It Means Nothing

When I was in the 4th grade or so, my parents decided to put me in another school. St. Anne’s, was it? I don’t know…I don’t remember. I hated the idea instantly. I was sure that I didn’t want to switch schools, come what may. I rebelled as much as I could but like any other 9-year-old, I didn’t have much say in the matter. So there we were, my parents and I, sitting in the waiting area for my turn to give a written English test that would determine whether I’d be admitted or not. 

Those few minutes felt like an eternity and to distract myself, I started noticing each and every nook and cranny of the place. I vividly remember the pale blue walls, the grooves and the spiderwebs. I remember the dark, wooden tables and the antique lamps. I remember that the lighting was dull, maybe it was raining, maybe not but it was really gloomy. A story was already brewing in my mind. What if this school was actually a witch’s palace? She made concoctions and weird potions in the cauldron that was kept in the glass cupboard, stained with fingerprints. She roamed around and the students were actually her army to defend against monsters. Maybe she had her room somewhere and through the little crack on the wall she kept an eye on everything at all times. 

Before I could complete the story in my head, we were called in and I was made to sit down to give the test. There were some random questions, I cannot recollect anymore but there was one in particular that I read and knew that I was going to ace it. The question was to write a story while incorporating  a couple of elements listed there. I was ready. I breezed through the paper, got to the final question where I had to write a story and the minute I started, I only looked up once the time ran out.  

I left completely satisfied with what I had written. Satisfied was an understatement. I was so upset with how well I had written because I knew after reading my story, I would be selected, without a doubt, and that’s exactly what I didn’t want. It was an 80 or 100 mark paper and a few days later the results were in. I had scored 15. 

Oh man…I’m never going to forget this number. This and the time I scored 8 on 80 in Maths. Yes, I know it’s horrible but let’s focus on this at the moment. So there I was, having written this masterpiece and getting a score that I couldn’t make sense of. Frankly, I still can’t. I felt like I let my parents down, I let myself down, I let everyone down. Was I really that bad? Was I living in delusion? It meant so much to me back then and when I look back I realise…it really meant nothing. 

My spoken and written English is good – more than good, in fact. I have a couple of years of experience doing content writing and copywriting. I have written at least 10 short stories, at least 10 scripts and today I am a professional screenwriter. I write blogs, I write poems, I have a separate Instagram page for write-ups. No no no, I am not bragging, all I’m trying to say is that the weightage I had given that score of 15 for that beautiful story I had written was way more than my tiny shoulders could have taken and for what? It didn’t mean that my English was going to be weak for the rest of my life, it didn’t mean that I could be unable to write stories, or lacked creativity…heck it didn’t mean anything! And yet…how hard was I on 9-year-old Tasneem?

We often let one thing become so big that we let it define the entire course of our lives. Your scores, your degrees, your relationships, your status in society, the kind of car you drive, the brand of clothes you wear…it truly means nothing and it is not a guarantee of anything. Your score is not going to guarantee that you won’t be bullied, your degree doesn’t mean that you won’t be waiting in line to get a job, your relationships may come to an end, your status can break in two seconds, the car you drive won’t assure that you won’t have accidents, the brand of clothes will not give you a new personality. These are simply things…which are great to work hard for but we attach so much meaning to them, give it so much power that it starts dictating our self-esteem.

I didn’t get a good score despite thinking that I did a good job. So? My life turned out absolutely fine. I made some excellent friends in school and had an amazing time. Dude, I haven’t even collected my degree certificate from my under-grad college and I have a decent job already. I was constantly told that I should work on my weight but today when my gym trainer asked me what my goals are, my answer was not weight loss, it was general fitness for my health. I am not perfect, I still do give a lot of importance to things around me – attach unnecessary meaning to it and connect it to my self-esteem. It’s a process and I am happy to be on it. 

But full disclaimer, it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t matter. Everything you do in life eventually shapes your personality. All your wins and losses somewhere build into the person you become. When life kicks you in the gut, it really does affect you. But think…a couple of months or even a year from now, in the grand scheme of things – your life will take different turns and your priorities will change and you will grow…so what does the loss mean? 

For me, not getting into St. Anne’s meant that I would get to live out a few amazing years meeting friends who’d turn into family. Getting 8/80 in maths meant that when I had to choose electives, I’d let go of the subject I was bad at only to help me get a better score and hence securing admission in a better college. It’s difficult to keep the faith up and think long-term and believe that whatever happens, happens for a reason. Especially when you’re in the thick of it. But take a second, look back…you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. So maybe it does mean something…but I promise you, whatever negative self-badgery that you’re doing to yourself because you think life is not going as you hoped it would and that somehow it is your fault, you are going to be absolutely okay.