reflection on high school

I. Statement of Purpose (or Why are we doing this? What question is the experiment supposed to answer?)

Students are supposed to ask why something happens—why does this particle move this way, why does this particular empire collapse, why does this character murder the other and why is there a subsequent monologue where some arbitrary natural phenomenon is used as the basis for a five page metaphor, and so on. It’s never enough to know just what occurred, to appreciate the event itself without tying it down to a million other causes. Each fact means nothing by itself, and only gains significance when you can see a connection between it and another fact, or even better, a pattern of connections between it and a whole bunch of other facts.
Therefore, understanding something is to understand the pattern of connections between a whole lot of individual nothings. This implies that you understand nothing, and supposedly, knowing this makes you wise—knowing that no matter how hard you try to scrutinize and analyze, there’s always something you’re missing.
So by nature, learning (or at least the variety we do in school) isn’t supposed to have any clear finishing line. It’s a journey to be appreciated, or an endless forced march, depending on your perspective and your ability to sit still for consecutive hours. The upside is that you’re never done with it, and you can never really get bored—but the downside is that there’s no concrete goal to work for. What is there to work for, if not completion? Small wonder, then, that the question that most students want to ask is “Why try?” (Meaning, of course, “Why ask why?” and often uttered aloud in moments of true frustration as “This is pointless.”)
The answer: to understand our identities and the forces that shaped the past, and to head for a brighter future. Of course, most people who graduate from high school know how to form a logical argument to make a valid point to answer a question; knowing the answer and caring about it are, unfortunately, very different things.
This brings to mind a particular day during my sophomore year. It was sunny and glorious (perfect for distraction) and we were stuck indoors, envious of all the students just outside our window who were lying in the grass. We were arguing a specific point (one which I can no longer recall) about the about the beginning of World War I. All the students in the class answered the why of the situation with perfect logic. Economics, unoriginal war tactics, offensive weaponry that just couldn’t keep up with the modern world: every argument was proposed, torn down, and built back up again. There was an endless procession of whys being freely answered, and for a brief period, everyone seemed to want to join in.
I’m sure that someone was in the middle of a long and well-argued monologue when the bell rang. It was all there, a solid analysis, when the class ended and the debate was suddenly over. The little speech was never finished. The arguments vanished from everyone’s minds seconds later, and the everyday pandemonium of school took control again. For the majority of the class, the second we left the room, everything we’d thought so important for those brief moments in time turned back into text on a page to be memorized for an exam.
I hoped to have changed since then, and that eventually I’d stop seeing things as just additions to a workload. I like to think that I tried, but since I’m leaving this particular educational institution in a few days, but here’s an admission of truth: when I tried to be the perfect student and memorize each sentence on every page for every test, I don’t know if I was trying to find a topic that I really loved, or if I was just doing it for the sake of being the perfect student. The harder I look, the more convinced I become that my reasons were separate from the desire to ask why, why, why, but I still hope that I’m wrong.

II. Hypothesis

A hypothesis is an educated guess—something to simplify the question the experiment will try to answer. A hypothesis uses events you’ve already observed, and the facts and figures you already understand to try and predict the future. Hypothesis is fortune telling without the consequences: even if you’re wrong, it’s not the end of the world, and occasionally you can find out something new.
I had a hypothesis set out for me at the beginning of my junior year, and it’s one I’m continuing to test. I was seated glumly at the kitchen table, having just woken up from an unintentional 5-hour nap. It was 11, and I had yet to start studying for what must have been looming in front of me as a hugely important, and therefore frightening, exam. I was trapped, and certain that I was doomed to fail. I put my head down in the perfect image of defeat.
I heard someone walk softly into the kitchen behind me. Desperate for someone to listen to me, I let everything out: my frustration at my inability to get my work done on time, how helpless I was in the face of so many obligations and expectations to live up to, There was a long pause, during which I squeezed my eyes shut more tightly, and hoped for sympathy.
“Why?” they asked, simply.
I had no answer, and this stunned me briefly. The question hovered in my mind for a moment before triggering an unexpected explosion of thought that I had been dimly aware of, but never explored before. There was no reason for me to be worrying uselessly and refusing to try or take action. I could get up and try my hardest to learn the exam material, or I could just accept defeat, and admit that I’d pushed myself beyond what I was able to reasonably accomplish. What came out of my mouth, however, was instinctive, and seemed to have a life of its own.
“I have to,” was the response I gave, and even though it contradicted the realization I’d just had, the answer felt safe and familiar. It was undeniable, I was sure of it.
“You’re going to have a sad life if you keep thinking that way.”

