I have written this essay for my English class. Even tough I am talking here about my past, this article is not part of my book that I wrote.
It was year 1991 and I was attending school the way a regular thirteen year old was supposed to. Going to school was for me like breathing oxygen: indispensable and effortless. The previous year I was appointed as president of the school, and so as the new school year has began, I was still holding such responsibility. I was very impatient with finishing eighth grade and I was planning ahead which high school I was going to choose for my continuing education. My straight A’s and my love for learning, were some of the reasons why I thought, that perhaps one day, I was going to be a doctor. My mother was very proud of me and she always made that clear to me. Heck, even I was proud of myself!
While walking back home from school, I used to plan ahead and visualize what dress I was going to wear to dance night. This event was sponsored by faculty members and by parents of eighth graders. Their gesture was meant to congratulate the students, as well as to encourage them, in making the life changing decision about their higher education.
This was supposed to be the best year of my life yet. This was supposed to be the real beginning of my immense and passionate love affair with learning and education, as well as the beginning of my independence. Things didn’t go that way. I didn’t go to school that year.
The fall has finally announced its presence, by staining everything in the horizon with magical colors, which ranged from sunny yellow to deep and intense red. Some trees already have lost leafs, and were now extending their purpose, by creating a natural carpet for pastures and meadows, that were spreading for several miles. This new rug and its incredible design, was now bringing a sense of coziness to the world. Even though everything around appeared to be falling a sleep, chilly wind was still finding its way to blow forcefully against my face. It was making all kinds of twists with my hair, to the point, where I had to hinge around myself, in order to catch breath. My struggle against the mighty wind wasn’t eased by the fact that I was carrying a bag filled with all kinds of books, which weighted quite a bit. My stomach was rebelling against the harsh reality, of having nothing to chew on all day. It was now protesting, by giving me the sensation of having my internal organs suctioned by a vacuum cleaner. I was tired of walking for nearly one hour, after sitting in the classrooms for six hours, and I couldn’t wait to get home. I tried to anticipate what my mother could have possibly come up with for dinner, considering that my father had already spent all the monthly salary with his drinking buddies. My mind was consumed with worries about my mother’s health, and in particularly about her safety, since my father’s violent and abusing behavior contributed lately to frequent 911 calls. My goal was to get home and to make sure that she was still there, and that she was OK. After that, I was going to come up with a new plan, on how to make my skinny body to appear more intimidating to my opponent. My old methods of attempting to stop my father from beating up my mom were failing miserably, and besides causing yellow and blue bruises on my fragile body, were doing very little to restore the order.
The long commute home was finally coming to end. I opened the gate, and I listened carefully for any familiar by now noises, of doors being slammed, dishes being broken, and the yelling that often accompanied those events. I learned very well to recognize the sounds that were coming usually from the kitchen, in order to distinguish between normal circumstances, and those that presented any kind of threat. Everything seamed to be in order, at least at first glance. My fear has eventually subsided, and I entered the house at last.
The kitchen was filled with the sunlight coming from the two big windows that were facing south and west. The occasional trembling of glass in those windows, caused by the wind that was dancing outside, was making a statement that summer was gone for good. My mom was busy breaking the branches, and while turning them into smaller twigs; she was feeding them into the big stove. On that white stove, a big pan was quivering ferociously, unable to contain its boiling content. The spilled out liquid was dancing all over the heated surface. The sounds of gargling whistling created by vapor, that was trying to escape its destiny through opening in lid, was intoned with sounds and crackles of fire that was burning beneath it. The steam had filled out the kitchen with its presence, to the point where the windows were no longer transparent. This became a perfect writing tool for my little siblings, which were sitting by near table, while waiting for meal to come. The squeaky noises derived from their small fingers, which were traveling around the steamy glass, were accompanied with occasional giggling and verbal disagreements. The dialogues between those five small children were completely chaotic, and were often interrupted by inquires regarding the status of dinner.
"Mom! Is it ready yet, can we eat now?"
"Five more minutes. Almost there." She answered to them in a patient manner.
I closed the door behind me, and I joined my younger siblings in torturing my poor mother, by inflecting sense of guilt on her.
