Much Ado About Nothing

Much Ado About Nothing

Up on stage, under the glowing spotlight, and in front of the glowering judge, I felt as if nothing could get in my way. As would soon be evident, I was absolutely right.

The last kid got out on casserole—I eat casseroles for breakfast.

But the first round of the Manhattan-wide Spelling Bee was definitely not the right time to learn a new word.

Stammering into the microphone, I asked for a definition.

The judge recited from the dictionary: “The belief that the actions that one takes in life have no meaning, or will amount to nothing.”

The auditorium clock was ticking. Carefully eyeing the disqualification bell, I began to spell because I had no other options: “N—I—A—”

ding.

The judge had brought her hand down with the unabridged force of the entire English language.

It was over. I was out, already beside my parents in the audience. Words, which had always been my infallible asset, had failed me. In desperation for appeal, I looked up the word how I’d intended to spell it—

“Nialism: A term frequently used by adolescents as a misspelling of the word nihilism” (source: Urban Dictionary).

I was stung by the Bee.

That day, I met a word that defined who I wasn’t. To me, words are the very embodiment of spinning meaning out of thin air: squiggles into letters into words into stories. Therefore, nihilism betrayed convention—doubting its own importance by claiming that nothing has meaning.

How could I possibly have never come across nihilism in my life at all?

I found the answer in my family. Name any creative skill and I can point to a relative who is a whiz at it: paint on a blank canvas, musical notes into biding silence, and monologues on an otherwise empty stage are all ways of disrupting the same blank void—turning nothing into something. In that respect, my creativity has been my inheritance. Nihilism just wasn’t part of my world. Encountering the word only gave a name to what I had unwittingly striven towards from the start: creativity against nothing.

Growing up, my New York City was filled with wonder. I would race up and down the pavement pointing out my own wondrous alphabet: police barricades were bookended by stoic A’s, trees were tall, fractal Y’s, and lampposts were arching lowercase R’s. I saw kaleidoscopic, lexicographic beauty where others saw nothing out of the ordinary—I recognized the unseen potential of everything around me.

Likewise, I always make the most out of any situation—knowing that there is always a way to solve a problem walks hand-in-hand with my optimism. Manifested in Model UN—whether using history as a powerful crisis management tool or making even the smallest of logistical alterations to keep team morale afloat—or in theater, where I wear the hats of playwright, lyricist, and actor simultaneously to help make the production worthwhile for both us and the audience, I have learned to improvise when needed and think ahead well in advance. Across the board, my peers and I put together new ideas from a finite alphabet to make a finished product greater than the sum of its parts.

Walking through my city with the Manhattan Borough President during my summer internship, I listened to profound stories from inspiring citizens and engaged in parts of my city often overlooked. I worked with my research partner to fill voids with positive necessities, surveying empty school lots to locate possible future playground sites—I am excited for the new opportunities future children will have. In the ordinary locations where I had once seen my personal alphabet, I now see room for meaningful humanitarian change.

Though opposed to nihilism, I am grateful for our encounter—for without the world’s nothings, there would be no room for new somethings.

I will never let nothing get in my way again.