I test this hypothesis simply and passively. I continue my life in a forward direction, and occasionally revisit memories in close detail when the situation demands. I keep thinking “that way”, partly because I can’t help it and something won’t let me admit defeat. I remind myself that I am more likely to regret giving up than anything else, and that if I keep working at it, I’ll find something that fascinates me and is no trouble to do. However, I understand the nature of a hypothesis. Once it is stated, it must either be proven right or proven wrong. Though I hope the particular one I was given is an incorrect prediction, there is no guarantee.

III. Procedure/Materials
What are the materials that will lead you to success?

Persistence and motivational posters. Scrawled, handwritten notes scattered around your desk that remind you “You can do it!” Reminders of dire consequences if you fail, so stay seated at your computer and keep rereading that calc textbook until Lagrange error estimations start to become clear. Time management, inborn intelligence. Organizational ability (so get a three ring binder, loose leaf, dividers, and always bring a pencil to take notes.). Good test-taking skills. Logical reasoning ability. High SAT scores, interpersonal skills, the ability to lie and charm simultaneously. Don’t fall asleep in class. Upper-class status, your parent’s money for standardized test tutoring, occasional mental and emotional support.
Interestingly, some factions of modern psychology say otherwise. It turns out that the best predictor of success is a test that you can perform with a clock, two marshmallows, and a small child—better than IQ scores, socioeconomic status, or SAT scores. It was several months ago on a dreary day, the very beginning of the first period of school. My teacher struggled with a near-dead computer, but finally succeeded. The projector whirred to life wearily, and beamed hazy images of a smiling three year old onto the screen.
I watched the experiment unfold in front of me that day, my head on my hands, vaguely amused. The test was so simple: the researcher sat a small child down at a table, put a marshmallow down in front of them, and told them he’d will return in 15 minutes. If the child hadn’t eaten the marshmallow after that time, then the child gets another and ends up with the reward of two rather than one. Two thirds of the group can’t resist the temptation, and eat the marshmallow before the researcher comes back in 15 minutes. One third can resist, and they struggle until the very end of the excruciating fifteen minutes. The ones who don’t eat the marshmallow are also the kids who are successful 10 years later. They have better relationships and grades. They go on to college with ambitions and hopes, and in the long run, it seems they always win.
The ability to delay gratification is the only rule that really dictates success; it’s a one-step procedure that you either can or cannot follow. At its harshest, the general theory is to delay your happiness for tomorrow.
I can’t help but think of the video after nth consecutive hour at my desk. I study and write and revise. Occasionally, like every other student, I want to walk away from it all. I remind myself how simple the rule of gratification is: that if I continue then I get something in return and if I decide not to, I get nothing. This works well, and most of the time I do manage to sit and finish.
I think, sometimes, of the majority versus the minority, of the two thirds of the group who give in to temptation versus the one third who can resist. Most vivid in my mind is a particular scene in which one of the boys (in the lucky one third) resorts to rolling back and forth on the floor trying to resist and forget the marshmallow that he wants so badly. I laughed the first time, but after that I thought it was cruel. I flinch when I think of it, especially when I think of the next scene, when another other boy gives in but enjoys his more meager prize with a grin. We know how it turns out ten years later and who wins then, but after twenty years? Thirty? Sixty?
Two-thirds whispers into one-thirds’ ear, it wasn’t worth it. I put my pencil down for a moment, and consider taking a walk outside, playing in the snow, reading a book, anything else. What final result would everyone believe was “worth it”? I always thought it was a college acceptance that would make my relatives proud, good grades, a good job, and above all, a perfectly guaranteed future. The older I get, the farther and dimmer it seems. It will be worth it, I say to myself, and resume working, almost reassured.

