Let’s not play coy here, finals.

We both know I’m not ready for you, and we both know that Senioritis™ has made my personal brand of “Wait ‘Til The Last Second And Panic Because No One Thinks To Teach Gifted Kids How To Study” even more last second than normal. Psych finals won’t be too bad, because at this point I can spout off everyone from Piaget to Freud in my sleep. Global Ethics or, as I like to call it, my school’s last ditch effort to make sure we’re not assholes before we leave, is a take home because that professor is a goddess. But the majority of my classes this semester are going to culminate in giant projects that will have me sobbing into the wee hours of the morning.

So finals; be kind. Know that by the time you see me, I will be likely on my fourth day with no sleep, possibly after teaching, and probably after a meeting for an organization I’m giving my all to as an Executive Board member. Whether you are a test or a soul-sucking look into my deepest emotions in poetic form, you will be getting the last dregs of my sanity for the holidays. You will be gifted term papers that I’ve scoured to make sure my coffee didn’t leave a ring on, presentations I will stutter through because public speaking still turns me into a bumbling middle-schooler, and tests covered in eraser smudges and sparkling tears.

Finals, know that I will give you everything I have not to mention things I don’t. Because, despite what not giving myself near enough time to study may cause you to think about my work ethic, I want to do well. I will give my soul to the organizations I love on campus, then come home and give you every bit of my intelligence, talent for bullshitting “creativity”, and knack for regurgitating information.

Please, don’t take it personally that all the best parts of me aren’t things I can share with you, Finals. It’s just that, at your core, you are a form of standardized test. You are created to assess traits that may or may not be meaningless, and may or may not be a trait I possess or nurture within myself. You don’t get the best parts of me because, despite how you are revered and feared, you don’t deserve the best parts.

My grade on my final project for Afrofuturism won’t measure if I’ve become a better person and better ally to POC, which was my personal goal in taking the class. I may get a great grade on my term paper for my touring class in children’s theatre, but it won’t tell me how many lives my cast mates and I changed with the anti-bullying play we performed. But professors and colleges/universities need numbers, just like any other employee or business, so I understand your function dear Finals.

I will still power through to give the best final project my tired mind and body can give, because I know that’s how the system works to assess what I’ve learned. I will do it all again next semester, pouring everything I can into a last effort to show my value as a student. I will continue to push for one last semester.

But after that, Finals, you and I are THROUGH.