Flashback
Nervous excitement coursed through me as I clutched the neatly folded campus map in my hand. The elation I felt when my 9th-grade guidance counsellor told me I had been accepted into the CEFYS (Computer Engineering for Youth Students) program out of 476 applicants was immeasurable. Out of a pool of so many, I was the sole individual to secure a spot.
I'd taken the placement test and aced it, graduating high school at the tender age of 14. Whitman College was conveniently located less than a mile from my high school.
As I gazed around the huge campus, I felt a surge of anxiety when I saw the older students, many of whom appeared to be in their late twenties, I felt odd, well I've always been odd this won't be any different. I adjusted my black backpack and quickened my pace. I made sure to pull up my sleeves to conceal the bruises that marked my arms.
Entering the small classroom, I had to sit at the back to avoid the judging stares I could already feel from my fellow students. I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt to hide my face, a habit of mine i grew to be fond of when I wanted to fade into the background.
"Are you lost?" a huge man asked as he walked past me. His neck and face were adorned with tattoos, adding to his intimidating appearance.
"I-I, um..." I stammered, my gaze falling to my hands.
"The high school is a little further from here. This is a kid from Whitman College," he stated sceptically, arching a pierced eyebrow.
"I'm here for C-Computer Programming 189 programming," I managed to say, though it came out as more of a whisper than a statement. He gave me one last look before moving to the front of the room.
A few minutes later, a woman entered, you would never know she is over 29 unless you were told, she was looking so young, she took a seat in front of the classroom, and she cleared her throat to get the class's attention. She had a gorgeous figure with her ocean-blue eyes, delicate features, a slightly curved nose, and a petite frame and height at around 5'2". She was well dressed; her wavy dark brown hair fell down to her shoulders with her perfectly manicured nails.
"My name is Miss Jones; I'm your course instructor. Before our speaker arrives, please open your laptops and log into my course page. The password is WC189. If you don't have a laptop, please raise your hand..." She spoke in a slightly intimidating foreign accent. Embarrassment washed over me as I realized I was the only one without a laptop.
Miss Jones approached me with a used laptop in her hand, a standard Dell adorned with a "Whitman College" logo sticker on the front. She smiled at me and handed me the laptop.
"You can borrow it for the semester. I trust you will return it," she whispered and smiled.
I offered her a small smile and ran my fingers over the logo. This was the first laptop I'd ever held.
After a detailed explanation of the syllabus, the college recruiter addressed us, discussing the programs for our master's degrees. I listened intently as he explained the best colleges for Computer Engineering. His PowerPoint presentation showcased slides of prestigious institutions like MIT, Harvard, Stevens Institute of Technology, and Stanford. My heart skipped a beat when images of Stanford's campus appeared on the projector.
It was beautiful, breathtaking even, with crimson and white flowers adorning the lush grounds. The programs were exceptional, and the architecture had a slightly rustic charm. The dorms looked incredible, with two comfortable-looking twin beds and wardrobes. My 14-year-old heart anticipated with hope and imagination for my future.
I knew in that moment that I would do whatever to get into Stanford University. That's where my dreams would come true.
The campus was perfect.
The dorms would be perfect.
The students would be perfect.
The professors would be perfect.
The university was perfect.
Everything seemed perfect.
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
The weight of reality hit me as I stared at the ceiling of my dorm. I counted the cracks in the cement, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Sunlight barely filtered through the blackout curtains.
I hadn't slept a wink the previous night. I'd been trapped in my thoughts, my back stiff from lying on this miserable excuse for a bed. Most nights, I found the floor more comfortable than this twin-sized torture device.
Happy Thanksgiving to me.
$308,793. Three hundred and eight thousand, seven hundred and ninety-three dollars.
That absurd number repeated itself in my mind incessantly. I have never had more than $100 in my bank account. The only way I managed to eat was through scholarships that provided me with a little $75 per week for food and necessities, barely enough to cover anything.
How did i end up here? Actually, letting myself believe that coming to this college would make my life better was the gravest mistake I could have made. In fact, any university would have led to the same outcome—my life would remain as miserable and pointless as ever.
On paper, I'd done everything right: attended school, graduated early, completed my bachelor's degree at 18, pursued my master's at Stanford, and been labelled a "genius" with an IQ to prove it. But outside of academics, my life was a never-ending abyss of hardship. I could easily secure a job, but the demanding class schedule left no room for a 40-hour workweek and an 18-credit course load. I'd always believed that money was the root of all evil, but it was the lack of money that truly fuelled misery. I hadn't encountered anyone filthy rich who cared about the struggles I faced.
What would happen after I completed my master's? I had no experience in my field, and my hectic school schedule wasn't allowed for it. The best I could hope for was an entry-level job would keep me below the poverty line. I'd be at the mercy of some angry superior, and if I were lucky, I'd ascend the corporate hierarchy to an executive position. Then, I'd retire at 65, with most of my life behind me, hoping I'd saved enough for my existence.
Such a bright future.
Society painted an idyllic picture of life: a loving and supportive family, loyal friends, a stable job with enough income to sustain a comfortable life. But growing up in an abusive home with a drug-addicted father, a mother battling cancer, relentless bullying with no friends to speak of—except for compassionate teachers and librarians who pitied me—life seemed a far cry from society's portrayal.
But I refused to be a helpless victim. I had survived. I thought coming to this university—the one I'd dreamt of since I was 14—would be different, yet here I was. Doing everything by the book, only to be deemed unworthy of making a difference.
I couldn't help but laugh at the silly joke that was my life. After the events of the day, I felt the last drop of my humanity slipping away.
Was I meant for hardship? I had always strived for the American dream of multifaceted success, but it always remained just out of reach. No matter what choices and decisions I made, it seemed like they didn't matter.
It wasn't fair, but life rarely was.
So, why should I care?