IV. Results (Or, what happened in the end? Describe, and if necessary, give data.)

Seeing and appreciating good results is instinctive, but true pessimism towards them is an ability that takes practice to develop. For example, a glass can never be half empty, because the concept is just wrong altogether: half empty= ½ x 0 = 0. Whether it’s half empty, just a third empty or even less, it makes no difference. The glass must be completely empty.
I got the decision letter back from my dream college on March 14th, at 3:16 PM, after delaying looking at my decision for over two hours. I finally made up my mind that nothing could be worse then the agony of not knowing, opened my computer account, and read the first line. I was so quiet that my mother thought I’d been rejected, and started to comfort me. I jumped around the kitchen and screamed, waving my hands as I crashed into furniture indiscriminately. My parents rushed to call my grandparents and tell them the good news.
But after a minute or so, even as I continued with my crazed dance around the house, the sudden, frenetic burst of energy I’d gained from forcing myself to look at the decision suddenly faded. The overwhelming happiness that some of my friends had reported had yet to arrive. I continued with my act until I began to feel foolish, and slowly faltered.
I was bewildered- I felt a little empty inside. Yes, I was pleased to have gotten in, and knowing myself, I would have been devastated had I been it been a rejection. I had every reason to be overjoyed. Instead, I felt relieved at most, and even that seemed to be morphing into a calm complacency. I had the strangest urge to say out loud, “Well, there it is.” The time for single-mindedly plowing towards this one goal was suddenly over, and I found myself to be no different from whom I was before.
I can reason out the cause for my reaction any way I like. I could have been exhausted from the tense weeks leading up to the decision, or just in shock that one of my long-held goals had been achieved at last. Ultimately, I have two choices. I can be optimistic, and choose to believe that in the near future, I’ll feel the ecstatic disbelief that it actually happened, and a college acceptance was truly what I wanted the entire time. But if I choose to be at my most pessimistic (and possibly most realistic), do I have to conclude the slight hollowness I felt in place of real pride makes my “achievement” a wholly empty victory?

V. Conclusions

My sophomore chemistry teacher once told my class to write lab reports in reverse order. “Start with the conclusion”, he said, because knowing the ending of the experiment is supposed to make everything before it a little clearer. How are you supposed to introduce a concept until you fully understand and test it yourself? It’s almost impossible.
What he said made sense at the time, and as such, I still follow the rule. I write the conclusion first, and everything gets clearer, so I believe it truly works. The procedure, the hypothesis, the analysis of the data suddenly appears so much simpler, and so when I write in the opposite order, from end to beginning, I always expect to finish writing faster. As often happens with shortcuts, this never works out. When I type out the final sentence of my conclusion and report, for the briefest moment, I fool myself into thinking that I’ve actually finished.
Even the briefest moment is enough to bring your hoped-for productivity to a grinding halt. If you’ve already made it through the most difficult part and gotten the bulk of the work over with, what motivation do you have to go back and examine all the little steps you had to take before you made it to the end? There’s no point in going back to look at the questions you had and wondering why you ever had them in the first place. This is a why that is easily answered—you just didn’t know then, and now you do. Any other answer is a needless oversimplification. You changed over time, you saw something, and now you know. No curiosity is left, just an obligation to finish once and for all and to nail down some loose ends.

Recently, all the seniors were getting their freshman letters returned. For whatever reason, I never wrote one to myself in freshman year, and as everyone struggled to tear open the envelopes without destroying the letter inside, I just looked on. I was surprised to find that I didn’t feel disappointed at my lack of a letter, and that I wasn’t jealous of the people around me who were doubled over with laughter at whatever had been scrawled down four years before. I remembered, then, the times when I’d open diaries that I ‘d kept when I was very young, and felt regretful about what had changed since then and wanted to laugh simultaneously.
Still, the fact that I never wrote a letter to myself four years ago raises the temptation for speculation. In writing to my future self as a ninth-grader, I probably would have written myself a checklist as an opportunity for self-evaluation after my time at Newton South was complete. I would have written something along the lines of “Find new hobbies, make more friends, leave a mark, and be remembered for something. Get into X college!”
By doing so, I probably would have been setting myself up for disappointment. I didn’t accomplish everything I wanted, and I’m still uncertain about whether I sacrificed the wrong things for the things I did manage to achieve. Having reached the end of my high school career, the last thing I want to do is relive and re-analyze the things I originally wanted when I first arrived as a freshman, but I want to remember what drove me in the beginning, and what made me focus on what I did so fervently. This is where my metaphor for high-school-as-science experiment falls apart. Here, the introduction and conclusion, and all the questions and uncertainties I had in between are important, not just my final decision. However, because I never did write a letter, and I don’t have anything to see how I measure up in comparison to the person I hoped to be after high school, which complicates the task somewhat.
Therefore, I’m going to use the fact that I shirked my responsibility of writing a letter to myself freshman year to escape writing a real conclusion. Instead, I’ll just say that my perception of these four years is inconclusive. At Newton South, I pushed myself as hard as I could- I was happy when I succeeded and unhappy when I failed, but because there was a good deal of each, I was neither one nor the other predominantly. There were some things I found I liked, some things I was occasionally good at, and sometimes, they even overlapped. Hindsight is supposed to be 20/20, so I’ll wait for high school to get a bit further behind me before I decide once and for all what any of it really meant.

