JOHN QUINCY AdAMS

Zoe H, 11th - Brussels, Belgium 

     People say a child’s first love is their mother, then their father, but parental love is different from the love one garners from someone who is not obligated to love them. The kind of love that is not owed, but offered. From there, love can be defined in many different ways. The Greeks believed that there are eight different kinds of love: eros, philia, ludus, agape, pragma, philautia, storge, and mania. I would like to address the latter of these forms of affection. Mania, otherwise known as manic love, is what I like to think of as the most humbling of loves. In particular, when it is brutally unrequited, like it will be in this story, so buckle up. 

    When most people think of their first love, they think of a wholesome, teenage romance. However, this will not be one of those stories. I am among the people with untold stories of shame buried deep within the soul completely hidden from society out of fear of what may become of them if it is discovered. Deep within me lies the memory of one John Quincy Adams. Despite their striking resemblance, I do not speak of the sixth president of the United States of America who served during the time of the utterly monumental and totally world renowned first Oxford University Boat Race. Instead, I am referring to the seven year-old boy I met in the second grade and developed a nearly demented obsession with. Why his parents decided to name him after the less famous Adams president is beyond me. However, I do know that his name makes this entire situation far more mortifying. In all honesty, I can not quite remember what I saw in him that had me so incredibly infatuated. My recollection of him is limited to three facts: he had green eyes, prior knowledge of multiplication, and a dog named Stalin. One can tell quite how much fun his parents had with names. I think the thing I found most attractive about him was his skill at multiplication. I had decided at the ripe age of seven years-old that I needed a man whose intelligence could rival my own, and John Quincy Adams was the only child in the second grade who could compete with me at multiplication table races. Another thing to take note of is that the summer before second grade I had been introduced to Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I had attempted to read it, realized it was far beyond my Lexile level, and watched the movie instead. I proceeded to spend the remaining month of my summer rewatching the movie over and over until I could practically recite it from memory. Therefore, when I met a boy who was mostly indifferent yet borderline bothered by my presence alone from the moment we met, I was elated. I was convinced he was my Mr. Darcy. However, this eager beaver was not interested in waiting for the boy to make the first move; she decided to strike first. 

     There is a long list of things that I did and said that I could include in this essay, however, I would like to retain some of my dignity, so I will only offer a few of the moderately traumatizing ones. After the first week of school, when I decided that John Quincy Adams was the love of my life, I created a shrine for him consisting of thirty poorly drawn portraits, eight pencil I had stolen from his desk, three printout pictures of President John Quincy Adams that I had told my parents I needed for a history project, and one of his lunch boxes. I have utterly no recollection of how I got my grimy, seven year-old hands on his lunch box, but I know with absolute certainty that it was in my shrine. Another moment that I find most telling was when I went up to John with my polaroid camera during silent reading and directly asked him if I could take a picture of him to add to my shrine. The horror I saw on his face was most surprising, and when he said no I was shell shocked; how dare he. I was very offended and decided to take the situation into my own hands.

     Over the course of the next week, I took about forty-five pictures of him without his knowledge. Shockingly, John Quincy Adams’s affection for me did not grow with my many shows of devotion. About halfway through the year, we had an elementary school dance coming up. Everyone was super excited, and I knew what I had to do. This was my moment. This is what it all came down to. I was going to ask the boy of my dreams to the dance. I debated making a poster or bringing him flowers, but that seemed a tad excessive. I decided I was going to just go as myself, and if he truly loved me, that would be enough. Three days before the dance, I went up to John during recess. Our entire class was watching, and my excitement grew as they “oohed” and “aahed.” However, my elation shrouded from me the look of disgust on his face. As I finally popped the question with such hope and fondness, I was wholly unprepared for the anger he let loose. He screamed and shouted at me. He let out all the frustration and irritation he had held in the past semester at my fanatic and boundary-crossing behavior. He yelled that he saw me taking pictures, that my shrine was weird, and that he wished I would just leave him alone. I ran off, tears streaming down my face, and with my friends following in tow. They tried to comfort me, but I was inconsolable. For weeks, I sulked around and wallowed in my rejection, and I completely refused to attend the dance. My parents had no idea what had happened, and I was too ashamed to tell them. 

     With time, I recovered, and despite how devastating it was to me at the time, I believe it was an extremely important lesson for me. The time I spent thinking about the situation taught me a lot about myself. I came to the realization that I was never truly in love with John Quincy Adams, but rather the idea of him. I wanted so badly to have the love I had seen in the movies that I had gone out and manufactured it. I not only learned about the importance of boundaries, but the value of truly knowing oneself and one’s own emotions. I learned that regardless of whether or not it was something I desired, romance is not a necessity; I can be perfectly content being without it. This sentiment has stayed with me since then and saved me a lot of needless heartache and stress. I have learned that it not only pertains to manic love, but the other types of love as well. I do not need every kind of love in my life, nor do I need it from everyone.  Healthy affection from just a couple important people is enough. Learning what I did so early in life was a blessing, so despite not really doing all that much, John Quincy Adams impacted the way I think, the way I live, and the way I love.