The Golden Rule of School

He has kind, pale blue, watery eyes and an affable smile. He’s gentle, soft-spoken, unassuming and thoughtful. He’s pensive, reflective, intellectually curious and mindful.

He’s the competition.

I had my last summer class last night. A few of us scrambled over to the photocopier in the Hall Building afterwards, trading notes from missed classes back and forth. John* and I got to talking about why we were taking this class, as it had come up before that we both already hold undergraduate degrees and as such, this course is not a necessity for graduation.

Our stories, as they unfolded, were conspicuously similar. We had both applied to the same Master’s program and were both initially denied entrance. We had both visited with the same graduate director, meetings from which we both, albeit unknowingly, walked away with the exact same advice. We’re both taking the same class in the fall; we’re both applying again in November.

‘They take ten people!’ I sputtered, nervous and anxious in the face of such stark competition. He could be number 10, taking up the last, coveted spot, I told myself. And yet, I found myself rambling on and on about how I had been told to ask this particular professor for a reference letter, how I had been advised to take this course as opposed to that one. As I passed on these words of wisdom that have disturbed my sleep and ruled my free time for the past few months, I realized that this, this is why I am not, and will never be, competitive.

When I was in high school, for some reason that remains unknown to me until this day, I made the basketball team. I was a horrible player. What?! You expect me to get in someone’s WAY? I have to BLOCK someone? What if I hurt their feelings? What if their parents are watching and I make them miss their shot? How are they going to feel then? I once got yanked off the court for being too ‘friendly’ with the other team.

“Heather, get your pink-ribboned head over here NOW,” Mr. Baxter shouted, seething, his vein-cluttered eyes popping. “Stop yapping with the other team. We’re trying to BEAT them, in case you haven’t realized!”

I was dumbfounded. I had just made friends with a girl who was going to be attending the same CEGEP as me next year. This was great! Who cared about the stupid game? What did it matter who actually won the thing?

I thought about this last night as I was talking to John*. Sure, his Liberal-Arts-College-Ottawa-lobbyist-totally-kick-ass-smart background might earn him a spot in this Master’s program. If it does, he’ll deserve it. And, if my advice helps a little, well then, so be it. I would want him to do the same thing for me.

And so, as he lightly touched my elbow, looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘good luck Heather, I really hope we both get in,’ I knew he meant it, and I knew I had probably made a friend. And that makes me feel a lot better than being a death-eating, competitive monster.