You're Not Special by Mahija

You're Not Special by Mahija - July 2016 Scholarship Essay

When I was in the 5th grade, I was convinced that I was special. I was sure of my intelligence, of my athletic ability; in all ways, I somehow, as a pre-teen girl, had gone down the less travelled path of narcissism rather than insecurity. After all I never studied and also never gotten below an A in any of my classes. Moreover, I could run the mile in seven minutes flat, truly a feat in the eyes of my peers. And so I traipsed through life with a winning smile on my face, looking down on those I believed to be stupider than me, fatter than me— yes, I was the embodiment of the bratty little girl one never fails to find in television shows.
Throughout elementary school, this way of life proved to be quite lasting and, in fact, rather enjoyable; therefore, I found no reason to not continue to the 6th grade. This was a mistake— in the eyes of my 6th-grader self, at least. In the present, I couldn’t thank myself enough for deciding such a thing. If I hadn’t, I would have never been taught the most paramount lesson I’ve ever learned. And that was this: I wasn’t special.
If I were to travel back to the first day of middle school, I can remember almost everything with frightening clarity. I had moved across the country that summer so my nerves were in a tight bunch, though I was certain that everyone would love me. I met this particular teacher that day; suffice to say that she taught my least favorite subject and I spent the rest of the month tuning her out, constantly chatting with my friends. Eventually, this deliberate ignoring grew far too obvious and one fateful day, she told me to see her at the end of the day. Immediately, I realized a big problem in this— our school’s track met that day and as an avid participant I was horrified to learn I’d have to miss it for this oncoming lecture. Therefore, I decided to stop by her class at the end of the day and tell her we would have to reschedule this talk.
After the 7th period bell rang, I came bounding to her class with my friend in tow. To this day, I remember our exchange in exact words. Entering her classroom and gaining her attention, I proceeded to tell her what was bothering me, with my friend waiting to the side for me.
“I’m really sorry but I actually have track practice today, Ms. Howard.” (This is not her actual name, for privacy purposes.) I gave her a sheepish look.
“You’ll just have to miss it then, I’m afraid.” 
“They’re assigning parts today, though…” I trailed off.
“Your track club can wait; unless you want to go to it now and bring your parents in for a discussion tomorrow.” 
I internally groaned and suddenly got an idea; normally, I would never be brave enough to say something like this but with my friend standing next to me scrutinizing the situation, I felt as though I just had to retort something back, “Ms. Howard, can you please just let me go? It’s just that I moved here newly and I’m trying to make new friends— it’s been really hard so I’m trying to get to know them as much as I can. That’s why I’m talking in your class.”
I meant it to sound innocent and pity-evoking but it was instead grating to the nerves. Immediately, my cheeks were burning; even though I was a bad kid, I had never lied so outright to someone, especially to a teacher. What was even more horrifying was that it sounded like a lie, every single word.
My friend gave a little laugh, then stopped when she realized how quiet we both were. At that moment, it felt as though my skin was melting— Ms. Howard would not stop staring at me and I realized then that she also likely never experienced a child lying right to her face like this.
“Sorry.” She finally said, shaking her head, “But just about every student is trying to make new friends here. It’s middle school— and you’re not special. ” She then proceeded to give me morning detention.
I expected this but I never expected her to not call my parents and to let me go to track practice that day without another word. I spent the rest of 6th grade slowly realizing that her statement meant more than the simple fact that I was not special in terms of wanting to making friends— but in that I was not more special that any other person in terms of everything else too.
This may seem unnecessarily harsh or even untrue, especially when it’s something that a person learnt as a child. But after five years of thinking back and being conflicted about such a bitter lesson, I now believe that I needed to hear it and, in fact, everyone at any age should keep those words in mind. “You’re not special.” No matter how unfortunate it may sound, no-one is inherently special just by being themselves. In that case, everyone would be special and as a result no-one would be special. Rather, it’s through hard work and humility that we as humans may rise as exceptional.