To talk... and to 'talk'
I've decided that going against the flow of your parents is a decidedly mentally taxing thing. Especially if they utterly don't approve of, and can't understand why you would do such a thing.
Tues night, my mother wanted to 'talk' to me about my future, or what she perceives as my lack thereof. ( 'talk' in our relationship meaning she will talk and I will play dumb ) So she talked, and talked and talked.
The 'talk' of course caught the attention of my father, who waited till she left, and I was lying in my room, and then walked in for a father-daughter 'talk'.
So we talked, and talked and talked, until finally I told my father that one of the reasons why I didn't do anything about full time employment was the feeling that I would be missing out on other things in life, and the possibility I may never fulfil what I want. I neglected to mention that these dreams included drawing my own comic or selling my designs.
I also said that it was because I was too unsure last year of what I really wanted in life. And that conflicting advice was coming from too many directions for me to handle.
What I didn't say was that one reason why I didn't sign up for teaching was that it was something they wanted me to do. 'Wanted' here meaning that they were firm that I should join teaching and that not doing so would be a sign of an utter lack of clear judgment on my part.
If I were to join teaching, I wanted it to be my own decision. Something made without influence of my parents. Because too many times, in critical junctions in my education, they always pushed me in the direction they taught I should go. They didn't think about what I wanted, they didn't think about what I could do, ( Imagine me in engineering ) and they certainly didn't think much about my opinions about my life.
All done for 'the good of your future'. Ain't that the usual excuse of parents everywhere manipulating their children's futures?
[ok, understandably, that last statement was a little harsh]Then again, it was an insight that only hit me when my father said, insistently, "I don't understand why you don't want to find a full-time job." The thought wafted in my mind,
because you want me to. And together with my insecurities, my procrastinations, my idiocies, was another deciding factor in this unstable line.
Which also explains why, everytime I thought positively about the idea of teaching, and became relatively decided on that point, I would be turned off immediately when they started 'talking' about my future.
Nature vs nurture, the old argument. How much of ourselves is really unique to
us? The spark of something
different that was put into us from creation and would be subject to no change by any outside party?
How much of us is really the ghost of our parents, working its way into our soul, and controlling our every movements?
How much of the spark can this ghost smother?
I guess I'm a little pissed off with them these days. The decision about my tuition seems to have torn a crack in the parents-daughter relationship since my graduation. With good reason, too, I suppose. Not to mention my mother was menopausal tonight, and at 12 midnight, made me go up to my toilet and wash my sink. *duh* at 12 midnight I tell you......
Naturally there are other factors causing the crack as well. I have to admit that a portion of the fault belongs to me as well, for promises made and unkept, [besides the housework] but it's my blog, so you naturally get a biased view of the situation. :p
But well, all the feelings on my end are true at least.
Now let God decide whether I should become a teacher. I applied and submitted it yesterday, and now it's up to the Ministry to call me, interview me, and assess whether I'm worthy of the teaching force.
But even if I do enter, I shall always remember the humble grass, and take it as my mentor in resilience.
Observe, for as strong as the winds blow, the grass will bend, sometimes so low as to almost touch the ground, but it will never be uprooted.
He presented her with a little paper bag. "Happy birthday." he said, smiling.
"What is it? Don't tell me it's jewellery?" She said, seeing the brand of a jewellery on the bag.
"No, I know you don't wear jewellery." he replied, but would not say more.
She took the little wrapped up box out of the bag. It was a cubish box, wrapped in blue paper. She felt around the box for any edges sticking out, and shook it gently, to see if she could hear what it was. She had all the enthusiasm of a child discovering christmas presents for the first time.
"What is it? A toy? A clock? A watch?" and still he remained silent, pretending not to hear.
After much shaking and prodding, she finally opened it. It was a watch, brown leather straps, but it was the watchface that caught her attention.
She squealed with delight. On the face was the picture of a black and white cat, staring blurly at the figuring of a purple spotted cat. It was cute, it was delightful, and it was something she might have coveted for herself, but never bought, because of the price, and the reluctant logic that one doesn't need that many watches.
"Thanks!!" she repeated over and over, gingerly taking the watch out of the box and trying it on her wrist at once.
