Broken Statue, Broken Student
She grew up in a home
where every grade mattered,
where “A” stood for average,
and anything below 100%
was not good enough.
She grew up in a school
that told her she was special,
talented,
advanced.
They honed her skills,
made her work for the grade
rather than the knowledge;
she became their puppet.
But they didn’t teach her
that it would get harder,
that the kids who read
at a college level in 6th grade
would be failing AP Literature,
struggling to finish even a single book
to the end,
and that she would grow to resent school,
despite her love for learning.
They didn’t teach her
that someone is always better,
smarter,
more gifted,
that the colleges she’d dream of attending
have an acceptance rate of 17%,
and the system has become so corrupt
that in order to make it in the world,
it is essential to take AP classes.
They didn’t teach her
how to solve problems,
that when things get tough,
you have to be tougher,
that good work only comes from hard work,
and success is not easy.
AP students
are the apples
that fall from forgotten trees,
planted in lonely backyards,
faded, like the family photos
that haunt us:
a father that is more handsome,
a mother that is more beautiful,
a sister that is taller,
stronger,
smarter.
How do we live in a world
where to succeed,
we must sacrifice our social life,
our family,
our hobbies?
How do we live in a world
where the grade,
the score,
comes before a student’s mental health?
They never taught her
that her best
would never be enough,
that she
would never be enough.
We are
the broken antique statues
they try desperately to glue back together.
But no glue can seal a broken heart,
and no one ever notices
the cracks
beneath the surface
of a fake smile,
a forced laugh,
a broken student.