Just a Story About Lunch; Nothing to See Here

Eating lunch at a public high school isn’t much different than eating lunch anywhere on this planet. You sit down, you eat your lunch, maybe have a chat, and then you go back to what you were doing. The only difference is everything. From the moment that you open those blue double doors on the first day of school, the uncertainty that comes with what you see is only matched by the volatility of the stock market during times of global worry. There are about five hundred kids scrambling in a room that was not designed with the concept that all those kids would be around walking around – at the same time. After failing to find a friendly face in the crowd, you notice the uncomfortable heat that has been following you since you opened those blue double doors. You step in and follow the crowd. People have filed in behind you closing off the entrance. You are now stuck in the crowd. Escape is impossible. All hope is lost. The yellow stain of the room downs your spirits and slows your movements. The distant flicker of a broken light disorients you. You are lost. All movement has stopped. Even in the heat, a cold sweat runs down your spine. You blame it on the heat but you know it’s from your nervousness. You can’t see past the heads of the people around you. Motion reinitiates. You hear a “hey.” You turn. It’s not for you. You hear another “hey.” You turn. That one wasn’t for you either. You hear a third “hey.” You’ve already mastered this. You don’t turn, but that one was your only friend in the cafeteria and he thinks you’re ignoring him so he doesn’t try again. Crap. Your inferiority complex tells you that you won’t eat lunch today; it’s “too much trouble.” Your stomach tells you that you won’t survive another class without a little nutrition.

After you orient yourself, you notice that you’re closing in on the even warmer room where you buy lunch. You have five dollars in your pocket. That’s enough. You hope. You’ve never actually seen the menu. When you get all your food you could find out that it costs a little too much. That would be embarrassing. Why go through that? You could just sit down and skip the meal. The food could also make you sick. You’ve heard about how bad cafeteria food is from television shows and your parents. You could ask your parents to make you a lunch and bring that to school. You look around. The upperclassmen who know each other have already bought their lunch and sat down. Not a brown paper bag in sight. It must be uncool. Being uncool is not even an option. You peak in the cafeteria to see the food. You didn’t expect a line to form in behind you. Even if you asked kindly, there’s no way that many people can move back. It’s like being stuck at an intersection during traffic and a red light strikes. You can’t simply put your car into reverse and move back. You’re stuck. That’s it. High school lunches suck.

I really don't know what I'm doing

I was boarding the plane from Russia. When I sat in my seat going to the states for the first time, I thought about how I could possibly pass an English class full of native speakers. The air conditioning was on full blast, and even the freezing temperatures of Siberia could not compete with the cold sweat that rolled down my back as I sat down in my window seat. I picked up the western magazine in the pocket in front of me, bent it vertically, and used my thumb to surf the pages. It was pure gibberish. I thought, “this is going to be the end of me. How could I compete?”

The truth is I could probably compete just fine. I was really born in New York and lived in the states my entire life. I’ve never been to Russia, and my Russian is about as weak as Spanish. I guess one of my strengths is adjusting the truth in order to fit the prompt. That’s right; I guess. It’s either that or I have pseudologia fantastica, also known as pathological lying. From grade school, we were taught that every question must have an answer, even if it doesn’t. I felt like I was being asked to force myself to be who I’m not in order to satisfy the quota, and I became good at it. If it were up to me, all my writing would be genuine and wholly true, but that would never satisfy my teachers. I encountered prompts that presented a false dilemma: a bifurcation fallacy. My teachers could have asked me if I had stopped killing people and forced me to answer either yes or no; they could have said “write a two-page double-spaced response with twelve point font as to why,” and I would have done it. I would probably have scored anywhere between a B and an A+ and been given a five word blanket statement as to why. I may have two strengths in my writing in the same way that I may have twenty-five if I were asked to write about them. Although, the teachers are usually slyer than that. Maybe my second strength is pretending like I know what I’m doing enough to have fooled my grade school teachers: or maybe I’m just fooling myself.

My writing is not perfect, but I’ve never talked to a teacher about it at length to know my weaknesses. In fact, my writing is probably weaker than most. I’ve been told that I have weak structure. I’ve been told that I used too many secondary sources when the work was derived from purely primary sources. I still haven’t figured that one out, but I’ve been taught to never argue with teachers. I believe my weaknesses lie in how concise my writing is. I am inspired by The Stranger by Albert Camus. In around 123 pages, Camus explores one of the most beautiful and natural philosophies about life; existentialism. Aside from what the book means to me, the way it was written is brilliant. It was so pure: so powerful: so concise. The Stranger is also a stark contrast to what I believe to be another weakness of mine: introductions. The Stranger has one of the best introductions of all times. Every time I read it goose bumps run down my arms. “Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don’t know.” My introductions are formulaic. You start with a fact or quote. You fill up the space in-between with… something. Finally, the infamous thesis statement goes at the end. Maybe that’s just how it’s done and only the great writers of our era can break the mold, or maybe it was taught that way to teach some kind of secret axiom that you can only understand once you’ve reached a sort of prose enlightenment. Although, I’ll admit, it’s most likely because that mold is best for the genre, audience, and purpose.

As a writer, I would like to learn the boundaries of writing. I want to learn how absurd I could be in every genre of writing. I could never truly be satisfied with the norm. This goal is very hard to achieve because nobody has a guideline for absurdity; how could they? It’s absurd. I will have to write a lot and receive plenty of feedback to achieve this goal. I believe that genuine effective absurdity and ineffective avant-garde are two sides of the same coin. Making that discrete distinction is something I will be required to make in order to achieve my goal. One song that truly expresses my interest in the absurd media is Frontier Psychiatrist by The Avalanches. This song may not be the weirdest song ever made, but it is catchy, effective, and interesting. In short, on a playlist of a thousand random songs, it will stand out effectively. That is how I would like my writing to be. This particular course will help me with the nuances of writing. It will give me the tools I need to write in college and in life. I truly believe that this course can also give me the tools I need to achieve my goal.