I got permission from several World Literature students to publish their memoirs here. Each memoir combines a story about an adult's influence on the student's life with a story about the adult's own experiences, based on an interview. I found them an intriguing glimpse into my students' lives and histories - I hope you enjoy them too.
Unspoken
I made a scene for at least two weeks of school.
I was three years old when I went to school for the first
time. My mom was by my side, clutching my hand as I bounced along the cracked
pavement through the garishly green gate where the ‘KINDERCARE INTERNATIONAL
SCHOOL’ sign blared above us in bright yellow letters. Next to it, the pink
elephant grinned with all the cheer a kindergarten mascot could muster. I was
in high spirits, tugging her along as we went, beaming at the swimming pool and
the monkey bars, so excited to start school.
That lasted for a good half hour until my father motioned to
my mother to leave, and she sat me down and let go of my hand. “Study hard,”
she said, and then she shifted, stood up, and began to walk away from me.
I stared after her, bewildered for at least three seconds.
Ignoring the chattering peers that I’d befriended not minutes ago, I flung
myself up and sprinted after her. She was the first one to turn around - it was
almost as if she knew I was going to come back for her and look for her, but
she didn’t open her arms and take me into them like she had done for the past
three years. Instead, she shook her head, gently but firmly as I clung to her
and fisted her shirt, begging her not to leave me.
“Mommy go now,” she told me sternly in her broken English,
and then switched to Khmer. “You’re here for school. To be in school is to
study. Study hard.”
“Ma!” I cried, shaking my head. “Ma, stay here!”
“I have to go to work,” she told me, and gently pried my
fingers off. “You stay here and study. I will pick you up after school ends.
You stay here.” Sighing softly, she knelt down until our eyes were at level.
“You go make friends now and remember to listen to the teacher.”
I resisted her, but I ended up crying for at least the first
two weeks of school. No one else cried; no one else seemed to miss their
parents as desperately as I did. My teacher, a thin Filipino woman, directed me
silently to a small red plastic chair. I took a seat next to her, excused from
all the other activities, hiccuping and sniffling as I watched the other kids
with disinterest and wondered how my mother could ever abandon me like this.
A few months later when I no longer cried in school and no
longer had to be forced into the car, my mother told me that school was
essential. It was a part of everyday life that I couldn’t avoid. School, she
said, is important for growth.
I
didn’t understand.
*********************
The treadmill squeaked as my mother jogged along it, quietly
contemplating my question. Perched on the edge of a hard-backed chair, my body
ached, and my arm protested fiercely as I held the recorder up, waiting to
document her answers.
“Mom?” I prompted, a little impatiently. “Mom, what kind of
comfort did you have growing up? Like, something that gave you a feeling of
warmth.”
“I didn’t have a comfort,” she said at last between the
pounding of her feet along the walking belt. “No, no comfort - but I did want
some attention and care from my parents.” Here she laughed, and her steps
quickened. “Yes, I did want them to notice me more and to pay attention to me.”
I
noticed her steadily reddening eyes as she said that, and the gloss forming
behind them, and I tried to pretend that I hadn’t seen it.
*********************
My mother is the second child of five children. She was born
one year after the Khmer Rouge regime ended on February 15th, 1980 in the
province of Battambang. Growing up, she lived in a wooden house near a lake,
and she spent her days at school playing high jump, jump rope, octopus or tag,
and at home running around playing hide and go seek. Her parents had to work
very hard in order to earn enough to always ensure that there would be food in
the stomachs of their five children, to ensure that they would never grow
hungry. It was enough to give all five of them an education and keep them
well-fed, but they couldn’t afford other luxuries such as new clothes or bikes.
They were usually hand-me-downs, and they would only get new clothes twice
every year.
Having four other siblings - four other girl siblings didn’t make living together a breeze, either. She was
never really close to any of them, and in some cases, jealousy rose in their
midst. There was no bitterness in her tone when she told me that she wanted a
bicycle really badly when she was a child, but they could never afford one, and
when she did get one, it was a
creaky, rusted crimson hand-me-down from her oldest sister. Birthdays were
never celebrated either, not really. Not for her and the older siblings, at
least until this year. This year was the first time her birthday was an
occasion that was actually celebrated. They were never close, her siblings and
her - until now. It had taken her so long, but throughout the years, my mother
came to realize the true worth of family. All the lessons and the repeated
reminders of “keeping your family close” made sense to her now. And she told
me, time and time again, that family is so important. That family is what you
have left after everything else abandons you - that friends are good, friends
do care, but they do not care as much and as deeply as family does for one
another.
She laughed a lot when she was younger, and she told me that
it was an unrestrained laughter. She laughed at silly things, at mild things,
sometimes peals of laughter would slip through during serious moments.
Childish, she called herself. Bad. Not good. “I am not like that now,” she
said, shaking her head. “I learned that it was bad to be silly and laugh at
everything. But did you know? I was just like you too when I was younger. I did
not like vegetables and fruits. I only liked sweet things, crispy things. So unhealthy!
I liked meat very much, and did not know how to eat vegetables until I grew
up.”
School is the most important thing, she thought. An
education is the most precious thing you can attain, and she worked hard in
making that a reality for her children. The money she earned she channeled
towards our education. It became her utmost priority. She recalled her
childhood - how mundane things seemed like a luxury then. She didn’t want that
to become a reality for her children. She wanted them to be educated, but she
wanted to make enough money, too, to live comfortably, to be able to do what
you want to do. It was what she wanted even when she was still young: to have
things in abundance so that there would never be anything that is lacking or
unattainable.
