The stories we tell ourselves

In elementary school, I was always, always, always confused about what was going on. I didn't understand how fundraisers worked, or why some students received a bunch rubber duck keychains from the teacher. I didn't know what Battle of the Books was, only that the teacher would put a few stars beside my name when I returned a book. I never read the book. I didn't know I had to read the book.

Part of it was that I was bad at English, part of it was that I had bad hearing, and part of it was that I just didn't pay attention to the teacher.

I wasn't very good at school, either. I didn't know how to sing my ABCs, and I didn't know why everyone else seemed to know it. I didn't know what compound sentences were, and I didn't know where you were supposed to put commas or apostrophes. I had absolutely no clue how to spell, so I thought that Kai was an absolute genius when he told our teacher, "It's 'i before e except after c.'" In the math game Around the World, I struggled to translate from Cantonese (the language I did multiplication in) to English (the language teachers needed to hear).

My grades were consistent 2s ("meets standards") on a three-point scale. But I never really studied my report cards, and neither did my parents. No one ever taught me that I was bad at school. No one ever told me that I was stupid.

The smartest kids in my elementary school were Kai and Jessica. I know that because the principal announced that they had perfect scores on both the English and the math section on the state standardized test. But I could run faster than Kai—he was always it in tag—and Jessica was always in another class.

When I entered middle school, I decided that I wanted to be "good" at school. Really good. I had to stop messing around, and I had to get good grades. Because these grades matter, right? And if they don't matter, they'll eventually matter.

I had excellent grades. If the teacher gave out an A+, I had that A+. I have a few genetic advantages: I was disciplined, conscientious, and intensely pragmatic about my work. This mostly translates to studying a bit before tests and quadruple-checking my work, which is really all you need to succeed in middle school. Plus, I was also quite curious, playful,¹ and competitive, so I enjoyed learning, and I enjoyed scoring higher than other people. It was like playing a game that you're consistently good at. It feels good.

Jessica and Kai had gone to a different middle school than I had, but I saw them again in high school.

Kai was still a genius. I never had a class with him, but students whisper about how good he is in AP Biology, a notoriously stressful class. Sometimes word of his accomplishments gets passed along on the rumor mill. Once I asked him, "Do your parents push you in school" (Unsubtle of me.) He said, "I guess? It's more like they passed down that goal to me. So I started to want that for myself."

Jessica became a popular cheerleader. You might have an idea of what I'm about to describe. She sleeps in class. Or does her makeup. She asks a bunch of stupid questions.² There's constantly drama surrounding her, but not as much as people say. Some people hate her and some people secretly hate her.

I think she's great. She's just so goddamn funny. And she makes a choice to be a little silly, a little ditsy, and a little stereotypically popular. Good for her, y'know?

Both of them got into UCLA for business at the end of the day.

As for me, I did good things and bad things with my time. I also slept in class, tuned out my teachers, dated a few people, wandered around the boulevard, hosted movie nights, and laughed with my friends. My grades were still very good. I could look back at this time, and say that things went great. This is who I am. This is what I'm satisfied with.

"If we’re so behind, how do we have McDonald's? How do we have carrot-washing?"

"Does Canada exist right now?"

"Wait, if Britain is called the mother country, what is America?”