Passion as the Bigger Picture

I plopped down next to Alicia and Sarah at our usual table in the Senior Quad and dug out the smooshed PB&J from the bottom of my backpack. It was hard to believe that we only had two months of lunches left at this table and I’d miss them at NYU next year. Well, hopefully at NYU. Alicia had already gotten a scholarship to USC for water polo and she’d be leaving at the end of June to get a head start on her future. Sarah, on the other hand, had gotten accepted into UCLA’s medical program just last week.

“Any word from NYU?” Sarah asked as she pulled an apple out of her heather gray lunch tote.

“I haven’t checked today, but I looked last night and still nothing.” I said.

“Check again! They could have posted by now. So many people have gotten acceptances today, it’s not even funny,” Alicia added, slapping her hands down on the rickety metal table. 

I reached into the pocket of my denim jacket and pulled out my phone.

“I highly doubt they’ve announced yet.” I said, refreshing my email.

“Well, worst case scenario, you don’t get in and have to stay in California with us at UC Berkeley or UCSD.” Alicia said, smiling. 

“Alicia!” Sarah exclaimed, elbowing her in the arm.

“I said worst case scenario!” Alicia snapped back, rubbing her arm.

“We’ll be sure to visit you in NYU when you get accepted,” Sarah said, placing her hand on my forearm.

A moment later and it felt like my world had flipped upside down. I couldn’t even read the rest of the email after “Unfortunately, you have not been accepted” blinded my vision. The words circled in my mind while the dreams of my future followed behind, swirling down a toilet.

My trendy and modern New York loft, my days working on my novels in Central Park, the New York Times Bestseller stamps, the visions of my first book signing were all gone. Poof. Vamoose. Gone. 

My stomach was in knots and my mouth hung slightly open. I looked up to find Alicia and Sarah both staring at me.

“Well?” Alicia asked, her eyes wide and her fists clenched in excitement.

I knew they’d be happy that we’d all end up in California, but I wasn’t ready to admit my failure.

“Nothing yet!” I perked up in my seat and shoved my phone back in my pocket.

“Probably tomorrow,” Alicia said. 

The rest of lunch was a blur. I could vaguely make out the conversation Alicia and Sarah were having about which color prom dresses to get as they scrolled through options on their phones.

“Grace?” Sarah asked, shoving her phone closer to my face. “Emerald or burgundy?”

“Uh, emerald,” I managed to get out. “It’ll make your eyes pop.”

As soon as the bell rang, I darted to the bathroom before heading to English. I slammed my back against the plastic blue walls of the inside of a stall and sunk to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest.

It felt like my dreams were just shy of my reach and NYU was the last step I needed to be close enough to grab onto them and never let go. Hot tears smeared my mascara down my face while I checked the time on my phone. Two minutes late already. 

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. My exhale came out shakily as my lips trembled and the tears fell even harder. Finally, I forced myself to the sink and attempted to clean up my face, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at my reflection. I could feel that my eyes were still puffy but booked it to class anyway.

Ms. Remenski was scribbling onto the whiteboard as I quickly slid into my seat. My hearing still felt muffled as she turned to face us.

“Today, we’ll be talking about the art of eavesdropping and why so many great stories can come from the most random conversations,” Ms. Remenski announced, capping the magenta Expo marker in her hand. 

She was wearing one of her many colorful crochet sweaters, super wide-legged dark wash jeans, and clear-framed glasses. Her strawberry blonde hair was twisted up into a bun on the top of her head and secured with a pencil. To finish everything off, in true Ms. Remenski fashion, she wasn’t wearing any shoes, only light pink socks that went between each toe and were covered in little red cherries.

She was my favorite teacher. And although English was already my favorite subject, Ms. Rem’s class was what motivated me to pursue creative writing as a career. And outside of her fashion-sense, she was just different from the other teachers. I felt like I could really be myself in her class and just write the stories I wanted to write without the pressure of feeling judged or graded.

Ms. Rem didn’t assign homework, including reading. We did all of the course reading in class together and she never made anyone read aloud if they didn’t want to. And if we did want to read outside of class, she gave us a list of recommendations we could explore if we felt like it. 

Instead of tests, Ms. Remenski simply told us to write about something interesting that happened to us recently, or about a book we’d read, TV show or movie we watched, or a fictional story of our choosing. She didn’t grade them outside of completion, but always asked if we were looking for critiques and feedback. And if we weren't, she was supportive anyway.

Ms. Rem’s only rule was no phones in class. Although, everyone respected it since it was the bare minimum considering we didn’t have to spend time on the subject, if we didn’t want to, outside of class. I, of course, always did the extra options because reading and writing were my passions. Not only that, but I appreciated her feedback on my stories because I knew she was a published novelist and I respected her work.

But now, I felt embarrassed. For all of the stories I’d turned in to her. For the effort I’d put into them. It all felt like a waste without NYU.

“Grace,” Ms. Rem said. I popped up in my seat and snapped out of my thoughts.

“Have you eavesdropped on anyone recently?”

“No,” I replied, looking down at my notebook.

“You write a lot of great stories,” she adds. “Have you ever based one off of a conversation you heard or tidbit of information you gathered about someone in public?”

I knew I had but I didn’t feel like answering. I didn’t feel like talking about my inspiration or my passion for creative writing because I felt like it was silly. Being rejected from NYU felt like I was being rejected from being a creative writer. And even though UCSD and Berkeley still had good creative writing programs, not being accepted to NYU felt like I couldn’t play in the big leagues. It was like the universe was telling me I was only good at writing but not great or career-worthy.

