I stood before my infuriated mother with a heated, intense anger.

Although I understood that I failed to reach her ameliorated expectations, I couldn’t comprehend why she failed to see things from my perspective.

“Why couldn’t you do better? I know you can do better than this,” she said, puncturing the computer screen with her sharp, slender fingers. On the lustrous screen was an illuminated view of my grades. Neatly arranged in the classes I had taken and the grade I had received, my report card simply laid there as it was scrutinized by my mother.

I in slow, steady breaths in an attempt to prevent myself from hyperventilating.

How could she know I could do better, when I myself did not?

I failed to understand why my exit from her meant that she was suddenly enlightened with all there was to know about the child before her.

“How many times have I told to study harder, study longer? How many times?”

She was speaking unevenly now. Although the strenuous atmosphere urged her to shout, I scoffed at her lame attempt to control herself.

“Why can you not achieve such a simple feat?” she fired on.

I ground my teeth and clenched my fists. My nails dug into the corpulent area of my palm, leaving distinct crescent shaped marks. I took the blows my mother fired from her unrestricted mouth and pushed my heels into the ground to keep myself tall and firm.

Even if I was hurt on the inside, I would not give her the pleasure of seeing me fall physically.

My eyes were glazed and red. The tears pounded inside my head, building up- fighting to get out and expose my weak interior to my indignant mother.

The ignorant woman in front of me rested her head in her hand and let out a dramatic, stifled sigh. A sigh that shouted disappointment.

She rose her other arm and made a lethargic, lazy movement that indicated that she wanted me to exit the room. She was wafting me away as if I was some toxic, pathogenic gas invading her personal area.

I grinned sourly and cracked my knuckles.

I stood before my infuriated mother with a heated, intense anger.

“My pleasure.”

So that was just a short passage I  wrote in response to an event that took hold yesterday night. 

I had a B+ instead of the A my parents wanted. 

I have many thoughts regarding grades and self-identification; however I shant write it unless you guys want me to (comment if you want. I can't really read minds). 

But I will leave you with one thing I learned. 

Grades don't reflect the kind of person you are. 

They can show dedication and maybe intelligence, but that isn't much regarding all the kinds of emotions and experiences that make up the amazing, eminent people we know from books, history, and even the media. 

It's what you learn from trying to get the grades you want that are important.

It's the messages like "hard-work can pay off", "I should work harder next time", "I shouldn't procrastinate", "It is possible for me to reach my goal", "I am not stupid", "I can do it".. "I did it".

It's the messages like these that are important. 

Getting an "F" shouldn't make you mark youself as an unintelligent being. 

It should push you to do something greater. 

It should push you to learn something, take a stance, and most importantly: do something.