I woke up today at 3 AM in a terrific mood. It's a nice day, I'm motivated, and I will now attack my multivariable textbook to review!!!!



^^;; Life is good today.

Not tired enough apparently. Random thoughts.

I want a livescribe pen!

I miss my dad so much.

I love my family more than they can ever imagine.

I wish I could be in Starfleet. That would be awesome.

Discover Ocean Engineering.

East Campus? Random Hall?

I am a shitty writer ahahaha

I love bunnies

This is pointless

It's 3:37, and I can't sleep. I have to wake up at 9 to volunteer at the museum tomorrow (actually, today). Needless to say, this is an inconvenience. Insomnia sneaks up on me at the best of times, usually the result of reading or thinking too hard close to when I want to sleep. Yes, apparently sudoku is also something I can't do past 10, including watching TV or eating anything. My mistake- so now I'm in for a lovely couple of hours before I have to get out of bed. I'll be productive.

What, exactly, is the value of a happy life? The point of life is to find a sense of joy in everything you do. When you hear a story about a happy old couple living together in a pretty little house by the ocean, being visited occasionally by their grandchildren and going on walks and trying to cook new foods, there's an immediate "awww" reaction, and the undeniable sense that this would be the perfect ending for any life, one where you were at peace. Nothing too exciting anymore, just a return to basics. Gardening, the natural world, and the presence of a loving family should bring people joy, and I confess that a part of me wants this desperately: the simple ending, a vague understanding that you are happy in some sense, you are grateful for what you have because it's all you really need. I feel as though the people who are lucky enough to find this are admired at a level far below the everyday concept of success, and I'm slowly driving myself absolutely insane by asking why.

Happiness is an emotion, and triggered by different things in different people. In some, its excitement and thrills, while in others, its just a normal day spent at simple, dull tasks filled with familiarity. The physiological basis is exactly the same: a rush of dopamine and serotonin, the lighting up of pleasure centers in the brain. So if everyone were rational and concluded that happiness was the end goal of a life, they wo
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I am now tired. It is 3:38, and I am feeling more tired. Maybe writing boring essays voluntarily should be my new sleep trick.

I write in fragmented sentences, in loose ends. Never have I written a paper from beginning to end. Any thought starts out with just bits of argument that I fill in as my mind jumps around from idea to idea. Nothing can be sustained in my head, it seems, for longer than the span of around 5 seconds. It's extraordinarily inconvenient.

