63-Year-Old Teenager Revisits Her College Application Essay and the Question of Masking
I wrote my first college application essay in my late teens as an English class assignment. The actual sentences are gone now, but I do recall the choreography of it all.
My fellow acne- and angst-ridden classmates were tasked with crafting a final essay compelling enough to convince the world we were worthwhile members of society.
We were to be respectful but not needy, interesting without being alarming, and not ask too overtly for what we were asking for. Approval, attention, acceptance, even a place at college, were all dances to be finessed.
At the end of the assignment, we basked in the belief we had each offered up something unique. We hadn’t. We were uncertain youths attempting to persuade the world of truths we barely understood ourselves.
My own essay was less about truth and more about performance. I took “compelling” to mean embellishing a too-ordinary life and spin-doctoring half-truths.
“… And in conclusion, I strive to be someone who contributes meaningfully to society. Although I am young, I am ready to learn and eager to offer my achievements to date to complement the reputation of your venerable institution.”
Of course, I now smile at the naivety, but feel tenderness towards that young girl. Earnest and eager, she nibbled at the end of her pencil as she wrote and rewrote versions of who she thought she should be.
With the finished mask in place, it would only occur to me much later to question flawed systems that demanded perfection.
That college essay may have been my first formal performance for acceptance. But teenage life outside the classroom had already taught me survival required many faces. The almost-facts I massaged for an admissions officer were to impress; the lies I told my peers began closer to home.
My siblings and I came from a stricter and more budget-friendly household than many of our classmates. The latest fads and fashions, late night discos and furtive fumblings were for “other people.” Without ever being told explicitly, I understood this to mean people who were light on substance and moral fibre. A good girl, I pored over homework whilst, presumably, my classmates pawed each other in sticky alleyways on a school night.
Our home was filled with love and, yes, oodles of moral fibre, but it lacked on-trend furnishings and mod cons. Sturdy furniture was secondhand, clothes were handmade and religious hymns hung in the air along with the vintage drapes. In today’s rejection of over-consumption, our house would have been the poster child for pre-owned chic and “me-made” clothing.
It was against this backdrop of misplaced shame and envy a boy at school asked if he could come to my house.
We were in the sixth form corridor the first time Derek asked if he could come by. Unembarrassed, he shouted his request over the sugar-rush din of bubblegum chatter and slamming lockers.
“No.”
My answer would always be no.
But still he persisted, immune to the swarm of students around us hissing urgently at each other.
The latest drama, for which alibis had to be established quickly, was who had drawn obscenities on the Headmaster’s Open Day poster. The defence of “Not me, Sir!” was odds on to win.
More pressing to Derek, the son of a too-proud mother and gaggle of sisters, was why his usual playbook wasn’t working. Twinkly brown eyes and cheeky banter had always served him well in raising a girlish giggle or unexpected blush. It was a charm offensive that often turned an inconvenient no into a celebratory “Yes!”
“Why not?” was his inevitable next question.
Explaining to a privileged Derek that he and I came from different worlds felt impossible. So I did what I always did: I reached for a story to keep anyone from getting too close. Especially boys.
But putting an end to romantic interrogations with the easy lie had become complicated and exhausting. Who knew what and when eventually sapped at the energy I needed to maintain an A-grade average. Did an errant cigarette burn down our house last October, or was it faulty wiring? And had I paired Steve with the cigarette and Terry with the gas explosion? Or maybe it was the other way round.
In the end, I went with a measles outbreak.
It hadn’t been used in a while, and a pointed scratch of hand or face was usually enough to cool any renewed ardour in the days that followed.
The joke would be on me when the masks, personas and performances all grew up and took over.
That being said, after college, I did attempt to put a life of smoke and mirrors behind me.
Believing adulthood would reward honesty, I resurrected what I remembered of my “authentic self.” (A present-day preoccupation not yet fashionable in the ‘80s.) I, therefore, answered my first project leader’s questions politely but truthfully.
Turns out truth can be a punishable offence and doesn’t always play nicely with corporate egos. Cue a new mask. A new lie. This one got me through the day unseen. I became the safe pair of hands in the office, valued for utility, if not humanity.
From here, the masks multiplied. I juggled personas for colleagues, friends, family and lovers. The trick was to ensure none of them met in the same room.
But that was okay, I told myself. Becoming The Dependable One on this occasion was professional wisdom; a strategic choice on the road to promotion.
My mental health would come to disagree with the many reasons I found to play small.
Who was it who said humans do nothing that does not benefit them in some way? That even bad habits serve a purpose.
Maybe I was glad of an excuse not to take up space. The one who wouldn’t carry the corporate can if things went horribly wrong. This might explain my consistent roles of assistant this or deputy that, roles that never quite touched the proverbial glass ceiling.
I see now the part I played in my own diminishment, but an annual performance review in a later job changed all of that.
Basking in the glow of my team and I having finished a tricky project on time, I sat waiting not just for our collective praise, but for a personal top mark of a grade five as project lead. The grade that guaranteed a respectable annual pay rise.
My boss suggested a grade four would be more appropriate “in the circumstances.” From here, she cited imperfections at the start of our latest project and a slight budget overrun.
I’m not sure of everything that happened next, but remember some sort of red mist filling the room. I next heard my voice as though from a long way away.
“No!” said the faraway voice. “I am through dumbing down. I got this project late, so was not involved in any ‘initial imperfections.’ And the budget overrun? How else was I to plug the holes I inherited?”
“I’m sorry you feel that way” were also words that came to me as if from Mars.
But, as the mist cleared, my lifelong fear of consequence evaporated with it.
I was no longer afraid.
Now decades on, with lies and many of these masks retired, I find myself circling a painful question:
After years of personas and performances, do I even know which parts of me are real anymore?
A question I have yet to fully answer.
Masking has cost me in ways I may never fully understand. But it is something I have learned to pay attention to. Something to examine closely whenever I feel the need to reach for the easy lie — to mask.
Easy to say and do, I guess, now I am in the third act of my life with a briefcase full of wisdom and hindsight.
And were I required to write a personal testimony today? I would hope to reach for that wisdom and understand the value of showing up as and for myself.
… And in conclusion, I strive to be someone who contributes meaningfully to the world and those around me. However, the sum of my stumbles and recoveries often amounts to more than this lofty ambition. Still, I am resilient and made more so every time I fall. I disappear when survival demands it, but I speak up if integrity is at risk. Most days, I am dependable. I am also that person who has unravelled in the face of intolerable grief. Does this make me incomplete, unworthy, or just human? I am still learning — but I know for certain I cannot you offer perfection. What I offer is honesty, hard work, and endless curiosity. In turn, I hope that is enough to make you curious to know more.
