An Argument for Authenticity

Jackie Campbell

An Argument for Authenticity

Middle School

In the sixth grade, I sat across from Harper Jacobson in English. We had gone to school together since kindergarten, but that was the first time I really looked at her. Harper would put her hair in ponytails so tight the front pieces of hair on the crown of her head began to break off to form tufts that stuck out. To address this, Harper would heavily hairspray these hairs down firmly to her scalp. I imagine her washing her crisp, hard hair out every night, only to begin the solidifying process again the next morning.

We attended a Catholic private school, so we all had pretty much the same clothes on. Yet, Harper’s shirt was far too big and her skirt far too long. She looked like a young Amish woman.

Harper was seemingly very uncomfortable with her body. The way it moved. The attention it might receive if people noticed she actually hit puberty before everyone else. Most specifically, the fact that it may distract from the loads she had to say. All the time.

I remember in second grade Harper explained with hand-drawn evidence all the reasons that fairies couldn’t plausibly exist when the class decided to pretend they each had one as a pet. She did a five-page report on Cleopatra unprompted and gave it to our teacher in third grade after deciding to dress as her for Halloween. The teacher made us all read it.

She wrote a play called “Fox Trot”’ in fourth grade and decided to hold casting at recess. She sat behind a backless park bench and used it as a desk between herself and the auditioners à la American Idol. No one was good enough. The play was postponed.

She didn’t seem to understand the appropriate volume of speech, social graces, or typical desires of an adolescent girl. She told jokes to make the teacher laugh. Yet, Harper was admittedly kind. Not nice for sure, but kind. The type of kind that makes other people feel like a piece of shit.

Harper talked to those she probably shouldn’t. She did those “demented yet social” clubs Bender was talking about in The Breakfast Club. Mathletes. Quiz Bowl. Battle of the Books.

Her social awkwardness peaked outside of the academic setting though. In class, to quote Jane Austen, she gave her opinion very decidedly for such young a person. Yet on a personal level, she would often shut down. Cry when she made mistakes. Smile like she was in pain. Ignore you entirely.

How this all comes to impact me is she also didn’t really have any friends. In fact, she didn’t seem to want them.

However, my mom worked with Harper’s mom. Harper’s mother thought it would be a good idea that I become friends with Harper. Harper had a hard time inviting others over, so instead her mom told my mom that she needed a friend.

I went over to Harper’s house when we were both 12. Big age 12.

Harper’s room looked like a museum that hadn’t yet organized its work into sections. Vintage Spiderman comic books sat next to Vogue issues with images precisely cut out. Her bedding had bright pink flowers on it but the t-shirts scattered around her room featured alternative rock bands. She played on her father’s club softball team. There were ballet slippers in the same bag as some 100,000 year-old large men’s baseball glove.

There were small plants on a windowsill next to a speaker quietly playing film scores. She expressed she wanted to see if they grew better than the ones in her bathroom who didn’t get to experience Hans Zimmer’s work.

Despite all these appealing yet conflicting interests she seemed to have, I did not want to be her friend. In fact … she made me very uncomfortable. I thought maybe she could grow from some social criticism. Until we graduated eighth grade, I made this known to her.

“It doesn’t matter what you wear. I honestly don’t think anyone looks at you like that anyway.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t ever know what you’re talking about.”

“That was so embarrassing. What the hell is wrong with you?” “If you didn’t exist it would make very little difference, to be honest.” “I know your family says they love you for who you are, but they have to say that. If they met you on their own you know they wouldn’t like you.”

High School

We came back from the summer into our freshman year of high school and Harper didn’t look or talk the same. She cut layers in her hair and always wore it down. Her clothes were certainly much tighter.

We were the only two people who went to our public high school from the same private lower school. I guess this gave her an opportunity to recreate herself, and I gave her the chance to do it. Maybe we could finally be friends. Maybe she’d finally get it.

And to my surprise, she did. Harper joined the dance team and spun her way through different social circles. She was Editor-in-Chief of the yearbook and took pictures of athletes on the sidelines while they ran a little slower past her than they should for athletic purposes. She went to prom as a sophomore. I never thought she’d go at all.

Her smile was bright. Her record was perfect. Something in her eyes got locked away though. It would leak out when she’d cry in the bathroom stalls.

She never ate lunch. She’d laugh and tap her foot on the ground. Wrote whole essays in 45 minutes while watching a Vogue makeup tutorial on YouTube. Never ate anything.

No one really noticed or commented on this except her boyfriend at the time, who she only really had to have one. He suggested she eat more because her boobs were getting smaller. She felt too skinny on his body.

I should have loved her. I should have seen the changes I always thought would do her some good. But I didn’t.

I knew Harper would sit on the bathroom floor and make up lies to avoid school. Her skin wasn’t right. None of it was right. She had over a 4.0 but enough absences she might not graduate. She would fall asleep at 9:30 p.m. and dread waking up again. She passed out during a lap around

She would look in the mirror and see a stranger wearing her skin. Talking to her family. Hugging her little sister in photos.

College Part I

Harper went to college for half a semester before she started to fall apart. Her mom told her she was drinking too carelessly. She told her mom to f-off.

It took an effect on her grades for Harper to come home. And when she came home, we hung out again.

College Part II

Of course, we is just me. I am just Harper. When I was remote my second semester freshman year, I spent some time with myself.

When I was in middle school, I said all those things I listed before. To me. I was my biggest bully at school. In high school, I was desperate to silence that voice in my head and ended up losing my voice entirely. Then when I started college, the metaphorical shit hit the metaphorical fan.

It actually turns out what we say to ourselves does matter. And according to my therapist, it’s effective to imagine if someone else spoke to you the way you speak to yourself. Thus, this piece of work.

I started seeing a therapist because I didn’t know how to cope with panic attacks at college, among other great reasons to speak to a therapist. But here is the Schmoop of what I’ve learned.

When you start college, there’s all this empty space and time that you have to fill with you. How you dress. The music you listen to. The classes you want to take. You fill your hours and hours of gratuitous free time with what you enjoy. You’re surrounded by substances to help mask your discomfort with who you are.

When you’ve told yourself the genuine you isn’t worthy or valuable, filling your life with you is a little hard to do. When your worth comes from

What I have learned and come to understand is that authenticity is far more important than perfection. Make mistakes. Make them in front of people. Learn from them. Grow unabashedly because doing otherwise is stupid. It’s also a waste of your time and money. College is expensive.

Take the time in college to find yourself, or recover yourself, and celebrate that person. Find out what your values are. Figure out who you are during this time, and love them more than anyone.

MEET THE AUTHOR

Jackie Campbell is a junior English major with a concentration in Education at Fairfield University. She also has minors in Education Studies and Editing & Publishing. Jackie enjoys volunteering and spending time with family.

After graduation, she hopes to become an elementary school teacher while continuing to actively volunteer with non-profit organizations.

Jackie hopes this piece will connect with other college students who have struggled with self-acceptance.