This Was Extremely Therapeutic to Write

Dear Troy High,

You spent years telling me that I'm good, but that I'm not great. Well, you may be great, but you're not good. 

I'm writing to you about this reciprocation because I don't know how to tell you how I feel. I am concluding the last first quarter that I will experience under your roof, and through constant reflection, I am battling to remember the joy that once rushed through my spine while sauntering your legendary halls. 

During my first year of guidance within your contested classrooms, I competed at the Michigan HOSA Region 9 Conference, and for the first time, I witnessed your greatness. I stood feebly among one hundred daunting upperclassman. Kids who now attend Stanford, who have received international recognition for their academic achievements, who seemed -- to a much more insecure version of myself -- like they were on top of the world. I was empowered to achieve the same level of success that they did.

As I entered the stale gymnasium at Rochester Adams High School, anxiously waiting for the commencement of the awards session, Christmas music hummed in the distance. Mariah Carey's infamous All I Want For Christmas Is You (P.S. Varsha, if you are reading this, I will force you to sing with me for the senior video, okay? Actually, that's not a question. You have no choice:D), Dean Martin's cheerful Walking in a Winter Wonderland, and even Frosty the Snowman all brought relief to the pent-up overachievers that comprised the competition. Let's be serious, it's a HEALTH SCIENCE COMPETITION held the week before winter break. One man's trash is a try-hard's treasure, I suppose. I'm sure you would agree. 

After a painful hour-and-a-half, the awards session concluded, and I walked out of the gym proudly gripping a small bronze medal (sorry, this probably sounds like a flex but bare with me please, I promise I have a point). I walked out of the high school and into trickles of snow, each flake bringing optimism as it melted on my face. Because of your guidance, that day was one of the best days I had experienced: I had succeeded in my very first high school competition, I was going to attend my best friend's performance in The Nutcracker at her dance studio later in the evening, and it was almost winter break. Life was good. Christmas music was even better. 

I had to send a picture to my mom, of course.

For the majority of winter break I listened over and over to Mariah Carey, Dean Martin, and a multitude of other holiday singers that reminded me of suspensefully sitting in the Rochester Adams gym, unsure if I should anticipate excitement or disappointment. I was disgustingly proud of what I had accomplished. Until school resumed. 

In January of 2020, I walked into your legendary halls and was greeted by reality. What I viewed as a huge academic accomplishment was merely your expectation of me. I was just another name, just another statistic that you could brag about. 

The following year, familiar tunes sang over the radio as I plowed through snow in my mother's bulky SUV, my mother sitting in the passenger seat apprehensively teaching me to navigate brutal Michigan winters as a new driver (it had only been three months since I got my permit -- EEK). But this time, I wasn't reminded of the excitement that rushed my veins just a year prior. I felt empty, like my juvenile pride had left a gaping hole that was only filled by the haunting of your confidence in me. I have no way to explain the way that I felt -- the way that I still feel -- when the melody begins, "I don't want a lot for Christmas," but I certainly understand that you took something from me that I can never get back: the enjoyment of an achievement for simply being an achievement. Not an expectation. Not another title to dismissively list on my college applications. 

You have built a reputation that exceeds the limits of a public school. But at what expense? You brag about what your students, and even your staff, have accomplished without knowing who they are. In attempts to explain my history at your school, to understand why your reputation haunts me, I question: are your halls legendary, or are they decorated with students who, just like me, were coaxed into believing that you are the reason they achieve greatness? 

You are GREAT, but you are not good. You were not good to the students that came before me, many of whom attempted to make changes to your messed-up reality. You are not good to your current students who are pleading for a break from the standards you uphold. I hope you will be good to your future students. I hope I can shake the anxiety that dictates my behavior the very minute I step into your legendary halls. 

Sincerely,

A victim of your coercion 

Phrase of the week: GET RID OF THIS TRADEMARK. I am so sorry for any cringe that I have caused, and I want to take this time to officially announce that my new trademark will be pictures of my cat. Please accept this as my formal apology: 

     

She's so cute hehehehe