Revision Project
In this section, I have revised a piece and turned it into a completely different genre. Here you will read my revised piece first, an op-ed talking about the disproportionate weight high school puts on resume-building. I have transformed this piece from a creative short story I wrote. Beneath is the original piece.
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The picture to the left is from my high school graduation. I chose this one because it represents all that I have "revised". I have changed so much from then, and am so different, but my core values have stayed the same. (Caroline in the middle, and Sofia on the end)
The High School Hustle: How Anxiety, Burnout, and a Caffeine Addiction Became Graduation Requirements
If anxiety were an Olympic sport, I’d have a shelf full of gold medals and a Wheaties box with my face on it. There is very little in this world that doesn’t give me horrendous anxiety. I often curse my father for giving me this unsavory trait in half of his DNA. I must say, though, that I am thankful for the world we live in and how excepting it has become in understanding.
Most high school students are riddled with horrendous anxiety when it comes to classes. My parents always told me, “hard work pays off!” And I do believe this to be true, unless you’re in high school. Then hard work pays off in stress, burnout, and an oddly specific caffeine addiction. I can remember the first time I drank coffee, it was midnight on a random Wednesday during my final year of high school. I was having some meltdown over a ceramics project and my father was just trying to go to bed. He looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Buddy, it’s going to be ok, I’m going to make you some coffee, and it’s (the ceramics project) is going to get done.” While in the moment my tear-stricken face was overjoyed to see a light at the end of the tunnel, it created a monster in its wake. Now, in my early 20s I get headaches without it and anxiety when I drink it. The moral of this story is do not drink coffee.
When I think about my own time in high school, I get full-body anxiety. It doesn't take much to send me back to the stress of going to class, attending sporting events, play practice, and getting my homework done on top of it all. I credit this to my unwillingness to say no. If you ask me to do something twice with conviction, I will say yes.
High school has been turned into a resume-building exercise rather than a time for growth. I skipped homecoming to volunteer at a soup kitchen I found on Google Maps because I heard Yale likes ‘service-minded leaders.’ I had a great time—with the soup, not Yale. They ghosted me. That being said I knew I would never make it to an ivy, I simply didn’t want it enough, and let me tell you that is saying a lot.
While I am very happy with where I’ve ended up in life, there are things I know I missed out on, stressing out about getting to this point. The system teaches students to build their lives for a future they might not even want. It measures success in AP classes and leadership titles, not in rest, happiness, or discovery. And even when you work yourself to the bone, it doesn’t guarantee results. Some of the hardest lessons I’ve learned came not from a textbook but from watching classmates coast while I ran myself ragged — and realizing we all ended up in the same place anyway. Life, it turns out, isn’t a meritocracy. It’s a chaotic group project where half the team doesn't show up, one person does all the work, and somehow everyone gets an A.
All of this being said I don’t regret working hard—but I do regret not learning sooner that joy, rest, and even a little rebellion are part of the curriculum too
Un-Revised:
Short Story
Threemoremonths Threemoremonths Dorthy braced her hands on the wheel. The shadow of school loomed over her frame as she stared at her key in the ignition. She’d sat so long that cars began to pull in next to her one by one. Doors slammed and eager voices trailed by. She had two choices, take the keys out and walk in or drive away. Neither of these options was inherently bad, one just required another session with the school counselor; she took the keys out of the ignition, staring at her steering wheel, her own crystal ball.
There wasn’t much in this life Dorthy could complain about. She had a nice house, meals on the table, and a dog that loved her. A brother in college that texted her frequently, about to leave herself.
ThreemoremonthsThreemoremonthsThreemoremonths The phrase had repeated in her head so much that it became a conjoined word almost an absent thought in her mind. Much like the beep of a car alarm, a sound you are forced to acknowledge but will ultimately let someone else deal with, the only problem was she had to deal with it. ThreemoremonthsThreemoremonthsThreemoremonths
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Nothing in Dorthy’s life was particularly hard. She had money. A lot of it. People were the problem. People's congratulations, their fake smiles, even the way they would be so obviously jealous. It made Dorthy sick. No one acted like this towards Jason. He did even better on the SATs and got into an even more prestigious college. No one looked at him like he was a pinata just out of reach. Better yet it made him more. Not more desirable or smart just more. It was clear, Dorthy was tolerated but Jason was loved. Loved enough that someone would notice if his car alarm was going off, they would go into the closest shop and see if the owner was there, trying just hard enough to be perceived as a good person. The car alarm would of course keep going off. Jason was not in the store, he was three blocks over in the Motel 6 fucking his girlfriend's mom, but the person would walk away. Their good deed checked off. I am a good person, they would think, I am a great person. Bullshit.
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The disdain on Dorthy’s face was less noticeable, to any onlooker Dorthy was just another student waiting till the last minute to walk in, chasing the bell. Most who walked by didn’t even notice her, too absorbed in their own heads. Maybe this is why so many people get kidnapped. How easy it would be to open the door, a weapon in hand, and drag an unsuspecting teen into the car. Maybe with a car scrapper, not the brush side though, the ice chipping side. Dorthy quickly shoved the thought away. ThreemoremonthsThreemoremonths.
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Now Dorthy was on high alert, swiveling her head to see who was around, her deep-seated fear of mind-readers becoming ever so apparent. She looked like a maniac head dodging between headrests trying to get a good view from all angles. A freshman girl walking by holding her books tight to her chest, trying and failing not to make eye contact with Dorthy. The look of “This is why mom told me not to do drugs” apparent on her face. Dorthy quickly stilled herself shutting her eyes in relief remembering she drove her dad's car, no one knew it was her. Thoughts of repeatably bashing the girl on the head floated to the surface. How pretty the color purple would be, the blood underneath allowing for the full color to form. As the girl walked away there was a slight sag in Dorthy’s shoulders, a twinge of sadness flitting through her. Another opportunity and she just let it walk away.
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A clipped sound rang from the prison inspired building, no longer shadowing her frame. She had three minutes. Thankfully no one was waiting inside for Dorthy, no one would ever wait for her. She didn’t mind though, she’d rather be alone. Teachers' pity looks when no one picked her for a group project or the counselor's muted expression when Dorthy exclaimed for the tenth time that she truly did only care about herself. So no, Dorthy did not care, she didn't think she even had the capacity to.
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The bell rang in the distance, Dorthy sat. Maybe she’d smash her hand in the door, get out of the day. That could be easily written off as an accident. Mr. Jones wouldn’t even notice, let alone care. She could hear the nurse now, Oh Hon how on earth did this happen? It was stupid really, too easy. The thought left her head as quickly as it came.
She glanced at the handle, its smooth metal unmarred by years of manhandling. Her hand reached out, holding it
ThreemoremonthsThreemoremonthsThreemoremonths. The door swung open letting fresh air in. Dorthy put her Left hand on the jamb, helping herself out. With two feet on the pavement, Dorthy looked around the empty lot. Jason would never do something like this, he wouldn’t be allowed to.
ThreemoremonthsThreemoremonthsThreemoremonths ThreeThreeThree. With no hesitation she took the car door, slick on her skin, and smashed her hand. The silence after was the loudest part.