We all start out life the same: A strange newborn creature with nothing, everything is new and a scary experience. We don’t know the difference between the truth and lies, but pure innocence is unfortunately the easiest fabric to stain. At the end of elementary school, most of my innocence was already gone. I knew mostly what to expect in my future at the end of my fifth grade year, but little did I know, waiting for my Bak acceptance or rejection letter, that I would be lied to. Many things that seem to be true turn out to simply be deception with a shiny veneer that lures us in. It asks for our credence, begs us to see its mirage of verity that we try so hard to run away from. Far too often, though, we slip off the sheer end to the cliff, into a life led by lies indistinguishable from truth. I myself have been deceived countless times ever since my quest to know the truth began in the last year of elementary school.

The first major lie I was told was that Middle school would be easy, that I would make it through unscathed, with a new experience to tell and friends made along the way. And although my middle school years were not the worst of my life, they certainly weren’t the best either. In sixth grade, I entered thinking that middle school would just be a new version of elementary school, free of major worries, and full of exciting new experiences. At first, I found this to be true, I had little trouble finding friends, and classes held virtually no challenge. I remember walking through the halls, filled with the smells of middle school - pencil shavings, sweat, and hormones, thinking that I had it all. I waved to my closest friends in between classes, and could feel at least basic gratitude that I had people to sit next to during lunch, a place, and friends to save me a spot.

Soon enough, the second great deception arose. Near the end of sixth grade, I wasn’t doing too well in my art major - piano. My grades were just barely getting by, and to make it even worse, I was losing interest and my piano teacher could see it in my attitude. At this point, I knew there wasn’t much hope for my future in the Piano department, and together with my family, I decided to audition for the communications department. Of course, I saw the promise in a new beginning in middle school, but change is already difficult as it is. Combined with my other anxieties of tests and homework, I felt far from confident that I would be able to slide into a new school community, where I knew nobody. I was told by many that it would be natural for me to transition into a new field, that I had nothing to worry about. I tried my hardest to believe them, and that this decision would be for the best, but at that moment, as I sat practicing my writing in my room the night before my audition, I had no reason to believe I was even guaranteed any gain from all my toils.

Perhaps out of a stroke of luck, or maybe true qualification, I was accepted into the communications department. All the days hoping I could be something else, that I could break away from what was and soar into my greatest potentials seemed to be instantly validated. I remember strolling down the hallway of my new major, seeing the light emanate from all the classrooms, but what I didn’t realize was that the struggle was far from over. The first day I stepped into my film class in seventh grade, I didn’t need to be reminded that I was new, and that in the sea of friends and familiars, I was the exception. I had taken the class only because I didn’t know what the others would hold. I thought to myself on the day I received my course selection sheet “At least I know what we will be doing in this class.” But as I took a syllabus and a seat alone at the only empty table, I realized, with the voices of those who told me the transition would be easy running through my head, that it was a lie. Even though I knew they meant well for me, trying to encourage the best and quell the fears they knew would be the final cracks in an already sinking ship in the rough middle school seas, I didn’t see the well-meaning in the moment. All I saw was a classroom filled with laughing students, who had probably spent summer together, and knew well what they would do in the coming year as a continuance from the last and a smiling teacher. To her, I was just another student, just like all the others. But I felt unprepared to take on the Film II class. I felt like I shouldn’t even be taking a second level course without having completed the first.

As the first independent film deadline arrived, I had already made myself familiar with a few other students. We could talk to each other, but I knew that I wasn’t really connecting in the conversation, I felt like more of a roadblock than another car on the shining fast lanes to success. I came home one night pondering how I would ever be on par with the others, I held a camera in my hand, and mounted it onto the tripod I had just learned how to use and sat down in front of a blank storyboard. I ran my hands through my hair, trying desperately to stimulate any remnants of creative thought I might still have, but still, I fell short of any concrete plans. Up until then, I rarely felt so alone - Even though my old friends still had my back, we didn’t feel nearly as close. While they were working on their music theory that I was still scribbling just months before, I couldn’t help but feel empty. The day before the video project was due, I decided that I knew exactly what to do. Instead of being pensive over things others had told me that I regarded simply as sugar-coated lies, I should go back to my roots, back to what had made me feel true and honestly myself. Piano. With a newfound plan in mind, I scrambled to film shots of what I envisioned: a short glimpse into the life of a hard-working pianist. And because I still retained some of the piano-playing skills that kept my afloat in my previous major, I knew I could easily pass off as a believable aspiring pianist. With different angled shots compiled, some dramatic no-copyright music inserted, and a semi-confident feeling, I came to class the next day apprehensive but excited about the class’ reaction that was about to unfold at the screening of my film.

I sat in my usual seat next to the projector, half-proud and half trying not to cringe at my less than impressive camera work, but to my amazement, my peers seemed impressed. I could see the reflection in their pupils and some genuine interest. The critiques at the end were surprisingly uplifting and positive, and for some reason, I could tell they were being honest. And with a generous applause, and even a few accolades from my teacher, I knew at that instant, that I had made the right choice. Although all I could think when I first entered communications was how I’d been lied to, all I could think of at that moment, was that even if the journey isn’t easy, what I might become makes it thoroughly worth every struggle.