Never good enough

Writing the paper worried me less than the reaction my dad would have towards it, whatever the mark might be. English has been my favourite subject for as long as I can remember, while the struggle it was in the beginning almost made me flunk. A predilection for Shakespeare, Poe and Austen have taught me more about life and its ups and downs than any parent could teach their kids. The beauty of creating another world has always had my utmost attention, writing in a style that flows out of the fingertips. After a few years of practice, by the time I was ten, it all came like the pressing of a machine. There was nothing I spend more time on, aside from talking, nothing I loved more.

         In high school, there was not much that challenged me. Half-way through my English was fluent, the Dutch accent faded away. Most of my grades were above average and I started to get bored. I put my hands in my pockets and at some point, didn’t even try. The only thing I did with dedication was writing the pieces for English. Yet, I surpassed the rules and let my hands do the work. Teachers loved my writing, but that never got me far. I missed points, by ignoring the rules, but wouldn’t pass either, if all I did was follow the rules and tasks at hand. I concluded; my writing is not made for a school or a competition, it is for my own recognition.

         One paper, on a book I loved, had my inspiration flowing and it was the first time in ages that I had actually wanted to do a school assignment. I gave it all I had and ended up with a seven. I agreed, I did not follow the rules, it was unrealistic, out of the box, but it was mine and worth more than the average seven. I has nothing to say though, I didn’t answer the command.

I brought home the news of a seven. My parents always compared my grades to that of my classmates and evermore agreed I could have done better. I never argued because I knew; I could have done better, I just didn’t care. This time, I did what felt right, what was inside and smiled while doing it. Yet, it would turn out to not be good enough.

“Why no 8? I know you can do that.”

“Because I got a 7.”

“That is bullshit and you know it.”

“I did my best. This is it.”

“No, you didn’t. You never do.”

It was then and there that I completely gave up on school. If that what I did gave me and average grade, but sparked a light in me that was mostly far out of reach, why couldn’t it just be enough?

If a seven was not good enough, a six wouldn’t make a difference too, right? The sporadic eight that showed up on my report card didn’t make me, nor my parents happy either. There was always the nerdy classmate that decided to do better, resulting in my eight being ‘average’. And average would never ever be good enough. Why be average in life when you can be better, when you can be best?

After years of trying and, apparently, failing to do good, I was determent to be the most average self I could be. Doing least, working there where things were easy, so I didn’t even have to try. Places where I could rise to the top without challenges to overcome. I developed a fear of failing without even knowing it found a place deep in my being.

It was only years later that I realised that average was not established by the grades you get, or how good you waltz your way through life, who you are friends with or inventing the quickest way up the career ladder. Average is flat, someone without inspiration or ambition, without a clear goal in life. Following others, not knowing where you want to go. Answering to the will and commands of other people, unable to create a path for yourself.

I never wanted to be average, my knowledge of the meaning of this word was just a wrong design. I wanted to be unique, I just did not know it. I wanted to be me, and now I am. And guess what, it is good enough.

Love, Stephanie Garland