My Essay on Naveen

I am an unsure person. Crippled by indecision and hesitancy, I take an unreasonable length of time to choose a course. That, coupled with the fact I have a complicated task on my hands, means this essay gets harder to write the longer I wait. So this is me ending the staring contest I’ve had with my computer cursor for the past nine days. This is me beginning my essay by not picking an anecdote or quotation to “catch my audience’s attention”, but by diving in cannonball-style. I could write this essay a hundred ways, yet none of them would fully express what it is I want to say. So I just have to spit it out, deal with the imperfections, and write. Sink or swim, I guess.

Naveen Jain, this essay is for you. This essay describes you, applauds you, and makes what I hope is a valiant attempt at revealing your impact on me. For the rest of you reading, fear not. It is still rhetorically sound, descriptively satisfying, and by all means interesting. But know that it was not firstly written for you.

My boyfriend permitted me to write this essay under the condition that I did not elope with Naveen when it was finished. That sounded like a fair trade to me, and anyway, what I feel for Naveen isn’t love. Love is a complicated, messy affair but what I feel for Naveen is painfully simple. It is appreciation – for being my friend and for being himself.

The first time I met him, Naveen was a rival. It was at a Math Masters competition in fifth grade, a lunchroom of bouncing – but brilliant! – elementary school children hyped up with sugary donut holes and Capri Sun juice pouches. I was from Sunset Hill Elementary School, math was fun, and life was simple. Worry was not in my emotional repertoire.

I finished in second place for individual rounds, behind some skinny Chinese girl who didn’t get a single question wrong. Plymouth Creek had something to celebrate as well: their own Naveen Jain tied one of my teammates in fast-facts, a speedy contest of 75 arithmetic problems that almost no one finishes. Plymouth Creek also ranked first place in team events. Sunset Hill ranked second.

I never would have known it – the impact that the little Indian fast-facts boy would have on me. We’ve become friends since then. (When two people have the same advanced classes together time and time again, they cannot help but be friends.) It’s strange to think; I only met Naveen six years ago. We’ve only been friends for three. Just as anticipation makes the seconds stand on end, I feel as if I’ve known Naveen for a century. Time plays funny games like that, and it only takes a moment for one’s life to change. So Naveen? He’s changed my life a million times over.

Who is this Naveen Jain? Well, he calls himself a feminist, but his mother still does his laundry. His winter jacket makes him look hungry and homeless. He can multi-task better than an octopus. He cherishes nostalgia. He owns a t-shirt that advertises Kiki’s delivery service.

He also has a pigeon-holing reputation of being “the smart guy”. One cannot ignore Naveen’s obvious intelligence the same as one cannot ignore a gun in the face – both are equally jarring. He is, as they say, “naturally talented,” but that title overlooks something important. Others can memorize just as quickly, can read and retain just as much. No, Naveen is set apart by his nauseatingly efficient work ethic. By the time school ends, he could very well be done with half his homework, because his time is never wasted. He maximizes, optimizes, and prioritizes like it is a mastered foreign language. He is expected to exceed expectations, creating a paralyzing cycle that he takes into stride.

But Naveen is not a two-dimensional workaholic. He keeps a closet full of personalities – each of them just a piece of his true self. Sure, he can be the hardworking android, pumping out results at a sickening speed, but he can also be the passionate artist, immersed in his love for drawing. He can be an immature child, erratically pouring water on our table at the Pancake House for no reason (to my extreme disapproval.) He can be an unperturbed teenager, playing Starcraft or Super Smash Bros. until one day melts into the next, with no sense of time or priorities. He can be a harsh critic to the status quo, his peers, and especially himself. He can be an abrasive devil’s advocate, to the point of social unacceptability when he steps on the toes of cultural taboos. He can be a pompous asshole, a satirical bastard, a clown. He can be a thoughtful philosopher, who thinks it nice to release a hundred red balloons one summer’s day, just to watch. He can be a thousand years old, giving me advice that guides me across wastelands and strikes true. Naveen can be anything; he is a crowd of different people packed neatly – beautifully – into one.

Yet while he is a crowd, he does not follow the crowd. He is an individual.

Between those knitted personalities is an intense struggle. Naveen’s rationality and need to understand means that he needs to rationalize and understand his own acts. He analyzes to purify – one only needs to read his blog to know this is true. He once told me that he constantly tries to “find ways to get better”. He wants to help. He wants to be good. He wants so much, and thinks he has to change. He fails to realize that he can, that he is. His fears are irrational. His desire to prove himself – something we share – is insatiable. He has told me that I make him feel like this, like he needs to prove himself; did I forget to mention what a fool he can be too?

