Parenting
By Lila Johnson
Updated: Dec. 20, 2015
Originally Published: July 3, 2015
Maintaining a life of unwavering goodness was proving to be an unsustainable endeavor. Eventually, I was bound to reach my breaking point—not in the sense of resorting to illegal substances, but it became evident that being perpetually virtuous was starting to weigh heavily on my spirit.
I found myself stripped of the distinction of being “the good one.” I was merely existing, and any praise I received required me to surpass my previous achievements. This relentless pursuit was draining. Meanwhile, my classmates, who often found themselves in the principal’s office, were celebrated for the most trivial accomplishments. “You stayed seated this morning, excellent work!” they’d hear, while I thought to myself, “I’ve been sitting here for eight years now!”
The situation escalated in middle school when a fictional piece I wrote for extra credit was published in a national children’s literary magazine. Yet, the Eighth Grade Writing Award was given to Mark T., merely because he expressed a passion for writing. The school seemed to shrug, “You’ve always enjoyed writing.” I understood then—I was just being myself, nothing extraordinary. When you’re consistently good, you risk becoming just another cog in the machine. So, I decided to explore the path of mischief.
Drugs weren’t what I had in mind, as that would hardly be rebellious—especially with my former-hippie parents who had given me the green light to try any substance I wished, provided I did so in their presence. I was determined to be bad in a different way.
In my freshman year of high school, I found myself surrounded by a sea of well-behaved students. Faced with a choice—either enhance my goodness or embrace a slightly less virtuous path—I opted for the latter. The first option meant countless hours of community service and participating in clubs that looked good on college applications or trendy T-shirts. The second option was a thrill, and I accepted the challenge.
One evening in ninth grade, I neglected to complete my English homework. Overwhelmed with extracurricular activities, I simply fell asleep before reading a chapter of Hamlet. The next day, as homework was being collected, I pleaded with my overly diligent friend, Sarah, to let me copy hers. I could see her internal struggle: Should being good mean denying me assistance, or helping a friend? Ultimately, she chose to help, and I paraphrased her ideas just in time. To my dismay, the homework was graded, and I received a higher score than she did.
Even in my misstep, I managed to excel. It was a peculiar lesson—succeeding at something I knew was wrong, and not only escaping detection but also triumphing. Sure, I felt a fleeting sense of pride, but it wasn’t fulfilling. While I could navigate the murky waters of homework copying, there were still areas where I struggled, like physics, returning phone calls, and left-lane merging. These imperfections didn’t alter my identity; they merely added a bit of color to my otherwise orderly life.
As I raise my own Type A daughter, I aim to encourage her to strive for excellence. Yet, I will also remind her that sometimes it’s acceptable to simply be okay. If she’s intrigued by a little rebellion, and if no one gets hurt or addicted, she might as well dabble in a bit of mischief—just be really good at it.
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In summary, the journey from being a model child to exploring the realms of rebellion is both complex and enlightening. It’s crucial to find a balance between striving for excellence and embracing our imperfections, all while fostering an environment that encourages growth and exploration.