And so, another year has gone by and I'm no better as a blogger. I had one resolution for 2016, which was to get Facebook, and I didn't. I feel that when I verbalise my goals to other people, I'm less likely to do them. So there's nothing on the agenda for 2017.
New Years Eve found me cleaning up one of the storage closets in our house. My parents and my younger sisters are in Sri Lanka, and since they've left, my older sister and I have been selecting various corners of the house daily and cleaning them. I don't know if this happens to everyone, but I find that once you've settled in a house for a long time, it's near impossible to keep it pristine. There are corners of our house we just can't clean, because we don't have the time and energy on top of our daily routines. But with the most of the family gone, my older sister and I don't make a lot of mess, and it's the holidays, and we like cleaning.
And we accumulate. I feel that this comes from my mother's side. I have been told that her mother is a hoarder, who never throws anything away. I think my mum is similar, but only a part of it is due to attachment; mostly, she has a lot of stuff that she never gets back to. So in this closet, amongst many, many bags (is that weird?), I found a couple with her papers. Stuff to do with studies and whatnot. And one with her obstetric history.
It was... surreal. I know most of her history. I know she's had two miscarriages and one abortion, because of some miscommunication with the healthcare professionals involved. I know she must have had complications with sister number three, because I remember the visits to hospital, how ill she looked, jaundiced and drained, barely there. I've asked my parents for the stories, what it was like, how did they feel. I am increasingly curious about the lives of my parents, my aunts and uncles too. For a long time I wasn't, just because I had unconsciously accepted that they wouldn't have the types of stories we saw in movies. You know, awkward first dates, prom, romantic marriage proposals, fairy-tale weddings, drama, sacrifice, that sort of thing. I knew we were the products of arranged marriages, parents who seemed to have had a strict and boring upbringing. What was there to hear?
As it happens, I think... somehow, at some point, I realised that however different the time and place was, my parents, my uncles and aunts - they're all human too. They were kids once. Adolescents. They had hopes and dreams, fantasies. Crushes. Hobbies. Favourite celebrities. They made mistakes too. They have stories. And when you ask them about this stuff, they melt a little. You close the gap. You realise you're not so far apart.
Where am I going? I don't know. I started looking through all the paperwork. Innocuous appointment schedules, routine check ups, blood test results. Referral letters from the doctors. Charts, before and after birth. The labour documentation. The ultrasound of myself as a fetus, as well as my sisters. Something just snapped, and I started crying.
I am not usually so sentimental. Actually, I am quite soft, but I've never been the type to look at a photo and cry, or something like that. But to see this, everything my mum went through, the entire rigorous process, the complications, three out of four kids in a foreign land, by herself, it was just. Something. Tears brimmed just noting the 'interpreter required' sticker on one of the hospital forms.
I'm not entirely sure why I am sharing this. It's been another year, and it seems sensible to share the highlights, of which there have been a few. But this is what is on the forefront of my mind, so this is what I have for you.
It's just that the more I get through life, the less I seem to know. Is this a popular platitude that everyone's already heard of a million times already? Perhaps, but it's certainly one I personally attest to.
I remember being so very strongly opinionated in high school. I still have certain values and causes that I am devoted to - I still bleed easy for humanitarian crises. But I remember that I was so passionate, dogmatic even, about how I argued the contexts of these issues, particularly the political side of things. I was so sure. And now I'm not. There are no heroes versus villains in my world anymore. Nothing is simple. Everything is murky, fogged up, twisted, complicated. We have so much access to information, knowledge, and yet there is no way to know what is real and what isn't. Who is telling the truth, who isn't. What version of the truth is the right version. Is there a right version. And what do we do. How responsible are we for everything and everyone.
I feel a little hopeless, a little small.
This was not meant to be a dismal post, though. I suppose, I don't know, you spend your life trying to find your purpose or whatever. 'The meaning of life'. Who you are, what you're meant to be doing. I guess, in realising how complicated the inhabitants of this world are, I'm trying to balance... I don't know, forgiving their flaws, giving them the benefit of the doubt, but then, not depending or expecting too much. Acknowledging that there is always more to a person. Still devoted to the humanitarian cause, but no longer from the top. I want to help from the ground up, do big things but do them quietly. I'm a little sad that I don't have convictions anymore, makes me feel a bit insubstantial. Perhaps they'll come back, perhaps they won't.
It's all very vague, but there's something in there that is starting to make sense. Still be spiralling out of control, but trying to go with it.
Peace in,
Laila
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Sunday, January 1, 2017
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
and then I grew up
So this is what happened.
I was falling apart last year. Maybe you have some ideas why, maybe you don't. But throughout the year, I was gradually losing it, accumulating a whole lot of badthoughts in my head. It's a bit hard to explain.
And then.
I went on placement. Mental Health placement. In the youth ward.
My first placement with patients about my age, and they were crazy.
I don't mean crazy in the sense of prison like setting, residents rattling the bars to their cages, gabbling away, paranoid, eyes darting, mad laughing, that sort of thing. Okay, there was a bit of that, but mostly it was a combination of drugs and trauma, and it was awful. Awful because I collected stories, as I usually do, and these were tragedies. These were dark stories, depressing, scarring, heartbreaking.
I ended up loving the placement, because I was exposed to something I was so uncertain about, something that unnerved me just by me thinking about it. I'm not saying that by the end everything was hunky dory, and I could just live with these terrible things. I just came to the understanding that people who have horrible baggage attached to them do not get better when you run away. They're the ones that need you most.
But, as I said, I was not in a 'good place' myself. I could actually write my own mental health nurse notes. Isolative. Irritable. Flat affect, congruent with depressed mood. Minimal speech. Poor diet. Low self-esteem. Blah blah blah.
It was pretty bad. It was bad enough for my mum to notice. Even though I try to keep this stuff to myself, I suppose some of it cannot go unnoticed. Or maybe it's because she's my mum. But there were nights where I just bit my fist and cried, and I can't explain why. Or I'd just lie still for a long time and not do anything. I convinced myself that I was alone, that no one liked me. Sometimes I felt like I couldn't breathe, that the world was too small, and it was closing in. I was pathetic and hopeless.
(The other thing you need to know is that throughout the whole of last year, I dreamed about going to Sri Lanka at the end of the year. If it wasn't with family, my sister promised we'd go together. She made some elaborate plans. I was super excited.)
But come the end of placement, and despite all my talking, and all my family agreeing, no one had booked tickets to go. My sister bailed on me. And my parents kept saying "We'll go, hang on, just wait." Wait for what?! I was hysterically thought-screaming.
So I kept wallowing, kept falling apart, and finally, my mum said, okay, kid, you can go. You need it.
We found a family friend going, and I booked myself on the same flight as them. (That's about as much connection I had with them for whole trip. I saw them just before I got on, during the transit, and when I landed.)
(My stomach aches a bit when I think about Lanka. Ow. I miss it.)
And I went.
I found my little happy place again.
Like, really. I went on January 14th, arrived back in Melbourne on the 1st of March. And I've been genuinely happy, warm right to the core. I don't know, it's kinda scary. I can't imagine it lasting. But it is. Even though I'mback to the same routine. Even though there are more assignments than ever. Even though I'm still kinda unemployed. I'm good.
So I should probably tell y'all how it all went, but. But I've already done it.
