A friend of mine just posted on her Facebook wall:

Tonight I made it to the final round again… I still cannot believe what happened tonight. All of the poets were amazing . . but somehow I won… — feeling amazed.

She’s sixteen. That’s been a goal I’ve been chasing since I was seventeen, and I haven’t got there. May never will.

This bugs me.

I’m happy for her success, and overjoyed that she’s gotten the recognition she deserves. She is a talented young poet and I’m sure she’s grown much since I last saw her. She is a beloved member of her community. She will go places, read big, important poems, make something of herself in Slam. She has a chance.

I have a chance, too. For sure.

But it hit me in a strange way when I read the status. I suddenly saw her breezing past me in the one thing I considered myself good at, leaping up the summit as I stay stalled on a ledge, shouting from the mountaintops of her ascendancy, all at a younger age than I was when I even first heard of poetry slam. Now college has made it so hard for me to participate. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel jealousy.

Maybe that jealousy is good.

Or maybe I’m just being a jerk.