Pondering #1

Childish Ambitions

When I was a kid, we'd always make these binders full of things we did over the year. It was a timeline of all of our accomplishments, like being able to complete 100 addition problems, or spell the word "ambitions" without having our brains collapse into pudding.

Every once in a while, my mom would wonder if I wanted to get rid of some of the papers that were shoved in my closet, and I would refuse every time, even though we both knew I'd never look at them again. I was already moving on to multiplication, biology, and, god-forbid, P.E. I didn't have time to look back on all the small things I had done when I was already doing bigger, better things with my life.

But, now I can't even be bothered to think about multiplication, biology, or relentlessly getting my ass kicked in dodge ball. It must just be an unending cycle then. I get to shove all my accomplishments into a book, but that's all it will ever be. Just a binder filled with happy face stickers while I go and make more happy face stickers.

Who is to say that the things I am doing now won't end up in the same way? Shoved in a closet.

Still, I can't get rid of those addition problems, or the horribly written letters to Santa Claus from when I was 7. I wondered why today, so I finally looked through the books compiling my entire First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth Grade, and Sixth Grade experiences.

I could barely read half of it.

But, there were things in there that surprised me. It surprised me that I, the person that I am today, had written them. The first binder was riddled with letter writing as I struggled to produce an "A" that didn't end up looking like it was from a lost language. That's not what really got to me though.

It was the question, "What do you like about school?"

Today, I would struggle to find an answer. Apart from the occasional drawing class or social get-together, there wasn't anything terribly exciting about it. It is just a stepping stone to the rest of my life.

But, First Grade me thought differently.

"I like to lern. Skool is the bestes plays I hav ever ben to."

I was not that eloquent, I admit. Then, the next question.

"If you could change one thing about school, what would it be?"

"I'd go to skool everyday."

What? How could you say such a thing, First Grade me?!

Wait, of course I would enjoy school at such a time in my life. After all, we only had to add numbers under 10, spell words correctly, and color. I had no idea that I would go on to learn about imaginary numbers, parabolic curves, and grotesque symbolism in seemingly innocent stories. That is the most logical explanation, right? I just didn't know any better.

"Who do you want to be when you are older?"

"Someone important."

A year later, second grade me said he wanted to be famous.

I laughed, because the idea that I wanted to be a rock-star/fireman that simultaneously saved Superman from time to time was really ridiculous. I was young, and could really imagine being anything I wanted to be, even if it didn't make sense or was physically impossible.

Third grade me said that he wanted to draw.

Hell, it looked like I had whole sections dedicated to boasting about how I was the best drawer in the class. I can't really see how I thought that though, considering most of the people I attempted had arms coming out of their heads and little, to no torsos.

Fourth grade me had half-formed doodles all over the place.

Fifth grade me said he wanted to be a famous artist.

That's the moment that I realized that I couldn't laugh.

I'd wanted to be an artist when I was in fifth grade? Not just someone that was vaguely aware that drawing was something that could be done, but that it could be a career? I looked at the drawings, and a memory resurfaced. I was complimented when I drew these, but they are so freaking horrible.

Those bastards lied to me.

But, maybe that's not what is important. I was so earnest that I'd be someone famous. I was even coming up with names for my imaginary, famous paintings, even though I still don't even know how to hold a paintbrush, much less create the second Mona Lisa.

Sixth grade me said he wanted to be remembered.

This is a dream that I still have.

And, it all started from a question.

Who do you want to be?

Someone important.

So, why can't I throw away those binders?

It must just be my childish ambitions.