Anslee is a vibe unto herself, a reflective medley of her upbringing. The day we met, her thick curly mane of hair was pulled back in perfectly symmetrical braids. I remember a ringer-style tee shirt with a garment washed look. It had a turtle on it or maybe some other endangered oceanic species. I think it was green.
She’s the younger of two girls, separated by a decade, which means she has some characteristics of being a singleton and some of having a sibling. Her mom and dad are central figures in her life and she’s the first to point out that they are her anchors. We talked about her favorite vacation places, if sweet pickles are gross or not (note: I think they are disgusting), her views on the death penalty, potato salad, and more. Normally, I remember the smallest details about my clients – freckles, teeth, sock color, perfume, fingernail polish, you name it – but with Anslee, I can’t. What I remember most about her is the fascinating incongruence that is her life.
I remember that she does a bunch of things, all of which collide with one another. She’s just as happy digging up worms in a humane and efficient manner for study then speeding to her performance in the Don Quixote ballet. It’s hard to conjure up the idea of a flawless ballerina with dirt caked under her nails shortly before a performance, but it’s the only way I see Anslee.
She sat across the table from me at Goldberg’s bagels and was meticulous with her bagel. Yes, it was gluten free, she double and triple checked. But it was her application of cream cheese on the bagel that fascinated me, first grabbing my attention, and alerted me that I was working with an entirely different kind of student. It’s how Anslee does things that caught me.
She perfectly divided the cream cheese within the ramekin, then spread exactly half flawlessly on half of the bagel. She inspected the bagel a few times before she started her schmeer, which leads me to believe the top was a deliberate choice; there was an important distinction between it and the bottom. She’s far too erudite to go rogue on the boiled and baked round. Her fixation with it wasn’t OCD; it’s as if the bagel itself had to be fully learned before it could be eaten. The nooks and crannies had to be known before they disappeared for eternity. When we were together, Anslee was cerebral in her approach to everything, even her schmeer. I don’t think the word rote exists in her vernacular. In Anslee’s world of purpose and nuance, her mind rips through topics, granular and significant alike, with deliberate thought, bagels included.
Somehow, we got on the topic of my complete phobia of the ocean (Colorado girl here), and all the unseen fish. And where are my feet? If I can’t see my feet, I’m out. She giggled with the enthusiasm of a toddler and was extraordinarily entertained by my rationale. She loves the ocean, it’s her subject matter and passion. She hung on my every word; Anslee was expanding her understanding of the world and in this particular case, I was her learning conduit. I quickly saw that the very things that freak me out most in life are the very things that engage her brain. I hate ambiguity and the what-ifs. She’s all about leaning in, hard. Learning through the what-ifs, scary though they may be, and embracing the beautiful uncertainty of life. To Anslee, when a what-if presents itself, there is something to be explored and nothing to be feared. Bring all the what-ifs; they are fodder to her mind and food for her soul.
So, I began throwing random questions at her. Her biggest concern, when posed with a hypothetical bungee jumping scenario, is how it works, and wanting to find out by living the experience herself…now. In an instant her brain listed off things that intrigued her about the actual fall with a giant rubber band tied to her ankle. Think about that…she was thinking intellectually, not morbidly, about the actual fall with absolutely no fear. How does it feel? What happens to oxygen with the force of movement when you’re practically flying and then jolted in another direction? Not only would she take the bungee plunge, she looks at the associated fear as a distinct venue for learning. Let that sink in for a moment. It’s not like Anslee is some adrenaline junkie; to her, the vast expanse of the in-between is what matters most. She is driven to learn, it fuels her soul. And it’s that part of everything – what’s after the beginning and before the end – that captivates her most. She loves the unknown and lives her life by capitalizing on every possible moment of it. Grown men could learn a thing or two from her. So could I.
I was nauseous listening to her. Literally holding onto my stomach contents while she showed unbridled enthusiasm for the place in time she would be the least in control. So, I did what any good writer would do: I threw as many what-if scenarios at her as possible. The trolley paradox, how she makes a PB&J in an unknown place with no groceries or utensils, how fast she would zoom down GA 400 in a Porsche if there were no speed limits, and more. For the first time in my career, I was locked in broad-scheme question mode. It took a minute to figure out that while Anslee had amazing stories about everything, there was no singular, unique story for her to tell.
Typically, I chat with students and find something that snags them and we run with it. Focused enthusiasm stems from the granular details of a bigger question I’ve asked, and they usually make the best hook. Not with Anslee. She proffered up the granular details, literally leaving me with nothing to ask. I was toast. We blew through various topics for her Common App. Then I realized the real problem, it’s not that she didn’t have a unique story to tell, it’s that she had too many. She plays a mad game of mental hockey. It’s hard to find the perfect hook when you’re amidst thousands of them.
It became clear that Anslee needed to lob a 10’ spiked cactus with words for her essay. How her brain works and her life perspective are captivating as hell and I wanted every last admissions committee as hooked by her as I was. The problem is, the Common App does not lend itself to broad topics because you have to show a calculated part of yourself to the admissions peeps, in 650 short words, that make an impact. It eventually hit me, she had very unique answers and perspectives, but I couldn’t let her write about such prosaic topics when it was her brain itself that needed to be put on display. Admissions committees read thousands of essays and the approach would be very tricky: “I think this way…” is very boooooorrrriiing.
The way Anslee thinks is like being lost in a huge process flow chart full of yes-no options, dependencies, co-dependencies, backup plans, bonus routes, hidden doors, and more. Her brain runs through a similar juggernaut with every single topic. She exhausts her opportunities to learn because there is pure hedonistic joy in learning.
Anslee is a brilliant, driven, STEM-focused young scholar, who is witty, articulate, personable, and gorgeous. She has all the things. When you have all the things to write about, you are left with nothing unique to write about. See the problem? We parted our time together without a topic, which is not common. I tasked her to brainstorm. That was it. She looked at me like I was nuts
We spent the next few weeks talking, texting, and teasing out the indescribable subject of her essay. There’s a very fine line in the Common App essay between confidence and arrogance and though she is not the latter, we had to walk a tight rope. It occurred to me that her brain needed to be personified. So, she made her noggin human, an entity all its own.
She texted me one day that she had it, and my God she was right. She had decided to name her brain, “ImBored.” Yes, all one word. It was literary perfection. ImBored keeps her thinking, learning, and digging up worms. ImBored ties her pointe shoes to perfection. ImBored can twist beautiful braids, rearrange her study schedule, or discover a new book to indulge in. ImBored optimizes every possible opportunity in its midst because there’s a world to discover. Anslee is nothing short of spectacular in how she thinks, works, and interacts with the world, and ImBored is proof of that.
On paper, ImBored had personality quirks, strange annoyances, and favorite pastimes. ImBored perfectly summed up this complex young woman who was embarking on her next chapter with unbridled enthusiasm…something I had never seen from a student before. Everyone is scared when it comes to the college application process. Too many uncontrollable variables. But not Anslee, she wanted to live it; she saw the uncertainty and gauntlet that is this application process as an experience in and of itself, not merely an arduous task to complete in order to arrive at a destination. To Anslee, the outcome mattered not, she was going to fully experience this process.
She was accepted at every school to which she applied, and to the #1 program in the country for her selected major. In the end, Anslee turned down that #1 offer and went to the place that captivated her heart, mind, body, and soul, a place where ImBored can thrive. What an honor and privilege it was to tag along with her on this journey and to see the world through her eyes.
For some reason, as she packs her belongings, I’m compelled to introduce Anslee to Florence+ the Machine. Dog Days are Over is about running, enthusiastically, towards a new life and embracing adventure. It is Anslee set to music.
