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The Illusory World We Live In
The Illusory World We Live In
My name is Angel Deseo. Even though my first name would imply a secure sense of happiness, I’m not exactly the most stable of a person. Due to my lack of effort during the school year, my parents forced me to attend summer school at the Peruvian School for Special Students. As you may have guessed, the title of this school is a misnomer -- just like my name. We live in Montana, not Peru; I’m a hot mess of confusion, not just an angel.
Did I want to spend my entire summer in island-like isolation? No, but I was admonished into staring for three hours a day at the Periodic Table of the Elements. Not only was this task itself a dreadful death of doubt, but it was also a proclamation: I was a failure. You see, the world appears a lot more fragile when you’re constantly fearing what people are thinking of you. Although my heartbeat spontaneously decides to skyrocket whenever I’m forced to converse with anyone, I chose to fight through the pain on the first day, and I began to talk with the student who sits next to me in class. I tried to make the best of things. The student looked to be about my age, sixteen; his hair was spiked up, clearly deliberate; his rather tall height put him high above me, making me feel both figuratively and literally small.
My attempt to talk felt like an attack on my attention span — a lot of times, I wish I could skip the awkward introductions in human relationships. I wish I could jump to the part where it’s not off the table to spontaneously go to places with the person. Where’s the fast forward option? Needless to say, it was a challenge:
“So, this class is really confusing, right?”, I accidentally yelled at him, shocking everyone in the room.
“Oh, you’re asking me?” He chuckled. “I think it’s rather interesting. My name’s Diego Rápido, and my last name means ‘fast’ in Spanish.”
I figured it was rather forward of him to introduce himself in his very third sentence talking to me — I have a habit of keeping count of random things, in case you haven’t noticed — so I reciprocated. “My name is Angel. Angel Deseo.”
His dimples rose shockingly in response: “No way! Your last name means ‘I wish’ in Spanish! Is that on purpose? Do you know Spanish? Are you from Spain? No way, we can be Spanish buddies!” He caught himself from imploding from his excitement. I didn’t know cool guys could get this hyped about something so seemingly insignificant.
I laughed as if I had disappointed him. “No, I don’t know Spanish, unfortunately. I’m assuming you do?”
He was entirely focused on me, which nobody ever is: he clearly had a story to tell. “My family lived in Spain with me until I was five. Then, we all jumped ship, so to speak, and moved here. My parents said they were pursuing the American Dream, or whatever.” He shrugged while he frowned. “Unfortunately, we can barely afford to make ends meet. They couldn’t afford a tutor for me, so I got straight Cs, Ds, and Fs last year. When the Peruvian School representatives came knocking on our door, it was the only option for me. Let’s face it: if I don’t get the School Success Scholarship, I have no clue what’s going to happen to me.” He gasped for air after completing his monologue.
As weird as it sounds, I had never considered that anybody in this dump of a school might actually want to learn and be here. I nodded as I realized just how oblivious I truly had been. I couldn’t even form anything empathetic to say, so I simply asked: “what’s the School Success Scholarship?”
His brown hair flung back as he shook his head. “You don’t know what the scholarship is? Have you ever been paying attention to the teachers here, Angel? They’ve constantly been telling all of us about it.” I didn’t expect him to become so accusatory that quickly. Nevertheless, he continued: “every summer, they give a $10,000 scholarship to one of the students ‘who demonstrate true academic excellence’ here. As you can probably tell, my family and I need that money.” He air-quoted the description to prove that he wasn’t full of unnecessary jargon himself. Rather, it was simply the school’s pretentious manner.
Three long months later on the last day of the summer school was our ‘graduation’. At first, it was a bit comical to watch all the staff members try to make us feel sentimental, but I then realized that there were students like Diego in the audience: the Peruvian School for Special Students mattered to some people. He was sitting next to me in the back of the antiquated auditorium, and he was -- quite literally -- on the edge of his seat, excited and enthralled by the extravaganza. We both knew what we were waiting for: the announcement of the School Success Scholarship winner.
After all the formalities, it was finally time for the principal, Mrs. Miller, to state who was about to obtain the five-figure fortune. She slowly stepped up to the podium in her glimmering red high heels, and read: “The School Success Scholarship is an award given to one of our students who demonstrate true academic excellence.” Diego really knows his stuff: that’s exactly how he had explained it to me in class that one day. “Over the past three months, our staff has carefully been analyzing the potential of every one of our two hundred and seventy-four students here at the Peruvian School for Special Students.” Diego and I exchanged anticipated glances. He really did need this award. “We are pleased to announce that the 54th Annual School Success Scholarship is awarded to Angel Deseo.”
Rather than cheer in excitement, I froze. I didn’t smile, I didn’t stand, I didn’t respond. I was shut down.
Then, I ran out of the auditorium. Diego followed me into the hallway.
“I don’t understand,” I exclaimed to him against the crippling lockers. “You worked so much more, you cared so much more, you needed it so much more. You are supposed to have this award -- not an apathetic little girl like me who didn’t even want to study here in the first place!” As wimpy as it may seem, tears slowly started to run down my face. In what way could it possibly make sense for me to be chosen over Diego? “I should give you the money -- it’s yours,” I preemptively decided. Did I care too much?
“Angel, you can’t do that.” He reluctantly chuckled just like he did during our first conversation. “I don’t need the money. It’s yours.” This made me turn my head in confusion. Hadn’t he told me that his family was deeply impoverished? He continued: “Money isn’t going to make me happy. It’s your scholarship, not mine. Don’t be silly.” I was speechless.
It’s moments like these where I had to give up trying to fix other people’s problems more than my own. Life is commonly misunderstood by the general public. Because success is perpetually seen as a zero-sum game -- where success seems to be the only true way to happiness -- a lot of citizens feel stuck in their sadness. In other words, true satisfaction has a lot less to do with the materialistic items you have than it typically seems...
That is, unless you need them to survive, just like Diego does.
He turned around to walk back into the ceremony, and before I could even reply to his remarks, I followed him back into the auditorium.
The world is an interesting place: in some moments, you can have a unique sense of optimism about life, where you’re excited to burn down every barrier on your way to material success. But, at other times, you could be wondering if others deserved reaping the rewards more than you. It’s all about perspective.
As I stepped up to the stage to hold one of the life-sized faked checks with a giant “$10,000” written on it, everyone was curiously watching my slow pace. I bit my lower lip as I forced a smile for the audience.
Mrs. Miller confusedly interjected, “Are there any remarks you would like to make, Angel?”
I whimpered towards my decision: “I would like to donate my prize to Diego Rápido.”
In an instant, everyone started whispering. I gazed at the hundreds of people in the room, but everyone was bewildered. After all, why would I be so generous as to provide equity?
This is the illusory world we live in.
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