Very occasionally, and with a sufficiently (if suspiciously) extended window for attribution, eventually, the best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men, do go right.
Admission season is here, and I got the offer I wanted. Barring the breakout of World War 3, a color uprising, a deadlier covid variant, or some other force majeure, there is a high probability that I will be finishing graduate school at Harvard by this time next year.
The cut-off to claim legitimacy from one alma mater is 25. I have long expired by that standard, so while I am grateful, the true victory is mainly symbolic.
I claim a win for the Jacks of the world.
This is not a humblebrag. If my 2.19 GPA was anything to go by, I am by no means academically gifted, despite copious bumkin wisdom and pedestrian smarts and a certain flair for self-indulgent drama.
But I always made up for it with brute force, spending ninety minutes on work that took others twenty-five, striving when I ought to be living.
I’ve always admired ‘I’ and ‘T’ shaped people, and the unicorn π shaped people for their technical excellence in some arcane domain. I am one thick ass ‘_’ – a brick of playdough who knows a bit of everything and fits everywhere. The idea was… if you can’t be an expert, be the guy who knows what he and everyone else doesn’t know.
It worked! Took me more than ten years to become an eminently acceptable professional.
And so, I claim this victory for dull-boy Jack and all-trades Jack and even beanstalk Jack who dared to reach to the clouds and battle giants.
My sample size of one at least proves that focus and persistence will get you somewhere. Three lefts will make a right, eventually.
#00117F 