I was never much of a romantic. There were inside of me, however, pieces of idealistic images which, due to their inconsistency with reality, provoked great surges of duress. These mental pictures, depicting that which "should be," stuck in my mind and festered there. Whether they were derived of societal suggestions or secret aspirations of my own concoction, I could not tell, yet they were infuriating, whatever their origin might have been, because of their unattainable quality. The latter part of 12th grade was infiltrated by such lofty ideals, and I had to watch myself closely to make certain I did not begin to play a role other than me. "One's senior year," stated the ideal, "should be a celebration of the past and the future; one's days should be filled with blissful fun and one's company should include the steadfast friends made through the course of the years." I observed classmates and for some, my ideal seemed their reality. Deep inside of me, however, I knew that, in reference to my life, my ideal was a sinking ship. I possessed perfectionistic qualities but lacked the ambition and the need to acquire awards. For myself I wanted to succeed. I did not, however, have to be the best; depending on so many variables, who could determine what was "best"? Idly I reflected on my achievements: two year member of the National Honor Society, member of the Spanish Honor Society, and placed second in the school (after a native speaker) for a National Spanish Exam, for which I received a Spanish Dictionary. It was not a lengthy or conspicuous list, but I was satisfied. I could never live up to my ideal because I disliked public display; I felt that accepting recognition would direct undue attention and I would be placed on trial. Within the realm of intelligence, I felt myself to be quite small; knowledge is infinitous, and to claim praise for assimilating such a minute portion as was encased in my mind seemed unfit. My reactions, or lack thereof, regarding academic achievement were greeted by my mom and dad with a degree of chagrin and disappointment. A child's success is a good reflection on the parents; thus, when I failed to pose for the yearbook photos which honored Society members as a group, she despaired that the anonymity of my accomplishments would hurl me into oblivion. Had I seen through her eyes the importance of recognition, perhaps I would have remained after school and posed for posterity. . . and for my parents. "Blissful fun" was yet another part of my ideal which had no parallel to reality. Fun was not a given property of one's senior year, a mindless embellishment punctuating the culmination of twelve years of public education. Instead, fun was a state of mind, quite dependent upon one's capacity for having fun. It was imperative to possess creativity, openness and fearlessness toward work; bored people were often simply lazy.