I am an anomaly. This, I know to be true. As I reflect on my life while my fingers type these very words, while I look forward to my eventual bus ride home and as I anticipate finally getting to read some of Stephen King’s “Misery” later tonight, this thought, or rather—this feeling—becomes ever more profound.
Simply put, I am not supposed to be here. In other words, my story, my preselected role in the grand, 7 billion cast member opus of this film that we call life was set up in the manner that one would expect out of a Shakespearean tragedy. Or a Lifetime movie. Or a Tyler Perry production.
Right now, I should not be sitting here and typing these words, nor should you be reading them, curious reader.
Unlike many of you that go here, I do not come from a simple, idyllic upbringing filled with cozy suburban homes, dog walkers, and friendly neighbors.
Statistically speaking, I should be in one of three places: behind a prison cell, resting in a coffin or enduring some other form of the all too familiar hells showcased on cheaply made, poorly scripted BET dramas.
I know that I am an anomaly because despite growing up in a single parent home, despite being dirt poor and despite having every chance to suffer the same fate of many young men with similar upbringings, I’ve managed to resist.
I’ve managed to resist the peer pressure, short term gains and long term consequences.
I’ve managed to resist the allure of easy money, prioritizing popularity and dumbing myself down.
I’ve managed to resist the trap of peaking in high school and burning out in my twenties, reduced to a shell of my former self and living off of past glories.
But even though I’ve finally made it to my last semester here at Sinclair, and as I look forward to eventually getting my bachelor’s degree later on, a sense of unease lurks beneath my psyche.
Will the future truly be brighter? Will the sunlight finally creep up over the horizon and allow me to bask in its glow? Or have I simply been running on pure, bittersweet luck for the past 23 (soon to be 24) years?
As I inch closer towards the checkered flag, eager to raise my arms triumphantly as I break through the tape at the end of the finish line, a thought occurs: Will I stumble and fall from my own momentum, crashing face first onto the pavement?
Will I be tripped up halfway through the race by some sort of cosmic jester who grins with pleasure as I finally fall between the cracks that I narrowly evaded for so long, while the previously fallen watch me plummet with schadenfreude-plastered faces, for they’ve awaited my eventual demise?
After all the hard work, studying and late nights hunched over a laptop with a freshly brewed pot of Folger’s, I’m determined for my fate to be far brighter than I could possibly imagine.
No, not yet… not after I’ve come this far. Not after the constant setbacks, countless trips to the financial aid office and various academic advisors. Not after the nearly will crushing lows and fist pumping highs.
Not after failing several classes, and then retaking those classes the following semesters, finishing each with an ‘A.’ Not after the many great instructors that I’ve had the pleasure of being taught by, their wisely worded criticism and praise propelling me forward.
This is my last semester, ladies and gentlemen. Five years from now, ten years from now, I have no clue what the future holds in store for me, but I intend to see at least a slim beacon of that sunlight before my story ends. My name is Quinton Bradley, and I, am an anomaly.
Quinton Bradley
Intern