See, one thing Star roped me into before I left was to start a blog with her. And I blogged while I was there. And I feel like I did it my best there. So I'll link ya (here and here), if you really care to know. But I'm not Laila there, so don't use that name if you want to comment. (Come to think of it, neither of us have put our names. Maybe just don't comment at all. I donno. BUT DON'T CALL ME LAILA.)
Anyway, something has really struck me since I've come back.
I've grown up.
Duhhh, you say. You're twenty. You better have grown up.
No, listen.
There are little things. You know, I'm more than halfway through uni, I'm graduating next year. Then I'm in the workplace. My friends are getting married, one by one. Cousins close to my age as well. They all have boyfriends in a more... steady, mature way. I do things a bit more independantly. (I've had driving lessons too. I'm getting there). There's more, though.
When I got back, a few days later, I accompanied my dad to an appointment with a cardiologist. I accompanied him. And after that, I explained to him what was going on. And he told me about some tests he had done while I was away, and he told me how scared he had been, and I comforted him. Since when does this happen? I've never had that explicit role of explaining this sort of stuff to my parents, nor have I ever had the job of reassuring them, having them so dependant on me. And yet, there it was.
And since then, I've noticed all these other little things. How my parents always seem to ask my opinion on how to handle stuff in their lives. How we sit and talk about our day like we're on the same level. I mean, sure, I still feel the need to answer to them, to always tell them where I am, ask permission, etc. But it feels like roles are slowly reversing. They always used to say there would be a day when we'd be wiping their butts, and it really feels like that day is coming.
My parents are getting older.
It's scary.
I deal with patients like this all the time, but now I'm thinking: my parents fit into this group. That's the reality. No, they're not ancient. And they're pretty healthy. But they're still ageing. It's happening. It's real. And I can sense that now, even though I still need them, now they need me too.
And what strikes me more than anything is that for the first time, I feel like I can do it. I can deal with this. I can take care of them. I'm not so scared anymore. It's a bit disconcerting, sure. But it's not incomprehensible, unmanageable. I can do this. I don't know. Is this what it means to grow up?
Peace in,
Laila
I was falling apart last year. Maybe you have some ideas why, maybe you don't. But throughout the year, I was gradually losing it, accumulating a whole lot of badthoughts in my head. It's a bit hard to explain.
And then.
I went on placement. Mental Health placement. In the youth ward.
My first placement with patients about my age, and they were crazy.
I don't mean crazy in the sense of prison like setting, residents rattling the bars to their cages, gabbling away, paranoid, eyes darting, mad laughing, that sort of thing. Okay, there was a bit of that, but mostly it was a combination of drugs and trauma, and it was awful. Awful because I collected stories, as I usually do, and these were tragedies. These were dark stories, depressing, scarring, heartbreaking.
I ended up loving the placement, because I was exposed to something I was so uncertain about, something that unnerved me just by me thinking about it. I'm not saying that by the end everything was hunky dory, and I could just live with these terrible things. I just came to the understanding that people who have horrible baggage attached to them do not get better when you run away. They're the ones that need you most.
But, as I said, I was not in a 'good place' myself. I could actually write my own mental health nurse notes. Isolative. Irritable. Flat affect, congruent with depressed mood. Minimal speech. Poor diet. Low self-esteem. Blah blah blah.
It was pretty bad. It was bad enough for my mum to notice. Even though I try to keep this stuff to myself, I suppose some of it cannot go unnoticed. Or maybe it's because she's my mum. But there were nights where I just bit my fist and cried, and I can't explain why. Or I'd just lie still for a long time and not do anything. I convinced myself that I was alone, that no one liked me. Sometimes I felt like I couldn't breathe, that the world was too small, and it was closing in. I was pathetic and hopeless.
(The other thing you need to know is that throughout the whole of last year, I dreamed about going to Sri Lanka at the end of the year. If it wasn't with family, my sister promised we'd go together. She made some elaborate plans. I was super excited.)
But come the end of placement, and despite all my talking, and all my family agreeing, no one had booked tickets to go. My sister bailed on me. And my parents kept saying "We'll go, hang on, just wait." Wait for what?! I was hysterically thought-screaming.
So I kept wallowing, kept falling apart, and finally, my mum said, okay, kid, you can go. You need it.
We found a family friend going, and I booked myself on the same flight as them. (That's about as much connection I had with them for whole trip. I saw them just before I got on, during the transit, and when I landed.)
(My stomach aches a bit when I think about Lanka. Ow. I miss it.)
And I went.
I found my little happy place again.
Like, really. I went on January 14th, arrived back in Melbourne on the 1st of March. And I've been genuinely happy, warm right to the core. I don't know, it's kinda scary. I can't imagine it lasting. But it is. Even though I'mback to the same routine. Even though there are more assignments than ever. Even though I'm still kinda unemployed. I'm good.
So I should probably tell y'all how it all went, but. But I've already done it.
See, one thing Star roped me into before I left was to start a blog with her. And I blogged while I was there. And I feel like I did it my best there. So I'll link ya (here and here), if you really care to know. But I'm not Laila there, so don't use that name if you want to comment. (Come to think of it, neither of us have put our names. Maybe just don't comment at all. I donno. BUT DON'T CALL ME LAILA.)
Anyway, something has really struck me since I've come back.
I've grown up.
Duhhh, you say. You're twenty. You better have grown up.
No, listen.
There are little things. You know, I'm more than halfway through uni, I'm graduating next year. Then I'm in the workplace. My friends are getting married, one by one. Cousins close to my age as well. They all have boyfriends in a more... steady, mature way. I do things a bit more independantly. (I've had driving lessons too. I'm getting there). There's more, though.
When I got back, a few days later, I accompanied my dad to an appointment with a cardiologist. I accompanied him. And after that, I explained to him what was going on. And he told me about some tests he had done while I was away, and he told me how scared he had been, and I comforted him. Since when does this happen? I've never had that explicit role of explaining this sort of stuff to my parents, nor have I ever had the job of reassuring them, having them so dependant on me. And yet, there it was.
And since then, I've noticed all these other little things. How my parents always seem to ask my opinion on how to handle stuff in their lives. How we sit and talk about our day like we're on the same level. I mean, sure, I still feel the need to answer to them, to always tell them where I am, ask permission, etc. But it feels like roles are slowly reversing. They always used to say there would be a day when we'd be wiping their butts, and it really feels like that day is coming.
My parents are getting older.
It's scary.
I deal with patients like this all the time, but now I'm thinking: my parents fit into this group. That's the reality. No, they're not ancient. And they're pretty healthy. But they're still ageing. It's happening. It's real. And I can sense that now, even though I still need them, now they need me too.
And what strikes me more than anything is that for the first time, I feel like I can do it. I can deal with this. I can take care of them. I'm not so scared anymore. It's a bit disconcerting, sure. But it's not incomprehensible, unmanageable. I can do this. I don't know. Is this what it means to grow up?
Peace in,
Laila
Monday, October 26, 2015
"Presume that everyone is a douchebag unless they prove otherwise,"
said a barrister to me, yesterday. I like her. She scares me a lot, because I feel like she has this fine-tuned BS-ometer and she can just see through everyone, and what she will see in me, I don't know, but all fears aside, I like her.
