The clock read 12:30 pm - I slowly pushed myself up from the dismantled array of blankets on the floor. Sprawled across the 2’ by 2’ square foot table laid a stack of 5th-grade academia - Easy Arithmetic Math and Beyond, 5 Steps to Perfect Grammar, and A Social World History 6. With the balcony door slightly ajar, the neighborhood preschoolers’ screams echoed from a distance. The humid heat glued my hair onto my neck and every movement felt stiff and forced. My parents were away, busy with work; I had only my brother to rely on. It was day 24 of this nonsense called homeschooling.

Every day, I plopped myself at my desk and attempted to focus all my energy on learning. I specifically avoided comfortable garments to fight drowsiness while studying, I completely cleared my desk from distractions, and I drowned my brother with questions. But miserable without a real teacher, I begged to go to local school, even if I couldn’t speak any Korean at the time. Wasn’t it common sense that a 5th grader couldn’t self-study all of a sudden? Tired of my complaints, the excuses waved in: we were missionaries on a visitor visa, English schools were over an hour away, there was no money. Irritated, I blamed my parents, whom instructed me to preoccupy myself by mastering fluency in Korean. Weeks, then months of 2008 passed and freedom elicited dreariness. My mind blurred, and I responded by retreating to oblivion.

Bing! Through a screen, I watched the lives of old friends unfold. Molly already learned algebra, and I couldn’t spell Pythagorean theorem. Henry mustered up the courage to ask a girl for their first middle school dance while the closest thing to a formal I had was through another screen, the movie “Prom.” And then it sprouted, a seed of jealousy.

What happened to me? Why not me? I used to stand side by side with them, but that was stripped from me. They got ahead, they ran, they leaped and flew towards the finish line while I was chained to the ground. I measured myself against their accomplishments, and suddenly I realized I had no skills, no talents.

Anticipating a dismissive response, I quickly gathered my family. I thought I found the end-all-be-all solution to my problems when I discovered international schools. While maintaining her posture, my mother looked into my naive eyes.

She spoke, “?? ??? ??? ????,” - “I’m sorry you were born to a bad mother.” 

Hopelessness rooted itself into my heart. My heart trembled, guilt-ridden. She didn’t need to say it; because we’re poor. That very hopelessness, now thorny vines, encompassed my ribcage, stifling me. I knew then that my so-called jealousy of my friends was really because it was something I desired for myself.

Two years later, as we moved to Malaysia, the “What If” game occupied my spare time. What if I become that person that lives in their parents’ basement at age 30? What if I never graduate high school? Uncertainty clenched my neck as the apple of temptation to give up dangled in front of me and tested my perseverance toward education.

Relentless and unsatisfied, I needed to fill the void in my heart. I clicked in-and-out of school websites, and the printer toner made its daily transformation into a different brochure. Not-so-subtly, I gingerly placed them in the center of my dad’s desk. I carefully wrote out a dozen proposals for my parents- a plan to send me to a distant cousin’s home in Texas or enrolling into summer classes. Anything would do. What if, what if, what if?

None of my proposals worked. Pointless weeks passed, until one day, my dad sat me down.

He said, “Caris, let’s not get our hopes up too much.” Confused, I patiently waited for elaboration.

“You and your brother are going to apply for International School,” he paused, “but we can’t do anything if we can’t afford it, honey.” It was an effort to stop my useless proposals. Although saddened by the intent, I remained optimistic during the application process, humming along to R. Kelly’s “I Believe I Can Fly.”

Perhaps I should call it speculative coincidence, a miracle, or credit my stubbornness. Whatever it was, I somehow managed to step onto the green field of International School as a newly admitted student on scholarship. Awestruck and afraid that everything may be a cruel joke, I didn’t allow myself to be happy. Finally, in my dark room, the moonlight accompanied me as I sat at the edge of my bed. I guess I really will be graduating high school, I realized. What I worked so hard for was finally here. Achieved.

Now, even as a legal adult, I ponder about the “what-ifs” and missed possibilities in life. These moments that used to only drain me turned into my source of motivation to seize the presented opportunities. Pain and ambiguity are loaded behind these words, but there are equal measures of wonder behind “what if.” What if I sign up for that yoga class or join the newspaper staff with zero experience? What if I go night hiking in the Columbia Gorge? What if I sing in front of 30 classmates for my literature presentation? What if I run for Key Club President my first year of high school? Every moment of trial and despair molded my drive for learning. Education is a privilege I seize.