Out of Luck

Out of Luck

Two buzzing vibrations.

My phone’s screen comes to life, updating minute-to-minute Facebook notifications. Scrolling through advertisements and prom proposals, I see my friend Zack Armstrong has a post with over 200 likes. Clicking for more details, he has announced he’s going to Stanford University. No wonder there are so many likes! I like and leave a comment, equally impressed by his college acceptance to such a sought-after university.

My mom peeks her head into my room, and my reflex is to hide my cellphone. ‘Homework is the priority, Alyssa,’ I imagine her usual nagging.

To my surprise, Mom’s typically stern look is not present right now, but rather substituted by a goofy smile, her brown eyes opened wide, letting me know she is hiding something. I set the phone down and voice my suspicion.

“Uh, Mom, why are you being so creepy?” She has her hands tucked behind her back, and my eyes shift to what she pulls out from behind her.

“Alyssa Woo,” she pronounces my name in a singsong tone. “Guess what the mailman just dropped off?” She’s waving an envelope and wiggling her eyebrows, as my eyes locate the fancy gold type running the length of the envelope.

“Yeah, what?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just a letter….” she smirks, “from the Stanford University Admissions Office!” my mom’s voice raises towards the end of the sentence, and she runs over to me, forcing it in my hands. “Open it!”

I totally forgot that Stanford acceptance letters come out today! I snatch the envelope out of my mom’s hand, slightly aggressively, but I can’t contain the anticipation of finally knowing after months of waiting.

4 by 8 and ½, a standard sized envelope, beige colored and crisp other than the top right corner that has been bent through delivery. Engraved across the face of the envelope reads “Stanford University Admissions Office,” the very name in itself oozing prestige. And right above that sits my name, plain old Alyssa Woo.

My mom peers over my shoulder as my fingers dance across the envelope flap, searching for a loose end to pry open. I find a starting point and gingerly tear the cream paper away, careful not to rip such an important document. Pulsing heavily, my heart thumps excitedly, and clamming up, my sweaty hands pull out the folded white document inside.

I pause for a few seconds before unfolding the verdict on my acceptance to take in the moment. I have been waiting for months, ever since submitting my application, to find out if I got in. All the years of lost sleep, staying up until the early hours of the morning to finish my homework for my advanced placement classes, all the hours I put into my extra-curriculars over the years, and all the energy I put into being student council president, and I wonder now, will it be worth it?

As I unfold the sheet, my eyes scan the page for the words I am looking for, hunting tactfully like the eyes of a predator hungry for prey. I read aloud for my mom to hear:

“Dear Ms. Alyssa Woo,

On behalf of Stanford University’s Admissions Office,” I regret to inform you that your application has been denied.”

My head starts to numb as my lip trembles with emotion, so ready to spill into a heap of tears and rejection. Denied, denied, denied, the words echo through my mind, and I try to force them out by squinting my eyes to make it disappear. My mom pats me on the back, awkwardly mumbling that it’s all going to be okay.

Who knew that words could bury so deeply in my soul, and tear apart a girl who once held her head high to those that verbally bullied her? They say words will never hurt, but these words burn me up inside as my mind denies rejection.

But then I think back to just a few minutes ago, scrolling through Facebook, and how Zack got into Stanford.

Funny guy, sure. Intelligent? To some extent, but he didn’t take many AP classes. Well-rounded? He played basketball for two years, but was a bench-warmer for most varsity games.

There I sit with my arms hugging my pale yellow knees tightly to my chest, my straight black hair falling across my shoulders, sniffling as the mucus stops dripping to my lips. Because there is something I know that can’t be spoken, as some words are too sensitive to be said aloud.

Zack Armstrong, though fairly unremarkable, is African-American.

Because of Stanford’s objective to have a diverse student body, Zack edged me out, not because of his qualifications, but because of his race. How long did Stanford consider my application before adding me to the staggering pile of other, over-achieving Asians whom are rejected without a chance? Was it my stereotypical involvement in badminton, or was one glance at my last name enough to determine their decision?

When I was little, I constantly complained about things being unfair, and my father always replied the same way. He would chuckle, shaking his head and repeating in his witty voice, “If you think life’s fair, you’re going to live a lo-o-o-ng life, little missy.”

Life is not fair, and I get that now. Although I know I was more qualified than Zack, I realize that he’s never had the chance to shine. He’s always been just a student with limited resources because of hardships that were out of his control. I try to think of it this way: I gave up my spot for someone who really needed it, and deserved it, not for all his qualifications, but because it’s time for luck to fall on him. My life has been a series of fortunate events, and now it’s Zack’s turn to experience the same.