26.Who could’ve imagined it all boils down to this.
It started with smog all over Jigs’ hometown this morning. It was 7, cold was still creeping in, and the faint overlay of the dim sky on rusty roofs against smoke was, at the very least, engaging. January 1. I was going to make a resolution. Today, I start to avoid the habit of writing complaints. I want to remember mornings just like this. I want to write of things regularly, how the wind, a hand, an event felt, the scent and sight of things the exact moment they existed in the universe.
The hiatus has been long, it’s quite difficult to engage in writing in that way with the life I have. My journal has been a luxurious escape to my many ramblings – an unemployed wife, a daughter of two equally stubborn mothers,a citizen of an abused and abusive country. It’s more convenient to complain, it’s innate in us women. So the beautiful things dissipate, I simply forget about them.
That’s exactly what happened this morning.
I spent almost all day JobsDB-ing (yes, there is such a word now. I invented it). I wasn’t looking for anything specific. Lab tech, clinic nurse, executive assistant, admin staff, even a spot at the front desk of some pet store I haven’t heard of. Anything to prevent another accidental insult, to avoid who and what I want to avoid. It’s not a matter of personal happiness.
Then around 4, a couple of puny, seemingly insignificant remembrances occurred. A facebook friend posted a note: a love letter written for her husband, a cheers to a rebirth. She writes good, I thought. Straightforward, not too many big words, but good. I remembered Nat. We used to call her Tata or Nat, but the literary world now knows her as THE Natasha Gamalinda – great young poetess of UST, granddaughter of legendary Doris Gamalinda.
I was looking into reading her poetry today; the last time, we were, yes, “a bunch of weirdos who held poetry readings wearing all black and reciting poems by the candle light”. CWG ’98. Sixteen – that was her poem. It was a dream she had, a window to her past life, she said. And look at her now, a burning phoenix straight out of a timid, curious high school smile.
I was looking into reading her poetry today; the last time, we were, yes, “a bunch of weirdos who held poetry readings wearing all black and reciting poems by the candle light”. CWG ’98. Sixteen – that was her poem. It was a dream she had, a window to her past life, she said. And look at her now, a burning phoenix straight out of a timid, curious high school smile.
For some inexplicable reason I was in a hurry to search for AB Lit programs in universities. That was supposed to be where I was. The idea was to take it up, have some painting sessions on the side – weekends, perhaps – and I could come out of it as the broke, struggling artist but flourishing with hope and ardor. But that idea only worked for me; it never did for my parents. I was always pre-determined to be a doctor; all parents want their child to be one. It’s the only noble job in the world, why won’t they (sarcasm)?
So there goes the history of four years of flunking majors year in and year out, tighter curfews, wasted time. And the end and end of it, they couldn’t get me to step a foot into med school (not that any school aside from Fatima seems excited to take me in anyway). Can’t and won’t waste my stepdad’s money on constantly flunking subjects. So the family gangs me up into taking nursing after grad. It’s the only lucrative work in the world, why won’t they (second note on sarcasm)? Either that or I’m out of the house.
So there goes the history of four years of flunking majors year in and year out, tighter curfews, wasted time. And the end and end of it, they couldn’t get me to step a foot into med school (not that any school aside from Fatima seems excited to take me in anyway). Can’t and won’t waste my stepdad’s money on constantly flunking subjects. So the family gangs me up into taking nursing after grad. It’s the only lucrative work in the world, why won’t they (second note on sarcasm)? Either that or I’m out of the house.
And then, there goes now, six years again, struggling through semesters, graduating a second time, studying ceaseless for every exam and certification required, three years of trying to get into hospitals and clinics that just won’t let you in.
And now, I’m already 26. Jobless, unable to proceed with the AB Lit Course I’ve been looking at for an hour now, the only path that could’ve made it all right. Mushy, huh? But well, I’ve spent an entire decade on making sure that other people were contented with my own life so that I could buy my way out of it. Imagine. Who would’ve ever thought that freedom was for sale.
And I’m just about to spend five, maybe ten more years of my life again doing it, working like a horse in a peculiar land.
But I can’t step away from this anymore. I have a life to build. Time can not be bought. I’m not naïve, I know one does not simply acquire happiness. You earn it hard, you barter some things just to have it, then give up some more. I’m a wife, for crying out loud. In two years we MUST have a baby, and are scheduled to get to the US so we could both save up for the next 5 to ten years enough to pay debts to the families we owe and be able to yield a decent life for the kids.
And really, I can’t see where studying AB Lit fits in that picture. I don’t think it will. We are star-crossed lovers, writing and I. We always have been. I wrote poems and journal entries starting 5th grade, my mother of all people knew of that spark and knew she had to put the flame out before it got uncontrollable.
And really, I can’t see where studying AB Lit fits in that picture. I don’t think it will. We are star-crossed lovers, writing and I. We always have been. I wrote poems and journal entries starting 5th grade, my mother of all people knew of that spark and knew she had to put the flame out before it got uncontrollable.
I’m not regretting the life I’ve had or shedding the blame on anybody else. I’ve always had a choice no matter how impossible they were at sixteen. I could’ve chosen to write full-pledged, careless of what people wanted. But that’s not me. I chose to live realistically. Maybe not the exact way I wanted, but we don’t always get what we want. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the only real fact in life.
It was just sad to think of, those ten years, flushed down like all unimportant grime in the toilet. It’s only now that the reality has sunken to me grave-deep.
Well, the only thing I can really assure you right now is, when my daughter or son asks me what course would be good to take up in college, I’m not telling them. I’m letting them decide.
