The moment I left my mom’s uterus and entered the world, I spurted into a social class. My parent’s bred me in accordance to their possibilities that resulted from their former accomplishments and failures. They predetermine where I belong in society, yet they tell me, “You have the whole world in front of you!” False expectations.

A good job requires a respectable education. I have spent the last four years at a great private boarding high school with a staggering tuition of 40,000 dollars. You might say I am class privileged, but my parents fall within the marginal income for poverty. How do we paid for school? Scholarships.

Sure, people argue that hard work can give me opportunities to reach the American Dream or as my parents say “conquer the world,” but the actual bacteria-sized percentage of financial aid awarded leaves youth surrounded by poverty’s filth: gangs.

As a freshman, I heard a former middle school classmate was shot. I expected it; he was a gang member. I took a moment of silence to say one last prayer in his name, but as my brain’s neurons fired, my memory stammered upon many of his ignorantly rude comments that distracted and insulted my 8th grade teacher. I felt a knot in my chest as I began to believe he deserved his death. I like to believe that I am a kind person, but how can I be kind while wishing someone’s murder? Suddenly my brain started to race, but I was looking for a memory that showed his compassion; the race wasn’t for his sake, but to selfishly reaffirm my kindness. I wanted to eliminate the malignant essence that created that wish, so that I could return to my initial phase of condolence.

All I could think of was his path to self-destruction. His death was a gang symbol; in the neighborhood, his murder represents the opposition gang’s superiority, but for me, it represents stupidity. He could not conform to a life of poverty. Drug trafficking gave him the opportunity to make money, leaving him with a world full of possibilities, but culminating in a jail sentence or death.

I continued to think about him, remembering a steaming hot summer afternoon in 8th grade. I was sitting on a dull-black, uncomfortably hard metal bench gossiping with my friends. Then I see a little boy rudely push a small girl; the she ran away sniffling her tears back. The selfish gang-member whose death I mentioned tensed up immediate and ran after the girl. Why was he running toward her? Does he care for her? I was very confused. To me, he was alone, selfish in nature, unable to have sympathy or any warm feelings.

I went back to chitchatting with my girlfriends, forgetting about the incident. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the girl coming back, holding his hand and smiling with him. Her hand reached out and she lifted one finger to point at the boy that had bullied her. His aggressor’s face turned stone cold. My classmate walked over to the boys slowly, I could feel the tension with every inch he moved, I frightened for them. He stood up straight, mumbled something I couldn’t hear, and walked away, leaving the boy in tears. What he said? I do not know, but the way he protected his younger sister makes me rethink his personality. He had emotions for others other than himself. He was a softhearted brother, but the gang world left his blood splattered on the sidewalk. I felt sympathy for his death again. I bet his parent’s told him that he had whole world in front of him like I did, false expectations. We lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, had common friends, so why is my blood spared?

I had good grades, so my parents and teachers saw potential to thrive in the professional world. They encouraged me through knowledge, but left kids like him in ignorance. Nobody cared. Why try? We all knew he was ending up in jail or dead. And dead he is. I live. I hope to succeed.
Private scholarships fuel my advancement. Executive boards fund my high school and future college education. Yes, I completed their applications, met their criteria, and impressed their boards in interviews, but the decision was theirs. I was just another picture on a yellow-file folder. My future was on the hands of the privileged benefactors that looked for the candidates promise of success.


I checked my mail continuously for an ordinary white envelope, one that told me my future. A future much different than my childhood friends. Sure, public education from the government should keep my friend’s blood from getting splattered on the sidewalk from gangs, but free education does not mean its equal to private education. If all schools educated the same level, why pay 40,000 dollars in tuition? The difference is perspective. Private education teaches students to think and challenge the norms as Were We Stand in laws was established by intellectual disputes that occurred years ago, thus, constant reevaluation for laws efficiency is a must. However, public education maintains a standard level of knowledge to contribute to society’s established sectors.

My former classmates developed a sense of patriotism, an indisputable belief in the righteousness of American society’s rules. I did not. They stood up to defend society without knowing why, without thinking. I still do not. They want to rise in social class, but limit themselves to the underprivileged life they know. I am never going back to poverty. They do not think of the world as a whole; their neighborhood is all they know. I read global news. Staying on the path they did would be like going back to playing in the sandbox.

I grew up in cities. Confined to play on a single long street. My childish imagination transformed the unappealing sidewalks into magical baroque castles guarded by fierce fire-spitting dragons, out-of-the-world astronaut adventures on the cheese-filled moon, or sometimes, NASCAR arenas were my lightning speed left my younger, shorter-legged brother biting my dust in races. But at-the-end-of-the-day, the street would reappear. My imagination could not change reality, but it disguised it. As an adult-bound student, imagination does not create another universe, but it is thought of as a tool for advancement—to develop the next big thing. My former classmates are not able to think of change being created by them, so imagination is useless; all they have is to accept their class disadvantage. For me, to return to that class would be to give up advancement.

My blood was spared because I never conformed into my given class. I never gave up my right to think, my right to argue, my right to choose. I think of the world as my extended sandbox, where my blood will never contaminate the luscious grains of finely carved sand that create my thoughts, a world were anything is possible. A world that I have worked for. I have achieved false expectations.