A Grim Preface to the Memoirs of a Twenty-Something-Year Old

I feel silly. Only 22 years old and I feel like calling it a day. Settling down and writing my memoirs. It’s so wrong. Yet it makes a kind of elegant sense. I’ve done more in 10 years than many do in a lifetime. ‘Yet, what have I gained?’ I ask myself. ‘What’s the point’? 

What will the future bring?

I’m currently reading a retrospective si-fi book about an alien society. Its promising youth are sent for nine years of brutal training in preparation for leadership. Every three years a review is conducted. Those found unworthy are relegated to the service ranks.   All true identities are forbidden. The students become know to each other through codename – a façade of birthright and cunning. Success is not solely determined by marks in course subjects. Ability to lead deviously is part of the unofficial curriculum.

The book’s protagonist excels in scholastic and tactical matters. But, he fails to successfully define this last criterion as his own.  He comes into the fold of a prestigiously designated upperclassman, One Charaban, who embodies the latter ideal. Later, he betrays the protagonist, who is recruited into covert services. One Charaban continues to rise in the traditional manner. They become deadly enemies.  

I can remember being egged on from middle school. I had to perform well to get into the state’s top magnet school for academics.  And I did. Rising above small town pettiness. I was better than that.  After my family moved, I did even better. In an Asian community, I became respected as the ‘white kid’ who achieved top grades in advanced classes where oriental students dominated. I graduated nominally 13 in a class of over 750. The top 7 were ties for valedictorian. We’d all be attending the same university.

I’d always been told that I’d have it made if I got into a good collage. USC prepared me for the next round. I excelled in my studies and graduated with great honors a year early to pursue graduate school in Europe. Some of my Marshall classmates are now receiving jobs with the multi-national companies in LA. But, I spent little time thinking about those few with higher honors or more public gregariousness. I’d picked my goal. I had held my space.

Now I’m in the third phase of my education; nothing is more uncertain. For the first time, I’m around those who what I want. A career in Europe. Like collage applications, we still apply to multi-national companies on impersonalized websites. We hope to get noticed. Or to have someone pick us out of the pile. For the first time it galls me when anyone else gets accepted to anything.

My program is composed universities including LSE, and the University of Vienna. My second year will be at the latter. That’s not a bad thing. Yet, I am haunted by the question: What went to the former?

The ‘One Charabans’ of our existence will always haunt us.  They’re a reminder which belittles our efforts.  

I’m reminded of the Polish novel I recently read. In it, I learned a word that describes this situation better than any: Rozżalenie. It’s often mentioned after the main character’s most tragically heroic efforts.  It translates as ‘resentment’. But, literally refers to the portioning out of one’s own regret toward others. Of one’s own fears that they haven’t done enough.

Maybe I’ve gained nothing. But after so long, I grimly can’t stop. I’ll repress the ‘One Charabans’ that threaten. Achieve my goal at all costs.  After all, I've nothing else to fight for.