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March 21, 2018 - Image 12

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Wednesday, March 21, 2018 // The Statement
4B
Wednesday, March 21, 2018 // The Statement
5B

Purple Squirrel, but only human?

by Yoshiko Iwai, Columnist

I

wake up to the fifth alarm of
12. It’s more out of irritation —
to stop the droning, electronic
waterfalls — than it is to open

the door and let any ray of sun into my
windowless room. I slowly put my head
back down when the sixth alarm starts.
I groan, mildly irritated, and turn off the
remaining six. I repeat this, with a dev-
ilish satisfaction that the others won’t
ring this time. But now I can’t fall asleep
because the guilt has started its morning
rounds. I can’t go back to bed, because
the only thing I can do is wake up. I tell
myself I’ve worked too hard to slack. But
it’s too late for that.

This is the best time of my life, every-

one says — college. That’s not to say I dis-
like the way things are. I pick two majors
I like, dance and neuroscience. I like to
study. I look forward to buying an over-
priced latte on the weekend to study at
a favorite library and doodle on the cor-
ners of my notebook. I live in a high-rise
with four of my friends. This is a luxury.
I can’t hear the sorority chants or the
beer cans getting smashed on the pave-
ment at the crack of dawn.

I figure out what I want early on.

Besides the Bachelor of Fine Arts and
Bachelor of Science, I decide to pursue
a career in medicine. To say the medi-
cal school application process is gru-
eling is an understatement. There is a
list of things they expect you to enjoy
— research, volunteering, maintaining
a high grade point average, random acts
of kindness, a breadth of life experi-
ence that gives depth to your otherwise
two-dimensional college character —
maturity that exceeds your age and an
impressive MCAT score.

I do all of the things the ultimate pre-

med guide tells me to do: I volunteer at
C.S. Mott Children’s Hospital and joined
a medical fraternity. I shadow surgeons
and go to guest speaker seminars, and
I work in a neurology laboratory for
Parkinson’s disease. I go to yoga and
weekend boxing classes with my cur-
rent boss — she is the kind of mentor I
always wanted. I have my own research
project, my own rats, my own drugs and
protocols. Every morning at seven, I take
the elevator four levels underground and
poke around rat brains for my thesis.
I still don’t know what a “dissertation”
really means.

But doing this isn’t enough. There’s the

unspoken “purple squirrel” or “it” factor
— as it’s called in show business — you

need in order to stand out in a crowd of
overqualified people applying to medical
school. Originally, the “purple squirrel”
was used in human resource recruitment
to describe “the one” true person for the
job. Now, there’s a general understand-
ing that double-edged sword because the
purple squirrel is simply unobtainable,
and waiting for Prince Charming is a
wasted expenditure.

I overload my class-

es. There’s not much
overlap in class con-
tent for neuroscience
and dance, so I take
the things I need to
graduate. I get per-
mission to enroll past
the 18-credit maxi-
mum — 18, 24, 21, 24,
21, 23. My days are
never
shorter
than

nine hours. Eleven-
hour average. I burn
more calories running
from place to place
than I do in my dance
classes.

Three semesters ago, I took a nonfic-

tion writing class, and 75 percent of the
students were writers for The Michigan
Daily. One semester in, they asked if I
wanted to be an editor — yes, of course
I’ll take it.

I sleep little. I work a lot. I rely on my

phone too much. I’m not sure how I’d do
without it or my computer — it’s bad. I
want to reread “The Shallows” and do
a no-electronics cleanse, but I know I’d
crack instantly like the hard-boiled eggs
I throw in the pot too strongly in the
morning. I don’t have time to stress, or
if I do, it’s so constant I’m immune to
it. Except when I perform. Even after
18 years, I nearly throw up every time.
Sometimes, I wonder if I have abnormal-
ly high cortisol levels. It makes me want
to do a finger prick and test my blood
content. I have a phlebotomy license. So
pricking people is no problem, but I can’t
stand it on myself. I hate needles. I’m one
that person that cleans blood off other
people’s wounds, but can’t stand the
thought of a paper cut on my own finger.

