Column: Time to be reborn

By Mary Novokhovsky

Published Dec. 10, 2010

Imagine a newborn bundled up in a bunch of blankets, a little hat atop their head and mittens on. Their eyes are closed: pure serenity.

The child is a few days old and is so unbelievably precious. You're afraid to hold them because the stakes are high. How awful would it be to accidentally drop or pinch this pure being?

Before disease screenings or adoption papers, before expectations and anticipations, before schools and social scales, standardized tests and ink blots, we see unlimited potential.

And yet, time happens. As the child grows, society begins to narrow their options for them. Those who can't read at a certain level get sifted into one path, those who can't multiply by nine into another, there are those who won't talk and those who talk too much; they go elsewhere. Within 10 years, that newborn will be broken down and compartmentalized so many times that you'll cease to see the bundled up infant any longer.

Time bends, breaks, twists and feeds our egos. I remember waking up early my first day of kindergarten. The anticipation pulsed in my veins and sent tingles up the hand that held my toothbrush. I cleaned those buckteeth with vigor and excitement. I felt hope for the first time. By the end of first grade I felt unease. I remember standing on the playground when out of nowhere some random boy charged at me like a bull, head butting me hard in the stomach. After that school didn't seem so great.

My family moved while I was in junior high. I was an inch from failing seventh grade math by then, but I never told my parents. The move was so perfectly timed, a complete blessing. I remember brushing my teeth like it was the first day of kindergarten.

Fast forward seven hours-I'm sitting in front of my shiny new locker at the end of the school day with tears in my eyes. Someone picks up my coat and runs off with it. It's January. I find the puffy jacket in the middle of the hallway on my way out of the building. I barely make the bus. By the time I get to my new house, I'm thoroughly regretting my decision to transfer schools, and I have to pee. I realize I forgot my garage code. I say screw it, walk around back, pull my pants down and piss on the patio. From that point onward I did a lot of metaphorical urination. I wanted to wander down the path of least resistance.

For some of us dreams remain constant, we continue to seek success in the same categories. Yet, for others, the scope of our futures narrowed as we grew. When I first started swimming I aspired to be an Olympian. When I danced I wanted to be the Prima Ballerina. But in the end I turned out to be average at the long list of all my temporary hobbies. Those dreams, among other ones, would never become realities.

At this point in my life, I just want to write. However, sometimes even that seems like a tall order to ask for. This article is going to be my last piece of work for The Maneater. I won't be a columnist next semester or any kind of reporter. In fact, I'll be in Chicago attending community college: going backwards and starting over.

Life is not a walk in a park. I'll leave you to imagine the course of action that led to my academic demise, but I wouldn't dare leave you on a sour note. I'm done pissing on reality. In fact, I see newborn potential in myself. I am somebody who can assure you, dear reader, that if we work and desire, we can rise above the great pigeonhole.