People are always asking me at parties why I am in business school, to which my default response is a coy shrug, a scoff, and sip whatever uncomfortably warm, cheap beer that particular party curated. My friends are always telling me that I should be proud to identify as a student, as it is a fleeting privilege and other people would love to trade places with me but business school isn’t that way.
Class is the unveiling of the capitalistic shroud.
I walk in and hope others don’t notice I’m the only one not in a starch-pressed suit, (or any suit at all for that matter) and that my shirt still bares my coffee scars from the day before and the day before that but I can feel their eyes coaxing my figure, grabbing at the cloth the way my mother used to pull them from my body on those scolding Florida summer Fridays and demand that I go shower for the first time that week. But I no longer live with my mother and I heard snow was in the forecast.
As you could imagine I don’t do well in school. The only classes I receive favorable marks in are those that pertain nothing to what I am supposed to be doing.
Below you will see a paper I just got back and as you can see I received the highest grade a 5th grader can get, so maybe my mom will want to put this one on the fridge.
“Painting in the style of Fan Kuan”
“Entrance to a Village”