I overload, I overbook, I overdo, I

overextend, I overindulge, I overwhelm
and occasionally, I overcome. I don’t
know how not to. There’s no question
of whether to do or not to do, only how.
Everyone says these are supposed to be
the best four years of my life. That this,

right now, is what freedom feels like. I
think it’s stupid not to make maximum
use of the resources I have.

But recently, I question what it means

to be the purple squirrel. Like the squir-
rels on campus that scurry around my
feet and occasionally get caught in the
front wheel of my bicycle, going in cir-
cles until my brakes finally kick in and
they run off in a daze.

I can’t tell if I

do the things I do
because
I
truly

enjoy them, or if
it’s to fulfill the
unrealistic
goal

of
becoming
the

perfect candidate.
To say that I don’t
enjoy the things I
do would be a com-
plete lie, because I
do. I wouldn’t cut
sleep if I didn’t.
But every now and
then, when I stop
in my tracks and

attempt to process what I’m doing —
the moment after the squirrel hops off
my bicycle tire and scurries away like
he didn’t almost die — I have no direct
answer.

The purple squirrel feels more and

more like an oxymoron. “Be unique,”
said the Teacher, the Adviser, the Admis-
sions Office, the Counselor, the Friend,
the Boyfriend, the Parent. I do as I’m
told. We all do as we’re told because we
desperately want it.
And yet, all too often,
I find myself ques-
tioning the status quo.
How different can we
be if our goal is to be
the same thing — to be
different?

There has to be a

point when the sto-
ries
start
sounding

the same, they bleed
together,
and
these

“differences” fall into
similar
patterns
of

forced
connections

and reflections. The
stories are continuously reinforced by
friends and family who already have the
M.D. email signature, the golden Ph.D.
nameplate on the front of their desk,
the diploma hung next to photos of their
two kids and the golden Labradoodle,

the path they etched out of their prided
“uniqueness” and brilliance.

But as philosophical or not as it

sounds, I’ve come to the realization that
every version of an aspiring doctor has to
have already happened. And with that,
I accept that another dancer-writer-
physician already exists. So the question
becomes more about why I still continue
this grueling narrative when I’d merely
be a replica of another purple squirrel.
I

’ve had a number of epiphanies
recently. They come when I least
expect it — at the cash register,
when I’m brushing my teeth,

strolling through the hardware store,
waiting for hard-boiled eggs to cook. I
usually ignore these thoughts because
any “thinking” outside of classes and
homework takes up time, and that time
will cut into my sleep schedule. But
something has been urging me to listen
more closely to these cosmic insights.
Maybe that’s why the bags under my eyes
won’t go away.

I was biking somewhere — I can’t

remember where — when I decide to
finally listen to one of these epiphanies.
I steer my bike clear of pedestrians in
the Diag and find a spot by the Randall
Laboratory. The concrete is cool from the
rain. I worry the rough surface will make
pills on my leggings. The breeze is cool
against my ears.

In the light, I notice rust on the edges

of my kickstand. I just got my bike for my
birthday last summer. I thought this sort
of chemical reaction took much longer

— it was a silver,
too reflective and
almost embarrass-
ingly new just yes-
terday.

The same sum-

mer I got my bike,
the Randall Lab
was
under
con-

struction. A huge
fence surrounded
the entrance of the
Diag. Three con-
secutive 90-degree
turns
made
rid-

ing my new bike
treacherous — I hit

four people. I feel like the fence was there
just yesterday — I just can’t remember
when they took it down. It was in front of
the Engineering Arch. The one with the
myth: If you kiss someone under the arch
before your 21st birthday, you will marry

them. After a late night in the library, my
friend and I were walking through when
he asked if I wanted a kiss. I said yes, and
he gave me a piece of chocolate. It’s like it
happened yesterday, but we haven’t spo-
ken in two years.