Mrs. Dalloway Imitation

Here's an imitation short story done in the style of Mrs. Dalloway. I kind of like the beginning, but I think the quality drops off in the second half.
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Katherine said she would buy the flowers herself. She had promised, the day before, surprising Ben for the first time in years. Ben, her brother— she repeated the word in her mind, rattled it about it all its different forms, until even the sounds stripped of its meanings sounded oddly bent and alien. Brother- how strange that other, which rolled off her tongue as easily as the taste of flat water, could be crippled by an insignificant addition of sound so easily produced by a stern tightening of her lips at the beginning of the word. How had she never noticed it before, the way the taste and sense of the word lay curled up within the kernel of its meaning? Brother was stern, yet almost comically clumsy—not without cause, she thought wryly. But a second voice whispered in her head that Ben was not stern or cruel, and chided her, for she had no right to think that because he had taken them in. No, Ben was simply reliable Benjamin, as he’d always been (providing and aloof), occasionally dull Benjamin, brilliant absorbed Benjamin with the well-paid scientists’ job, who had never once just introduced himself as Ben, not once in his life despite her good-natured pleas and teasing.
But the flowers! It had been the dark little apartment that had driven her to make the promise the previous evening, she was sure of it. For it was the sheer lack of dimension in the tiny rooms had been weighing on her and dragging her down- the swept corners that stood out more starkly from the empty white walls were tormenting her especially, though she could not explain it, not by any stretch of reason. (Reason! she scoffed, for neither logic nor Ben’s facts and figures could explain the strange phenomenon beginning to haunt her. Reason could not explain the awful emptiness or the silence of their home, even as it was pushed far past the intended extents of occupancy.) She had been feeling restless from her inability to explain the small discomforts that plagued her, like the increasing whiteness of the white walls that had invaded her being as a light prickle on her spine, and was nearly tortuous in its consistency.
But perhaps the misplaced prickling on her spine that had made her so wary was merely boredom. There was nothing of interest in the apartment- not half-written lists to wonder at nor misplaced keys that she could test on creaking closet doors, because despite her best efforts Ben was the most devoted of housekeepers. As a visitor with freer habits, she felt like a savage, or at the very least willfully ungrateful. Ben had a way (though likely unintentional) of making other people feel as though they were merely flighty children to be tolerated. One could not leave anything to chance, put anything off until later without feeling judged irresponsible, or even worse, incomprehensible altogether. How awful he could be at times, she’d thought (though with a flash of guilt), and even worse that he truly meant none of it. If she picked up a bowl and dashed it against the floor, she thought, Ben would arrive with his measured walk, and sweep up the bits without demanding the slightest explanation. But no, that would be cruel of her, even frightening, and so during the hours before she had made her fated promise, her hands had remained tightly at her sides, though her mind replayed the scene in a half-sketched fantasy. The images would not leave her mind, and though the imagined sound of shattering china brought her a strange measure of relief, her guilt grew.
When Ben had entered the room at last, she’d thrown her arms around him quite suddenly, surprising even herself. He had hesitated and taken a step back. Had she startled him? The thought that he should be afraid of her! The sheer ridiculousness of the string of events, both real and imagined, drew a quick laugh from her. She felt the black edge of her mood dissipate, and she apologized to him again and again for nothing at all, laughing helplessly at his surprise. She was just restless, she’d assured him; it was the lack of color in the city, the sudden move that was shaking her. She would make it better for all three of them; perhaps she would brighten up the apartment somehow. She could line the windowsill with colored bottles, like the stained-glass church they had visited as children (the one that had sparkled so brilliantly their eyes had ached), or they could even start a flower garden! She fooled herself quite thoroughly with her antics, and though she had always hated rummaging out of doors she sank to sleep that night dreaming of starbursts of color peeping out of thick, unkempt grass.