I should be studying for my exams, but I can't. As echoed by jizbillions of uni/VCE students around Oz at the moment, I suppose. I'm just tired. I finished up another block of placement on Saturday, I have my own students who've been requesting sessions and sending me things to read a lot more in the recent days, I've had to work on some exam study, and I have soccer. I now just have a craving to bake, but I know I'll feel bad doing it when I should be studying, so I'm not. Instead, I'm feeling bad writing this.
But it's okay. I can deal.
I have a cute story.
The patient was an elderly male, who lives independently with his wife, but kind of as her carer, because she has some dementia. Right before they went to bed that night, he fell over, as old people do.
"Are you okay?" wifey called out.
"I'm fine, love, you go to bed, I'll be right," he replied.
When she got up in the morning, he was still on the floor.
It's a lot harder for the elderly to deal with falls - it's one of the most common reasons for being hospitalised. But he just didn't want to wake her up. So he was admitted with hypothermia.
D'awww ♥
I have another one.
One of my students came today for, perhaps, his last session. I love this kid. I've only been tutoring him for a couple of weeks, and extracting an essay from him is a painful process. But, funnily enough, he really, genuinely enjoys studying his book. He won't admit it outright, but he said that in procrastinating for other exams, or even for just writing essays in general, he'll pick up his book (Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood), and just pore over it, analysing, looking for ideas, trying to make sense of it. It's a pure kind of appreciation, and I adore him for it.
Anyway, today, in discussing this habit of his for the umpteenth time, he said: "You know, I even had this fear for a while that what if I died, right now, and you know, the angels came to ask me what my book was - you know how they do that - and instead of Qu'ran, I said Cat's Eye. Freaked me out."
LOL. I mean that literally. I teared up laughing.
I'm so sad to be losing my students. Not in the sense of an income (although that's going to make the future a bit unstable, I'll have to be stingier than normal), but in the sense that I really love these kids.
I'd like to go over the conversation with the barrister though. She's a family friend, and kinda like an older cousin to us. I mean, we call her our cousin. On the Sunday, my sister confessed the state of her current romance to her, schmaltzy fuzz and all, and oh, how she ripped her apart. Not as in crushed her dreams, but gave her a reality check that we both actually enjoyed, despite the cynicism. But I suppose that's one of those you-have-to-be-there-(andknowthefullstorywhichIcan'tbebotheredexplaining)-to-appreciate-it things.
Meanwhile, we continue to consistently lose in soccer. Did I tell you guys that? From our casual futsal games, some of the regulars decided to form a team and join a league. We exemplify the literal meaning of 'out of your league'. The girls we're up against are from actual teams, who train with coaches and play in official tournaments. They're vicious, they're masterfully skilled, they have tactics, and, on a side note, they all tend to be a lot bigger than us.
We even played against professional 14-year-olds and lost. To be fair, they looked a little soft, so we were reluctant to play our toughest. Although I'm a little sceptical that our 'toughest' would have made a difference.
But it's fun. I like these girls. I don't mind losing with them. We have this sense of sisterhood, camaraderie, that makes even the losses feel like a gift... just by being something we share? Something like that.
I should get my driver's licence.
I could go to Nepal to volunteer as a student nurse for 8 weeks, for under $4,000. I can afford that. Okay, it doesn't include the ticket and visas and vaccines. But everything else. It's pretty good.
I could go to Sri Lanka and do it instead. Free accommodation and food with the relatives. Hmm.
I'd love to write a story. Some things never change, do they?
Peanut butter cookies. The craving. It's killing me.
Okay, I feel bad. I should stop now.
Peace in,
Laila
I should be studying for my exams, but I can't. As echoed by jizbillions of uni/VCE students around Oz at the moment, I suppose. I'm just tired. I finished up another block of placement on Saturday, I have my own students who've been requesting sessions and sending me things to read a lot more in the recent days, I've had to work on some exam study, and I have soccer. I now just have a craving to bake, but I know I'll feel bad doing it when I should be studying, so I'm not. Instead, I'm feeling bad writing this.
But it's okay. I can deal.
I have a cute story.
The patient was an elderly male, who lives independently with his wife, but kind of as her carer, because she has some dementia. Right before they went to bed that night, he fell over, as old people do.
"Are you okay?" wifey called out.
"I'm fine, love, you go to bed, I'll be right," he replied.
When she got up in the morning, he was still on the floor.
It's a lot harder for the elderly to deal with falls - it's one of the most common reasons for being hospitalised. But he just didn't want to wake her up. So he was admitted with hypothermia.
D'awww ♥
I have another one.
One of my students came today for, perhaps, his last session. I love this kid. I've only been tutoring him for a couple of weeks, and extracting an essay from him is a painful process. But, funnily enough, he really, genuinely enjoys studying his book. He won't admit it outright, but he said that in procrastinating for other exams, or even for just writing essays in general, he'll pick up his book (Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood), and just pore over it, analysing, looking for ideas, trying to make sense of it. It's a pure kind of appreciation, and I adore him for it.
Anyway, today, in discussing this habit of his for the umpteenth time, he said: "You know, I even had this fear for a while that what if I died, right now, and you know, the angels came to ask me what my book was - you know how they do that - and instead of Qu'ran, I said Cat's Eye. Freaked me out."
LOL. I mean that literally. I teared up laughing.
I'm so sad to be losing my students. Not in the sense of an income (although that's going to make the future a bit unstable, I'll have to be stingier than normal), but in the sense that I really love these kids.
I'd like to go over the conversation with the barrister though. She's a family friend, and kinda like an older cousin to us. I mean, we call her our cousin. On the Sunday, my sister confessed the state of her current romance to her, schmaltzy fuzz and all, and oh, how she ripped her apart. Not as in crushed her dreams, but gave her a reality check that we both actually enjoyed, despite the cynicism. But I suppose that's one of those you-have-to-be-there-(andknowthefullstorywhichIcan'tbebotheredexplaining)-to-appreciate-it things.
Meanwhile, we continue to consistently lose in soccer. Did I tell you guys that? From our casual futsal games, some of the regulars decided to form a team and join a league. We exemplify the literal meaning of 'out of your league'. The girls we're up against are from actual teams, who train with coaches and play in official tournaments. They're vicious, they're masterfully skilled, they have tactics, and, on a side note, they all tend to be a lot bigger than us.
We even played against professional 14-year-olds and lost. To be fair, they looked a little soft, so we were reluctant to play our toughest. Although I'm a little sceptical that our 'toughest' would have made a difference.
But it's fun. I like these girls. I don't mind losing with them. We have this sense of sisterhood, camaraderie, that makes even the losses feel like a gift... just by being something we share? Something like that.
I should get my driver's licence.
I could go to Nepal to volunteer as a student nurse for 8 weeks, for under $4,000. I can afford that. Okay, it doesn't include the ticket and visas and vaccines. But everything else. It's pretty good.
I could go to Sri Lanka and do it instead. Free accommodation and food with the relatives. Hmm.
I'd love to write a story. Some things never change, do they?
Peanut butter cookies. The craving. It's killing me.
Okay, I feel bad. I should stop now.
Peace in,
Laila
Friday, September 4, 2015
People and their sides of wonder
I finished reading Stasiland, and I realised - or re-realised - just how much I love stories.
I mean, you know this. You know this because you absolutely must know by now how much I love reading. I am always reading. I always have a book on my bedside table, or in my bag - I'm always in the middle of some book or another. The more stressful or busy life gets, the more I need a book. I may read in smaller increments, but I solemnly swear - I am always reading. The gap between me finishing one book and starting another is v-e-r-y narrow.
