Enigmatic.
Who knew that a word that literally means mysterious would help me solve a mystery I didn't even know existed.
March 14, 2019. The hour had arrived to present our imaginary presidential candidate to students and admin in hopes of them electing ours over the other group's. It was the culmination of a month long AP gov project. Our group had scraped together a backstory, political stance, and campaign for this man--an African-American-to-appeal-to-liberals, male-to-appeal-to-conservatives man--Winfield Burnes couldn't fail us now.
Our presentation went smoothly, as our group was well rehearsed, until the questions.
"How is your candidate different from your opponent's?"
Unsurprisingly, our liberal-heavy class had run eerily similar candidates; it seemed as though the only difference between them was their gender and the color of their skin. The opposing group went first.
"Our candidate is charismatic, hard working, intelligent, enigmatic..."
Hold up. Didn't enigmatic mean mysterious? I was almost certain it did.
Of course, that's not what they meant to say. They probably meant something more positive such as empathetic or benevolent, but still, they said it. And when someone messes up in the political world their opponents show no mercy.
I was about to stand up then and there and say, "Well, unlike your mysterious candidate, ours is transparent with the people about his goals." I was about to.
But I didn't.
Why? Because I was almost certain that enigmatic meant mysterious. And that tiny sliver of doubt, of being wrong in front of my teacher, my peers, administrators, and seniors who seemed way smarter than me was a risk I wasn't willing to take. Not even for Winfield Burnes and the brighter future he was burning for.
Later, I was talking to my peers about how I almost said my piece, almost talked back, almost, almost, almost. They confirmed that enigmatic did indeed mean mysterious, and that made me feel even more upset for not speaking up and defending myself. I told my parents, and they both sighed and asked me why I didn't say it. I wasn't sure of the answer until I realized the answer was that I wasn't sure.
The fear of being wrong, the insecurity, took over me. It prevented me from doing something as simple as reciting the meaning of a word I knew, because there was a chance that maybe I didn't know it after all. It's what prevents me from shouting out the right answer in AP Comp when the rest of the room is silent. It's what prevents me from telling my Spanish teacher what a word means even though I'm a native speaker. It's what prevents me from playing loudly in orchestra when I'm sight-reading, even though when our teacher calls out what measures we're on, I'm right where I'm supposed to be.
Almost means nothing. If Ben Franklin had almost flown a kite in a thunderstorm, he never would have discovered electricity. If Martin Luther King Jr. had almost had a dream, he never would have inspired millions of people to fight against racism. If Thomas Jefferson had almost written the Declaration of Independence, his words never would have been the backbone of our country. All our "almosts" do to us is fill us with regret. We always wonder what would have happened if only we had taken that chance.
And yeah, things go wrong. You get embarrassed. You fail. But that's all part of the process. Better than to fail a million times than never accomplish anything at all. Succumbing to fear is the biggest failure one can have. Because eventually, if you keep trying, success will come. It will only come, however, if you learn to ignore the voice in your head telling you you're wrong.
Then one day, you can talk about not how you almost did something, but how you almost didn't do it. And you can talk about how, even though you were scared, you did it anyway, and it ended up being one of the best decisions of your life.
Who knew that a word that literally means mysterious would help me solve a mystery I didn't even know existed.
March 14, 2019. The hour had arrived to present our imaginary presidential candidate to students and admin in hopes of them electing ours over the other group's. It was the culmination of a month long AP gov project. Our group had scraped together a backstory, political stance, and campaign for this man--an African-American-to-appeal-to-liberals, male-to-appeal-to-conservatives man--Winfield Burnes couldn't fail us now.
Our presentation went smoothly, as our group was well rehearsed, until the questions.
"How is your candidate different from your opponent's?"
Unsurprisingly, our liberal-heavy class had run eerily similar candidates; it seemed as though the only difference between them was their gender and the color of their skin. The opposing group went first.
"Our candidate is charismatic, hard working, intelligent, enigmatic..."
Hold up. Didn't enigmatic mean mysterious? I was almost certain it did.
Of course, that's not what they meant to say. They probably meant something more positive such as empathetic or benevolent, but still, they said it. And when someone messes up in the political world their opponents show no mercy.
I was about to stand up then and there and say, "Well, unlike your mysterious candidate, ours is transparent with the people about his goals." I was about to.
But I didn't.
Why? Because I was almost certain that enigmatic meant mysterious. And that tiny sliver of doubt, of being wrong in front of my teacher, my peers, administrators, and seniors who seemed way smarter than me was a risk I wasn't willing to take. Not even for Winfield Burnes and the brighter future he was burning for.
Later, I was talking to my peers about how I almost said my piece, almost talked back, almost, almost, almost. They confirmed that enigmatic did indeed mean mysterious, and that made me feel even more upset for not speaking up and defending myself. I told my parents, and they both sighed and asked me why I didn't say it. I wasn't sure of the answer until I realized the answer was that I wasn't sure.
The fear of being wrong, the insecurity, took over me. It prevented me from doing something as simple as reciting the meaning of a word I knew, because there was a chance that maybe I didn't know it after all. It's what prevents me from shouting out the right answer in AP Comp when the rest of the room is silent. It's what prevents me from telling my Spanish teacher what a word means even though I'm a native speaker. It's what prevents me from playing loudly in orchestra when I'm sight-reading, even though when our teacher calls out what measures we're on, I'm right where I'm supposed to be.
Almost means nothing. If Ben Franklin had almost flown a kite in a thunderstorm, he never would have discovered electricity. If Martin Luther King Jr. had almost had a dream, he never would have inspired millions of people to fight against racism. If Thomas Jefferson had almost written the Declaration of Independence, his words never would have been the backbone of our country. All our "almosts" do to us is fill us with regret. We always wonder what would have happened if only we had taken that chance.
And yeah, things go wrong. You get embarrassed. You fail. But that's all part of the process. Better than to fail a million times than never accomplish anything at all. Succumbing to fear is the biggest failure one can have. Because eventually, if you keep trying, success will come. It will only come, however, if you learn to ignore the voice in your head telling you you're wrong.
Then one day, you can talk about not how you almost did something, but how you almost didn't do it. And you can talk about how, even though you were scared, you did it anyway, and it ended up being one of the best decisions of your life.
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