I have something against my country's educational system.

  Maybe it is because that I am not that bright or hard-working. Maybe it is because I resent people who are smarter than me. Maybe I do not believe that intelligence can be measured based on academic results only.

  Result-oriented, that is what my country is. How many As you have on your result slip determines what you will be, who you will be, your pay check, what the neighbours say, what your relatives say, how people look at you.

  Maybe it is because of that.

  Or maybe I just cannot stand what some people say.

  There was a time when I got third in my class. A minute achievement.

  Though instead of something motivational, I got a put-down.

  "So what? You're not in the first class. They're still smarter than you,"

  I made a mistake for relying on my family for support.

  It did not matter.

  Prize-giving day, I was told, is a waste of my time, since all I got was a measly place in the second class.

  No point. No point.

  They called my name from the stage.

  There I was, walking up the steps.

  So what?

  It does not mean anything.

  I do not need the people in the hall to know me.

  I do not need the people in the hall, the people on stage, my prize giver, my friends...I do not need them to acknowledge my achievements.

  I just needed my father to accept me for who I am. Not who I will be if I get better results, if I am smarter.

  "Look at your cousin, she has better results than you do,"

  "Why can't you do better?"

  "Right now, it's impossible for you to be a doctor,"

  "I don't want to be a doctor,"

  "It's impossible for you to be an engineer as well, with results that bad,"

  "I don't want to be an engineer,"

  "You want to take mass communication? That course is for people who cannot pass national examinations,"

  I smile at my father, I smile at the things he said. I smile at the person handing my my certificate. I always smile when I hide my sadness.

  I walk down the steps, hurriedly.

  "You're walking too fast! I can't get a picture of you," my friend hissed at me at the steps.

  I showed him the expression I really wanted to give earlier. To my father, to the man who shook my hand, to my lack of perseverance and to my dramatic sensitivity.

  As I walked to the wash room, my grip tightened.

  I went into a cubicle, and threw up.

  Little drops of tears dripped. My grip tightened once more.

  I crumpled my certificate.

  The one proving my achievement in academic results.

  The proof of my reason to be proud of myself, even if just a little bit.

  I damaged it.