So this realisation, you may think it's a bit... well, glaringly obvious, le duh.
But this is different. Nothing's changed, I've just evolved a little - a little in understanding about myself. Sort of.
I usually gravitate towards the fictional. I love make believe. I love it in something as outrageous as fantasy, the occasional drip in sci-fi, but I also love it in the slightly more believable, still romanticised, high school or family dramas. Even closer to reality, give me a bit of historical fiction. Or just shock me with something terrifying, something disturbing, something mysterious. I'll take it all.
There are only two things that bother me with fiction. One is, well, it's fiction. It's not real. The other, while closely related, is still a little distinct: it's not real, and it'll never be mine. No pirates or witches, no struggle through war or some other colossal disaster, no tragic romance or numbered days with impending doom - I know it's sort of terrible to wish these things, but I can't help it. When I've read it in a book, it's always romantic. It's an experience, woven together in such pretty words that I can't help wish they were describing me.
And that's just fiction.
So you can imagine how I feel when I read someone's epic story, and it's real. Like Stasiland. Oh how my heart broke for Miriam, who went and asked them every day how Charlie could have hung himself in those sparse cells she'd experienced herself, and they gave her different answers every time. And Frau Paul, who sacrificed seeing her baby boy to save a guy she barely knew in the West. She so was so brave and so selfless, and you wish that she was just that bit selfish enough to take the bait, because it's her courage and selflessness that makes her deserving of the right to see her kid.
People are so extraordinary.
This is what I've realised. I know it doesn't sound like much, it's just... It's just one of those things, those ideas or thoughts that are blasé, you just take them for granted, and then, one day, bam: it hits you. It touches your soul.
Look at that. That's Hitler with a little girl. Hitler. Do I need to iterate what this guy is responsible for? And yet, when Star showed me this, it came with a little tumblr discussion that pointed out that yes, he did many horrible things (I don't have words), but we cannot just simplify him as this creature of super-evil in order to comprehend what he did. The fact is, despite all that he did, Hitler was still a man, and there must have been a great many other things going on in that little head of his, not all of them psychotic, that we will never know.
Stalin, man. Putting aside the bigger picture of his endless cruelty, this is a guy who said "He can't even shoot straight" when his son tried to kill himself. But when his wife died, according to Wiki (and a certain historian), he is quoted as saying: "This creature softened my heart of stone. She died and with her died my last warm feelings for humanity." He threw himself in her open grave at her funeral, and had to be dragged out. His gun was taken away from him because his comrades were worried about the extent of his grief.
(I mean, let's be real, grieving or not, I would never think a gun was safe in Stalin's hands.)
The point is, would you ever associate this tragic lover with the heartless dictator?
I'm not writing this to elicit sympathy for the nastier figures of history. I'm just astounded.
Isn't it just so amazing how absolutely complex people are? These gallimaufries of stupidity, courage, malice, selflessness, imagination, ridiculousness, contradiction, empathy... I mean, it goes on and on and on and we could never, ever get to the bottom of it.
And it is the stories of people that I am in love with.
And I think this is why I've found my niche in paramedics/nursing. It may sound unrelated, but really, this course has given me the best platform to discover people. Really, since I started, I've wondered why I chose the course. Yes, I like the idea of paramedics and nursing - helping people, taking care of them, etc - but there are other ways to do this, right? I mean, all careers end up doing this in some way or another ('cept politicians?). We all contribute to society, so we will all inadvertently helping each other.
Aside from that, I've never been interested in medicine or health. I've never been fascinated by biology, or anatomy and physiology. I've always been iffy about needles and blood and all that.
And I've always been a humanities kid. I love my reading (did I mention that?), my writing, my history, studying issues and discussing ideas. One does go into my course looking for this stuff.
But over the past year and a bit, within uni but mainly through a series of placements, I have made the acquaintance of so many different people, and... it fills me up. It opens my mind, it changes me, it moves me, it gives me new perspectives - I can't explain it. I just love the experience.
It's not that I only pick up amazing people in the ambulance, or that only quirky people come into hospital. These people are everyday people. Sometimes it's their medical story - the dog bite, the spider bite, the rare genetic condition - the one with the unlucky lottery of a jumble of rare conditions, for that matter. The guy with the apple piece up his butt (best ice-breaker ever).
Sometimes it's their personal stories.
There was the relatively elderly gentleman who spoke to me about his experience of moving from England to Australia, how he and his family may not have explored much in the former, but were prone to just packing, selling, upping and travelling around the latter in a caravan, settling in whatever state or territory took their fancy, every now and again. How just once, he and his wife wanted to do it by themselves, so when all the kids left the nest, they did. How soon after they completed the dream, they found out she had lung cancer - though she'd never smoked in her life - and suddenly she was gone. It had been a few years, but he still had tears in his eyes as he told me, lying in bed in the recovery room.
There were a few travellers - the guy from Germany, another who travelled constantly on business... Contrary to what I thought, that you'd be left in a perpetual state of longing to take flight again, he said that no matter how wonderful it was to see the world, he never stopped wishing that he could just settle down, for a bit, and just be with his family.
And sometimes it's just who they, in general. The 42-year-old woman who ended up in the same room as another 42-year-old woman and they ended up becoming soul sisters. When one was discharged before the other, they literally wept because of the separation. In the following days, the one that was discharged would call daily to catch up - she actually wished she was back in hospital to be with the other. The one that stayed, she was my patient, and I adored her. She was in because one of her implants, following a bilateral prophylactic mastectomy, became infected with cellulitis. But despite over 15 days in hospital, and many more to come; despite the constant IV medications, the drain tubes, the pain, the loneliness, the discomfort, she was such a bright spark. We talked about her daughters, my sisters, her conditions, my understanding, and just anything, and I've decided I want to be like her when I'm 42. (Divorced, 2 kids, happy). (Probably not a healthy ambition). (Whatever).
I remember my clinical educator, at my second aged-care placement last year, telling us about how when she went up to the Northern Territory for missionary work, there were these Indigenous people who, even though they'd be given housing, preferred to sleep outside at night. Just like that. In the bush. How beautiful is that? I don't think it'd be as breathtaking and liberating in the middle of suburbia, but up there, where it's remote, with the starry night sky as your blanket... They'd occasionally have an issue with people being run over, but I prefer to look at the side of wonder.
There is so much to say about people. Everyone seems amazing one way or another. They always seem to have something to share. This quote, from Death in The Book Thief: I am haunted by humans.
And I know this is cliché, and I know you probably saw this coming, but I wonder: what is my story?
I feel like all I have to relate belongs to someone else. I feel like I'm always the prop in a production starring someone else, like a rock. Or a tree. It's not really that I want centre stage. I don't really do well in the spotlight. But what I would like is a story worth sharing, something I own even if no one hears it in the end. It's like... It's like life is this gift, this... Notebook. (God, how often I've been given stationary, and I love it, but I never know what to put in it). And you have to write something worthwhile in that notebook, make the words count on the page, even if no one ever reads it.
So I want mine to be a good one. I know what I want. I have these dreams, these ideas. The problem with this metaphor - that you are the star of your own show - is that you don't get to write everyone's lines, things don't happen in accordance with the script you devised. I don't know how this is going to unfold. I don't know what the point of this post is. I just had some thoughts I wanted to get out.
