Tag: reality

From the sidelines

Richard watched as Miles emerged from the shower rooms. Dripping in cold water, he shivered ever so slightly as he stepped on to the water’s edge and dipped his toes in the pool.

It was a warm day. It was his first big race.

Richard had observed him long enough to know that though a little thinner for his age, Miles had enough muscle strength to power through with powerful stokes. His height was only an added advantage.

Miles was now talking to his coach, signing intently to advice. Richard flinched at the sight of the coach. He hated every bit of alpha-ness that that emitted from him. He was a bad influence on Miles, Richard thought. But he had no right to say anything. After all, when it came to swimming, he was a mere spectator.

And that’s what he did for the next fifteen minutes. As the swimmers took their lanes, Richard was on the sidelines, unknown to the rest of the world, his eyes focussed on Miles’ flexed arms and ready-to-pounce feet. When the whistle blew, he took a sharp breath almost hurting his nostrils. It had begun.

The next few minutes were a blur. Richard heard yells of sadness mangled with cries of jubilation. People had crowded in front of him, blocking his view of the pool. The announcer overhead managed to make his voice louder than the rest of the din. “And it’s Miles who takes home the first place!”

Richard had never loved anyone more. Or been prouder.

The crowd suddenly split to let through a dripping athlete. Miles knelt down so he was level with his father’s wheelchair.

“Thanks, Dad,” and he hugged the once-Olympic swimmer.

Eternal fear

“But why can’t I, Dad?”

James stared into the imploring eyes of his ten-year-old. Those blue piercing eyes he’d inherited from Lisa.

James hardened his look, “Because your mother’s afraid for you.”

“But—”

James took a step closer and his son stopped protesting immediately, shoving his hands behind his back where James knew he was twisting his fingers—an anxiety coping mechanism James had instilled in him. “This conversation is over, young man. Now go to your room, and I’ll call you when it’s time for dinner.”

Rick looked so small and sad walking away with his head hanging low. But James stood stern until his son had left the room.

‘But why?’ Rick’s unfinished sentence hung over his head like a knife about to drop.

He wanted to know the answer himself. They still had a few good years before they had to worry about Rick being peer pressured into alcohol or cigarettes. Why wouldn’t his mother let him be be a normal kid and play with the others after school?

“Just the thought of it makes me uneasy, James,” she’d told him when he wondered aloud. Thrusting the empty plates in the sink, she’d turned to him before he could reply. “Let’s not talk about this anymore, ok?” And she’d opened the recently-closed bottle and poured herself another glass of wine.

But, honey. If we block out all his chances of making friends, he’ll never learn to socialise.

James wasn’t brave enough to voice his thoughts. Not when she was almost drowning her third drink.

Lisa wasn’t an alcoholic. But ever since they’d moved out here, she’d been growing increasingly insecure. She wouldn’t speak to the neighbours, even though they’d made countless efforts to be inclusive. At least she still had work to look forward to, James had assured himself. The only good thing about his sudden transfer was that Lisa’s company had a local branch as well.

“A black boy was running around with a gun—inside a school! I just saw in the news.”

Lisa took a deep breath trying to calm herself. She didn’t need her mother to remind her what she’d already seen and heard three hours ago. She never missed news like this.

“Mom, we’re in the Virgin Islands. That won’t happen here.” Not when over 70 percent of the people were black.

“But, dear, I was so scared,” trembled the voice from California. “I know it’s only for a year, and you’ll be back home soon. But I can’t sleep at night knowing what these people are capable of.”

“Mom. I gotta go. My boss is calling me right now. Talk later.”

Lisa hadn’t slept well since they’d moved from Pasadena a month ago. She didn’t need her mother blowing into an already raging fire.

“Harding?”

“Yes,” affirmed James.

“That’s right,” replied Lisa.

“I’m Estelle, the nurse at Markson Junior High. There’s been a small incident, and we’ve admitted your son at the Lifeline Childcare Hospital. Can you come right away, please?”

Lisa arrived panting and flustered, just as James was asking for directions. Estelle assured them all was well, and insisted they meet Dr. Peterson before seeing Rick. When they entered his room, the doctor was reading Agatha Christie.

A Marple mystery, classic. James would smile when he recalled the incident hours later.

Peterson offered them water and explained what had happened.

Two boys had gotten into a brawl in class and Rick had tried to intervene. In the action that followed, one small fist had shoved Rick and he’d fallen against a desk, bruising his arms. The other kid had raised the alarm and insisted on bringing him to the hospital in case Rick had hurt his head.

He hadn’t, the doctor assured the nervous couple.

Tears streamed down Lisa’s eyes. James was shaking.

“Was it a black kid?” Lisa spurt out at the doctor harshly. “The one who pushed my son?”

“Lisa—!” James wrapped an arm around her, trying to pacify her, shocked at the outburst.

The doctor was shocked too. After all, he hadn’t expected her to display such hatred. At least not when he was black himself.

But he remained calm. Retaliation made no sense in this case. Instead, he replied cooly, “In fact, no. The boy who saved your son is black, though.”

He picked up his book again. “Make of that what you will.” And continued reading.

Artists are sad people

I’ve been living in Canberra for almost two months now. And for a long time, I had trouble believing that I now lived in a first-world country. The main reason is that I grew up in a place where sidewalks are unheard of and pedestrians are more close to the pyre than they are to having priority in the streets. I walked about a kilometre every day to work and every day I grazed whizzing motorcycles, trying hard not to jump at the horns blaring next to my ear.

I don’t mean to sound depressed.

But I was.

It‘s hard not to be. In a society like that, people don’t live—they subsist. Every day is a struggle to get through. There’s always something or another to worry about: bills, rent, school fees, office politics, weak knees, unidentifiable skin allergies, lack of health insurance, yada yada.

And as a blogger, I had so much to talk about. To complain. Things I wished would be better, public services that could’ve existed, footpaths that should’ve been paved, and scowls we could do without.

All these emotions and opinions fed my creativity.

In Canberra, however, I have none of the negative feelings I used to have. For the first time in my life, I don’t have pressing matters chocking my existence, barring my experience of life.

In other words, I have almost nothing to complain about.

That’s scary. Because without something or someone to whine about, I have no writing material. I’ve hit a hurdle, except that this isn’t the dreaded writer’s block.

This is happiness.

Although it’s what I’ve always wanted to achieve for myself, this also terrifies me. Now, unlike before, I don’t have a raging flame fuming my words. Instead, I have to find an impetus elsewhere. I have to work harder to come up with material because my life has nothing newsworthy about it.

Perfect isn’t always good, remember.

When I realised this a week ago, I was anxious at first. Now that life’s plenty of good things, I didn’t know how I‘d sustain as a writer without all the bad things to reflect upon.

Then I understood something big.

So what if all I did today was bussing to the city back? So what if I’m living an ordinary life?

I’m finally free. Free to imagine.

The companion

In that town of men
there lived this boy
slim and pale
though worthy of Yale
he was nice to everyone
family though he had none
walked his dog all arvo
a black spaniel so bravo
came from a slaughterhouse
became more like a spouse
bounding eagerly through the town
bearing his name tag like a crown
such was the dog’s devotion
to the boy whose only motion
was to share his milk and cookie
in rearing though he was a rookie
knew that two packs on supermarket haul
was the secret to a life without a brawl
the talk of town they remained for long
the lovable guide dog and its blind boy