(First of all, this new blogger format is weird and seems unnecessary. Why is the internet perpetually fixing things that aren't broken?)
Anyway, sometimes I feel like I overly intellectualize a lot of things, usually tv shows. But perhaps that's silly because if fiction isn't for analyzing, then what's it for?
This week's episode of Glee resounded with me, and that sentence still seems silly. But it's true.
I've always defended the seemingly insufferable character that is Rachel Berry. In fact, throughout all the crazy storylines and autotuning and whatnot, Rachel's story is the one that keeps me watching. People find her so annoying.
She is annoying. But she's annoying because she's passionate. She's ambitious and confident. These are qualities that are still frowned upon, however subtly, in women. When men work deliberately toward their dreams, they're being proactive. When Rachel does it, she's being manipulative. Her confidence is interpreted as arrogance. Of course she isn't perfect and takes it too far sometimes, but fans seem to use that as an excuse to hate her for her ambition. She knows what she wants, and it intimidates people.
One of the few things Glee's gotten right is Rachel's character development. Generally, they're terrible at developing characters. Personalities and motivations fly all over the place with no rhyme or reason. But Rachel's steadily improved throughout three seasons. She's matured and softened, but also hasn't lost sight of who she is--"a star."
I've always liked Rachel. I've always been ambitious, but sometimes I'm afraid to tell people so because I think they'll consider me delusional. But I'm not delusional. What's so delusional about aiming high and having the confidence to go after what you want?
Then on this week's episode, all of Rachel's hard work culminated one audition, and she choked.
As she cried and begged for another shot (which was amazing acting on Lea Michele's part, by the way), my heart broke for her. Because I feel like I'm on that stage, choking, right now.
Today, I officially got my first C in a class. Later in the week, my second one is inevitable. People always say Cs aren't the end of the world. I agree, they aren't the end of the world. But they're the end of a part of my world, and I'm not going to pretend that isn't a big deal and I'm not upset at it and myself. And I'm not going to pretend that these terrible grades have very real consequences for my life, academically and personally.
Rachel Berry's whole life centers around her singing. My whole life is centered around school. When it all comes crashing down, there's really nothing to do but grin and bear it. I recognize how false people's attempts at making her feel better after her choking sounded; it was one of Glee's few realistic moments. There isn't any comfort. There's nothing you can do. You want so badly to go redo those few moments that messed everything up, but you just can't.
But Rachel's fictional and fixing her problems is easy as typing a few paragraphs onto a screenplay. My life isn't as easy to figure out. What am I going to do now that I've sabotaged myself?
I impulsively signed up for creative writing, dropping a fancy education class. If I'm going to fail, I should at least write about it. I need to do something where I feel in control of my own fate and where I feel like what I'm doing matters. I need to love it. If I get a C doing something I love, then it would be worth it. C's for things I don't care about, that are just check marks on a future planning worksheet..that's not worth it.
I'm scared of going to my academic advising appointment in the fall and telling them I've failed, waiting for them to say "I should look at other options." I'm scared of facing my family members who are so sure in my genius. I'm scared of facing the teachers at home who had so much faith in me.
I'm tired of feeling isolated in my despair; it's hard to let go of much of what you've planned on your whole life, but I have to. Everybody thinks that's dramatic, but it's true. C's don't go to grad school. At least I have Rachel Berry to sing a depressing ballad over and over through my computer's speakers.
"Is it over yet? Can I open my eyes? Is this as hard as it gets? Is this what it feels like to really cry?"