Peace in,
Laila
I mean, you know this. You know this because you absolutely must know by now how much I love reading. I am always reading. I always have a book on my bedside table, or in my bag - I'm always in the middle of some book or another. The more stressful or busy life gets, the more I need a book. I may read in smaller increments, but I solemnly swear - I am always reading. The gap between me finishing one book and starting another is v-e-r-y narrow.
So this realisation, you may think it's a bit... well, glaringly obvious, le duh.
But this is different. Nothing's changed, I've just evolved a little - a little in understanding about myself. Sort of.
I usually gravitate towards the fictional. I love make believe. I love it in something as outrageous as fantasy, the occasional drip in sci-fi, but I also love it in the slightly more believable, still romanticised, high school or family dramas. Even closer to reality, give me a bit of historical fiction. Or just shock me with something terrifying, something disturbing, something mysterious. I'll take it all.
There are only two things that bother me with fiction. One is, well, it's fiction. It's not real. The other, while closely related, is still a little distinct: it's not real, and it'll never be mine. No pirates or witches, no struggle through war or some other colossal disaster, no tragic romance or numbered days with impending doom - I know it's sort of terrible to wish these things, but I can't help it. When I've read it in a book, it's always romantic. It's an experience, woven together in such pretty words that I can't help wish they were describing me.
And that's just fiction.
So you can imagine how I feel when I read someone's epic story, and it's real. Like Stasiland. Oh how my heart broke for Miriam, who went and asked them every day how Charlie could have hung himself in those sparse cells she'd experienced herself, and they gave her different answers every time. And Frau Paul, who sacrificed seeing her baby boy to save a guy she barely knew in the West. She so was so brave and so selfless, and you wish that she was just that bit selfish enough to take the bait, because it's her courage and selflessness that makes her deserving of the right to see her kid.
People are so extraordinary.
This is what I've realised. I know it doesn't sound like much, it's just... It's just one of those things, those ideas or thoughts that are blasé, you just take them for granted, and then, one day, bam: it hits you. It touches your soul.
Stalin, man. Putting aside the bigger picture of his endless cruelty, this is a guy who said "He can't even shoot straight" when his son tried to kill himself. But when his wife died, according to Wiki (and a certain historian), he is quoted as saying: "This creature softened my heart of stone. She died and with her died my last warm feelings for humanity." He threw himself in her open grave at her funeral, and had to be dragged out. His gun was taken away from him because his comrades were worried about the extent of his grief.
(I mean, let's be real, grieving or not, I would never think a gun was safe in Stalin's hands.)
The point is, would you ever associate this tragic lover with the heartless dictator?
I'm not writing this to elicit sympathy for the nastier figures of history. I'm just astounded.
Isn't it just so amazing how absolutely complex people are? These gallimaufries of stupidity, courage, malice, selflessness, imagination, ridiculousness, contradiction, empathy... I mean, it goes on and on and on and we could never, ever get to the bottom of it.
And it is the stories of people that I am in love with.
And I think this is why I've found my niche in paramedics/nursing. It may sound unrelated, but really, this course has given me the best platform to discover people. Really, since I started, I've wondered why I chose the course. Yes, I like the idea of paramedics and nursing - helping people, taking care of them, etc - but there are other ways to do this, right? I mean, all careers end up doing this in some way or another ('cept politicians?). We all contribute to society, so we will all inadvertently helping each other.
Aside from that, I've never been interested in medicine or health. I've never been fascinated by biology, or anatomy and physiology. I've always been iffy about needles and blood and all that.
And I've always been a humanities kid. I love my reading (did I mention that?), my writing, my history, studying issues and discussing ideas. One does go into my course looking for this stuff.
But over the past year and a bit, within uni but mainly through a series of placements, I have made the acquaintance of so many different people, and... it fills me up. It opens my mind, it changes me, it moves me, it gives me new perspectives - I can't explain it. I just love the experience.
It's not that I only pick up amazing people in the ambulance, or that only quirky people come into hospital. These people are everyday people. Sometimes it's their medical story - the dog bite, the spider bite, the rare genetic condition - the one with the unlucky lottery of a jumble of rare conditions, for that matter. The guy with the apple piece up his butt (best ice-breaker ever).
Sometimes it's their personal stories.
There was the relatively elderly gentleman who spoke to me about his experience of moving from England to Australia, how he and his family may not have explored much in the former, but were prone to just packing, selling, upping and travelling around the latter in a caravan, settling in whatever state or territory took their fancy, every now and again. How just once, he and his wife wanted to do it by themselves, so when all the kids left the nest, they did. How soon after they completed the dream, they found out she had lung cancer - though she'd never smoked in her life - and suddenly she was gone. It had been a few years, but he still had tears in his eyes as he told me, lying in bed in the recovery room.
There were a few travellers - the guy from Germany, another who travelled constantly on business... Contrary to what I thought, that you'd be left in a perpetual state of longing to take flight again, he said that no matter how wonderful it was to see the world, he never stopped wishing that he could just settle down, for a bit, and just be with his family.
And sometimes it's just who they, in general. The 42-year-old woman who ended up in the same room as another 42-year-old woman and they ended up becoming soul sisters. When one was discharged before the other, they literally wept because of the separation. In the following days, the one that was discharged would call daily to catch up - she actually wished she was back in hospital to be with the other. The one that stayed, she was my patient, and I adored her. She was in because one of her implants, following a bilateral prophylactic mastectomy, became infected with cellulitis. But despite over 15 days in hospital, and many more to come; despite the constant IV medications, the drain tubes, the pain, the loneliness, the discomfort, she was such a bright spark. We talked about her daughters, my sisters, her conditions, my understanding, and just anything, and I've decided I want to be like her when I'm 42. (Divorced, 2 kids, happy). (Probably not a healthy ambition). (Whatever).
I remember my clinical educator, at my second aged-care placement last year, telling us about how when she went up to the Northern Territory for missionary work, there were these Indigenous people who, even though they'd be given housing, preferred to sleep outside at night. Just like that. In the bush. How beautiful is that? I don't think it'd be as breathtaking and liberating in the middle of suburbia, but up there, where it's remote, with the starry night sky as your blanket... They'd occasionally have an issue with people being run over, but I prefer to look at the side of wonder.
There is so much to say about people. Everyone seems amazing one way or another. They always seem to have something to share. This quote, from Death in The Book Thief: I am haunted by humans.
I imagine that when people see that as my status/whatever it's called on WhatsApp, they probably roll their eyes and see it as a wannabe attempt at depth. It's just that those words really hit home for me. When I hear peoples' stories, they stick, in my head, and I ruminate over them, I ponder them, I picture them playing out before me. I collect them.
And I know this is cliché, and I know you probably saw this coming, but I wonder: what is my story?
I feel like all I have to relate belongs to someone else. I feel like I'm always the prop in a production starring someone else, like a rock. Or a tree. It's not really that I want centre stage. I don't really do well in the spotlight. But what I would like is a story worth sharing, something I own even if no one hears it in the end. It's like... It's like life is this gift, this... Notebook. (God, how often I've been given stationary, and I love it, but I never know what to put in it). And you have to write something worthwhile in that notebook, make the words count on the page, even if no one ever reads it.
