Showing posts with label lessons. Show all posts
Home Again
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| Photo by: John Ward |
It was less than eight hours since we arrived in the small town I grew up in. It almost felt funny but I was not allowed to laugh. After years of living abroad, we came back home because my grandmother passed away. And she was lying in a coffin merely five meters away from where I was sitting. Her casket was in the center of the living room, on the same spot where the long couch used to be. It was surrounded by white flowers and white candles and white curtains that only made the soft yellow paint enraged. My cousins were sitting beside her casket. They were talking about their fond memories of her. Perhaps it was the jetlag after eighteen hours of plane ride and another three-hour drive from the city to our small town, or maybe it was the fact that I was away for a long time that made me indifferent of those memories of her that they were reminiscing. Yet, as I looked at my grandmother’s photograph that was sitting on top of her coffin, with her sullen eyes, thin lined lips, furrowed brows and looking more annoyed than usual, the person they were talking about was definitely not the grandmother who, when I was in second grade, told me to punch the boy who called me fat. If she was there, we would have laughed at it together, all while she took a hit on her cigar, coughed and then spat on the nearest, most appropriate spot.
As they all walked down the memory lane, I excused myself and searched for my mom. She was in the room trying to get some sleep. But really, she was crying. I told her I was going to my grandmother’s house, not the one lying inside the coffin, but the one who gave birth to my father. She called the driver and asked him to take me there. The driver and I bonded over a thick blanket of silence. He was probably the same age as my father but he got that serious look on his face that was almost intimidating. He was wearing the same uniform that the drivers before him had, a black khaki pants and a polo shirt. Somehow it made me feel uncomfortable. It had been a long time since I had someone take me to places, let alone call me “ma’am”. He looked on the road ahead of us and I looked just outside the window. As we passed by the elementary school that my brother and I went to, I noticed that the gates and the walls were artistically painted with children’s bright and shiny faces. Before that, it was just red that screamed murder. Few minutes later, we arrived in my grandmother’s house. The driver told me that he would just come back to pick me up. He waited until I reached the front walkway before he reversed and vanished. I walked the rest of the steps leading to the stairs to my grandmother’s front door. Suddenly, I was twelve years old again, transported back in time to where the rest of my childhood was spent.
It was the house that my grandfather did not build. It was made out of cement and gravel and glass and hardwood. It is masculine and feminine all at the same time. The windows did not have curtains, it was always open. The doors, despite its many locks, never seemed to close. The house was naked out of colours. Unlike the house on my other side of the family, with its grandeur, proud, and brandishing features, the house of my father’s side was solid, unassuming and humble. It was both welcoming and intimidating. It was a house of endless contradiction. But mostly, it was the house that my grandmother strengthened.
At the end of the stairs from the front walkway was an ample sized balcony. It was situated with a garden set and pots of plants lined along the balcony’s edge. Those pots of plants had been there for as long as I can remember. The only difference at that moment was that, they no longer carry the exuberance of sunlight’s love and tender care. Also, there were two rocking chairs angled from one another. The frames of both rocking chairs were made out of oak and the only difference between the two was their bodies. One was constructed out of hand-woven rattan while the other one was re-built and re-furbished with bamboo sticks aligned together as support. The latter was etched with a butterfly. I was not quite sure what it signifies. Out of old habits, I opened the door without knocking. It was not locked but my grandmother was nowhere in sight.
Everything was still the same and all was placed at the exact same spot I remembered. I peeked into the glass cabinet underneath the television case. Our photos were still displayed. They were lined up according to age, from the eldest grandchild to the youngest ones. There were nineteen of us and mine was right in the middle. I did not recognize myself though, but it looked too familiar – sullen eyes, thin lined lips, furrowed brows and already annoyed at the early age of three. I looked up from the photos to the wall and a set of eyes looked back at me. It was a picture of Sacred Heart of Jesus covering the entire panel on the wall. He had his one hand over his heart and the other was raised like a student shyly wanting to get the teacher’s attention. He was judging me. I dodged out of the room avoiding another eye contact.
