One day I came home to two angry parents holding a flap of paper. With their messy hair and red faces, I could tell what I was facing. I walked back out the door.
I knew I should have came home first to hide that progress report. After all, it was only a progress report; it wouldn’t hurt. However, I stopped and thought about it twice: I could never escape from their wrath. Why? Because I feel pressured.
Obviously I know that my parents want me to do the best in life, since they weren’t granted as much things as I was. I looked twice at my grades. Two B-’s, others were A’s. Much to many exaggerated “wows” I received from this story, I could never describe the humiliation I feel when they see that I am slipping.
If only they knew how this pressure hurts me emotionally and physically, pulling all-nighters frequently to make sure I cram enough for this test and that test, finish all my homework, as so I cannot afford another missing grade. This pressure puts me down as I reassure myself I am nothing but stupid compared to other friends who have better grades than me. I just want to scream to them that getting good grades is not easy.
However, in reverse, this pressure keeps me on task. It lets me know that there are two important parents out there, who await my acceptance letter to college, who anticipate the future house I will buy for them, and who will watch as their daughter and grandkids move onto successful houses.
If only the pressure was a little bit nicer, I would not be so self-conscious. In a way, I feel parents are correct but they must understand, they are pretty darn harsh. I only wish for them to support me, not criticize me. Eventually, I hope my parents understand my pressure, and know that I am no longer a baby who needs discipline.