Night of a Thousand Christines
I was standing on concrete, but I wanted to dig myself a hole. Is it possible to do it with my bare hands? At that point, I didn’t care if the small pieces of rocks pierced the skin inside my fingernails; all I wanted was to get out of there. Fast. I never understood what “crawl in a hole and die” meant until that moment. During the awards ceremony of my first time competing in the Division Schools Press Conference, it was like the world chose to clear things up for me once and for all.
I was surrounded by my fellow journalists and our two mentors. We huddled up below a mango tree on a small table — all 15 of us — as we anxiously waited for our names to be called. The space was cramped, but the coldness of our hands was enough to stop our body heat from making us all sweat. We were helpless. All we could do was wait. The outputs we trained hard for all year long were passed within an hour, and our careers could be determined in a few minutes. It was mentally exhausting.
Award ceremonies were always a pain to me. I, for some reason, never feel nervous as I’m writing. I’m always excited to compete and even more excited to receive the topic. Yet, when the time comes to find out whether my hard work paid off or if I need to put in more hours, my body freezes. That was what I felt that time underneath the mango tree. The fast-food takeout I ate during lunch slowly made its way back up my throat, threatening to burst if the tension became worse.
And it did become worse. I felt my feet sink more and more into the dirt even when it stayed on level ground. Features was one of the last categories to be called as if the announcers saw my anxiety and decided to multiply it by a hundred. I caught the gaze of my publication team halfway through the announcement. Some of us have already been called, and they couldn’t be any happier. They wore their gold medals proudly on their chests as if mocking the rest of us whose cold sweat came down like torrential downpour.
‘Please, call the names faster. Just rip it off like a band-aid.’
But my begging was useless. As time felt even slower, the table got less cramp and my feet bore a deeper hole onto the ground. Suddenly, I turn into a mole, scurrying down below to look for a safer place. Will my heart stop if it’s beating this fast? Then, a voice came booming down the speakers.
‘For the features category!’ Faster. I told my feet to go faster. This time around, time went by faster and my feet slowed down. Why is the world this cruel to me?
My friends cheered me on like an audience watching a circus lion jump into a ring of fire. As the third and second place got called, their cheering became louder than the announcer’s voice. I was stuck in my seat, sweating buckets. ‘Just do it.’
‘First placer for the features category. Christine-’
Is this real? I jump up from my seat, afraid to trip on the imaginary ridge I made with my anxious feet but not able to contain my excitement. This is only my first year in journalism but I already received two straight gold wins and a one-way ticket to Regionals? What was I being nervous about?
I looked around me expecting the same bright smiles and proud pats of my colleagues. But when I saw their faces, I saw the exact opposite. Shock. Embarrassment. They looked at me as if I was butt-naked in front of them. What I didn’t know was amidst my cheering, a different Christine was called. Same name, different district. Then I felt my whole body sink. Suddenly, the space underneath the mango tree felt big enough to fit ten versions of me lying down in a line. It was as if they cleared up that spot for me to sulk in. The safety hole was nowhere to be found. When I looked down, it was still concrete. Untouched, never broken.
What made it even worse was my classmates made me the butt of the joke for a whole month after that. Some of the boys on my team spread the story to our classmates back at school, so they were all in on it except me. I was Christine who celebrated early. Friendly neighborhood feelingera.
I took that moment to heart not because I felt embarrassed. That was indeed my most embarrassing moment, but I remember it mainly because of what happened afterward. Even when I wasn’t going to advance to regionals, I trained myself rigorously during my off-season. I wanted to make sure that no hole-digging was going to happen. Instead, I armed myself with iron boots and a weapon only I could have: my skill and passion for writing.
I went on to compete again the year after that. To say that I came back swinging is an understatement. I finished the race bearing a gold medal proudly on my chest. It felt heavy being advancing to regionals as a first placer, but I patted myself in the back for redeeming my reputation. Now, I like to tell myself that 11-year-old me was only celebrating the success of 12-year-old me. A prophetic vision, if you will. But who am I kidding? That day, as I was busy digging a hole with my feet, a thousand Christines came to mess with my mind and my heart. I hated it, but I thank them for giving me a wonderful story to tell until I am resting happily six feet underground.