"Mom, I’m starving." I said to her in a way that it sounded, as if I haven’t eaten for at least a week, and as if it was all her fault.
"I know, I know. It’s almost ready, sit down." She responded.
"What are you making?" I inquired.
"Your favorite one; tomato - soup." She said to me.
"That’s all? I’m dying here." I wasn’t done with making her feel bad.
I continued to lament about how hungry I was, as if that was going to diminish my inadequate feelings. Perhaps I was hoping that my mom would take my tone seriously, and that she would do something drastic about us constantly not having money for basic things like food. We finished eating the soup that was sweet in taste, but scarce at the same time. My mother took a deep breath and exhaled the air in a way that seamed interminable to me. I could tell that she was thinking of something sad, as I watched her face frowning, and as her sight was getting more distant.
"Mom, what is it?" I managed to formulate a question, even though I was paralyzed by the fear.
I could read my mother more than anybody else, and she knew that very well. I could tell very well when things were uncertain, and I could spot dangers, that were lurking from behind corners. I immediately sensed that my mother was loosing the legal battle with my uncle. In the last few years, he has taken her to court; over the house we were living in, and which my parents have built from scratch. I was dreading this moment for few years now, and this suspension, was almost making me to hope that we would loose our home. I just wanted for this nightmare that we were living in, to end.
"It’s the house, isn’t it? He’s taking it, am I right? Mom, you can’t keep hiding it from us, and keep pretending like it’s not happening." I started to yell at my mother.
"What do you want me to tell you; that I run out of all the options? That I don’t know who else to cry for help anymore?" She tried to defend herself.
"Mom, there must be something else that we can do!" I could barely talk, since I started to experience shortness of breath.
"You will not go to school tomorrow, all of you." She replied.
"What? Why? Mom, I already have quiz tomorrow..." I wasn’t quite sure where she was going with that.
"I meant, for the entire year. I want you to stay home with me, and to protest injustice that is taking place." She continued.
"You mean like a strike?" I asked.
"Sort of." She nodded.
The reality was finally sinking into me. I was finally beginning to understand, that the game was over. My mother’s words had effect on me, as if somebody had just shot me in the stomach. Like the wounded person would do, I begun to sweat, even though I was feeling chill at the same time. I was clearly in the state of shock. My life wasn’t flashing in front of me for the only reason, that I was barely thirteen, and I was yet to accumulate the major events in it. I was still required to obtain different skills and knowledge about life, and that knowledge was supposed to come from books and the schools, that I was yet to attend! Obviously, the Invincible Force that was plotting against me, had a totally different plan for me, but it was virtually impossible for me to foresee what it was. How could I have not hated my life at that point? How was I supposed to deal with the boredom and the sense of emptiness that was stealing my life away? What was I supposed to do with emotions, such as loving my mother to death, and resenting her at the same time? How could I have prepared myself for experiencing paradoxical feelings of relief and anxiety simultaneously? How could anything make sense at all?
The answers to those questions and to many other ones, that emerged in the course of the following days, and the following years later on, for that matter; didn’t came to me in a form of revelation or anything of similar nature. I had to dig for them deep within me, and I had to dig very hard indeed. My self related anthropology originated that day in the kitchen, and later on, it took me from there to a journey across the world. Finally in my thirties, I learned to perceive things differently, and I actually begun to appreciate the true value of that crucial moment.
Today, as I reflect back on what happened, I realize that as hard as it was for me to live it, it was the only way for me to truly get to know myself. This experience, and many following ones, that were the result of it, has helped me in building my character and my strength. It instructed me with how to love something and someone deeply, and yet how to still remain detached from it. It showed me how to trust God with his plans, and how to stop trying to control everything in my life. It definitely taught me how not to worry about what others think of me. In a way it set me free.
My acceptance to HPU is also serving me as remainder, that even though in life sometimes we lose what we cherish, we still may be presented with second chance later on. Have this experience never happened to me, I wouldn’t be the person that I am today, and that is why I see this adversary time, as one of the biggest gifts I’ve been granted with.
