Extraordinarily talented people surround me. There is a boy in my microeconomics class who, according to a professor of mine, writes fiction in Spanish. There is girl who lives on my floor that is a world class Irish step dancer. There is a couple I know who were both valedictorians at their respective high schools. There is a girl who is a nationally ranked dairy cow judge. There are prodigies and virtuosos.
I am not extraordinarily talented. No, I am usual, routine even. I don’t write fiction at all, let alone in Spanish. I only dance when I’m inebriated. I was not in the top ten percent of my high school class. I do not understand what being a nationally ranked dairy cow judge mean, but I understand that it is both important and unique. I am not a prodigy, a virtuoso. I don’t even know what virtuoso means.
The feelings of usualness, of a lack of uniqueness, were there before I arrived in Northfield. I was worried I would be the dumbest person in all of my classes; I was worried they would realize that their admission of me was a mistake and rescind it halfway through fall term after I had disappointed my professors and classmates. To my surprise, there were people dumber than me in each one of my classes (yay?) and admissions did not kick me out of this institution with a not angry, but disappointed look on its collective face. It is spring term and I am still here.
But I am waiting. As I leap through the metaphorical hoops of freshman year, I am still waiting. As I pass my classes with admirable grades, build relationships with my professors and classmates, and join extracurriculars, those nagging feelings do not pass. I am inadequate. I do not belong here. I am not qualified or deserving of my place in this overly talented community. I do not write fiction in Spanish.
In my mind, I picture that it will go down like this: the dean of students will knock on the door of my Central American lit course, flanked by three meaty campus security guards. She will say she’s sorry to interrupt but can she please speak with a Ms. Leah Roche. I will rise, trembling, but unsurprised because I knew they were on my tail (you see, I had not done the reading for that day’s class). They will take me outside, the meatiest security man walking to my left, holding my right arm with his left arm, just in case I try to stage an escape. Once we’ve exited the classroom, I will realize it’s all over. They have caught me; I am a fraud and I can stop pretending. I’m surprised it took them so long to find me. I was right under their noses this whole time, masquerading as a talented, brilliant young woman. Ms. Dean, who I again notice emits a magnificent odor, will tell me that I need to pack my bags. We regret to inform you, she says, but according to our sources you are not the person you portrayed yourself to be in your application. You misled us—you are not extraordinary but are rather quite usual. You do not write fiction in Spanish. According to bylaw eight hundred and seventy-two, that’s grounds for expulsion. There is a car waiting for me outside of Sayles. I do not have to worry about saying my goodbyes because not only is the student newspaper running an article about me, but also the local newspaper has devoted their whole issue to the fraudulent case of Ms. Leah Roche. I will nod my head, sad but equally relieved. They will obviously escort me to my room, this time the lankiest of the three holds my arm, perhaps because I am less of a threat at this point in the arrest. As we arrive at 128, Ms. Dean will say I have an hour to organize my things. The car will be waiting.
This does not happen of course because there is no bylaw eight hundred and seventy two and Ms. Dean is a nice woman. Yet, with four weeks left in my freshman year of college I am still waiting to be found out, waiting to be discovered as inadequate, usual, uninteresting, dumb. I doubt this feeling will ever completely leave me—I thought it would be gone by now, gone with the first passing grade or at least the second. I imagined the confidence would come with achievement and success. Now I see that that is not how it works; one does not simply acquire confidence—extraordinariness—from successfully jumping through the hoops of academia or from the approval of others. It must first, before all others things, be a mindset and one must want to feel it and be it. Maybe, I should write Spanish fiction.
I am not extraordinarily talented. No, I am usual, routine even. I don’t write fiction at all, let alone in Spanish. I only dance when I’m inebriated. I was not in the top ten percent of my high school class. I do not understand what being a nationally ranked dairy cow judge mean, but I understand that it is both important and unique. I am not a prodigy, a virtuoso. I don’t even know what virtuoso means.
The feelings of usualness, of a lack of uniqueness, were there before I arrived in Northfield. I was worried I would be the dumbest person in all of my classes; I was worried they would realize that their admission of me was a mistake and rescind it halfway through fall term after I had disappointed my professors and classmates. To my surprise, there were people dumber than me in each one of my classes (yay?) and admissions did not kick me out of this institution with a not angry, but disappointed look on its collective face. It is spring term and I am still here.
But I am waiting. As I leap through the metaphorical hoops of freshman year, I am still waiting. As I pass my classes with admirable grades, build relationships with my professors and classmates, and join extracurriculars, those nagging feelings do not pass. I am inadequate. I do not belong here. I am not qualified or deserving of my place in this overly talented community. I do not write fiction in Spanish.
In my mind, I picture that it will go down like this: the dean of students will knock on the door of my Central American lit course, flanked by three meaty campus security guards. She will say she’s sorry to interrupt but can she please speak with a Ms. Leah Roche. I will rise, trembling, but unsurprised because I knew they were on my tail (you see, I had not done the reading for that day’s class). They will take me outside, the meatiest security man walking to my left, holding my right arm with his left arm, just in case I try to stage an escape. Once we’ve exited the classroom, I will realize it’s all over. They have caught me; I am a fraud and I can stop pretending. I’m surprised it took them so long to find me. I was right under their noses this whole time, masquerading as a talented, brilliant young woman. Ms. Dean, who I again notice emits a magnificent odor, will tell me that I need to pack my bags. We regret to inform you, she says, but according to our sources you are not the person you portrayed yourself to be in your application. You misled us—you are not extraordinary but are rather quite usual. You do not write fiction in Spanish. According to bylaw eight hundred and seventy-two, that’s grounds for expulsion. There is a car waiting for me outside of Sayles. I do not have to worry about saying my goodbyes because not only is the student newspaper running an article about me, but also the local newspaper has devoted their whole issue to the fraudulent case of Ms. Leah Roche. I will nod my head, sad but equally relieved. They will obviously escort me to my room, this time the lankiest of the three holds my arm, perhaps because I am less of a threat at this point in the arrest. As we arrive at 128, Ms. Dean will say I have an hour to organize my things. The car will be waiting.
This does not happen of course because there is no bylaw eight hundred and seventy two and Ms. Dean is a nice woman. Yet, with four weeks left in my freshman year of college I am still waiting to be found out, waiting to be discovered as inadequate, usual, uninteresting, dumb. I doubt this feeling will ever completely leave me—I thought it would be gone by now, gone with the first passing grade or at least the second. I imagined the confidence would come with achievement and success. Now I see that that is not how it works; one does not simply acquire confidence—extraordinariness—from successfully jumping through the hoops of academia or from the approval of others. It must first, before all others things, be a mindset and one must want to feel it and be it. Maybe, I should write Spanish fiction.
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