My Road to Happiness

“So what do you think you got on the test?”

I turned to the girl and replied, “I don’t know it was so unfamiliar to me.”

She gave me a side-glance then said, “ Really? It was pretty much a review for me. My high school teacher was pretty thorough.”

“But what about the equations at the bottom. I don’t think I have ever seen any of those symbols.”

The boy behind me chimed in, “You should have covered that in Calc 2.”

 Calc 2? I thought to myself. What in the world is this guy talking about. I haven’t even done Calc 1. I probably shouldn’t worry about it; the test is graded on a curve.

The professor walked into class as stiff and silent as a board. Slowly he paced to his desk and placed his books and belongings. He then grabbed a manila folder from his bag, pulled a stack of test sheets out and started calling out names. One by one students eagerly went to the front of the class to collect their tests and see their scores. I closely watched the faces of my peers trying to get an idea of the scores the students were getting. Soon almost everyone had a paper and then finally my name was called. I was the last person to retrieve their test. As I walked towards the front of the room, I wasn’t that nervous. I hadn’t seen anyone who looked too disappointed at their score so I was already assuming that the instructor had made a pretty sweet curve. With his hands he rolled up my test sheet, extended his arm and gave me a blank uninterested stare. I grasped the paper and started to unfold it unveiling a big red “F”. I was dumbstruck. This letter was completely unknown to me in the education system. The lowest grade I had ever received was a “B”. It didn’t make sense. Some how my hours of studying did not add up. I was stuck in a place between fantasy and reality. No matter how long I stared at the letter, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to cry or laugh. There had to be a mistake. Chemistry was my major. I couldn’t fail a chemistry course! After class, I talked to my teacher who merely glanced at my test handed it back and said. “There are no mistakes. You’ll just have to be better prepared.” Quietly, I took the paper, placed it in my binder, and left the room.

That night I went home and broke the new to my parents. “I guess you’ll just have to learn how to work harder.” My mother unsympathetically suggested, “ You need to start learning to prioritize and cut out those extra activities.” I felt my jaw go tight as I restrained my comments of frustration. I had prioritized. I hadn’t seen my friends in weeks, and I had taken work of to study.

“Why are you doing a major that’s so hard?” My dad remarked. “It’s ok to admit that something is too hard for you. It’s probably not your…”

“I can handle it!” In that statement, every emotion festering inside me released. “I’ll do what it takes to get to the level I need to be at! I’ll just have too…”

 “Roni, why don’t you major in art? I would really love to see you pursue art.”

I couldn’t believe it. Here I was in the middle of a breakdown, and my mother had the nerve to make such a casual suggestion. I turned my head, took a deep breath and said, “ I can’t believe you would actually think I would even consider such a frivolous major.”

The rest of the night I kept replaying the conversation with my parents in my head over and over again. What would prompt my mother to have such and idea? I hadn’t even drawn since Junior High. I was always artistically inclined when I was little, but I soon learned that being an artist wasn’t a talent that would get me anywhere in life, so I abandoned it. Who would really want to play the part of the poor and starving artist? 

At school, the following day, I received an “F” on my physics test. This was still a huge disappointment, but not as much as a shock the first time around. I sat staring at that scarlet letter. This just wasn’t adding up and I needed a solution. I gathered my things into my backpack and headed for the counselor’s office.

When I arrived I waited for about 20 minutes before I was let in to a counselor. When I got into the office sunk into the seat and said, “What is going on? It’s only been three weeks of school and I’m already flunking out of college!” From there I just kept talking and talking.  It was the only thing to do. I relayed all the events to my counselor, told him my thoughts, feelings, and how it was suppose to be

With not even a word, my counselor asked for my student ID number, a then with a few taps and a click and there was my schedule. She started looking at in intently, bit her lip, and let out a puzzled “huh.” A few more seconds passed and then still staring at the computer said, “Have you taken AP Chemistry?”

“No.” I answered.

“Calculus 1 or 2?”

“No.”

“AP Physics?”

“No.”

“Well I think I figured out your problem Miss Sloan. You haven’t taken any prerequisites. How in the world did you get into those classes?”

“I met with a counselor a week before school started and she told me this was the 4 year track and that I’d be fine.”

She hesitated for a second and then replied, “Well, I hate to break it to you but you don’t want a whole bunch of  “F’s” on your transcript. Do you have a job?”

“I do.”

“Then I’d advise you to get out of this semester and work. There is know way you’ll make it through these classes and it is too late to transfer into any other classes.”

I began to cry. I felt so desperate. “But I’ll lose my scholarship?”

“I’m sorry, but if you fail you’ll lose it anyway. At least that way they won’t be on your transcripts. Don’t do it yet if you don’t want. Do you live at home?”

I nodded.

“Talk to your parents and ask them. Your just not qualified for these classes.”

For a moment I stared blankly at the desk as I soaked in the situation. I picked up my bags, thanked the counselor for her time, and hauled myself out of the office. Step by step I finally made my way out of the building thinking and hearing everything and nothing. I went outside and fell on the steps and sobbed.

            “Now nothing can be that bad.” Said a voice.

This feminine stranger obviously didn’t know my life. With the backside of my hand I rubbed my eyes dry and said, “ It is. It’s my first year of college and I’m already a college drop out!”  The woman sat down along side of me and asked for details. With nowhere to go or be, I found myself telling this perfect stranger. After she heard my story she gave me a side hug, squeeze my arm with her hand, and with a hopeful smile said. “I think I can help you. Come with me to my office.”

Help? Was it really possible? Could this middle-aged woman with sandy long hair save my college career? I didn’t know, and at that moment I didn’t know what to believe or hope for, but I followed.  We walked to the far northwest side of campus and entered a 4-story building. It was a little dirty inside, with obnoxious teal walls with an occasional spot of graffiti. I followed her into the office; she sat at the computer, and asked me a few questions about my schedule. Before I knew it, she pulled a piece a paper from the printer and handed it to me. “ If you can just meet with these teachers, they’ll give you signatures for late entrance into their class and at least you’ll have 12 credits to get you through the semester. The next semester you can get back on track. It might set you back a little, but at least you won’t loose your scholarship.”

That semester I was enrolled in Art History 101, and 102, Drawing 1 and English 102, (the only class I didn’t have to withdraw from off my original schedule.) It was a great semester and I found myself rediscovering my buried talent. My drawing instructor praised me in my work and encouraged me to pursue. I told him I would take one art class the following semester for fun, but that I was going to do chemistry. The following semester, I walked into my first chemistry class and the instructor spent the whole lecture expressing his passion for chemistry and how he couldn’t think of a better life, than being able to do what he loved, chemistry everyday. That speech changed me. It ignited a fire within me, but not for chemistry. It was art. I loved art. It was my passion and I didn’t want to live a day without it. After class, I went to the office of the Herberger College of Fine Arts and enrolled in the pre-art courses.

Now when I think back to this event, there isn’t a question or doubt in my mind, that god helped play a role in helping me find my passion and calling in life. I will always be grateful to the influence of divine intervention. However after revaluating my story, I realize there is probably a more universal belief that can be extracted from this story. It is my belief in the importance of living life by doing what I love. Because of that day, I get to pursue my passions and my dreams every moment of my life, and it has brought me irreplaceable and insurmountable happiness and satisfaction that I didn’t know was possible. Before I found painting, I wasn’t just failing tests, I was failing at life.

I know the last sentence gets a little cheesy.