I slide sideways to get a peek at the

arch. The backs of my thighs catch the
rough cement surface, and I know I’ve
wrecked my leggings. I didn’t even plan
on wearing them. I went to bed think-
ing today was a denim day. It didn’t even
cross my mind to open the denim drawer
this morning.

When I sit still like this, I finally feel.

Like I’ve been holding my breath this
entire time, suffocating. I deflate my
chest in a sigh. I just got a haircut, but
it’s back to mid-rib length again. I make
a note in my phone to contact the salon.
The checklist is extensive, accumulat-
ing red squares that indicate they’re
late. A pixelated pile of promises. That’s
what it feels like sometimes — a never-
ending list. Like a mythical pond that
self-augments, my list is bottomless.
Not mimosas.

When I sit still like this, I notice that

I’ve forgotten everyday occurrences.
Details slip away, and I don’t like that I
need digital confirmation to fully remem-
ber what I saw or heard. It should be in
my head, not on a phone or a memory
card that could be destroyed by a cup of
coffee. Swiped in seconds.

When I sit still, I remember that I’m in

college and this is the most fun I’ll ever
have, according to popular belief. That
this is the last test run, the last dress
rehearsal for the “real world.” This is all

I get. And all at once, the pang of guilt is
back. Even though I’ve checked off all of
the things on my list for yesterday and
today before going to bed, I don’t remem-
ber why or how. I don’t have short-term
memory loss, as far as I know, but it’s not
like I have time to see a doctor. I trudge
through my day like
it’s
nothing
more

than a task — friends,
homework,
my
job

alike. If I mindlessly
pursue these tasks,
then what differenti-
ates them from the
chores I do at home?
Isn’t the point of col-
lege — the most excit-
ing four years of life
— to build an infra-
structure of places
and people to fill with
memories to re-expe-
rience later on? So
that I’ll have some-
thing to hold on to
when I am too old to
walk these places myself? The architec-
tural structure is there, but what if I have
nothing to fill it with? No coffee table,
no couches, no refrigerator, no mirrors,
no windows. It’s a model house nobody
wants to buy.

If I neglect to be in the “now,” then all

of this is for naught. That if I am not pres-
ent, then this entire game is a loss. I want
to type it up — “be present and remem-
ber.” I take out my phone to add it to the
checklist — remember what? If it’s just
another thing on a list and it’s something

that could merely be checked off in the
middle of the night, while I wait for the
laundry machine to buzz, when lecture
gets out 20 minutes early, then what’s the
point? How do you add, “Be alive” to an
agenda?

Classes get out and the Diag starts to

fill with people. A
swarm
of
bodies

weaving
together

like
the
back
of

intricate
embroi-

dery.
Everyone

moving from point
A to point B, half
of them looking at
their
phones,
the

first
official
days

of spring. I want
to scream, to cause
some sort of mag-
netic
field
that’ll

create
a
momen-

tary power outage
in mobile devices,
just enough so they
would look up. So I

would look up.

That night, I notice blood in my stool. It

doesn’t hit me until my hand is hovering
on the flush lever and something stops me.
It’s simultaneously disgusting, confus-
ing and just weird. I hover over the toilet
bowl, not knowing what to do but to rely
on Google. It tells me all sorts of things
from eating too many beets to late-stage
intestinal cancer.