My grandmother was still nowhere to be found, I checked in the first room on the left side of the hallway. The old bed lying in the middle of the room was no longer there. In fact, there was nothing else in that room except for the diplomas hanging on the wall. It was engraved in a wooden frame, like a plaque of appreciation. There were eight of those, one for each child that my grandmother has. I did not check the door across that empty room for I was sure it was the room of my grandmother’s nursemaid and we were never allowed in that room. The last room left was the master’s bedroom, but mostly it was what we called “everyone else’s room” for it was the room where the kids hung out and stayed whenever we were in that house. The room was still the same. The old television was still lying at the foot of the bed. The photo of my grandfather’s parents was hanging on the wall. Beside it was my grandfather in his glorious days. He was wearing his police uniform and stood like the decorated officer that he was. His face was unrecognizable, though. It was faded by time or maybe, I just knew him with his fragments -devoid of emotional connection and familial recognition and no more connected than blood relation. I have accumulated a fair amount of memories from that room. It was the room my cousins and I played wrestling, it was the room where my older cousins shared the stories of their first kiss, it was the room where we had our first drink, it was the room where we all cried, and it was the room where my grandfather died. Just thinking about it made me cringe a little bit. I left the room without looking back. I walked down the hallway to the kitchen but still, my grandmother was nowhere to be found. I have loved my grandmother’s kitchen until I was forced to wash the dishes. My father’s family, despite having nursemaids, were firm believers of putting their children in labour. I was one of their first recruits. The plastic chairs were stacked up against the wall; the old wooden table was still covered with a dilapidated mantle with its design faded through time. I have had countless meals with the entire family on that table. My grandmother had a proper dinner table with a glass surface and hand-carved chairs but it was only used for special guests. Yet, in her household, there was no such thing as guests. As I examined the room, I realized that it had shrunk. I could easily reach the top of the cupboard, turn on the faucet without having to tip-toe and I could reach the window pane in front of the sink without going over the counter. And as soon as I opened the window, I found my grandmother.
She was sitting under the mango tree and was feeding the neighbour’s chickens. I knew fairly well that the chickens belonged to the neighbours because my grandmother spent most of her time in the city. I walked down the staircase and went directly to where she was sitting. She saw me and a smile etched on her face. I stopped on my track and looked at her for the first time after a long time. She was beautiful. She was the same woman who survived the death of her husband and eldest daughter within the span of five months. She was the same woman who fought with her children’s battle against cancer. I hugged her and she hugged me back. I sat beside her and she gave me rice grains to feed the neighbours’ chickens. I looked at her again, her eyes were shining and her lips hid a smile. The lines on her face that aged through time was even more noticeable but the woman that she used to be was still carved on the outlines of her face, on the rough surface of her hands and in the depth of her warm embrace. She was the house that got me strengthened through time.
An hour later, the driver arrived. He said it was time to go home. I looked at the house and to my grandmother and I could not imagine one without the other. The word ‘home’ echoed into my ears and I thought about my grandmother, the one who passed away, and I could not imagine one without the other. I thought about the chapel at the bend of the road, the murdered gates and walls of my elementary school, the photograph on top of her casket, and my cousins with their memories of her, and those white flowers and white candles and white curtains. It was almost funny but I was not allowed to laugh. After all, my home was not there anymore.
- Janine
Now What?
As summer approaches, another year of school has ended. Some of you are
probably getting ready for a trip somewhere else and enjoy the heat. Some of
you might be starting to wonder what is waiting for you after summer and where
you are heading to and some are still probably looking for signs that will take
you to the right path.
I can still remember the summer I had after my high school graduation.
It was both exciting and scary at the same time. Exciting because I was finally
out of high school and it was the first summer that I finally landed a job.
Scary because I wasn’t really sure what I would be doing after summer. It is
the time where we start to think more about our future and start making ‘adult’
decisions.
What
shall I pursue?
Which
college/university will I apply to?
How
do I sign up for classes?
Will
I make any friends?
How
will I be able to pay for my tuition fee?
How
do I apply for student loans?
Who
will I speak to about my concerns?
Some of you are probably asking the same questions above. It is
overwhelming and it somehow feels like you’ll never get to where you want to be
because of all these processes that you need to take care of before you
actually get there. In other words, it’s like going sky diving and realizing
that you forgot to put on your parachute.
Just kidding. It’s not that scary.
For us immigrants, it might be a completely different process than for those
who were born in this country or have been here a lot longer than when
they started high school. Some of you might have to go to adult school to
complete your credits from high school, some might have to upgrade in order to
take college level classes, some might have to take additional classes for
specific programs that have prerequisites, and some have yet to decide what it
is that they really want to pursue now that high school has ended.