So I want mine to be a good one. I know what I want. I have these dreams, these ideas. The problem with this metaphor - that you are the star of your own show - is that you don't get to write everyone's lines, things don't happen in accordance with the script you devised. I don't know how this is going to unfold. I don't know what the point of this post is. I just had some thoughts I wanted to get out.
Peace in,
Laila
Friday, May 22, 2015
where your education closes doors, when it should be opening them
I have heard, time and time and time again, how the 'education system is screwed up'. Many times. I've watched the Sir Ken Robinson video, I've discussed it with friends, and the book I'm reading now - 'Linchpin' - skims over it too. And I've always kind of agreed - I remember ranting a bit about it when I did an issues thing in year 9 about the nation curriculum. But there are times when you can talk about something a lot without it really hitting you. Like advocating for the death penalty, until you know someone personally who's being put on death row. And then it's personal.
Well, this just got personal.
So right now, my sort of excuse for a job is tutoring. I have three students. One is a girl in year 12, for English - let's call her Vera. I have another kid in year 8, who's a family friend, and I'm prepping her to take an exam for a selective entry school (*growl*). She will be henceforth known as Zena. And lastly, I just got a new year 12 student for History, but we won't worry too much about her. Mostly, this is about Vera and Zena.
Selective entry schools. I hate them. With a passion. I know hate is a strong word, but for the amount of unnecessary pressure they cause, I think they can take my hate. I had to try out when I was in year 8. They have a policy where they don't take more than 12 kids from any school, and my school met that limit, so I didn't get in. I know I would have gotten in otherwise, because they sent me a letter explaining this, and they said that if I really wanted, I could apply through another way. But I sabotaged this application, because I had decided that I was not going there, that I could do well in my below-average public school, and I would prove it. The arguments I had with my mother, the tears - bad memories, man. But I proved it, didn't I?
Yet it came back to haunt me with little Zena. Zena... When she started tutoring with me, she was really quiet and reserved. She's still pretty impassive, but I think it's her natural state. Our relationship has evolved, in the sense that she talks to me more, and she's even brought in her school homework, which makes me giddy because it means she actually thinks that I help her...
Anyway. Selective entry schools. Firstly, they don't do anything. I have friends who have gone to these schools, who have told me that these schools don't do much for them. Really, there's a higher level of competition, but in the end, the school doesn't have to do much because they already handpicked the smartest kids around, so it's sort of guaranteed that they're going to do well. And more often than not, these kids already attend jizbillions of tuition classes, so it's not like they have to put in a lot of effort. So these nerdy kids go into this high pressure environment with a million extra classes on the side, and they get good results because really, they've had it written for them their whole lives, and when it's all said and done, the school looks great because all their kids did well, and they take credit for it, but they didn't actually do much for the kids because those kids were already going to do well anyway.
And then you have All Other Normal Schools that take in all students and cater to all needs, and people think they're not so great because there isn't a 90+ average in VCE, but in fact, these school are just doing their job by accepting everyone and giving them all an opportunity. Selective entry schools are missing the point of schooling in general - it's not about pumping out the highest achievers, it's about giving everyone the foundation of a good education to pave whatever path they want in life. If it's something academic, that's great. If it's not, well, that's just as great.
No matter what people say about my school, and God knows what they say now considering the shooting of Numan last year, the arrest of two more this year, plus the death of one who went overseas to apparently fight for ISIS - all boys I knew personally, two I went to primary school with... this is a whole other crisis... BUT. No matter what they say, I think my school is a good one. I think we are limited in resources, and the students have difficulty seeing it, but the teachers really try to help you get wherever you want to go. They try to help you achieve your personal best. They help you when it comes to academics, they help you get into TAFE, they help you join police academy or whatever. They do it without judgement. And I appreciate that.
Anyway. Selective entry schools are stupid, they serve no worthy purpose, and I hate them. Let me talk about the kind of pressure this puts on kids.
On the weekend, Zena went to one of the specialised tuition centres that train kids specifically for selective entry schools, to sit a practise exam. She brought the exams and results to her next class with me so we could go over them. She was disheartened by her results.
So I know from experience that these exams are pretty harsh. I had to attend tuition a month or so before doing the exam myself, and at first, I was absolutely distraught because I did terribly on each practise test - like, barely scraping 50% at times. And then I learnt that this was pretty average in the class, if, at times, above average. And then I was mortified.
But taking a look at the practise tests now - I was downright horrified. Disgusted. Let's talk about her reading comprehension test. It runs for 30min, with no extra reading time. There are 50 questions. Did you see that? 50. That's already less than one minute per question. But now keep in mind that it's reading comprehension. Now tell, where the Hell is she supposed to find time to read the damn passages before she tackles the questions?
It's basically designed to fail kids. It's impossible to excel. It's just...
It... It... makes them feel stupid because they don't realise it's impossible.
Can you see how cruel that is?
I mean, it's not even just this tuition thing. Think about VCE. You can't get a perfect ATAR, only close. And that system is all about ranking. I mean, let's say a vast majority of one cohort worked super hard in preparation for an exam, and they all got 90%. Well, that just gets standardised so that when they get their results, it gets scaled down because it becomes average. How is that fair? Why must we take down a generation because so many are smart? Why can't we embrace their effort?
Even university. A few weeks back, I was in a tutorial, and everyone was expressing their frustration over the recent results that had come out. I was feeling quite good because I did well (it's my blog, let me brag ^_^ ), but then I listened to the tutor talk to the others, and ... ugh. Basically, she said that if everyone did well on their exams and whatnot, the higher ups would tell them that their assessment wasn't 'sensitive enough'. So in fact, no one should feel bad about getting an average mark, or a credit, because, well, average isn't bad. And I'm not saying average is bad. It's just that the way this tutor spoke, she was basically saying that they design tests with the expectation that most people won't do particularly well, and we should be satisfied with that. It's that... attitude. That attitude that you can't ever shine, so don't bother.
And sometimes they don't even seem to care about their subjects. In one unit, last year, the staff in our tutorials said at the start that they didn't expect people to show up to lectures or the tutorials, which weren't compulsory. For our assessments, they said that we wouldn't need to put in too much effort - they even told us that we could keep all our notes open when we do the quizzes. I've had similar experiences this year too. Now, how do you expect anyone to be motivated if you can't even fake enthusiasm for your own subject? If you, who teach it, don't value it, why should we?
Do you see what I'm saying, or am I just in an irrational rage about everything?
So let's get back to Vera. For English, you have three main types of written pieces that you do - a text response, a language analysis, and a context piece. A context piece is really a written piece of your own choice, which responds to a prompt about a theme that you've studied for the year - the main ones being Identity & Belonging, Encountering Conflict, and Whose Reality? I don't know if there's another one... But basically, you study them with a few texts, and it's got a lot of philosophical aspects to it.