“No,” I mumbled, still looking down at my desk. The room was silent for a minute before Ms. Remenski continued.

“Well, that’s okay.” She said gently and turned back towards the rest of the class. “My point is random conversations you hear at the supermarket or the airport or Starbucks or wherever can really get the inspiration going. Try listening in on others this week. You’ll never know what you’ll find. It might just be some hot gossip if nothing else.” She said, her lips curling into a playful smile.

The rest of the class was spent watching an interview with author Ramona Winstead on the art of eavesdropping and how she found inspiration for her most recent novel whilst listening in on an awkward conversation between a couple on their first date.

Finally the bell rang and I stood to head out with the rest of the class.

“Grace, can you stick around for a minute?” Ms. Remenski asked, curling her finger in a “come here” motion.

“Sure.” 

She watched the remaining students file out of the classroom with her chin dipped downward, making her glasses slide down to the base of her nose. I felt my stomach somersault. I know I could’ve participated more in class, but I really just didn’t have it in me. Today was already bad enough though. I didn’t need the added disappointment of being a letdown to someone else besides myself. 

“Don’t worry you’re not in trouble.” Ms. Rem said, reading my thoughts. “I just wanted to check in with you. I know a lot of college acceptances are coming out. Have you heard back from anywhere you’re interested in?”

I looked down at the white and gray speckled tiles and clutched my notebook closer to my chest. My stomach was still barrel-rolling down a hill. Once I said it out loud, it would feel all too real. I wanted to live in this space. Where the only person who knew I’d failed was me. Ms. Remenski was the last person I wanted to admit my failure to aside from my parents. A lump formed in my throat and I had to force out my words.

“Um, yeah. I was accepted at UCSD and UC Berkeley. But I really wanted to go to NYU for their creative writing program…but I didn’t get in.” The last part came out like a whisper. I managed to meet her bright blue eyes. Her gaze was soft and her lips were pressed gently into a smile.

“Well, congratulations. Those are still both excellent schools with excellent creative writing programs. You should be really proud of yourself.” She replied, removing her glasses and cupping her hands on her desk. Her nails were painted in rainbow swirls and she had a variety of rings spread across her fingers.

“Yeah,” I croaked, studying her rings before dropping my eyes back to the floor. I could feel tears pricking the backs of my eyes. “I just feel like without NYU my dreams of becoming a novelist might not actually come true.”

Saying it aloud invited in a tornado that wiped out all of my ambitions and replaced them with new fears. The fear of my lost future. The fear that my stories would never be properly shared. The fear that I’d be living in the wrong universe. I felt the warmth of tears streaming down my cheeks again but I remained silent.

“Here,” Ms. Rem said, holding out a box of tissues cloaked in a rainbow crochet cover. I took one and blew my nose while the tears continued to slide down my cheeks. 

“Grace,” she asked eagerly. “Can I tell you a secret?”

I nodded. The lump in my throat was still choking down my words.

“I know I’m a teacher and all but here’s something I wish someone had told me at your age. It doesn’t matter where you go to school. And while we’re at it, it doesn’t matter if you’re not acing a subject you have no interest in. That's the main reason I don't make you guys do homework or take tests against your will. It also doesn't matter if you accidentally show up a couple minutes after the bell rings, even though Principal Armas would kill me for saying that. Regardless, it doesn’t matter. What matters is your passion for what you do and pursuing your passion, however you can and how often you can. So many people think that going to a certain school will help them be a New York Times Bestseller or win a Nobel Prize or be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Where you go should be based on where you’ll be happiest pursuing your passion while enjoying the experience of college. Success comes later."

I stared at her wide-eyed and sniffled. The tears had stopped but I felt sloshing in my stomach as my head raced to make sense of what she was saying to me.

“Then why do teachers and parents and everyone else put so much pressure on getting into a ‘good school,’' I asked with air quotes.

Ms. Rem clicked her tongue, “Well, sure, connections through an alumni network can be useful, but if you really apply all of your drive to your chosen passion, you’ll find success regardless of where you went to school. You’ll make success happen for the thing you care about most. Where you choose to go to college doesn’t define your whole future. Once you graduate, it just becomes something listed on your resume and simply a fact about you.”

I stood silent, my eyes racing back and forth between hers.

“Grace, you’re a brilliant and promising young writer. I know the future holds nothing but prosperity for you, regardless of whether you live in California or New York.” She reached out and lightly squeezed my arm. 

Her soft smile and reassurance felt like a warm hug. I felt the weight leave my chest and my stomach settle. I felt rays of sun start to peak through the clouds of uncertainty that were storming my mind. UCSD and UC Berkeley were still a step in the right direction. I could make it work.

She flipped her head to the clock on the wall.

“However, not all the other teachers see it like I do – especially tardiness. So, here’s a late slip for your next class,” Ms. Rem winked at me before scribbling on a pink tardy slip.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the slip from her hand. “For the slip and the advice. I hope you’re right.”

“I’m seldom wrong,” she smiled proudly.

“See you tomorrow,” I said, walking towards the door. 

“Oh, and Grace,” she called. I stopped with my hand on the door handle and looked back at her.

“UCSD is right on the beach.” She winked again. “Just saying.”

I smiled at her before heading to my next class.

That summer, when I wasn’t writing, I was planning weekend trips to visit Alicia and Sarah in LA. And when I wasn’t doing that, I was watching YouTube videos on surfing, preparing for my Beginner Surfing Elective in the fall at UCSD.

*Disclaimer: I neither attended any of the schools listed nor do I have any positive or negative bias towards them. I’m with Ms. Rem on this one – go, or don’t go, to whatever school you want. Success is found elsewhere.