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?”

