post 7: divesting from high achievement

[Originally published on Substack: May 22, 2024]

Once upon a time I was a high achiever, but I didn’t “do it right” — which either annoyed the fuck out of people or endeared me to them. (This is why Amanda Seales’ controversial Shannon Sharpe interview struck a chord in me. Our lives differ in many ways, yet I know how it feels to consistently be a problem and not have the language for why.) 

In the era of Issa Rae, I adopted “awkward” to describe how jarring it felt to be myself in this world, but “awkward” wasn’t quite it, was it? I was not a quirky girl who tripped over her shoes, or felt sexless. In fact, I could be elegant and stylish, and regardless of what people claimed publicly, I understood that I was desirable. I knew, even when it was not affirmed, that I was funny, thoughtful to the point of earnestness, and that I tried to be kind. And if I failed at being kind I tried to course-correct. Those qualities, to me, were desirable because they were lively, and they were what I looked for in other people.

But adults in my life, sometimes elders, sometimes just olders, wrung their hands over me. The goodness I possessed was all good and well, but how was a black kid like me going to survive in the world if I didn’t become more sociable? I didn’t have the language to tell them that I looked at already-established groups of friends and couldn’t fathom how to become a part of them except by biding my time. That was always how I made friends — by biding my time. Was that not what everyone did? Why was this stern adult warning my mother that my life would be full of suffering if I didn’t adopt a different social strategy, which no one had described to me, and which I couldn’t imagine? 

Some peers, too, detested my sociality. I did well in school, I could write and speech my ass off, but I wasn’t “doing it right.” I remember, I was part of an extracurricular group in high school for people who wanted to go to college. A nonprofit. I’d gotten a scholarship, and I heard a boy behind me fuming about it. He wanted me to hear him. He was angry that I got a scholarship when I didn’t even know what to do with it. Did I even want to be a capitalist, or an engineer or a medical doctor? I was taking a spot someone else, like him, should have. I didn’t deserve it. The adult who ran the group didn’t intervene. He agreed with him. I could sense that he didn’t like me either, and I remember trying to win him over to no avail, until he needed me for something. I complained about it to the only friend I had in the group. Everyone else was an acquaintance. He sympathized, but he did not disagree with the people who thought I wasn’t “doing it right.” Didn’t they have a point? he asked. Are you my friend? I wondered. In hindsight, I don’t think he was unlike other boys in the group, who said girls that have sex deserved to be played and slutshamed. The adult who ran the group didn’t intervene there, either.

I didn’t want to be a capitalist, an engineer or a medical doctor, though I sometimes feigned an interest in becoming a sociologist to make myself seem more respectable. I wanted to be a writer, a philosopher, a professor — I thought I had what it took. I had budding feminist and anti-imperialist politics. I was beginning to think I was queer, which I kept to myself. I was doing it all wrong. I chose the wrong friends — people who were good to me instead of people who could get me somewhere. If I was going to have a boyfriend I should’ve had one who was as high-achieving as me. I was one of my school’s valedictorians, and I wanted to write my own speech because I was a writer, and I didn’t know, when I was doing well in school all those years, that they would give me a speech to read. Was the role I embodied in my school not supposed to be imbued with me, with my essence? I insisted on edits. I didn’t want to wear bright lipstick so my face would look better on camera. I felt increasingly uncomfortable. All of the universities I received offers from seemed the same — just businesses with classes. What was everyone else so excited about? I wanted to get away from it all, and my mom was moving back to New York anyway. I went to Dartmouth College. The only thing that seemed different about it was that I didn’t have to worry about housing or money or food too much, and I could visit home on a cheap greyhound.

I did college wrong too. I was skeptical of people who had questionable motivations. I hid from them. The creeps. I didn’t network enough. I meant what I said. I was elusive and available in the wrong ways or at the wrong times, I don’t know. People assumed I was playing when I was being earnest. I was unmedicated, and no one noticed. I didn’t (couldn’t?) read between the lines. I danced the way I’d always danced, simple rotations of my hips and limbs. I wasn’t good at choreography. I didn’t take classes based on who else was taking them. I questioned the politics of awards. I expressed anger at betrayal and hypocrisy. I repressed, and then I let it all out. I let some people have it. I unfollowed people, blocked people, I didn’t act like nepo babies were better than me because they weren’t. I stayed because it seemed like there were creeps everywhere in the world, and I graduated decently, with some last minute accolades that came with reminders from mentors of how I didn’t do it right, how I would’ve gotten more if I’d done it right. Someone I love told me they were disappointed that I’d done college wrong, that I hadn’t done college as right as I’d done high school (which I’d also done wrong?), and I spiraled for months, indulged, indulged, indulged. 

For a year I worked and spent a lot of time alone and didn’t let anyone know what I was up to. I tried some shit and failed and still felt better than in previous years because I wasn’t being surveilled. I thought about never stepping foot on a university campus again, or maybe I would, I wasn’t sure what to do because everything I’d ever done, I’d done wrong. I had a breakdown and started therapy and took medication that lifted a veil from me. 

The doctor looked at me like I was an alien when I talked about my life, because hadn’t anyone suggested to me that I might need support? Hadn’t anyone come through? Hadn’t I ever thought I needed support? No, I explained, no, because the problem was that everything I did was wrong. If I deserved support wouldn’t I have been supported? I frustrated my therapist. 

I’m getting a Ph.D. I’m a professor, a philosopher, a writer. It’s going well. I’m experiencing the most love I’ve ever experienced in my life. My partner’s family understands a*****, and we joke about being on the spectrum. I tell them I’ve wondered if I am for years, but when I asked someone I loved about it, they told me it was the wrong question. I wasn’t a******* — I was just doing everything wrong, and I couldn’t fathom how to stop.

I remember going to Emory University’s Scholars Weekend at the end of high school, a prestigious thing for prospective college students. I remember running away from a fancy dinner in my white thrift store dress. My tight consignment heels clacking on the cement. That was one of the freest moments I’d ever had. I feel that way more often now.