For the Future

For the Futureby Ken Ruan on Thursday, January 19, 2012 at 2:35am

One week before the semester commences. Another semester, another pack of classmates. Another pack of subtle competitors. But I've had the luck of rarely competing with my classmates. I participate the most and I become the teacher's pet instantly. This wins me special attention. When the professor doesn't call on me or tells to the class "Anyone else?" and ignores me for the rest of the class time, it's safe to say I have secured an A. Before I become arrogant and peachy, I admit that a few of my professors have been tough graders who graded me on every paper that I wrote. They blind graded and it resulted in a grade lower than an A.When the winter break tiptoed into my life, I was anxiously awaiting five final grades. I writhed in bed and my lips quivered because I did not see any grades on my transcript. Panicing, I learned to love the refresh icon, but I had to wait another three weeks for all my grades to magically appear. This rhythm of anxiety colored most of my winter vacation. It did not officially begin until New Year's arrived. Even when the ball dropped I was mesmerized that another year had blinked by. And my college life was about to officially conclude. I would leave behind anonymous footprints and not take home a yearbook because I chose not to take a graduation picture. I feel completely anonymous in college. The overwhelming sense of competition has forced me to give up competing with my classmates and not give a single hoot. I would make my evanescent impression on my college classmates and college professors by ingratiating myself with them and writing absurdly complex term papers that looked like A's from afar, but upon closer reading-in-between lines, deserves less than a B for glaring grammatical errors and mishaps with syntax. But I put a lot of pride in being ostentatious with my writing and showy with my flowery style. I make it a point to prune my writing style and make it distinguished from the rest of the class. In this way I breeze through college classes by attracting a higher grade.I did not realize that I was a lazy person, until now. I do not want to work hard and I do not want to exert any effort at working hard. I suppose that my 21 years of being coddled by my parents have shaped me into anything but an independent person. I am certainly not a formidable candidate for The Bachelor on ABC. I do not harbor any sentiments of a hard-working person who has consideration for the American Dream. I admit that I loathe the American Dream because it sets up unattainable standards that are rooted in ideals and are steadfast in luck and who you know. But I understand that success is pronounced in relationship to someone else. I can be successful from someone else's perspective. I have settled (at this moment) to work in a bookstore. This comes upon deaf ears with my parents because they deny what they heard. They cannot come to terms with this news, that their only son who has achieved nothing but amazing grades, would want to do menial labor at a bookstore when his degree supplants any requirements at a bookstore. My overqualification should alarm me into searching for higher status work. If I work at a bookstore I will be guaranteed an invisible presence. Especially if I stack books I will be invisible. I admit that I love books, but to work in Barnes and Nobles is an awesome way to build a cloak of invisibility and anonymity.I want to be an artist. The mounting problem that surfaces is that there are many New Yorkers (hipsters) who share my same dream and goal of becoming a starving artist. Artists don't make money, my parents echo this to me in my sleep. They implant this dire warning in me from infancy. Why on earth would I want to live with my parents and perpetually rely on them financially? A man who is tethered to his parents is not a man because he is not a breadwinner. A man who does not have employment is denuded of masculinity and manhood. As a starving artist who meanders from odd job to odd job, a salary is not an easy find or an easy paint. Especially being an artist in NYC where there is a surplus of self-promoting artists, it is a hit or miss. A 50/50 chance of being visible while the rest goes unscathed and unnoticed. Clearly the proliferation of subway artists and buskers touch upon the surplus of artists. The bountiful supply of a different range of talents have caused quantity versus quality battle. At this rate, the arts will become diluted and the appreciation for the arts will either be revived or continue to be enslaved at the hands of neoliberalism and market economy.