A trickle of sweat raced down my hairline to join the one pooling above my upper lip. Inhale. Exhale.
Zeroing in on what seemed to be a loose end at the bottom of the tower, I stretched my hand outward to give it a little push. The entire column shook with the force, threatening to topple over if ever acquainted with a wisp of wind. I threw my hands up in surrender with the hopes of being shown mercy for my impulsivity, and after wobbling for a time too alarming for my sanity, the structure resumed the position it had before me.
One would think that all these ceremonies were a tad dramatic for a game of Jenga, but I wasn’t about to get my first taste of defeat. After inspecting every angle of the tower, I caught a slab and wiggled it out of place, though the harder part was having to add its weight to the pile. I hovered my hand above …The collective gasps reached my ears before the realization did, and that’s how I knew I had done it … then.
Exhale.
I stared at the screen in front of me, attempting to ignore the fact that my heartbeat resided on each side of my head, but the way my hands shook might’ve betrayed any composure I had left.
“Dear Erika,”
My mouse hovered on the pop-up, and it stayed there for one too many minutes to count. I told myself it was because imitating the same concentration was necessary to achieve the same success, either that or I had to subconsciously prepare for whatever the result may be. The sequence was almost a replica of those Jenga games, yet the echoing crash that came after was not.
“We appreciate your interest in us, but …”
The world around me stopped moving, like the few seconds of silence between the slight misstep and the consequent dismantling of the tower, though I have never been the one to take the brunt of it until now. I didn’t know how to act, didn’t know what to do, but to sit there and stare. I traced the unfamiliar words repeatedly—“unfortunately,” “regret”—up until I understood what they meant; little did I know the effort was wasted, as I would be more than acquainted with them for years to come.
The messages that came after were almost like a routine. A curdling in my stomach ensued with every expectancy, the enthusiasm I felt for the potential to be part of something, only for the butterflies to be killed by the brutal assault of the same phrases. The plans I had conjured up for this organization, I had to shred all those pieces and force myself to kiss that road goodbye. I knew I could make an impact if given the chance, but with every dismissal, the doubt started to creep in. Applications to organizations turned to ones for colleges and back, though the downcast mood remained, and the letters started to spell “rejection” until they read my name.
Dissociating myself with concepts of failure became progressively harder, for who was I but a product of constant nonacceptance? What could I hold over my head in pride if my qualities didn’t seem to be telling? I only wished to reach my fullest potential, but how would I do that without being presented with even the slightest opportunity to try?
When the latest message came in, I could swear I was stuck in a cruel time loop. I told myself that it was different this time—my sacrifices in the application process were nothing short of significant—but my hand stalled on the notification, maybe because I somehow already knew what the words would read. My eyes started to blur, my palms sweat, and for the life of me, I couldn’t catch my breath before it fell to the pit of my stomach.
What was I going to do now?
Suddenly, I wanted to go home. I wanted to get back on my desk, open my laptop, and draft an appeal letter that wasn’t even due until a week after. I didn’t want to sit here and throw yet another pity party for myself if I knew in my heart that I deserved to be there, that I was somebody they wouldn’t regret taking a chance on. Besides, if one block managed to shift the whole tower, who’s to say I couldn’t change my point of view and have another one take me to victory?
And to victory did I go.
My acceptance to the organization felt like being tossed a lifeline, and when the planning started, it was almost as though I needed to swim to shore before I drowned. Despite the occasional doubts I had in myself, coupled with a spotlight exposing my every move, my composure remained.
By the end of the semester, I was told they were foolish to have stood by their initial dismissal of me, but while they “regretted to inform me” then, I couldn’t say I returned the sentiment; if it meant taking me exactly where I needed to be, “remorseful” wouldn’t be the word to describe any of it.
The next time I played Jenga, I found that I wasn’t scared of a little wind, as the second it howled my way, I felt like I could breathe again.
Erika Elizabeth Sy
Keep the flame burning