A Brew Half-Poured

I should've seen this coming. I really do have a bad habit of reaching too ambitiously whenever it comes to art or literature projects. Ah well, it can't be helped. I guess I'll just have to turn this reflection in unironed with all the wrinkles intact but the whole article unfinished. I would've really liked to finish it, but there's that gotdang SAT.

--//--

When I was little, I was sure that I was definitely going to be a scientist. Back in the Philippines, while my brother would play upstairs with his plastic robots, I would wedge myself between our couch cushions on a hot afternoon and just flip through our Children's Handy Encyclopedia.

God, I loved that little red book. In it I would read about plants that spring from rocks, exotic birds that lay eggs bigger than themselves, cat eyes that reflect light like the moon. And those giant lily pads.

"See? Look, look, Mom!" I once beamed as I giddily shoved the book at her. She replied with a warm smile as she took of her office shoes. "Aren't they cool?" I insisted,"It says here that they can hold an average six year-old above the water! I'm only four! Wow! When I grow up, I'm going to find one and ride it!"

Even after three years, in a new school in a new country, my love for science remained the same. I may have lost that book, but I didn't lose my optimism: that underneath every rock was an exciting fact or some new discovery that made me feel more at awe at the possibilities of this world.

In first grade, I respected magnifying glasses the way a kid does with his mock tool belt. In second grade, I dusted off Mr. Smith's animal compendium to read avidly about how zebra patterns worked to confuse predators and how to differentiate between a Bactrian and a Dromedary camel (the number of humps on the camel coincides with the number of humps there are on the first letter of its type: one hump is a Dromedary, two a Bactrian). In third grade, I was catching slugs and saving robin eggs to show the class while the teacher aide brought me mint leaves to inhale and new words like "herm-AHphrodaa...yit?" to swish around in my mouth. In fourth grade, I was on cloud nine, finally working with a microscope to look at live plankton fresh off the Puget Sound (A microscope - just like real scientists! Can you believe it?). By the end of fourth grade, I had fine-tuned my childhood dream into "biologist," the intellectual Indiana Jones of the natural world.

But something else had also happened along the way.

"Um...it's, like, nitrogen or something, right?" I drew out.

"Yes, nitrogen is the most abundant gas in the atmosphere," Mr. Brown read out loud from his trivia game card. "You've won again! I honestly don't think you need those extra credit points, Aldrick!"

And it continued to early middle school:

"Let's get our acts together, ladies and gentlemen," Mrs. Sheppard barked. "I have given this elements quiz almost five times already, and only Aldrick has gotten a 100 on all times."

Practically a Fabergé egg.

Though I admittedly felt a little embarrassed by that last one (and a little worried that she roused some misplaced spite from the others against me), as I was growing up, I began to realize that the facts I enjoyed could do more than just make me feel good about the world. It turned out that science could also show the world how good I am. And for a kid that had never played any sport or participated in a common goal like the Boy Scouts or orchestra or anything, that feeling of being a winner - even for something so pathetically little - was huge.

Soon it wasn't enough for me to find a butterfly and just marvel at its beautifully chaotic symmetry, not caring if it'd stay or flutter away when I was done. No, now I definitely had to cage it somehow, so I could rip its wings off and spit "TheMonarchButterflyDerivesItsBittertasteFromTheMilkweedItConsumesAsACaterpillar!" like a turret before pinning it feverishly on my shirt for others to congratulate me.

And school - with all those review games and tests and grades - encouraged that kind of greed. That isn't a bad thing per se - it makes sense in real life: the more you know, the better you are. Science then became a game, with the facts as points and report cards as score sheets. While I wasn't the best at all the sciences in middle school (a zoological background can't cover everything), I liked to entertain the idea that my passion for the subject gave me a competitive edge.

But the longer I hung up there with the top, the harder the questions got and harder it was for me to keep a grip on my pride. I finally slipped in high school.

"An 82?" I gawked at the ecology test Mrs. Winn handed back. I furtively scanned the room. There were the expected grimaces, but they were balanced by pleased smiles; no hint of a brewing outrage here. In other words, the test was fair, and I just failed.

I managed to rebound with a solid honest A in the class by the end of the year, but I was still unnerved by how easily I could've swerved into a B. That disaster waited until last year, when I took chemistry and had to swallow my first non-A without the seven points. By the end of sophomore year, I just rationalized that fine - I suck at chemistry. But it was all gonna be okay 'cause there was AP Bio next year, and I could get back to playing my strengths.

Instead, Wolfe's class was a congregation of geniuses like Sid and Nari, which corrected any delusion that science would be something to gratify my ego. It wasn't a game anymore but a tournament, where in every class we were supposed to scramble to know and learn - not necessarily more - but better than the others because the prize was a successful career that our parents could lord over their friends. Science was now a full-fledged competition - and I was losing.

All of a sudden it was "Extract it, assess it, apply it. Again. Faster now, faster, faster - FASTER!" and I just couldn't keep up. I was so frustrated with my comparatively slower reactions that I eventually retreated back inside. For the first semester, I felt like a four year old again, pointing nervously at my little red book as I now tapped at the shoulders of real scientists.

"Oh!...in the Gulf of Mexico! - sometimes a bunch of... microorganisms can make the water glow!"

"Yes, I know. Those microorganisms are specifically called dinoflagellates, and the bioluminescence is caused by oxygen reacting with luciferin - the same stuff as fireflies."

"Uhh okay...um...uh - the water bear! They've been sent to space - um - they're these microorganisms found in -mosses! you see...and they're really resilient. They can resist...really high temperatures...and freezing ones too!

"You mean the tardigrade? Right, their tolerance ranges from around 150° C to near abolute zero, I think."

It was almost as if I was squeaking "I was smart too - I promise!" until it no longer felt like something to regain and prove but more like something I just mouthed to console myself. And when that wasn't enough...I just flat out hated science. "It spits at the world," I eventually brooded. "Science guts life to bleed her dry of numbers and data just so they can jar her wonders for all to see. And who'd want to do that?" My dream soured, so I threw it away, spitefully wishing it'd just burn in the sun.

--//--

I promise you though that there's a happy ending to this (the introspection writing encourages saves the day!). I also would've like to convey a clearer interpretation of pride/ego. I felt like I was bumbling around with that idea, not really understanding how to appropriately incorporate it though I knew it fit in. That and probably give a more honest retelling. A lot of this was simplified to be easily digestible and linear even though there are layers of thoughts that go through one's mind that complicate the perception and interpretation of events. I promise you that I wasn't that deluded to think myself a statue among pedestals; halfway through middle school, I was already aware that science wasn't something to inflate my ego because I already knew that it wasn't my best subject! So why did I say it like it was then? Like I said, it's hard for me to piece together why I thought and did things. It's just so much easier to simply divide my growth along grade level and just blame everything on pride. I think I'm bordering on psychoanalysis here which is pretty hard to conduct even on myself. Perhaps I'll sort and finish this out in the summer?

Lawl. After I ride a flying pig maybe.