I Got Invited to the School Prize Distribution. I Don’t Really Wanna Go.
I’m sitting cross-legged on my dorm bed right now, a crumpled bag of salt and vinegar chips next to my laptop, and the open email invitation is staring me in the face. It’s got that fancy university letterhead, all bold font saying “Annual Prize Distribution Ceremony 2024” and my name is starred at the bottom of the prize winners list, for that work I did editing the student literary journal last year. I knew this was coming—my prof mentioned back in May that he’d nominated me, I got the confirmation email last month. But somehow seeing the reminder, with the line that says “Please arrive 45 minutes early for registration and seating,” makes my chest feel a little tight. I just don’t wanna go.
My roommate already rolled her eyes when I told her this ten minutes ago. “Are you actually insane? It’s five hundred dollars in bookstore credit, plus a plaque to hang on your wall when you graduate. People would kill for that. Why would you skip?” And I get it. Logically, I get it. The five hundred would cover all my textbooks for next semester, which would save me from begging my mom for extra money. I’m proud of the work I did, too—last semester I stayed up until 2 a.m. more nights than I can count fixing wonky formatting, emailing writers back to ask for revisions, organizing that reading in the student union that half the English department showed up to. It matters to me. But the ceremony part? It just feels like unnecessary noise.
I went last year, to support my best friend Lila who won that senior thesis prize. I remember everything about it, actually. We had to get there an hour early, and all the prize winners had to line up in that narrow back hallway behind the auditorium stage, so the volunteers could check us off their lists. It was so cramped that a guy carrying one of those huge glass trophies knocked into my iced coffee, and it spilled all down the front of my only nice sweater. I spent the whole rest of the ceremony sitting there sticky, smelling like vanilla syrup, trying to pull my bag over the stain. Then we sat through two hours of speeches. The chair of the board of trustees talked for 45 minutes about how he used to work his way through school digging ditches in the summer, like anyone there cared. When they finally called Lila’s name, they mispronounced it so bad no one even realized it was her until she waved awkwardly from the line. She walked up there, the flash went off, and when the school posted the photos to Instagram later that week, they spelled her name wrong anyway. She never even hung the plaque up, it’s just sitting under her bed in a box.
If I go this time, I have to dig out something formal to wear. All I have is that button-down I bought for a job interview last year that’s got a giant coffee stain on the cuff, and a pair of black jeans with a hole at the knee that I can’t really sew closed. I’d have to borrow something from my roommate, which means I’d have to return it washed and ironed, which is just another thing on my to-do list I don’t need. I’d have to sit in that hard plastic auditorium chair for three hours, smile when people talk, line up, walk across that stage where the lights are so bright you can’t see anything, trip over the stupid step that’s always an inch higher than you expect it to be. I’d have to ask someone to come with me to take photos, because everyone else has their parents or their friends there. My parents live six hours away, they can’t get off work to drive up just to see me shake someone’s hand for ten seconds. And I wouldn’t ask any of my friends to sit through three hours of boring speeches just for me. I hated every minute of it when I did it for Lila—why would I make anyone do that for me?
I feel guilty for thinking this, honestly. Like, it’s ungrateful, right? A lot of people don’t get recognized for the work they do at all. I should be happy I got this, I should jump at the chance to go up there and be recognized. I think about when I was in middle school, how I’d beg my mom to iron my best dress for the end of year prize giving, how I’d practice my little wave in the mirror for weeks before, how I’d get so excited when my name got called. I don’t know when that excitement died. It’s not that I don’t care about the work anymore. I care a lot. It just feels like the ceremony turns all the messy, hard, fun work I did into this little 10-second photo op. No one there cares that I stayed up till 2 a.m. fixing formatting, or that we got three times as many submissions from first year students this year because I posted about the journal on TikTok. All they see is another name on a list, another handshake, another photo.
The worst part is the text I got from Professor Hale this morning, the one who nominated me. It says “So excited to see you tomorrow at the ceremony! I’ll be in the front row, can’t wait to congratulate you in person.” I’ve been staring at that text for an hour, and I haven’t replied yet. He’s such a nice guy, he stayed after class to help me with my thesis draft last semester, he wrote me a recommendation letter for grad school. I don’t wanna hurt his feelings by telling him I don’t wanna show up to the thing he nominated me for. That feels like a slap in the face, almost.
I looked up the rules earlier, actually. The admin office says if you can’t make it, they’ll hold your prize and you can pick it up later, or they’ll send it to your dorm. The girl who lives down the hall did that two years ago, when she had a family thing, no one even said anything. No one’s gonna notice if I’m not there, right? The auditorium holds 500 people, there are 70 prize winners. They’ll just skip my name and move on to the next one.
Right now I’m leaning towards just staying home. I’ve got a stack of first year essays to grade for my TA position that are due Friday, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow anyway, I can make pasta and put on that show I’ve been re-watching and be way more comfortable than I would be in that auditorium. I’ll text Professor Hale tomorrow morning, tell him I have a prior commitment I can’t reschedule, thank him a million times for nominating me. He’ll probably be a little disappointed, but he’ll get over it. I’ll get my gift card and my plaque next week, hang it up by my desk if I feel like it, and that’ll be that. I don’t need a stage to be proud of the work I did. That doesn’t sound as nice as a neat, happy ending, I guess. But it’s the truth. (Word count: ~1120)
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