You got a problem
Don’t let it stick like a leech
Just chew a gum
Your answer is always the one who teach
~Part of a poem she learned in her childhood
After teaching her English, I once indulged in a conversation with a bright 18-year-old. She was still excited about all the things they said regarding crazy teenagers. Being an academic instructor, I have met many of the emerging millennials, who still live in fairytales.
Having schooled her since her childhood, I could vouch for her. She was not your ordinary teenage girls. She was one from the books. She liked collecting stationery. Hello Kitty diaries and what not. She made it a habit to write. Every year at the eve of her birthday, she would get her favorite diary from the unicorn-themed cabinet.
I have to say, it was an elegant looking object. It held over a thousand yellow pages together. However, the words it bore, was far more valuable than anything the girl had seen.
She lived with her stepfather. Her mom had passed away when she was 13. Her father abandoned them when she was young, or so she was told.
Although her stepfather ensured she get all the convenience, there was a void he was never able to fill. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she was not of his kin. The distance just grew after her mother’s death.
Every year, as the clock struck 12, she would grab the book and rush to the side of the bed. She would switch on her decade-old star-shaped lamp placed on the side table. The lamp was special to her. After all, it was the last thing her father gave, before abandoning them one gloomy night. She still hoped to see him. She wanted to bash him for missing the parent-teacher meeting, the father-daughter dance, and her graduation and… at this point, she would always feel dizzy. Too weak to comprehend such sadness.
Yet she yearned for his arrival. Because above all the complains and disappointments, she wanted to forgive him. She wanted to hear his story. She could not wait for the time, where they would go together for grocery shopping. She would finally learn how to ride a bike. She had a list written on one of the pages, buried in the thousands of her thoughts-inscribed-pages.
The night before her birthday, she would write a letter. To her future self. Her favorite part would be to seal and stamp that letter. The last thing she would write would be on the cover of the envelope. It would always go like, “To the 15-year-old Me, young and beautiful”. “To the 20-year-old Me, mature and independent.” This letter would join other fellow letters written in the years before, in a well-guarded safe.
Years later, she would then open a letter one by one.
I was lucky to meet her on one such occasion. She would always be ashamed of reading those letters aloud. Although she would gush while reading it to herself. As if she was proud of who she was turning out to be.
As she juggled with the journals trying to hide them from my sight, I happened to glace on a phrase.
“Liking people makes me sad.”
I caught on to that. At first, it made me frown. However, as the sentence settled in, it all made sense. By the end, all that remained was astonishment. How could a 12-year-old child feel that way?
The 18-year-old her shared the astonishment with me. After some discussion over this phrase. She talked about how she had a relationship back then and how her first setback came about. We concluded that when it comes to adults, it is sadly true. We get fond of someone; we subconsciously associate expectations with that person, although he or she is not bound to behave that way.
We talked about how we could eliminate this sadness. The answer was an obvious but unrealistic one. To become attached to people without expectations from them. However, I told her a more practical solution. That is, to understand the basics. That the definition for every word, for every relation, differs from person to person.
For you love could mean taking a bullet, whereas for me it means to be able to ignore the flaws covering the gem of a person everyone is.
Surprising enough, we were on the same page in no time. I realized that she had started trusting me with stuff. Ironically right after talking about how love and relations hurt.
That day she let in a secret or two. She shared with me how whatever she predicted about her-future-self in those letters; it was all coming true.
This led to her other secret. The reason she is all hyped up about turning 18 this year.
The 12-year-old her was not in the best of her mood when she wrote it. She remembered that day. It was a day after the father’s day. She was quite upset, seeing all her friends celebrate it with their fathers while all she could do was watch some episodes of Zack and Cody.
Although I was a stranger to her, I had tears in my eyes. I could not help but feel sorry for her.
But you have to hand it to her. Having been through so much. She was brave enough to open and read out the letters. She had not lost a shred of hope. The letters only increased her confidence in the fact that he was coming. Oops. Yeah about that.
She told me that she had forgotten about this particular letter. And that, when she read it in the morning, she was on cloud nine. “Don’t you get it? IF I predicted then that he is going to surprise me, it means he is COMING!”
I did not respond to that. The fact is I did not know how to respond to that. To lift her hopes, or to be realistic and shun her dreams.
Days went by and finally, the night came. I was staying up late that night helping her complete her project. When it struck 12, the doorbell rang. She left the room and ran downstairs with the hope that he will be standing outside, with open arms waiting to wrap around a child vulnerable to all the evil this world has to offer. A child that has been looking up to the supervision of a father.
She climbed down the stairs, jumping through many. She knew her house by heart, every turn, and every room. She took a left. Then a right. Few steps down and alas! In front of her rested a wooden gate. She flew to the door. Her heart pounding. Grabbing the handle, she flung the door open.
To her dismay, it was not her dad. It was one of her neighbors, who came to return some gardening tools. She was heartbroken. Turning back, her eyes met mine.
I embraced her. I whispered to her,” You are stronger than you think you are. Your life is better than you think it is. I am sure your father must have some errands to run. You survived so long, be patient. Some people don’t have any family at all. But you? You have the ability to find family in strangers. If your father were here, he would be so damn proud of you had you any idea.”
I abruptly took my leave from the staircase out into the wild. As I left, I had one last glance at her. She was staring right back. Her eyes blood red. Her cheeks moisturized by the salty tears. Her nose red as the crimson sky at sunset. I looked away. I felt my stomach squirm. But I knew, ignorance is bliss. Some things are better kept unknown. My eyelids holding my tears prisoner, I walked down the lane.
She went back into her room, only to find a treasure box lying on her bed. The card on the box read. “To the girl who waited too long. Who deserved way better…”
Inside the box, she found a letter. With all her favorite stamps on it. It contained appreciation for her qualities. It talked about her childhood memories. Descriptions of her mom. He talked of the woman she was turning to be. It spoke about resentment. For not being for her during her birthday. Her meetings and her parties. Not being for her during her highs or her lows. For not being here today. She had tears flowing through her eyes soaking in all the papers.
She could not contain. For years, she waited to hear her father speak. Watch her father talk. Finally. She had gotten a reply. It filled her with emotions. Her questions were being answered one by one. It made her queasy. Knowing he was around. He is alive, somewhere out there. Apart from all the memories, something felt familiar. After looking around for a while, it hit her; the handwriting! She started humming…
You got a problem
Don’t let it stick like a leech
Just chew a gum
Your answer is always the one who teach
She threw the English journal on her bed and once again. She skipped stairs. Took sharp turns. Running towards the door. This time, not expecting a surprise. But giving one!
Have no fear
For the problems that cause you to tear
Because you won’t get more than you can bear
O you who fear, would you care to hear?
Mohsin A. 