I am not an expert but as an immigrant who has gone through the same
situation, here is a three-step advice that might help you get started and less
scared of what future holds.
1. Make a list.
Make a list of your goals, interests and possible career plan. It
doesn’t have to be an intricate and complete list. A simple, abstract one will
suffice. It can be as simple as putting your interests and checking out the
ones that you are most passionate about and would not actually mind
furthering your knowledge about that specific subject area. It can be a list of
the colleges you wish to attend to. It can also be a list of your simple
everyday ‘to-do’ list. Making a list will help you to look forward for
something and get you inspired to keep going.
2. Research.
I am pretty sure that you are all familiar how internet works and the
great thing about it is that it is more than just social networking sites and a
place to watch cat videos. Everything that you need to know about applying for
college is sitting somewhere around the interwebs. Remember the list I
mentioned earlier? That list will now come in handy. You can start by
searching about a specific interest of yours. For example, I am interested in
Psychology so I searched about the career areas, specializations and pretty
much everything that there is to know about the field. Then, I searched for
colleges that offer the program and then the requirements that I need in order
to get into the program. Yet, here’s another tip, when you do a lot of research
and you gather a lot of information it can be quite overwhelming and when that
happens, I suggest that you take a deep breath and stop searching. Remember the
list? Now is the time to take a pen and paper out and make a list again. This
time, list the questions that you have in mind or just simply write down your
thoughts about the whole research. This will help you map out a plan and
specify the things that need to be done.
3. Email. Call. Make an Appointment.
I know this part is a lot more challenging than the previous ones but
treat this as an experience and a way for you to step up your game and put your
foot forward one step at a time. Most of the colleges and universities offer
assessment and counselling for students who wish to pursue their post-secondary
education in their respective institutions. Talking to someone about your
concerns will be helpful not only to help you get started but to learn and
understand more about the processes with regards to your academic career. If
you are not comfortable going alone, ask your parents or older siblings to help
you out. If that doesn’t work out for you, you can still go back to
researching. This time, do your research in the college’s website. List the
things and questions that you are unable to find answers to and then call,
email, or make an appointment with the school you are interested in going.
I know that the three steps require effort and a lot of thinking. But I
do hope that it will help you get started and figure out where you are heading
or at least, inspire you to not give up just yet. Think of it as one item on the
list that you can cross off in order to get where you want to be. Just take a
deep breath and get on to work because I guarantee you, a year or two from now,
you’ll be surprised how far you are from where you started. And one last thing,
Don’t be scared.
Because nothing is scarier than knowing that you let an opportunity and
a chance passed by without you doing anything to grab and hold on to it. And even if
you are, scared, just know that we’ll be at the sidelines rooting for you.
- Janine
The Language Barrier
Before
moving to Canada, one of the things that I feared the most was speaking the
English language. I mean, I was not entirely unfamiliar with the English
language since I had studied it in school. In the Philippines, students are
taught English from kindergarten up until college. Despite having had learned
English in school, I was scared and terrified by the fact that I would be
speaking full English in conversations. As part of my not-so-pretty human nature,
I don’t fancy to look stupid. I did not want people to think I was not smart,
and that was my biggest mistake.
As a
Filipino, I would say it is part of our culture that we laugh at everything. Man,
the way we laugh at everything. If you mispronounce an English word, laughter
immediately ensues (especially if you mix up the “p” and “f”, “o” and “u”, or “i”
and “e” sounds). Though it is merely for fun, it is still pretty embarrassing
to be laughed at. Because of this mentality, I had a notion that other people would
look down at me or laugh at me at my poor communication skills. I did not want
to be laughed at because of my English skills—whether it may be because of my
pronunciation, accent, or grammar.
That was
where my mistake was made.
I was too
hard on myself. I forgot that I was at square one. I am not a superhuman. I am not
perfect and I commit mistakes. Besides, not all people are cruel. To think that
they would belittle me is just plain petty and narrow-minded of me.
I
spent my first two weeks not talking to other people, nervous about doing
activities that involved interacting with people such as ordering at the
cashier, interacting with salespersons, and asking for directions. I tried not
to converse with anyone.
Thankfully,
I learned how to cope. My confidence grew each day and having friends to
converse with helps alongside watching movies, reading books and.. watching
movies. Wait, I have already said that. Seriously though, watch movies and even
turn the subtitles on. You might be surprised to find yourself using the same
catchphrases and comebacks that they used.