Once, on a retreat with our eighth grade class, Naveen and I partnered for teambuilding activities. I was to close my eyes; he was to guide me somewhere. I don’t remember the purpose of the exercise, something to do with trust, I’m sure. I do remember that he nearly led me off a cliff. (Though admittedly, it was just three feet high.) Two years later, in our sophomore year, we were debate partners. One day we were picking up after a round staged in that school’s TV production room. I was leaping from desk to desk, full of caprice and confidence, when I took a bad step and toppled onto our tub of files. He laughed at me. Later that year, at my final choir concert of the year, I was out-of-my-mind excited when he told me he would be in the audience to finally – finally – hear me do what I love. I gave my best performance. I was immeasurably disappointed when I walked off stage and read the text message telling me he couldn’t make it. I cried. I didn’t go back at the end of the performance to sing the final song.

See, he isn’t perfect. His effect on me isn’t all blue skies and sunshine. But he challenges me to keep trying, so I do. He has standards for me, so I have standards for myself. He has confidence in me, so I follow his lead. He tells me not to worry, so I let my worries fade. He tells me I am good enough, so I let myself believe him. He’s the smart one, after all. He should know.

He challenges me more than anybody else. The world of academia is a merciless place. It is full of carnivorous competitors that engage in a fierce battle for grades and recognition (sometimes with fellow students as the prey). Naveen might be king of the hill. He is the one to set the curve on history tests. He is the one who determines the standard for the rest of the class. He is the one people envy. My goal when I’m handed a familiar bubble sheet is not to get an A, but to beat Naveen – granted, these two habitually coincide. He is the reigning champion, the crowd favorite, the predicted winner. And I am the hopeful underdog who pants at his heels for a chance at victory. I remember during third term of last year, for two glorious days – that’s 48 hours! – I had the same grade as him in AP European History. I recorded it in a notebook for posterity: 204/209, Euro, February 12, 2010. Same as Nav. Writing those words felt fantastic.

Of course, the competition is not really so bloodthirsty; my knives and maces never come out. In truth, he helps me, and when I can, I help him. What is most important, however, is not the direct challenge he provides. It is what he represents. He urges me to challenge myself because he is living proof that hard work pays off.

I guess I can’t deny that I have potential. But I can say that “potential” is a euphemized label for “isn’t quite there yet”. Naveen makes me want to speed up the process, flourish in some glittery spotlight, sparkle. And when we were paired as debate partners, becoming one of Wayzata’s top novice teams, I had a chance to taste glory, recognition, all of those things. We nabbed speaker awards in tandem – mine below his – and placed at almost every tournament. I was amazed while he didn’t even bat an eyelash.

I have always been scared to unleash my potential because there are two frightening possibilities: being good enough…and not. However when I was paired with Naveen, I knew I was hanging onto his coattails, and I didn’t want that. I wanted to be worthy of being his debate partner. That was enough for me to overcome any fear of success or failure. For that three-month debate season, I worked. Although he could finish reading files, understand concepts, and cut cards in half the time, I didn’t care. I would work to match it even if it was impossible.

Reaching one’s full potential, I once heard, is simply becoming who you were meant to be. By being my debate partner, Naveen gave me a taste of what I could have. It was later that he began to give me the confidence to be myself.

Every year, sophomores who take AP European History are invited to go on a tour of Europe. Without parents. An expensive tour of Europe without around-the-clock supervision – one can see clear student attractions and parent apprehensions. My ticket’s pending approval was determined by my mother. The conditions were extremely vague. In the month before departure, I was given a long lecture on what I “deserved” which left me feeling dejected. I was allowed to go, sure, but it no longer felt right. The plane ride was nauseating – not from flying 40,000 feet in the air, but from feeling dissociated. I shouldn’t be here, I thought, because I don’t deserve it like everyone else around me does. Naveen looked at me, asked if I was okay. His concern verified that yes, I was meant to be there, of course I was. It’s times like this when Naveen takes away my doubt.

There was a night in Paris when Naveen slipped away. (Imagine that, getting lost in Paris.) He was still physically present, but he might as well have been spinning on the rings of Saturn. After a delicious Parisian dinner, he wouldn’t respond to us. During a river tour of the city, he was mute and unmoving. When we were walking to la Tour Eiffel, he lagged behind. He sported a vivid yellow jacket and a fauxhawk, and I remember thinking how much it contrasted with his dark demeanor. He was distant, and all I could do was walk beside him, make sure he was keeping up, and not let him float out of our solar system. At one point we ended up on the opposite side of the street from the group. I wished I was telepathic. I repeated in my head “don’t worry about it”, the same maxim that he said to me on a daily basis, the one that irked me to no end. I repeated it a hundred times. I cannot recall if I ever said it out loud.