But it wasn’t just that. Working hard, giving us an
education - she was trying to give us a good future, to pass the goodness of
her works and actions onto us, her children. She hoped that in committing no
wrongs, we would meet with good fortune and carry the goodness of our family
down generations later. She drilled that into us at a young age - do good, do good, do good. Don’t do bad,
don’t be like them, don’t. We are good people, she said. We are good people, so
we must act like it.
It’s funny, she told me, that I am such a quiet child, never
vying for attention from others: to be loved by them, to be cared for and asked
after. She, on the other hand, wanted to be held and to be loved and for others
- for her parents - to take part in her happiness and her successes.
“Maybe it’s better to be like you.” The smile on her face
was slipping and she looked so lost and contemplative and determined all at
once. “It was hard, you know. To be a child and want your parents to talk to
you and to love you loudly and dearly.” Her eyes misted over, and her voice was
shaky when she continued.
“It’s not easy, but I know now. I know that they were hard
working parents, and they had five children. They couldn’t possibly pay
attention to just me. I don’t blame them,” she added quickly. “I understood
when I had you and your brother.
“When I became a parent, I wanted to pay more attention to
my children: to let them know that they are loved and I love them.” She looked
at me, and there was nothing but honesty and acceptance in her gaze. There was
no accusation in her words as she said, “But you’re probably not satisfied with
what I have done, are you?”
The
words fell from her mouth as if it was a mere statement. It was like she’d
rehearsed it so many times before, had thought through it and mulled over it
enough times until it became a reality for her. A fact, no questions asked. I
felt regretful and ashamed all at once, and all I could do was stare blankly at
her and recount the number of times she’d proven that she loved me and had done
more than enough for me.
*********************
When
I was younger, my mother introduced me to my favorite foods. She always had a
new dish for me to taste every afternoon, and I loved it. I remember the spicy
and salty tang of the oyster when she dipped it in sauce and brought it to my
lips, and my exclamation over its goodness and eager nodding for another share.
The summer before my second grade year, my friends and I
were clustered around the front of my house, and we were holding hands. “Are
you playing?” I asked in my loud, authoritative voice to the boy who was busy
tying his shoe, effectively holding up our game.
“Yes!” he replied. “I’m playing.”
“Hurry
up hurry up hurry up,” I chanted impatiently, and looked up to meet my mother’s
eyes. Her smile was filled with amusement, and her eyes were filled with warmth
and a deep affection. I grinned at her and pointed at him. “He’s so slow!”
*********************
“Drink,” she ordered me, and I drank obediently, gulping
down the water in three goes. I handed her the cup and blinked up at her, a
little dazed and sleepy.
“Nap?” she asked.
I
nodded, but she already had my head in her lap, and I sighed contentedly and
fell into a hazy sleep, comforted by her presence and the way she gently
stroked my hair.
*********************
“Go to sleep,” she grumbled, yanking the blanket over me.
“I can’t!”
“Just close your eyes and you will go to sleep soon.” She
settled her head on the pillow and sighed.
It was the middle of the afternoon, and I was as jumpy and
high on sugar as any other five year old can be, but I was forced to take a nap of all things while my seven year
old cousin was outside, no doubt having fun. The fun that I was desperately missing!
I squirmed in bed and stared at the blank TV and sighed. I
squirmed some more and wondered how long it would take for her to fall asleep.
I glanced at her and saw that her eyes were already closed, and she was
breathing deeply.
I made a move to get out of bed, but she stopped me with her
not-amused-with-you voice: “What are you doing?”
I was on my haunches, but my right foot was already swung
over the bed and touching the cold tile floor, but under her stern one-eyed
glare, I plopped back in bed, huffing slightly. This was terrible. I tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable spot. I
should learn how to sneak out tomorrow before my afternoon nap and I should
have my cousin help me out of it. Yeah, that was it! We could learn how to
unlock the door and inch out as quietly as possible so the door won’t creak -
“Go to sleep right now!”
*********************
The squalling baby in her arms squirmed, crying, reaching
its tiny fists up to her face. She held onto it gently, rocking the baby, and
as a wave of tiredness crashed over her, all she could think was, I wouldn’t trade her for anything.
*********************
“No,” I said, and I hoped that she would know how earnest I
was being. “No, you gave me the attention and care I needed. I remember what
you’ve done for me.”
We spoke in riddles, my mother and I, never directly saying
something heartfelt or emotional. I was saying, “I know, I understand, I’m
sorry if I acted like I didn’t appreciate your efforts, I know you’re trying so
hard.”
My mother and I have such subtle ways of saying ‘I love
you’. Sometimes I wanted to get it out in one rush: IloveyouMomIthoughtyoushouldknow. But I felt as if the enormity of
the statement was something we both wouldn’t be able to comprehend. Love, for
us, was always there but it was never overly affectionate or obvious. Love was
quiet and selfless and humble, and I saw it in her so clearly as I began to
understand. I vowed to keep this close to my heart: to remember her sacrifices
and the hardships she’d went through for me.
I went in for a hug and complained that because she’d been
exercising, she was all sweaty and sticky. She laughed, but I thought and hoped
that maybe, she knew what I was really saying.
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