So my kid is doing Identity & Belonging, which is what I studied. I coached her into writing a creative piece, a sort of made up reflection. Her writing has really improved since I started tutoring her, not because of me in particular... I think it's just that the school she goes to isn't so well off, according to her, and because her peers aren't too bright, the teachers are focused on bringing them up to speed, and they don't challenge them that much. But I've been challenging her, and she's basically risen to the challenge. She has deep ideas. She expresses them well, because I've helped her to expand her vocabulary, and so now she has more words to say what she wants to say. I'm so proud :')
So she does her SAC for context, and she gets her result. It's a B+. It's not bad, all things considered, but we had hoped for more. But then she showed me the feedback. There's literally ticks everywhere, there's positive commentary on the clarity and depth of her ideas... So where'd she lose a whole grade? On the marking rubric, the only 'negative' or 'critical' thing this teacher had to say was that she was too 'wordy'. Well, I didn't know what she meant by that in relation to the piece, because it looked reasonable to me. I know what loquacious looks like. I've tutored kids, and seen peers writing, and believe me, I know loquacious. As for word limits, technically there aren't any for any of the essays you're supposed to do. It's your own judgement call - in the end, they're going to look at your response, the quality of them, and how well you express them. If you can do this in less words, good for you, and if you can do them in more, that's fine. As long as you finish on time. So she can't have taken off a whole grade for it being too 'long', because there's no such thing as too long - if you wrote it within the time limit, well, that's that. Does that make sense?
So I got Vera to ask her teacher what she meant by that. Her teacher basically said that for example, where one person might say 'let's have lunch', Vera's approach was a bit 'when the sun is at its peak on the third day of the week, let us convene under the ancient oak at the park in the corner of the city for a simple meal, yadda yadda yadda'. What is that? That is loquacious.
I understand that. Except this piece wasn't like that. It was a creative piece, for God's sake, so it had description in it. But it wasn't irrelevant or frivolous. It had a point. It was art, and it suited the mood of her piece. Besides - even if you were to write this as an expository, I would think that you would still have to be quite descriptive if you want to break down your ideas for this kind of topic. Identity and Belonging has the potential to be really deep, so you really can't just leave it at 'let's have lunch'. You need to explore it. Heck, that's the whole context title - exploring issues of identity and belonging.
I mean, this goes back to the whole 'schools kill creativity' thing, right? I don't think all schools do that. Just some schools, and in particular, some idiotic teachers. When I was in year 12, yes, my teacher was wary of letting kids do creative for context, because he understood that it could be difficult to come up with something brilliant and original on the spot. But he humored whoever wanted to try it, including myself, and let me say it again - I did well. What's important is that he let us make our own choices, because to him, it wasn't about doing it a certain way to get a certain grade; it was about achieving your own personal best, something you could be proud of. And he was happy if you were.
So I guess this rant touches on many little things to do with schooling and education, a bit here and a bit there. Let me sum it up for you:
Erm... take feedback too. I don't mean that people should always hug you and tell you you're awesome just because you did the work. Sometimes you are wrong, sometimes your ideas have a flaw or two. That's okay. Take it and improve. But don't let people limit you. Don't ever let them hold you back.
Man, it feels good getting that off my chest.
Peace in,
Laila
Well, this just got personal.
So right now, my sort of excuse for a job is tutoring. I have three students. One is a girl in year 12, for English - let's call her Vera. I have another kid in year 8, who's a family friend, and I'm prepping her to take an exam for a selective entry school (*growl*). She will be henceforth known as Zena. And lastly, I just got a new year 12 student for History, but we won't worry too much about her. Mostly, this is about Vera and Zena.
Selective entry schools. I hate them. With a passion. I know hate is a strong word, but for the amount of unnecessary pressure they cause, I think they can take my hate. I had to try out when I was in year 8. They have a policy where they don't take more than 12 kids from any school, and my school met that limit, so I didn't get in. I know I would have gotten in otherwise, because they sent me a letter explaining this, and they said that if I really wanted, I could apply through another way. But I sabotaged this application, because I had decided that I was not going there, that I could do well in my below-average public school, and I would prove it. The arguments I had with my mother, the tears - bad memories, man. But I proved it, didn't I?
Yet it came back to haunt me with little Zena. Zena... When she started tutoring with me, she was really quiet and reserved. She's still pretty impassive, but I think it's her natural state. Our relationship has evolved, in the sense that she talks to me more, and she's even brought in her school homework, which makes me giddy because it means she actually thinks that I help her...
Anyway. Selective entry schools. Firstly, they don't do anything. I have friends who have gone to these schools, who have told me that these schools don't do much for them. Really, there's a higher level of competition, but in the end, the school doesn't have to do much because they already handpicked the smartest kids around, so it's sort of guaranteed that they're going to do well. And more often than not, these kids already attend jizbillions of tuition classes, so it's not like they have to put in a lot of effort. So these nerdy kids go into this high pressure environment with a million extra classes on the side, and they get good results because really, they've had it written for them their whole lives, and when it's all said and done, the school looks great because all their kids did well, and they take credit for it, but they didn't actually do much for the kids because those kids were already going to do well anyway.
And then you have All Other Normal Schools that take in all students and cater to all needs, and people think they're not so great because there isn't a 90+ average in VCE, but in fact, these school are just doing their job by accepting everyone and giving them all an opportunity. Selective entry schools are missing the point of schooling in general - it's not about pumping out the highest achievers, it's about giving everyone the foundation of a good education to pave whatever path they want in life. If it's something academic, that's great. If it's not, well, that's just as great.
No matter what people say about my school, and God knows what they say now considering the shooting of Numan last year, the arrest of two more this year, plus the death of one who went overseas to apparently fight for ISIS - all boys I knew personally, two I went to primary school with... this is a whole other crisis... BUT. No matter what they say, I think my school is a good one. I think we are limited in resources, and the students have difficulty seeing it, but the teachers really try to help you get wherever you want to go. They try to help you achieve your personal best. They help you when it comes to academics, they help you get into TAFE, they help you join police academy or whatever. They do it without judgement. And I appreciate that.
Anyway. Selective entry schools are stupid, they serve no worthy purpose, and I hate them. Let me talk about the kind of pressure this puts on kids.
On the weekend, Zena went to one of the specialised tuition centres that train kids specifically for selective entry schools, to sit a practise exam. She brought the exams and results to her next class with me so we could go over them. She was disheartened by her results.
So I know from experience that these exams are pretty harsh. I had to attend tuition a month or so before doing the exam myself, and at first, I was absolutely distraught because I did terribly on each practise test - like, barely scraping 50% at times. And then I learnt that this was pretty average in the class, if, at times, above average. And then I was mortified.
But taking a look at the practise tests now - I was downright horrified. Disgusted. Let's talk about her reading comprehension test. It runs for 30min, with no extra reading time. There are 50 questions. Did you see that? 50. That's already less than one minute per question. But now keep in mind that it's reading comprehension. Now tell, where the Hell is she supposed to find time to read the damn passages before she tackles the questions?
It's basically designed to fail kids. It's impossible to excel. It's just...
It... It... makes them feel stupid because they don't realise it's impossible.
Can you see how cruel that is?
I mean, it's not even just this tuition thing. Think about VCE. You can't get a perfect ATAR, only close. And that system is all about ranking. I mean, let's say a vast majority of one cohort worked super hard in preparation for an exam, and they all got 90%. Well, that just gets standardised so that when they get their results, it gets scaled down because it becomes average. How is that fair? Why must we take down a generation because so many are smart? Why can't we embrace their effort?
Even university. A few weeks back, I was in a tutorial, and everyone was expressing their frustration over the recent results that had come out. I was feeling quite good because I did well (it's my blog, let me brag ^_^ ), but then I listened to the tutor talk to the others, and ... ugh. Basically, she said that if everyone did well on their exams and whatnot, the higher ups would tell them that their assessment wasn't 'sensitive enough'. So in fact, no one should feel bad about getting an average mark, or a credit, because, well, average isn't bad. And I'm not saying average is bad. It's just that the way this tutor spoke, she was basically saying that they design tests with the expectation that most people won't do particularly well, and we should be satisfied with that. It's that... attitude. That attitude that you can't ever shine, so don't bother.
