The Mask

The Champion. This was who I was from ages 12 to 23, when I finally had a nervous breakdown that forced me to evaluate my self image.

The Champion. The Chosen One. The Girl Who Lived. The Hero.

I was bullied in grade school. I had difficulties that turned out to stem from learning disabilities. Finally in sixth-grade I was outplaced from district into a much more attentive and nurturing school.

In six months I corrected a learning gap of eighteen months. It became clear not only did I have my learning disabilities (Dyspraxia and Dysgraphia), but I was crazy talented. I became this amazing success story and received so much praise.

Reminder this came to me after four years of mostly C's and a handful of D's and B's. My previous attention was negative which caused me to run and hide.

Instead I was number one. I became an amazing student not because I loved to learn but because people paid attention to my successes. Because I was a champion of my oppressed classmates with learning disabilities.

I do love to learn. But today's classroom in modern America is not about learning. It is about memorizing facts for tests you'll forget two days later. Its about acing standardized tests and covering all the content in not enough time. Its not immersive. Its not interesting. And it doesn't focus on helping students find their talents.

I wasn't athletic. I wasn't graceful. But I had a competitive streak. So Spryte, the curious geek girl who loved video games, pretend, and learning, fell to the side. Instead I began to wear the mask of the Risen Phoenix, who strived to achieve the best scores.

The blazing bird who had to keep flying no matter what fell to tje wayside. When my father's undiagnosed ptsd was at its worst and he began to demand more and more attention at home, I took to doing my homework after bed or on the bus. Homework was easier then, quick review to see if we got the lessons down. These were terrible study habits I developed under pressure.

But they worked. My grades stayed supreme. My horrible habits were encouraged. I made honor roll. Went on all the special trips. Got cash rewards. Joined the National Honor Society.

College was not as easy. As the American Education system loves to rinse and repeat I was able to bullishit my way through a lot of it, reciting facts engraved since kindergarten. College classes were the epitome of what is wrong with US education: Memorize for the midterm and finals, and forget.

Except no matter what your teacher says you won't guess exactly what details of the reading will be on the test unless you have photographic memory you have to memorize hundreds of pages of facts IF you were able to keep up with the notes {you weren't}.

Thats for one class.
No one had one class.
They had five classes demanding this, if they were lucky some of the content might crossocee.

Or worse they had 4 classes and a job.

My Brit Lit Surveys were a Nashcar Crash Course. I vaguely remember Beowulf, Chaucer, Shakespeare,  Gwaine and the Green Knight, and Faustus. Across both semesters. Oh and the Rhyme of the ancient Mariner she tried to get us all to promise to put in our high school curriculum.

I promise you we had at least 60 assigned readings-2 a week, 15 weeks, 2 semesters.

And the ones I mentioned I only remembered because:

I did a project on Wishbone Beowulf in Grade School
I adore Paul Bettany as Chaucer in Knights Tale
I also had a Shakespeare course and Shakespeare is rad
I realized Faustus inspired Pinky and the Brain
Serenity and Firefly talk about the Mariner and the Albatross.

You want to ask me what I, and English major, actually learned from all of my literature courses in college?

I need to find the grave of Herman Melville and defile it. His became a name I hated.

Otherwise a lot of it was information I already had in my mind palace from when I learned to learn.

My second to last semester I got tendinitis in my primary hand. Long story short I failed two classes, dropped out of a third, and got a pity B- and C in the other two.

Reminder I was 23 then.
I had not seen a grade below a B since I was 11 years old.
Since I was surrounded by enemies demanding to know why I couldn't make it from Chem Lab thay ran late to French on Time when I had to run back across the building to get my textbooks for the next two periods.

Since the title Cootie Queen had followed me from grade school and wheen my peers had to collect my papers they always made a habit not to touch them.

When I was called stupid for getting the right answer but not writing down my work because it would take me too long.

Because I was in an environment where a friend born the same weekend as I had blown me off to be popular.

The blazing Phoenix I had become was suddenly doused. The embers lasted through the summer.

In the fall when my life long undiagnosed anxiety disorder made a new friend of a depression episode my mask finally broke. So much of who I had been for a decade of my life, practically half of it, had been tied into academic success. I wasn't her.

I had failed.
Academic Probation.

Of course I say this now looking back. I've been to two outpatient partial hospitalizations and two therapists and a shit ton of soul searching to put it together.

Back then? I got a terrible cold one week. And the funk that came with it never went away. I stopped. I just stopped everything. Tumblr, gaming. Because I convinced myself if I had time for that I should be working. So I stared at computer screens and screamed and cried and felt guilt.

I stopped cooking. I barely ate. It was too much effort.

Getting dressed in the morning became a challenge. Twice I made it to the school lot and just... Stopped moving on the way to class. My homework wasn't done. I was late. Why bother?

A month later when my academics were once again out of control I learned my grandfather was dying.

What little fragments of hold I had broke. The mask shattered and for the first time in over a decade the real me was exposed to light, air, and life. I fell apart.

The thing is I was at rock bottom broken to pieces. I couldn't go further. My mother helped me up and took me to the ER where they got me on the right path.

I've begun to sort through the broken pieces and find myself.

The problem is all the life goals I set in college were based on a mask. An alter ego. A false identity. A messiah complex.

I (She) was going to be a teacher. I (She) wanted to give back and help students as she had been. I (she) never stopped to wonder if she actually wanted to teach.

For some reason it wasn't until my penultimate semester the actual reality of being a teacher was presented.

Until then she (I) had flown by. A lot of the classes blurred together. Classroom methods were outdated. Every student should have an individual learning plan. Standardized tests and the grading system are the devil. Harm none.

It should have been the other way.
We should have been tested on the technical aspects first.
Instead I discovered all the passion in the world could only go so far.

Maybe if I could have retaking the one course on plan building. But I couldn't. It was only offered in the spring and the time I took it the usual teacher was on sabbatical or something.

The usual teacher had been my academic advisor. Every time I left her office I had no idea what I was doing with my life and I was in tears.

The point is.

There was a girl.
She was a bright champion of her people. A Moses.
Moses was going to graduate and teach. After five years she was going to go to law school. Then she would become an education lobbyist. She would advocate for students of all wakes, but especially her people. She would expose all the flaws.

The  she would become president.

Seems like an an amazing plan. A good solid plan.

But I'm not Moses.
I can't be Moses. Trying to be Moses nearly destroyed me.

I'm just me.
I am still passionate.
I still want to help troubled kids and students.
But I don't want to teach.
I'm not built to teach.

Mom... I tried to tell her. She didn't like it. She looked betrayed. It became about well what else would I do.

I haven't brought it up since. I continued to apply at schools-in support positions.

Dad...
Dad doesn't even acknowledge my anxiety and depression are just at long lasting as his diabetes. Telling him all the time effort and finances that sent me to college may be for naught?

Not gonna help.

They bring up teaching as an issue because Texas doesn't accept Massachusetts licensure. And I haven't been able to tell them why it doesn't bother me.

I don't blame them. All the practical is on their side. And they're so used to her, to Moses...

They don't realize anymore then I did she was a lie.