hold. And I know that my parents would hate seeing me locked up in my room, behind a textbook, memorizing anatomy and SAT tricks. I know that they would hate if I was a one-trick pony, who only knew about academics, and didn't know anything about pop culture, or communication, or sport. But that would be the reality that they would need to accept.

We are the millennial generation, and we are well aware of how hard it all is. We know today that a Bachelor's means nothing. A Master's is decent, but far from a shoe-in . And well, don't even expect a sure thing with a Ph.D. It's so much more competitive than anyone not currently suffering through it can imagine.

My friend's tutors for calculus and for physics both have Ph.Ds, but they are working as tutors because they don't have any work. These are degrees in the sciences. Can you imagine what the case is with a degree in the humanities? There is an over-saturation of goodness. Let's go back to cereal boxes:

How do you choose a box when all of them have nice packaging, similar nutritional value, and good taste? How do you narrow it down? What are you forced to look at? Moreover, what happens to the lack-luster boxes like me? Do we end up collecting dust on the shelves, until the manager decides to put us on super-sale just so that we disappear from his aisle shelves? I think so, and to some extent, I've come to terms with that. I know my short-comings. I know that I don't stack up. The issue that protrudes even further, though, is my parents. My parents and their great expectations.

They came from a socialist country. University was free, and everyone lived in similar conditions regardless of their work. You didn't need to go to post-secondary, but you really could. Acceptance was dependent on one entrance exam, for the most part. There was very little pressure. Strangely, I am not the only one in this predicament. I'm not the only one with parents like this. Sure, not everyone's parents came from Socialist Yugoslavia, but nearly everyone's parents grew up in a very different time.

I watched the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off a few days ago. Ferris Bueller talks about getting into university. He doesn't even ponder the possibility that he won't manage to; instead, he frets over the possibility that he won't get into the same university as his buddy.

Ferris Bueller.

Ferris Bueller could make it into university.

I am not as bad as Ferris Bueller, but unlike him, I live in constant fear that I won't be wanted. I wish I had such security and assuredness.

I sympathize with my parents. They were raised in those types of conditions, so naturally they expect the same for me. They believe that I will get into an incredible university, study well, have fun, pass, and go on to have a marvelous career that fills me with joy. When I tell them the situation, they reassure themselves, and me, that there is still a solid chance. They say I write well, I think well, I get on well with people, I have fantastic exam marks, which make up for the fact that I have average school marks, I'm charming, and anyone that takes the time to know me will recognize that. But who will take the time to know me? Which admissions officer? Please let me know, because I will be quite keen to apply.

In a fit of sadness and low-self-esteem, I sent a message to the University of Chicago. They had sent me an email advertising themselves to me and encouraging me to apply. At first I was gleaming! Then, I got suspicious. So, I went online and I looked up the situation and found that, much to my dismay, U of C had sent about a million other children the same email. I read further and learnt that certain universities do this to seem more prestigious. Basically, they encourage a ton of people to apply, and then their acceptance rate appears lower. It's an artificial form of making yourself seem more wanted. I was flabbergasted and very sad when I found this out, so I turned to my release method - writing.

I gathered up the nerve to write them a letter, with the subject line "Am I Really Special?". I figured that I had nothing to lose. They weren't going to accept me for sure, so making myself stand out in some way may give me a very faint ember of hope. In the satirical email, I explained my failures, and questioned their motives for inviting me to apply. I, of course, knew that the motive was a perverse, self-interest one, but was nonetheless eager to hear their response. Very quickly, I received a reply that said something along the lines of "our admissions process is very holistic; we look beyond the numbers. You should reply regardless because, if you apply, there is a chance, but if you don't, then there isn't even a chance."

I mean, it was wise advise. If you aren't afraid of rejection, applying everywhere isn't a bad idea. It really doesn't cost you anything, except the small application fee, which can even be waived in some cases.

My situation is strange to me, but not to my peers. Basically, I don't know if it is I who is mortified of rejection, or if it is I who is mortified of my parents reaction to my rejection. I don't want to crush their hopes. I don't want my little sister to be scarred with the notion that she may not have a chance of university regardless of how hard she works. My sister is a hard-worker, really! She tries very hard, and pours her heart into academics. She organizes her time spectacularly and is oh-so on top of things. I adore her and am so glad that she is the way she is, but I am scared that my short-comings will have an adverse effect on her.

I don't know what to do with myself. I'm almost 18-years-old, and I am at the maturity and life-preparedness level of a two-year-old. I look at the people around me, and they all seem to have it all figured out. No one seems to be facing the dilemma, as much as me. But then again, if it weren't for this blog, I bet that the majority of kids at my school would feel the same way about me; they'd probably think I had my whole writing career planned out - from bestseller, to anthology. I project myself well, but when it comes down to it, I'm struggling... a lot, but so is everyone.

It seems to me that, no matter what age you are, no matter what position you hold at the office, you are always unhappy; you always see flaws. No one seems to be at peace with themselves. No one seems to be able to accept who they are. Why are we all so unhappy with the people we are? Why do you feel like you could always be something more? Why does society put so much pressure on us to be something and someone?

