In my first year of college, I took an English class. I remember I we were going to write a paper, so I spent the whole weekend writing my first draft. I perfected it. I used up my whole weekend just for the paper; starting from Friday up until Sunday. I ignored my Physics homework since I felt for once in my life I was making meaningful progress and devoting my time to writing (I was never an outstanding writer). We submitted the assignment over the weekend, so, when we arrived to class on Tuesday, I arrived to a printed out version of my paper with a B- grade. I looked to my right and left where both of my friends got A’s. One A+ and the other received an A. I spent the whole weekend, sacrificing my free time just so I can get ahead in my English class. I hated writing because I was never good at it, but that situation solidified my hate towards writing. When I saw my grade, I remember thinking to myself something along the lines of: “I’m never doing that again”. And again, I never did. A week past and when it was time to turn in the second draft, I came to class empty handed (we printed out the second draft so we can do revisions in class with partners). I had a meeting with my English professor who was also the director of the minority program I was in. In that meeting, she asked me what was wrong. Then, she encouraged me to write the second draft with her in the room (for help if I needed any). I sat there for thirty minutes. I was hunched over like a basketball player studying the game; ready to join. I was thinking. I was rationalizing why not to start. If I say this, it implies this. How can I write a brilliant story saying this first sentence? Wait, Josh’s paper started like this and he wrote about this, so, my paper will not get a good grade because it starts out differently. Thirty minutes I did this. My heart was beating; I could feel my professor staring me down from the back. “He’s not typing” she must have thought. My face was getting red; “I am a failure” I believed. “Look at all those other students going about their day. Their life is so easy and they are successful”, I believed when I looked out the window to the college. After thirty minutes, she forced me to walk around campus to clear my head. I did. Twice. I looked like a middle schooler in a private college. This skinny Mexican looks ridiculous, I thought subconsciously. But, it wasn’t what worried me. “How can I write the paper?” I felt. When I came back, I did not write a single word after another fifteen minutes. My professor had to leave which is how I got out of her office. What I didn’t realize is that these two events are connected: working a whole weekend on a sub-par first draft relative to my classmates and unconsciously stopping myself from writing for forty five minutes in front of my professor.
That is the story of today: How the same boy who despised writing and never wrote anything brilliant in high school plus college started a blog. These seemingly disconnected events have a connection: I didn’t have anything to write about. In other words: I didn’t have an identity besides school. All I just knew was school. “Hey Alfredo, do you want to hang out with us?”. No, I have homework. I did not have an identity and that was not my fault. My mother micromanaged me and my only outlet were video games. However, when I got to high school and everyone around me went out on the weekends and I asked my mom if I can go out, she said after I finished my homework. This happened a couple of times until I was conditioned and rejected my dwindling opportunities because I knew my mother would not let me go out. I always had homework. Homework was always there. Going out with my friends and feeling normal was my boost of motivation to do my homework. My mother did not give me that, so I did not do my homework. I would procrastinate. I never learned how to socialize. I am not “normal”. So, when I got to college, my identity remained being my academic status. When I got my first F in Physics, the only thing I had to give me warmth was destroyed. I had nothing to fall back on. So, when I got a B- on a first draft I sacrificed my whole weekend for, I got conditioned to not try. I built a strong distaste for trying that when my professor was babysitting me to write my second draft, I came up with nothing for forty five minutes. Remember, this comes from a boy who paid twelve dollars a month to write a page a day. I learned that my only identity revolved around school so when it inevitably failed, my house of cards fell down with it. The morale of the story is that you can and many of you will be born into families where you are pushed, forced, or micromanaged into a singular identity or multiple ones who aren’t you. That is okay; it is not your parents fault for their shortcomings. However, when you become conscious and can think for yourself, it will be your responsibility to pull yourself out of that hole. Remember: some people never realize this their whole life. I am trying to tell you because no one else will (at least most people don’t know this mistake).
The point isn’t to be a great writer, or a Valedictorian, or the captain of the Varsity team. Ten percent of you will be and I’m happy for you. You earned it whether through hard work, genetics, the family you were born into, or you had a private tutor. The point is that eighty percent of you will get stuck trying to be someone you are not. This is the mistake of our guardians; whether parents or presidents of companies or communities. We are living the lives other people want to live for us. I do not blame you, for if I were to blame you, I would be blaming myself. Each and every one of you have an identity. Some of you have never met yourself which is why we all need to explore and extinguish our prejudices and biases. Explore. Do not be afraid. Put yourself in uncomfortable situations and positions and laugh at it once it’s over. One day you and everyone you know will die. I promise you: You won’t forget the pain of failure but the tears of regret. Put on your shoes and take the first step.