Final Assignment: The Looking Glass
A Reflection on the Student Condition
I used to hate writing for classes. I went to a math and science academy where every History and English class was filled with analytical, research papers. When given a direct prompt on something I have no interest on, writing becomes one of the most grueling and tiresome form of work I've ever had to do. Having had years of this on my mind, I expected no less coming into college. But to my genuine surprise, the early requirements that I had to take as a Freshman completely changed my outlook on writing. These were the first writing classes where the teacher let me write what I wanted to write for the assignment. Even when we had to analyze a book for a report, the focus of the paper was of my choosing. I was no longer limited by a 20 word prompt. The limit expanded to the ends of what my thoughts could muster. Through these courses, I wrote about the facets of my life that I didn't know with whom to talk about, I wrote about what weighed on my mind. I finally found a form of expression that I had never knew would resonate with me.
I tried to write on my own, but I found it increasingly difficult as my college career progressed. My typical outlet for stress relief was playing video games, a method of instantaneous gratification that is hard to combat. Video games work as an escape, but the issue is that they don't let me think about the stressors in my life. Writing on the other hand, let me come to a conclusion on my thoughts. I spent time working with my guilt and worry, ending in a better place than I started. But this took time, and I kept finding myself falling back on video games for the quick fix. The only solution I could think of was picking up a writing minor. I wanted to take more writing classes, not wanting that feeling to go away, and putting myself in an academic setting that required me to write would be a loophole. But this backfired in a drastic way.
I had to finish my core requirements of my major first, so most of my writing classes where being held for the end of my college career. Summer term at the start of my Junior year, I took one of the first writing classes since Freshman year, a Creative Writing class. I loved the class, letting me experience different forms of writing and being able to discuss the work of my peers without a rubric that I had to follow. It was exactly what I wanted with my writing minor, every piece I produced was a journal of my thoughts. But at the same time, I was in an emotional rough patch. At the end of the term before, the delicate balance of stress that my life was teetering on had finally snapped. The recoil of this depression was felt in full force in the Summer term. Despite finishing all of the assignments and being very active on the discussion boards, my attendance to class faltered to a degree. And this was where my writing plan fell apart just at it finally started to manifest. I got an A- in this class. It might sound petty, but the work I had put up until this point to retain a 4.0 through all of the requirements, through the organic chemistries and physics, through the four hour mind numbing labs, shattered by what was supposed to be an escape from the academia.
This left me distraught. Coupled with my emotional state, the slap to the face that the grade gave put me in a weird situation. I had managed to keep all of my other grades up by doing the bare minimum that the classes required. I knew just how much I would have to study the night before an exam to scrape by with an A in my science courses, but I didn't expect that I would have needed to approach my writing classes in the same manner. I didn't even think about the grade for Creative Writing at all, focusing on the work. I spent most of my time working on my pieces, going through numerous rounds of editing on every one. But the time that it took me to produce a work that I was happy with only left me feeling exhausted. I understood that it wasn't the work that I got faulted for, but the issue with depression is that you feel stuck. Attending class didn't feel like a possibility with the other commitments and extracurriculars I had to maintain, and putting extra effort into Creative Writing for my own benefit skewed how much I felt like I was contributing. My capacity to handle stress was at an all time low, so most classes took just enough of my attention to get by. But a class where the grade was not at the forefront of my mind and my effort was spent on my own time placed me in a grey area where attendance was at the bottom of my priority list.
The grade put me in a situation where I didn't feel comfortable approaching a writing class in the same way that I had the first time. Even if I wanted to run in with the wide-eyed enthusiasm I felt from Freshman year, the moment that my plate began to fill, my mechanical side would take over a spit out bare bones, robotic garbage to scrape by with the grade. I don't realize it until after I 'finish' an assignment. The words in front of me feel like a betrayal of myself. I want to go back and make the piece my own, make it a part of me. But the anxiety of grades pulls me in the other direction. If I spend anymore time on it, I won't be able to balance my other classes. I can't have a repeat of last time. Blocking that disgust of my own work from my mind, I find myself hitting the submit button and tucking away another skeleton in the back of the closet.
I had to finish my core requirements of my major first, so most of my writing classes where being held for the end of my college career. Summer term at the start of my Junior year, I took one of the first writing classes since Freshman year, a Creative Writing class. I loved the class, letting me experience different forms of writing and being able to discuss the work of my peers without a rubric that I had to follow. It was exactly what I wanted with my writing minor, every piece I produced was a journal of my thoughts. But at the same time, I was in an emotional rough patch. At the end of the term before, the delicate balance of stress that my life was teetering on had finally snapped. The recoil of this depression was felt in full force in the Summer term. Despite finishing all of the assignments and being very active on the discussion boards, my attendance to class faltered to a degree. And this was where my writing plan fell apart just at it finally started to manifest. I got an A- in this class. It might sound petty, but the work I had put up until this point to retain a 4.0 through all of the requirements, through the organic chemistries and physics, through the four hour mind numbing labs, shattered by what was supposed to be an escape from the academia.
This left me distraught. Coupled with my emotional state, the slap to the face that the grade gave put me in a weird situation. I had managed to keep all of my other grades up by doing the bare minimum that the classes required. I knew just how much I would have to study the night before an exam to scrape by with an A in my science courses, but I didn't expect that I would have needed to approach my writing classes in the same manner. I didn't even think about the grade for Creative Writing at all, focusing on the work. I spent most of my time working on my pieces, going through numerous rounds of editing on every one. But the time that it took me to produce a work that I was happy with only left me feeling exhausted. I understood that it wasn't the work that I got faulted for, but the issue with depression is that you feel stuck. Attending class didn't feel like a possibility with the other commitments and extracurriculars I had to maintain, and putting extra effort into Creative Writing for my own benefit skewed how much I felt like I was contributing. My capacity to handle stress was at an all time low, so most classes took just enough of my attention to get by. But a class where the grade was not at the forefront of my mind and my effort was spent on my own time placed me in a grey area where attendance was at the bottom of my priority list.
The grade put me in a situation where I didn't feel comfortable approaching a writing class in the same way that I had the first time. Even if I wanted to run in with the wide-eyed enthusiasm I felt from Freshman year, the moment that my plate began to fill, my mechanical side would take over a spit out bare bones, robotic garbage to scrape by with the grade. I don't realize it until after I 'finish' an assignment. The words in front of me feel like a betrayal of myself. I want to go back and make the piece my own, make it a part of me. But the anxiety of grades pulls me in the other direction. If I spend anymore time on it, I won't be able to balance my other classes. I can't have a repeat of last time. Blocking that disgust of my own work from my mind, I find myself hitting the submit button and tucking away another skeleton in the back of the closet.
Comments
Post a Comment