The day you were swiped from your mother’s womb and took your first breaths, cried your first tears, you were handed a name. For me, it was Julia: five letters that were going to define me for the rest of my life. J-U-L-I-A. In elementary school, I’d write acrostic poems, and attempt to delineate the depths of my persona with those five letters. “J” was for joyful. “U” was for unafraid. “L” was for lovely. “I” stood for interesting. And “A” stood for amazing. Occasionally, I’d make the “A” stand for awesome, but only when I was feeling especially pompous. J-U-L-I-A, the five letters that defined me.
But then I grew up. Then, I was tossed into the whirlwind that is high school: the vanguard of standardized testing. Federal tests, state-mandated tests, Scholastic Aptitude Tests, ACTs, SAT IIs, Advanced Placement exams, and the list drones on. It was as if you entered high school diseased, and the only way to rid you of the plague of individuality was to have you fill in bubbles for four years straight. In high school, I was defined by five letters, but they were no longer the letters of my name. Instead, I became well acquainted with the beginning of the alphabet. A-B-C-D-E.
I used to sing the alphabet with such naive bliss, belting out the letters to the notorious tune, but those first five letters have lost their harmony. The only noise I can associate with those letters anymore is scratching pencils, sniffling noses, and ticking clocks. A. D. E. D. Alright, only five minutes in you have plenty of time. A. Hmm. When in doubt go with C. C. A. B. B. B. B. Hmm, that feels like too many B’s in a row. A. A. D. A. That person needs a tissue. B. E. C. A. Or in other words, my thoughts during the first section of the AP Physics Exam I endured a month ago -- or could it have been the science section of the ACT I took last year? My thoughts during the two, or for that matter any other standardized test I’ve begrudgingly undergone in the last four years, are indistinguishable, as they’re all just a disheveled anthology of those five letters.
They should’ve taught me, back when I wrote those ludicrous acrostic poems and sweetly sung the alphabet, how integral those first five letters really were. They should’ve ingrained in me that those five letters would come to form the numbers that would be the lifeline of my existence. It feels like all I've ever cared about in high school is those five letters. Government officials and college representatives did not, do not and will not care about my name, J-U-L-I-A. They care about what the brain behind that name could produce from five letters and constrained time. A-B-C-D-E. 4.0. 2400. 36.
