I Am Not Jessica Chen

by Ann Liang

For anyone who’s ever wished they could be someone else

It’s such a suffocating thought—that everything I will ever feel and know and accomplish must begin and end with my own mind.

“Meritocracy is a myth, academia is corrupt, and grades are irrelevant.”

Of course the members of the other team are able to rationalize and intellectualize their way through this argument; they can express their opinions clearly, succinctly, without any personal feelings on the matter, without having to sift through their trauma for evidence, and they’ll be rewarded for it. But here I am, trying to verbalize my own pain, to justify my own existence, breaking it down into digestible points. Every word comes out a double-edged knife. This isn’t just a debate for me. This is my history, my life.

Success is only meant to be rented out, borrowed in small doses at a time, never to be owned completely, no matter what price you’re willing to pay for it.

Sometimes I forget that in the bigger scheme of things, it’s okay to not be the best at everything. To be surrounded by people who can solve problems you can’t, who are talented in different ways, who will go on to change the world.

But sometimes pain is just pain, and there’s nothing particularly noble about clinging to it.

That old saying floats across my mind again. To dream of becoming a butterfly. I’ve been busy deliberating why the dream started, but I’m not so sure if I’m ready for the dream to end. Would the butterfly be relieved to turn back into a human? Or would the butterfly miss being able to fly too much?

“The world just felt smaller without you,” he tells me.

“Or maybe you have a way of making the world feel bigger. I missed you. I’d miss you everywhere I went: in the car and at the mall and in the winter. I know I stayed there for a full year, but you must realize—by the end of the first week, I was ready to fly back. It was only out of pride that I didn’t. I still kept everything . . . I would check the time and weather back here—back home, where you are. I thought . . . I tried to convince myself again and again that there would be an expiration date on what I felt. That I only had to push past a certain point and I would be better. I wouldn’t want you so much. I wouldn’t need you so badly.”

Because to me, wanting has always been indistinguishable from pain.

It’s the mantra we’ve all been fed since we were kids: study hard, get into a good school, be better than everyone else, and you’ll have a better life.

“You know it’s my weakness,” I breathe out. “You know you’re my weakness.” “Then come back to me,” he says, softer, his voice pained now, pleading.

“I would never move on,” Aaron says softly. “I would never take your paintings down.”

Aaron, as my first and final audience. Aaron, as my muse.

To them, violence doesn’t look like blood and broken bones. Violence looks like the disruption of power.

Jessica Chen has always been one of her favorites—everyone knows it. But now, within a matter of moments, because of one mistake, it’s like everything has been erased. And I realize, with a deeper pain, that this is the difference between being accepted and being tolerated. Even Jessica isn’t an exception. None of us are.

A model student causes no trouble. A model student makes no noise. A model student gives everything they have and asks for nothing. They simply keep their head down and study and get the best scores on behalf of the school, and then they graduate as valedictorian, with their perfect winning streak, and they head to the best universities in the world to train even harder to become a model citizen, so they can continue to be good. They’re so good that nobody bothers to notice when something’s wrong. They’re so good they’re an afterthought. They’re so good they might as well not exist, except to be used as evidence that success is possible, that the system is perfectly sound, that anyone who struggles can only blame themselves.

I am not Jessica Chen. And maybe Jessica Chen herself isn’t either. Maybe nobody is. The very idea of her is a construct, a myth, a distraction, the dream we’re forever reaching toward but can never quite grasp.

“Jenna, you’re all I’ve ever wanted,” he says, quiet. Perfect. “It’s always been you. It can only be you.”

It’s my life, I think with amazement, and it’s beautiful, and I can paint it any color I want to. Right now it’s drenched in the brightest shade of gold. I have the brush in my hands, and the canvas is mine. It’s all mine.