So go on! Do not be afraid (especially not for the same reasons that
I had), do not be shy, and be proactive!
CHEERS!
Anonymeh
“Here's the thing about
mistakes: Sometimes, even when you know something’s a mistake, you gotta make
it anyway.” - Ted Mosby
The Transition From Air-Conditioners to Heaters: A Productive Ramble.
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| Christopher John SSF |
I like change just as much as I like uncomfortable situations, which is to say, a lot. There’s something about the novelty, that extra rush of adrenaline triggering my lizard, that makes me want to seek it out and bathe in its sweat-inducing, blood-pumping, knee-jerking effect. I become the change physically, mentally, and spiritually. Or maybe I’m just an adrenaline junkie who drinks too much coffee, that’s much more probable.
I’ve been in Canada for a bit more than a year now, and alas, I’ve fallen into a monotonous routine birthed by school and my ever-persistent aversion to homework. Albeit, my methods of procrastination may not be the most conventional for a teenager. I prefer books to the internet (Twitter and Tumblr are too complex for my simple minded self). I suppose at first, it was just my utter loneliness that drove me to take a shot at finding companionship in books. Soon, it turned into an addiction where I could hardly pull myself away from this fictional world of metaphors and similes. I’m trying to find a balance, now that I actually have some friends.
It’s challenging, making friends in a country that has a culture vastly different than what I’ve known all my life (there’s quite a disparity between watching American T.V and living it). Now, people that know me will attest to the fact that I’m an extrovert that finds pleasure in attention and random conversations with strangers on the skytrain, but I was conflicted; I wanted to “be myself”, but High School turned out to be a runway where “myself” wasn’t good enough. I went through a black clothes, head down, loner phase that I’m in all honesty, rather embarrassed about. I’m not insinuating that people that wear black clothes and don’t have much in the way of company should be embarrassed about it, just that I wasn’t a person that could be satisfied that way. In my defence, it was because I missed India. I missed being semi-popular, and I achingly missed my best friends, (let’s call them Z, P and D for the purpose of this text). Being invisible seemed like a better option than attempting to fit in, with my barely understandable accent (pfft Canadians can’t even pronounce my name right), my accidental use of British English (people look at me weird when I say ‘dustbin’ instead of the Canadian-accepted ‘garbage can’), and a somewhat jet-lagged brain. I also don’t get my fashion sense until the start of my Grade 12 year, though admittedly the few outfits that turned out well were probably those that I ‘borrowed’ from my elder sister.
I’d enter a mall, get assaulted by the sudden, comforting warmth and remember, for the tenth time that day, that I’m in Canada where Heaters beat Air-Conditioners, even in the summers (though disappointingly, I haven’t met an actual Eskimo that lives in an igloo yet). I missed Mumbai’s salty, humid air that had a lingering scent of spices, and more often than not, urine.
But other than these moments where depression and longing would hit me faster than I could say ‘kutta’, I was happy. Living the dream, even! The roads were well-paved and the buildings didn’t have paan stains on every wall. I was surrounded to the point of being swamped by people of all races, from far away countries that spoke a multitude of languages. It was different, fascinating. Vancouver happens to be one of the many multicultural cities where I didn’t stand out like a sore thumb but I was still an individual with a valuable story. So I embarked upon a perilous journey, fraught with dangers of the unknown, personal demons and skeletons in closets. A generally non-judgemental folk (not necessarily including High Schoolers here), allowed me to experiment with clubs, volunteer organisations like Leave Out Violence (LOVE), subjects I liked, and an education system wherein my future did not depend upon the much dreaded End of The Year Final Exams. I explored this new land, while at the same time delving into the depths of my mind, my thoughts about religion and spirituality, my sexuality (I could be something other than heterosexual and that would be okay? Mind blown!), my passion for history, psychology, sociology, and other social sciences, and my music (I went to my first live concert!).
I found ways to express myself positively to the people around me and suddenly, I didn’t feel as socially incapacitated and oppressed as I did in India. I’m not implying that India doesn’t have its glories for me. As cheesy as I may sound, growing up in such a tight knit society that was above the petty grievances of religion and language barriers with an unquestionably peaceful co-existence (SHIKHAR), gave me a well-rounded perspective of society and the relationships we form in it, making me what I am today.