I panic, because it’s noticeably red and

there’s a history of cancer in my fam-
ily. I see my grandpa’s sunken cheeks, the
transparent skin clinging to his jaundiced
eye sockets. I panic and don’t know how to
stop. The skin around my neck is too tight
and I feel like I’m suffocating. Because my
life might be ending. The entire doctor’s
visit is painted in my head — the X-ray, the
MRI, the blood tests over and over. I know
I won’t look good with no hair. There’s a
bump on the back of my skull that I feel
every time I put my hair into a ponytail.
It sticks out like a cone. My head will look
lumpy when I’m bald, and my face will be
expressionless without my eyebrows that
imagine would fall out from chemo. I’m
too pale to be paler, but I imagine my skin
turning bluer. There will be a scar down
my stomach and the countless ab work-
outs will be fruitless because the doctor
won’t be able to remove the tumor. They’ll
call my time of death and tell their daugh-
ters to cherish their every day.

What will they say about me when I

die? That I did so many things? Or that
I didn’t go to the bar that one night, or
go skinny dipping in the lake? That I did
so much but it was worthless because I
died and that was it? There was noth-
ing to remember me with but the exten-
sive checklist, a graveyard of gray Xs
and empty red boxes. There would be
so many still unchecked and someone
would say how unfortunate it was that
they were never completed. If I died

today, I wouldn’t be remembered. If I
died today, I wouldn’t be happy.

I flush the toilet and watch the red

spiral in the water, winding further and
further down like gymnastics ribbons.
I

n my Monday night class on per-
forming arts management, we
talk about marketing ourselves
as artists. Jonathan, our profes-

sor and former musician, explains tricks
of winning over an interview. He hands
out a pro-con worksheet for us to list our
strengths and weaknesses.

I write, like I always do, my weakness:

I spread myself thin — I overload, I over-
book, I overdo, I overextend. I don’t sleep
enough. We hand in our forms.

“You’d be surprised to know that 95

percent of students say ‘doing too many
things’ and ‘committing to too much’ is
their weakness,” Jonathan says. And that
once everyone has that same weakness,
you’re no longer the purple squirrel with
a somewhat inspiring commitment prob-
lem, but you just become one of the many.

But what if it’s true? What if I work too

many jobs, hold too many positions, say
‘yes’ to every performance, every inde-
pendent project? That in reality, I can’t
let go of my schedule because it is a part
of my identity and justifies my failures —
at least I tried. At least I took advantage
of what I could and didn’t waste what was
there. That this same trait is my weakness
because it detracts from the way I live,
the way I neglect to be in the “now.” How
I am nearly done with the best part of my
life and have failed at being present. It is
a flaw in the overall equation of this qual-
ity of life that I will regret tomorrow and
everyday after I leave this sanctuary. He
hands back our worksheets.

“Be the purple squirrel, show me why

your weakness is different,” Jonathan’s
voice hovers over the sound of scratching
pens and paper. “I want to hire you to be
the next superstars of the world.”

I erase my answer and scribble: Bad at

telling jokes, too serious most of the time.

After class, I bike home on a route

I don’t usually take. I go by the hospi-
tal and loop around the downtown area
where the trees are illuminated. I take
out my phone from my pocket and scroll
through my list while steering with the
other hand. I check off two things and
put my phone away. I think I enjoy biking
because it forces me to breathe.

The night is brisk enough for a heavy

coat. I regret the thin cardigan that’s long
enough to get caught in the tires. Imagine
the headline on the morning news: “Girl
dies from wardrobe accident on bike.” I
still can’t let go of the handles with both
hands like my brother used to do. I try
every now and then, but I need at least
one to stay balanced.

I keep pedaling, one foot, then the

other, until I get to the library next to the
arch by the old construction site. I can
see the silhouette of the tower on top of
the building, the bell swaying inside it. I
wonder if I’ve ever heard it ring.
ILLUSTRATION BY BETSY STUBBS

“I overload, I overbok,
I overdo, I overextend,

I overwhelm and
occaisionally, I

overcome.”

“If I neglect to be in
the ‘now,’ then all
of this is for naught.

That if I am not
present, then this

entire game is a loss.”

“What will they say
about me when I die?
That I did so many
things? Or that I
didn’t go to the bar
that one night, or go
skinny dipping in the

lake?”

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