This is what Naveen is like when he doubts himself. I was witness to two distinct occasions – one in Europe, the other at a debate tournament where he was awarded first speaker. From these I glean that even Naveen thinks about himself what I think about myself. Even Naveen feels worthless sometimes too. And since Naveen is wrong about that, about being worthless, then I could be too.

He and I joined robotics the same year. My participation was based more on positive peer pressure, and I couldn’t decide whether to commit. One late night, he asked me, “Are you staying in robotics?”

I dodged the question. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t want you to quit.”

There must have been some reason he hadn’t wanted me to quit. Maybe because he knew I could succeed, if I wanted?

Our European experience and this short exchange are my best examples of when Naveen has spurred me to have faith in myself. One of my favorite quotations comes from T. S. Eliot’s poem The Waste Land: “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.” I have a fear that I will die without leaving my mark, die without significance. I am scared that after I pass, I will be nothing more than a handful of dust. Naveen said this is a valid fear, but unnecessary. When we live, we can’t help but change the world. It’s like Newton’s first law: every action has a reaction. I suppose it’s like the weather too, how a flap of a butterfly’s wings can affect it. I have no choice to change the world. So I “don’t worry about it”, just as he has told me a hundred times. I have started to listen to him.

When self-doubt deteriorates, the freedom to be one’s true self takes its place. I find it hard not to be myself around Naveen – how could I be when he isn’t? Once I asked him when he would ever be satisfied. He replied, “not until I have the world in my palm, to destroy and recreate.” He was alluding to Code Geass, a popular anime show. He once described its plot to me as a hypothetical: global takeover resulting in world peace – could it happen? It was a complicated plan but Marxism was just a hypothetical once, too. At first it was ridiculous. Then it was incredible. Then it was believable. I started to think about what sacrifice means, what justifies killing, and what justifies peace, but mostly just how it is alright to be myself. His answer, “to destroy and recreate,” matched his identity as a budding anime connoisseur (and of course, budding dictator). I’ve asked him how he wishes he could be described. He said unique, unconventional, controversial, and disturbing. He said it confidently, no fear of being judged. I want to have that confidence to be myself, and because he has shown me that it is possible despite self-doubt, I do. After all, conforming to “the system” is so not an option when Naveen is your friend.

A friend, indeed. Naveen has led me to find something worth loving in myself. I will not deny it; I have hated myself before. I have stayed up past midnight and pleaded with empty air. He probably doesn’t even realize it, but he has brought me back from my self-created hell on many dark nights. When I told him I couldn’t do it – both fall asleep, and wake up in the morning - he said I was strong, that I could get through anything. When I told him I didn’t think I was good enough, he said worrying shouldn’t be the focus, and that I was. Because this incredibly smart, exceptionally wise and altogether good person finds some value in being my friend, I love myself. Maybe that’s how simple love actually is. You love the way someone makes you feel about yourself.

Naveen Jain has bleary eyes because he doesn’t sleep enough, a youthful look when he finally shaves, an irrational fondness of Arial Narrow font, a disturbing love affair with anime characters, a tendency to do more than necessary, handwriting like a computer, a wild sense of curiosity, a secret hope for the impossible, and my deep deep deep admiration. If only he had knowledge of how powerful his impact is, he might find satisfaction. He has certainly impacted me.

Because of Naveen, I challenge myself, want to prove myself, have faith in myself, am confident to be myself, and love myself. He feeds me a cocktail of mixed emotions: dizziness, sobriety, freedom. He enlightens me. He unknowingly reminds me that people can change, that limits are never predetermined, and that humanity is inherently good. This is appreciation. This is what I feel towards him.

So, Naveen, I give you this advice in thanks: Remember being fearless, remember Paris, and remember feeling unstoppable. Remember what peace feels like and remember satisfaction. Remember to be happy. I know you said you don’t know what makes you happy, so I challenge you to find it. Do not doubt yourself, because there is no need. Do not forget how remarkable you are.

I began writing this essay with immense uncertainty. Now that I’m near its end, I can say he has assured me of three things: one, there exist remarkably incredible people – he is proof; two, he will accomplish magnificent things; and three, I could accomplish magnificent things too. I will not sink or swim. I will fly.