A part of me will probably always be the eight-year old Rhea who eats pani-puri at the roadside stalls every other day (which may or may not be hygienic), and buys 50 paise Coffee Bites by the dozen at Mahavir’s.
I realize that I’ve probably been a little too candid in this emotional purge of words, and that makes me feel vulnerable, so I shall end this rather cathartic rant on a quote from one of my favourite poems:
“I am large, I contain multitudes.” –Walt Whitman, Song of Myself. (Section 51)
- Gargi Parkale (Guest Blogger)
A Teenager Finally Finds His Voice
As youth, it is important to let the world hear our voice. Oftentimes, however, finding our voice is not that easy. Many factors may hinder us from speaking out. In the case of Musharaf "Mushy" Asghar, his impairment prevented him from speaking out. His impairment not only made the process of speaking out difficult for him, but it also gave bullies a chance to tease him. In this video, we learn how important it is to recognize that everybody experiences different types of difficulty, and that bullying will not make anyone's difficulty easier. Thankfully, Mushy's teachers never stopped supporting and encouraging him. Watch him bring his classmates to tears as he find his voice:
Because of his strong will, determination, and the support of his teachers, Mushy was able to overcome his impairment, and his classmates were able to hear him speak out for the first time. This video reminds all of us, youth immigrants, that even though there may be factors (such as language issues and/or an environment that's entirely different from our country of origin) that make it difficult for us to speak out, it is never impossible to find our voice.
- Sean
A Lesson I Learned in My Life
Behind every beautiful life, there is some kind of pain.
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| (source) |
I have
reached the phase where I think everything is unfair. I'm sure everyone has experienced this at least once in their
life. Everything seems to be antagonizing us. That even though we're working
our backs out there, it never pays off and what's worse is those who seem not to deserve it get
the pot of gold.
Now, I realize that life will never ever be fair. Life is different to everyone. We must stop comparing ourselves to others if we want to feel content of what we have done. Sure, good things happen to others even though they don't seem to deserve it, but we only know their story not their journey.
I have always been jealous of others, or rather felt betrayed by life. I'm not talking about materialistic jealousies because honest to god, I don't care about having the finest bags, shoes or clothes in life. What I'm contemplating about is, how come I, who went through so much hardships, never get rewarded? Nor even get a rest?
I've been thinking about why those people who don’t even burn a sweat from what they do are the ones who still win the treasure chest? Why is my life at constant downs?
Why is life so unfair for me? Then it hit me. Life isn't about fair and equality, because no one gets to decide what's fair and equal. It only depends on how we see things happen.
I was not giving enough credit to myself. All I've been trying to see is the big reward while the reality is, the journey and what have I become is what matters. Sure there is sadness in our journey, but there is also lots of beauty. We just tend to overlook it so we think of our life as unfair.
We must learn not to compare our achievements with others' because everyone is different from one another. Sounds cliche but this is often what people forget.
So whenever I feel hurt or exhausted by everything, I pause for a moment and take in what's happening around. I think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive – to think, to breathe, to enjoy, and to chase the things you love.
Now, I realize that life will never ever be fair. Life is different to everyone. We must stop comparing ourselves to others if we want to feel content of what we have done. Sure, good things happen to others even though they don't seem to deserve it, but we only know their story not their journey.
I have always been jealous of others, or rather felt betrayed by life. I'm not talking about materialistic jealousies because honest to god, I don't care about having the finest bags, shoes or clothes in life. What I'm contemplating about is, how come I, who went through so much hardships, never get rewarded? Nor even get a rest?
I've been thinking about why those people who don’t even burn a sweat from what they do are the ones who still win the treasure chest? Why is my life at constant downs?
Why is life so unfair for me? Then it hit me. Life isn't about fair and equality, because no one gets to decide what's fair and equal. It only depends on how we see things happen.
I was not giving enough credit to myself. All I've been trying to see is the big reward while the reality is, the journey and what have I become is what matters. Sure there is sadness in our journey, but there is also lots of beauty. We just tend to overlook it so we think of our life as unfair.
We must learn not to compare our achievements with others' because everyone is different from one another. Sounds cliche but this is often what people forget.
So whenever I feel hurt or exhausted by everything, I pause for a moment and take in what's happening around. I think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive – to think, to breathe, to enjoy, and to chase the things you love.
- ANOYMEH
“Once bitten, twice shy” – G. Northall