But flowers would be an impossibility, after all. What a day, she thought, beginning to awake from her drowsy reverie that had blended the present and the evening before. The morning was gray and damp (rendering the long walk to the miserable florist’s shop draining and pointless), she was certain, even as she lay in bed without opening her eyes. Lethargy filled her, and she felt strangely wise—for she knew that even if she had blinked or willed her eyes to a squint, she would have seen nothing, and so her refusal to commit an act that would be inevitably useless made her very wise indeed. The curtains she had hung were impenetrable barriers against whatever lay outside the windows, so whenever she awoke she had the sensation of waking into a half-dream, or perhaps a cocoon. A moth’s cocoon, she thought, for the slight taste of dust that was always on her tongue reminded her of the nights when she’d watch the fluttering creatures come up to her faintly lit window. But even the taste of dust and her dark cocoon could not mask the headache beginning to take form. She’d always had the worst of them on rainy days, even as a girl. It was as though a band was being wrapped tighter and tighter about her temples- torture, at times, to the point that she barely capable of making herself sit upright. How she’d carried on about them when she was young, raging and whining, tormenting the rest of her family endlessly. All children are selfish, she mused offhandedly, except perhaps Julian, whom she suspected never truly understood anything (and thus meant nothing) that he did.
Julian would want breakfast, she realized, and the thought comforted her. Of course it must be so, just as it was every other morning. Julian with his perfect clockwork mind, so unlike hers that she marveled at it endlessly. She was drawn out of her bed by what seemed to be invisible strands of expectation, drawn down to the kitchen by an equally invisible puppeteer, and the pain that had shone white and steady began to pool around her like a soft wind, just cold enough to make her shudder and bristle at its touch. She floated; how light she felt, as though she was a dandelion seed being pulled by along something huge and unknowable.
It was later than she had guessed- Julian was there sitting at the table patiently, arms pressed tightly to his side. She felt a brief spurt of fondness grow in her chest. Julian, her son, was always on schedule, no matter the weather or whatever catastrophe might befall him, could always be counted on to be in the same place and the same time as the day before. (Ben had asked Julian, not long ago, what she had thought at first to be a terrible joke, and hearing him ask had thrown her into a terrible fury. She remembered the question perfectly even now: the words were part of her, and painfully permanent—nearly unbearable. “If your mother died too,” Ben had asked, unaware that she was just outside the room, listening, becoming too paralyzed with rage to move or make the tiniest sound. How dare he ask that question? she’d raged silently, when it had been so soon after the shock and the necessary move to the strange city. But he’d continued, and her anger had subsided. “And if I had to go away somewhere very far too, what would you do?” Anger lost a brief but ferocious war to fascination, and she felt that the answer that would come from Julian’s mouth hung on the thinnest of threads. The moment when it would snap was coming, and whole worlds seem to lie in the balance. He would speak his answer, and she would hear something wonderful that would thrill her to the core, or destroy her utterly. The answer must come—she was silent in the hallway, awaiting an execution, standing on the line between sand and sea as a wave swelled, perhaps to crush her and carry her away indefinitely. “Would you still sit in your chair every day and sort things? Would it be different?”)
But Ben was just sitting across the table from her son, cutting oranges into perfect wedges and lining them up around the edge of the plate for them to share. I could never cut an orange with that precision, she thought offhandedly, and said good-morning in a voice that faded before the last syllable had escaped her lips (that phrase’s necessity at that moment eluded her). What a beautiful find this scene was, she wanted to say instead. What a beautiful coincidence that her brother could speak so easily with her strange son, that their worlds had meshed so seamlessly that it left no room for strangers and truly needed none. She could watch them for hours-- she wished she could, but Julian would have to finish his breakfast precisely fifteen minutes past ten as he insisted he must do each day. Then, she remembered with a hint of sadness, that secretive smile would spread across Julian’s face. He would reach for his box of beads to sort and set into dizzyingly complex patterns according to a design that had formed in his head, somewhere behind the eyes that never betrayed the hint of thought. His routine was a force of nature within itself, utterly unstoppable by any action a person could carry out. (How different she was from her son, how easily she was swayed by the slightest of things!) Ben would retreat to read in silence, bringing the universe to a strangely tense and natural peace once again.
And where will I retreat to? she wondered. The flowers occurred to her once again, but though the thought of gardening and cool dirt had refreshed her the night before, Katherine realized that they not been missed. No, she thought quite calmly, Ben had forgotten her promise altogether, and Julian had never noticed at all; the soon-pouring rain that would make excursions impossible and her subsequent crippling headache would not be raged against by anyone. How useless she was in their tiny square apartment!
At the thought, tears sprang into her eyes unexpectedly, but not out of grief. Uselessness was a simple word without subtlety or uncertainty. There was finality in its sound, and as Katherine said it once more in her mind, she realized there was nothing for her to do: no responsibilities, no necessities besides her own to tend to, nothing to fetch or promise. What a relief it was to be useless, Katherine thought, and though her head began to throb again, its significance seemed to escape her. She was suddenly exhausted, she thought, but decided there still was nothing she would rather do than to watch Julian finish his oranges. It was fascinating, utterly fascinating, to watch his eyes flick between each sticky slice in his hand and the plate (as if to check that the rest hadn’t scrambled into chaos while he’d looked away for those brief moments), to watch the thin stream of juice that trickled down the side of his mouth before dripping onto the floor with an odd sense of finality.

It's one of those days again when I feel like I'm walking through a haze. It was a beautiful day, but I'm just so tired and I can't see my future clearly or not at all. Will I ever actually make it through college?