Jan 2021
In today's world, it is quite simple to be caught up in your worth being represented by a numerical value. Let me explain:
I am a nine-digit (quite confidential) numerical value that the government rewarded me with (thank you, Teddy Roosevelt!) from the moment my little feet entered life from my mother’s warm, snuggly inside.
I am a whopping one thousand, two hundred forty as my fingers tear through a solemn envelope sent from the college board, just moments before the envelope and the information enclosed within was shredded in every which direction to approximately one thousand, six hundred pieces.
I am one of two hundred eighty-five people rushing through the ancient, wooden doors at eight fifty-nine on Sunday morning. I am one of two hundred eighty-five people, just another member of the congregation, as I humbly fold my hands together, attempting to wash away all I have done wrong in the past six days.
I am seven as my mother places her comforting hand on my trembling body as she swiftly guides me in the direction of a grim, tense waiting room of a children's neurologist. I am eight as I place my ear up against my blue room, as the thin walls between the rooms try to conceal the hushed voices of my mother and my father discussing medication to treat severe anxiety.
I am a twenty-four as my squeaky sneakers frolic on a slender wooden surface of what we call “home court”. I am an eleven as my coach and I fretfully record my cumulative points during the final moments of the season; his disappointment being reflected by deep breaths every now and then as we are drearily restricted by four grotesque walls that define his productivity.
I am one of ninety-one works of literature that my english teacher manages to read and assign, you guessed it, another value to; the combination of letters and symbols printed on a sheet of paper somehow translates to a number.
I think you get the point. But let me clarify, there’s more to the story:
I am valued for encasing myself in red, white, and blue in early July as the sun begins to hide behind the earth; the chemical reactions of potassium nitrate and sulfur dominate the sky.
I am valued for my worthy efforts put into preparing for a five-hour tedious saturday morning dedicated to staring at a scantron and the backs of people’s heads.
I am valued knowing that I was born to sin (thanks, Adam and Eve), as I was made exceptionally in the image of god.
I am valued for being an anxious person who lovingly worries incessantly about family, friends, the future of females, and my fate.
I am valued as I launch my legs, one in front of the other, down the slick, wooden court to retrieve a lost ball that my teammate didn’t put in effort to catch.
I am valued for my honest, hard-working efforts to produce a conversation on paper between my english teacher and me. Hopefully this does the same.
I am not a value. I am valued.
I am a nine-digit (quite confidential) numerical value that the government rewarded me with (thank you, Teddy Roosevelt!) from the moment my little feet entered life from my mother’s warm, snuggly inside.
I am a whopping one thousand, two hundred forty as my fingers tear through a solemn envelope sent from the college board, just moments before the envelope and the information enclosed within was shredded in every which direction to approximately one thousand, six hundred pieces.
I am one of two hundred eighty-five people rushing through the ancient, wooden doors at eight fifty-nine on Sunday morning. I am one of two hundred eighty-five people, just another member of the congregation, as I humbly fold my hands together, attempting to wash away all I have done wrong in the past six days.
I am seven as my mother places her comforting hand on my trembling body as she swiftly guides me in the direction of a grim, tense waiting room of a children's neurologist. I am eight as I place my ear up against my blue room, as the thin walls between the rooms try to conceal the hushed voices of my mother and my father discussing medication to treat severe anxiety.
I am a twenty-four as my squeaky sneakers frolic on a slender wooden surface of what we call “home court”. I am an eleven as my coach and I fretfully record my cumulative points during the final moments of the season; his disappointment being reflected by deep breaths every now and then as we are drearily restricted by four grotesque walls that define his productivity.
I am one of ninety-one works of literature that my english teacher manages to read and assign, you guessed it, another value to; the combination of letters and symbols printed on a sheet of paper somehow translates to a number.
I think you get the point. But let me clarify, there’s more to the story:
I am valued for encasing myself in red, white, and blue in early July as the sun begins to hide behind the earth; the chemical reactions of potassium nitrate and sulfur dominate the sky.
I am valued for my worthy efforts put into preparing for a five-hour tedious saturday morning dedicated to staring at a scantron and the backs of people’s heads.
I am valued knowing that I was born to sin (thanks, Adam and Eve), as I was made exceptionally in the image of god.
I am valued for being an anxious person who lovingly worries incessantly about family, friends, the future of females, and my fate.
I am valued as I launch my legs, one in front of the other, down the slick, wooden court to retrieve a lost ball that my teammate didn’t put in effort to catch.
I am valued for my honest, hard-working efforts to produce a conversation on paper between my english teacher and me. Hopefully this does the same.
I am not a value. I am valued.