I feel like we all end up badly. Those of us that completely reject the "be someone" philosophy end up bizarre by social norms and discarded by society. Those of us that embrace the "be someone" philosophy, and the greasy ladder and the ambition, end up in a mid-life crisis. What are we to do?

I look at my neighbor. An Eritrean immigrant, who is on welfare and spends his life walking around the neighborhood looking for someone to chat with. I look at my other neighbor. A Canadian, alcoholic man, who believes firmly that he is a photographer, musician, sailor and singer. As weird as their days seem to be, they are at least expected and planned for. There is a certainty about them. The Eritrean man knows that he will go for a walk, stop someone and chat about nostalgic times. The drunk knows that he will wake up, chug down a liter of Irish Cream, walk down the street with his camera in hand and eventually stop at the Sea Wall, where he will shoot some pictures of the ocean.

Then there are the kids at school. You have the Chinese girl, who suffers mental collapses because of the 98% she gets in a class, and whose planned path is to get into Harvard and become either an accountant, a lawyer, a doctor, or an engineer. You have the white stoner who knows that he will come to school, skip math, skateboard a little, get high and then go to a trades school to become a plumber.

Everyone fits into their own little area. Then there's me. I don't know what to study in university. I don't fret over 98% - I celebrate. I don't get high, nor do I want to go to trades school. Quite simply, there are too many things that I don't know. Sadly, I'm too afraid of the remedy, as well. The remedy being that I just need to try it out, and see what works. I'm too much of a wuss. I like certainty too much. I don't want to deviate from sureness. High school's monotony and routine is sureness, but it's so boring.

Remember how I promised to come back to the boy who tells it like it is? Well, it's time for that now. Here is the story of the artistic stoner/skater at my school.

He stands out at my primarily Asian school, not just for his race, but for his demeanor too. He takes photographs, skips class, doesn't try hard at school, isn't worried about university, and he is very blatantly honest. He likes me, and he doesn't do some between the lines flirting - he makes it very obvious. He tells me he wants to sit next to me, he tells me he wants to hang out, he tells me things sometimes even too crudely.

One time, I mentioned that he was socially awkward. He was very upset by this. Note that I am crying of laughter while I write this paragraph. So, he stopped talking to me for about a week. After a week, he broke the silence. He came up to me while I was standing with a crowd of friends and asked me for some of the chocolate I was handing out. I smirked a little because I felt strange about the situation. Then, after eating the chocolate, he remained in his spot standing. His best friend stood behind him and tugged at him to leave, but he wouldn't budge. And very soon, he spoke:

"I'm not socially awkward, you know."

"Touché." Is all I could think. But, instead of saying that, I said:

"I know, I'm sorry if that upset y--" and I was cut-off.
"Yeah, it really did. It made me really sad." He said with the saddest and most serious of faces.

This whole time I was fighting bursting out into laughter.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, it's just that someone told me that." I justified.

And his poor friend is still gently smiling at me, almost apologetically, and tugging at his backpack.

"Well, I don't know who told you that, but they're wrong." He replied; his face equally serious.

And now his friend spoke and said "Come on, dude. Let's just go. You said what you wanted."

He didn't even turn to look at his friend, instead he dismissed this remark and said "I'm not done!" Then, he turned his attention back to me, and spoke as if he was completely oblivious to the crowd of our peers watching him.

"Okay? I'm really not. I'm not socially awkward, and whoever told you that doesn't know me."

I'm rarely at a loss for words, and I'm rarely as taken aback as I was in this scenario.

"Okay. Sorry." was the only thing my puny mind could fathom saying.

And, for the first time, his friend's tugging came to some avail, since this guy turned his back and walked away.

Now, what was the point of this anecdote? I don't know. What's the point of most of my anecdotes? I think that folks retain information better when they a bunch of relatable examples to call upon. I know I do.

What I'm trying to show is that as peculiar as that boy's actions were, they were straightforward , unmistakably honest, and very stand out. All this aside, these actions were very distinct to him. He knew, and knows, who he is and what he wants with himself. He has his plan, planned. He may not go on to be a lawyer, engineer, accountant, or doctor, but at least he knows that and is at peace with it.

But here I am, wallowing in pity. Stressing and worrying over some things I should've stressed and worried about years ago. I'm so tired of being sad. It's exhausting. Should I accept the fact that I'm done? Am I done? All I get is mixed messages.

I'll end this monstrously long post with a song and a bit of hope. Perhaps I am falling and failing, crashing and burning, but I heard a song called First by a band called The Cold War Kids. In one portion of it they say "Flying like a cannonball/ Falling to the Earth/ Heavy as a feather/ When you hit the dirt/...". That's all I can hope for. Maybe I'm falling, but perhaps the fall won't be so bad.

But then again, maybe I won't go through a mid-life crisis, or be discarded by the world. Maybe, and this is a really small maybe, I'll be OK, and so will everyone around me.