I was sitting in the cluttered room, among the many piles of various trinkets and treasures, typing away on the tiny keyboard of a Commodore Basic PET personal computer. I was debugging and finalizing a text-based ‘Fighting game’ I had created. As I finished the program, I reached for a dusty old cassette tape and slid it into the ancient slot for which it was made. Snapping the cassette driver into place, I saved the program and then ran the command to save it to the tape. Pressing play on the driver, I leaned back onto the wooden shelf behind me.


As the obsolete gears within the device whirred, I studied the room, my bedroom, thinking about how I got to this point. First I looked at my desk, looking over my various notes and informational sheets. Among these sheets, I noticed many notes about programming, equations and various informational subjects that I hadn't looked at for a long time. I would have been content to stop there, and decide that this is where I had begun, but then, after a pause, I looked deeper. I glanced over to the wall above my bed, which was covered with various rewards. Each reward had it’s own story. My certificate for passing geometry sat up there, bringing memories of my former awkwardness as a shy, introverted nerd. My eyes then wandered to the certificate just below it; the certificate for passing math Olympiads, the Elementary school version of advanced math. Seeing this, my eyes automatically locked onto a small glittering trophy on my windowsill. I smiled as the memories came back to me.


It was in elementary school, about 2nd or 3rd grade, when I was simultaneously put into math Olympiads and something called future problem solvers. Both had the same teacher, and she said to us that the classes would “challenge our brains to think creatively”, or something like that. The classes were great, and I loved them. My school career before that point did not allow for much creativity or innovation. I excelled in the classes, and would look forward to them each week. I felt like, in these classes, I could do anything.


I wasn't good at paying attention, and, because of this, I would often fall behind. It’s not that I didn't understand the material, it’s that I never really listened. Looking back, I realize that this never occurred to me at the time. I felt that everyone else in the class was smarter than me. As time went on, I began to become more and more stressed. My classmates became my competition, and I felt that any day now, I would be kicked out of math Olympiads for poor performance. That day never came, much to my surprise, and I would learn why at the end of my fifth grade year.


The awards ceremony. A bright spotlight lit the stage as they called each student up to receive awards such as “perfect attendance” or “Passed math Olympiads”, the latter having been awarded to only a few of the people who were in math Olympiads. I was almost certain that I wouldn't receive the award, and I had long since stopped caring. I didn't want to care, having remembered my inability to pay attention in math Olympiads. Finally, it was my turn to walk up to the stage. I nervously hoped that nobody would remember that I was in math Olympiads, took a deep breath, and began to walk into the spotlight. Imagine my shock and surprise when I heard them list what I had won; “Perfect attendance, passing math olympiads, and…”


“...Highest individual score” I said to myself, tracing the lettering on the small, now-dusty trophy that I held in my hand. The trophy had the math Olympiads insignia on it, still visible after years of sitting on my windowsill. Despite being made of plastic, and being an obviously cheap trophy, to me, it was made of gold. To me, this trophy was a constant reminder of the proudest day of my life. Every time I look at it now, I stop and remember. Remember the day I found that I could do… Anything.