Again, another writing thing for the course. I’m somewhat impressed by it, actually. I’ll probably look back at this next year and cringe at my terrible writing. For now, though, I don’t mind being satisfied.
She is short, yes. She is ethnically Chinese, yes. She has waterfall straight hair down to her ribcage, yes. She has hooded eyes with plain brown irises, yes. She has abnormally tiny hands and feet, yes. She is absolutely nothing special to look at.
She is Canadian through and through. Born and raised in British Columbia, she has journeyed through several phases of life.
As a preschooler, being the joyous, delightful child she was, her caretakers absolutely fawned over her. When afternoon naptime was announced daily, she would calmly amble over and doze off without any unnecessary complaints.
In kindergarten, she spun a full circle to become the class’ most disobedient, disliked brat. She strutted straight into a tight friendship of two girls to steal one half, leaving the other half lonely and companionless. Her teacher would write a brief journal entry every day. This would inform the girl’s mother of what new techniques she used that day to vex the other children.
By the end of grade one, the girl’s mother was thoroughly bent out of shape. Every week, the girl would refuse to do show and tell, even when her teacher and friends would courteously request her to present. Her mother would lock her in the laundry room for hours, desperately trying to get her to learn her lesson. She didn’t quit being her stubborn self.
Grade three came through, and she was less hardheaded. Oftentimes, she would find herself immersed in major conflicts between two of her closest friends. To avoid losing either one of them, she would recount falsehoods to one about how infuriating the other was.
The move to Vancouver from Richmond wasn’t terribly tough for her. Luckily, her teacher being new softened the blow of transferring elementary schools. On day one, she was welcomed with open arms by three fine girls, kind and good-natured. From that day on, the girl proceeded to become friends with everyone in the class and in the other French immersion class.
When grade seven graduation arrived, she knew she would likely never see her elementary school classmates again. Wanting to give everyone a parting gift, she made miniscule clay animals for each and every one of them. Throughout the year, however, she would constantly seek out attention. Many unnecessary emails and showy conversations occurred.
Entering high school, she was one of the most timid, most awkward students in her grade. People would try to get to know her; she would respond curtly and turn away. Yet, somehow, by the end of the year, she found herself immersed in a circle of friends.
Finally, grade eleven. The girl turned out to become immature, wildly spontaneous, unpredictably moody, oftentimes strangely quiet, and one of those people who can’t say “no” to any request. Her mother got mad for her lack of participation and enthusiasm in every activity she took on. Seeing only failure and loss, she found life much less exciting than she believed it to be.
There is so much in life she fears. The sight of the downturned lips, the fading twinkle in the disapproving eyes of those she has or will disappoint. The thought of dropping a note as she plays her saxophone. The image of a paper returned with a big, bold remark of “try again”. The idea of behaving the way she does at home in public and becoming the laughingstock of everyone’s day. The notion of not being of high enough standard for someone she looks up to.
Yet, somehow, she makes it through the day.
Through some unbelievable will, she drives her mind and body to stumble out of bed every morning, at 5:30. Exercise is a tedious task for her. Nonetheless, for the sake of herself, she does it.
School is a dreary place for her as well. Learning is of no use unless she has either taken an interest in the topic, or she believes it will be of use to her in the future. She does, however, look forward to seeing her role models—both of them.
Her first role model teaches her physics. He is likely the most passionate person she has and will ever meet. He can guzzle food like twenty pigs; strangely, he remains as fit and as lean as a bean. Many know him for his peculiar fondness for torturing poor cats in his physics problems, though in reality he adores cats. This girl was strongly inspired by this teacher to attempt to bring positivity and joy wherever she goes, and to develop a more powerful, more commanding sense of self-confidence.
Her second role model teaches her social studies. This teacher is one of the most well-rounded human beings she has encountered; he adores a wide range of video games, novels, movies and documentaries, sports, and many more activities. Like many, his sense of justice is incredibly potent. Unlike many, he genuinely acts upon his true sense of justice, acknowledging his biases and welcoming new outlooks, as unusual as they may be. This girl strives to be as compassionate but still as stern as him.
She has yet a long way to go.
Those two objectives may be the only two definite dreams she has for her hazy future. Naively, she is certain of her prospects in getting into a stable university and job, ignoring the harsh realities of the world. She sees herself potentially being a engineer, pragmatic and pioneering.
Why ever not? It combines many of her passions, both the newly developed ones and the lasting ones. Physics, her new favorite subject—kudos to her teacher—is a vital portion of engineering; the complex, staggering concepts never seem to fail her. It is also thanks to her interest in math that she succeeds so well in both physics and chemistry.
However, that isn’t to say she doesn’t enjoy the arts. Creating art is and will forever be one of her favorite pastimes. Ever since she was a youngster, she has loved drawing, painting, writing, singing and playing music. To this day, she sees the artwork hung up around her house and in the school gallery; tastes the flavor, the meat, of each word as she incises them deep within the pages of her notebook; hears the intense, poignant, beautifully constructed music of the school band; feels the audiences whooping and hollering, keenly cheering on the choir; proud that of the numerous activities she abandoned, she did not discard art.
This girl tries to gaze into the depths of the future, but sees nothing except mist. Which, in retrospect, is what many youth see. She may not have discovered who she truly is yet, but who ever declared that she needed to follow a certain procedure to learn about herself?
The present has no fog, no grayness. That’s where she lives.
I turn away from the mirror. But—not before shooting one last, quick look at myself, and fixing a stray strand of black hair. Uniform ironed, hair tightly wound in a bun, my brick of a backpack sitting on my back, I head for school.
Ready, set, go.
cratious mrrp *☮to #y@u~♫ 