THE LIAR

I hate summer vacation. I hate summer vacation because I have to leave my campus home. And leaving my campus home means leaving behind everything that ties me to reality. My early New England mornings, my solitary early morning weekend trips to Subway, my late weekend board game nights with friends, and my conversations about the ethics of robotic sexuality all disappear into memory, and I am left wondering, for three months, if I had imagined the past year. It means leaving behind the only place in my life in which I have been able to sign, with lasting ink, my name. I’ve never been in any one place for more than two years. The conclusion of my junior year at Loomis marks the end of my third. I love that place; no place could be better.

(That isn’t entirely true. It’s actually extraordinarily untrue. How could I ever deny the excitement the city brings? The moment Manhattan’s neon giants, outlined in phosphorescent light against the furtively dark night, peak over the horizon, my heart leaps. That place is magical. There’s an energy there that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. It’s old yet new, sophisticated yet somehow idyllically charming. It’s unparalleled. Shanghai comes close, but it isn’t the same. What I’d give to be in Times Square now…)

I think one of my favorite parts of being at school is performing. I discovered that I truly loved performing here. People tell me I have a knack for singing. I don’t know if that’s true. All I know is that I’ve grown tremendously as a performer, and, as a result, a human being. Before I came to Loomis I was completely terrified of all social interaction. I was terrified of judgment, terrified of becoming a social outcast. So naturally, I became a social outcast. But then, in a terrific moment of reckless abandon, I started doing musical theatre. And it was there that I realized that I was a decent human being. And I had talents worthy of recognition. It made me comfortable in my own skin. It made me proud.

(Vain is a more accurate term. I put on a mask of modesty but I am the vainest peacock that there ever was. I subtly hum complex figures around the underclassmen; I speak thoughtfully of the principles of vocal technique around upperclassmen. And when any singer receives more credit than me, jealousy rises in my throat like floodwater. Whenever I hear other people sing I feel the compulsive need to break them down and hear every single aspect of their voice in order to find something to criticize. Their natural tone, their technique, their lyricism; in every aspect, I need to feel superior. The criticism doesn’t even need to be valid. If someone can hit notes that I can’t, or connect phrases more smoothly than I, I’ll even attack their personal character. I need the world around me to know that I have talent. I know, though, that what I have is nothing special.)

I am who I want to be. Of all that I have learned, of the many multitudes that reside within myself, I am my best self.

(I am a liar.)