10th-grade first semester English was the bane of my existence. When you, a self-conscious and goody-two-shoes student who spent hours a day on a short story for English class, are told that you “didn’t try hard enough”, it ends up hitting harder than expected (bonus points if it’s based on what the only real physically traumatic experience you’ve had in middle school). Afterward, my mom was left to clean up the tangled mess of emotions that I came home with.

It doesn’t mean the end of the world.

That’s what she said to me in the middle of my crisis. I’ve probably heard that phrase hundreds of times with every bout of severe anxiety I faced since the beginning of high school. Without fail, every single time, I would think “it means the end of my world and my future”. My fear of what lies past failure constantly pressured me to go beyond 100%. “Strive for the level of achievement that’s not physically possible”, was my ideology. It plagued me in my public concerts and speeches, making me more insecure and even avoidant of the arts that I had practiced since I was 6 years old.

So, when I heard that our final exam for English would be a theatre performance of Romeo and Juliet, requiring us to accurately translate a scene and present it creatively, you can imagine the amount of panic I felt. I talked with my teacher for days, asking her if there were any ways to raise my B+ to a low A, problem-solving as much as I could in the midst of my other finals, and losing several hours of sleep. But with each day, I’d remember the haunting words spoken a month ago that made me fear this specific English final so much: You didn’t try hard enough. 

The days seem to fly by when you’re expecting something absolutely dreadful. I’ve had horrible English experiences before, such as missing too many classes or having a groupmate that didn’t finish his or her work before the due date, but that all paled in comparison to the dreadful fact that for the final week of the semester, I would have to act as the angry father from Romeo and Juliet in the middle of a party. It wasn’t even for my main final; rather, my acting in this would just determine if I got extra credit or not, and I would’ve had to perform again, so a subtle role would’ve suited me better. If I just had to say a couple of lines and walk off the stage, I probably wouldn’t have been so anxious. But no, the quiet kid just has to be the one to yell in front of her peers to get an A on her final. 

I had moments to prepare myself before I entered the class (these moments constructing the shortest, most fleeting passing period I have ever experienced in my high school career). I walked with a friend to my classroom, and before I left, she gave me a cheap plastic gold ring. She said it was for good luck. 

It was slightly loose, but I held on to that ring like my lifeline as I entered the classroom. Our teacher, stern and serious, faced us as the bell rang and started the series of scenes chronologically. With mine being located closer to the beginning, I only had to wait for a couple more groups of awkward teenagers to scramble to the center of the U formation of our desks. Each group made the ring spin more and more around my finger or be removed and placed on another one. Eventually, I was waiting in the corner of the room with a cape.

“Wow, she’s beautiful; the most beautiful I’ve seen.” Our Romeo speaks his final few (poorly translated into modern English) words before he walks off for me and the other student acting as Tybalt to occupy the stage.

I frankly don’t know what we rewrote Tybalt’s lines as, or what happened before getting to the center of the class. All I remember was looking at my teacher and then the girl acting as Tybalt. All the spite and anger I felt towards my teacher erupted and fueled my energy at that moment. I essentially made this poor kid my emotional punching bag without actually hurting her in any way other than giving her a little startle, because my voice was loud.

“You little brat!” Lord Capulet (basically) says to his nephew. I felt like a parent scolding their little toddler in the most toxic way possible. “Am I the boss here or you? You insolent idiot, complete buffon! Mark my words you will tolerate him or else you’ll be the one causing chaos!”

There were silent gasps from around the room. The dudes let out that kind of weird “ohoho” sound when they’re surprised and leaned back a little in their chairs. The girls blinked a few times in shock and either laughed at the dialogue or let their faces stretch into an oval and pursed their lips from the surprise. The quiet kid was mad. 

“B-but uncle-”

“Yeah? You saucy boy?” Those words were kept for a comedic touch. Before long I turned to my peers in their desks with their mouths slightly agape. “Why! Please enjoy yourselves, my precious guests!”

My scene ended. The adrenaline led me shakily to my desk, where I tapped my feet for the rest of the dialogue. It continued through the critiques and compliments the class offered to each group after they finished their performance. It continued through the second scene I had to participate in as Friar Laurence talking to Juliet. Even after school ended and we were sent home, I could still feel the buzz of excitement and goosebumps on my arms. It was only when I got home and collapsed on the sofa breathing slowly that the feeling went away, and all that was left was the euphoric sensation of accomplishment. It felt like closing all your browser tabs when you finish studying for a big test, except I’ve never done that as I’ve always kept my tabs to a minimum. For probably the first time in my high school career, I had done something notable. Something I was proud of. Something I could unironically put in my middle school “Portfolio of Academic Achievements” so it actually fulfills its purpose. It was something amazing.

10th-grade first semester English is no longer the bane of my existence.