And sometimes they don't even seem to care about their subjects. In one unit, last year, the staff in our tutorials said at the start that they didn't expect people to show up to lectures or the tutorials, which weren't compulsory. For our assessments, they said that we wouldn't need to put in too much effort - they even told us that we could keep all our notes open when we do the quizzes. I've had similar experiences this year too. Now, how do you expect anyone to be motivated if you can't even fake enthusiasm for your own subject? If you, who teach it, don't value it, why should we?
Do you see what I'm saying, or am I just in an irrational rage about everything?
So let's get back to Vera. For English, you have three main types of written pieces that you do - a text response, a language analysis, and a context piece. A context piece is really a written piece of your own choice, which responds to a prompt about a theme that you've studied for the year - the main ones being Identity & Belonging, Encountering Conflict, and Whose Reality? I don't know if there's another one... But basically, you study them with a few texts, and it's got a lot of philosophical aspects to it.
So my kid is doing Identity & Belonging, which is what I studied. I coached her into writing a creative piece, a sort of made up reflection. Her writing has really improved since I started tutoring her, not because of me in particular... I think it's just that the school she goes to isn't so well off, according to her, and because her peers aren't too bright, the teachers are focused on bringing them up to speed, and they don't challenge them that much. But I've been challenging her, and she's basically risen to the challenge. She has deep ideas. She expresses them well, because I've helped her to expand her vocabulary, and so now she has more words to say what she wants to say. I'm so proud :')
So she does her SAC for context, and she gets her result. It's a B+. It's not bad, all things considered, but we had hoped for more. But then she showed me the feedback. There's literally ticks everywhere, there's positive commentary on the clarity and depth of her ideas... So where'd she lose a whole grade? On the marking rubric, the only 'negative' or 'critical' thing this teacher had to say was that she was too 'wordy'. Well, I didn't know what she meant by that in relation to the piece, because it looked reasonable to me. I know what loquacious looks like. I've tutored kids, and seen peers writing, and believe me, I know loquacious. As for word limits, technically there aren't any for any of the essays you're supposed to do. It's your own judgement call - in the end, they're going to look at your response, the quality of them, and how well you express them. If you can do this in less words, good for you, and if you can do them in more, that's fine. As long as you finish on time. So she can't have taken off a whole grade for it being too 'long', because there's no such thing as too long - if you wrote it within the time limit, well, that's that. Does that make sense?
So I got Vera to ask her teacher what she meant by that. Her teacher basically said that for example, where one person might say 'let's have lunch', Vera's approach was a bit 'when the sun is at its peak on the third day of the week, let us convene under the ancient oak at the park in the corner of the city for a simple meal, yadda yadda yadda'. What is that? That is loquacious.
I understand that. Except this piece wasn't like that. It was a creative piece, for God's sake, so it had description in it. But it wasn't irrelevant or frivolous. It had a point. It was art, and it suited the mood of her piece. Besides - even if you were to write this as an expository, I would think that you would still have to be quite descriptive if you want to break down your ideas for this kind of topic. Identity and Belonging has the potential to be really deep, so you really can't just leave it at 'let's have lunch'. You need to explore it. Heck, that's the whole context title - exploring issues of identity and belonging.
I mean, this goes back to the whole 'schools kill creativity' thing, right? I don't think all schools do that. Just some schools, and in particular, some idiotic teachers. When I was in year 12, yes, my teacher was wary of letting kids do creative for context, because he understood that it could be difficult to come up with something brilliant and original on the spot. But he humored whoever wanted to try it, including myself, and let me say it again - I did well. What's important is that he let us make our own choices, because to him, it wasn't about doing it a certain way to get a certain grade; it was about achieving your own personal best, something you could be proud of. And he was happy if you were.
So I guess this rant touches on many little things to do with schooling and education, a bit here and a bit there. Let me sum it up for you:
1. Don't waste your time with selective entry schools. They suck.
2. There are some institutions, some schools, some teachers, that just - for whatever reason - drag you down. Sometimes they do it because it's a system they're used to, sometimes it's because they think they're doing what's best for you. Sometimes they don't know what they're talking about. But they suck too.
3. Don't let people make you feel stupid. Wherever you go, whatever you do, put in a 100%, and you may reap the rewards, or you may not. The point is, you need to feel like it's your best, because you can't rely on these systems or people to appreciate you. You need to appreciate yourself. Own your genius, whatever kind it may be.
Erm... take feedback too. I don't mean that people should always hug you and tell you you're awesome just because you did the work. Sometimes you are wrong, sometimes your ideas have a flaw or two. That's okay. Take it and improve. But don't let people limit you. Don't ever let them hold you back.
Man, it feels good getting that off my chest.
Peace in,
Laila
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Welcome to the Heartbreak Hotel
It's all so very paradoxical.
You're relieved it's over, and you can't believe it had to end.
You practically handed him the break up, but you can't understand why he took it.
You know that the best way for you to move on is to put him behind you, but you can't stop thinking about him.
You tell him you're not ready to talk, to see him, but you keep wanting, wishing, hoping he'll text, call, appear. Why won't he text?
You know it would never have worked out anyway, but you can still imagine the perfect future you could have had.
You want him to get a new girl, so that there would be some definite closure, and yet you know you'll be crushed the moment he has someone new in his life.
You try make him the bad guy, but all you can think of is how good he was.
You want to blame him, but you can't help but wonder if there's something wrong with you.
You hope he rots, but you can't help worry for him. I keep thinking about how cold you must be. Are you cold? Is that stupid?
For the first time in your life, you can relate to your music - depressing love songs, achey heartbreaky stuff - but you don't want to.
Why won't it just end?
Why would you ask to still be friends? Why wouldn't you think, just for one moment, how that's going to leave me?
Why am I glad that you did?
Don't you see what you've done?
I would just like to get through one day without thinking about this. Just one.
Peace in,
Laila
You're relieved it's over, and you can't believe it had to end.
You practically handed him the break up, but you can't understand why he took it.
You know that the best way for you to move on is to put him behind you, but you can't stop thinking about him.
You tell him you're not ready to talk, to see him, but you keep wanting, wishing, hoping he'll text, call, appear. Why won't he text?
You know it would never have worked out anyway, but you can still imagine the perfect future you could have had.
You want him to get a new girl, so that there would be some definite closure, and yet you know you'll be crushed the moment he has someone new in his life.
You try make him the bad guy, but all you can think of is how good he was.
You want to blame him, but you can't help but wonder if there's something wrong with you.
You hope he rots, but you can't help worry for him. I keep thinking about how cold you must be. Are you cold? Is that stupid?
For the first time in your life, you can relate to your music - depressing love songs, achey heartbreaky stuff - but you don't want to.
Why won't it just end?
Why would you ask to still be friends? Why wouldn't you think, just for one moment, how that's going to leave me?
Why am I glad that you did?
Don't you see what you've done?
I would just like to get through one day without thinking about this. Just one.
Peace in,
Laila
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Jazz's Prerequisites for a Solid Relationship
I think of my friend as a smart cookie. While she can appear to be a glitzy type of girl, she's quite perceptive, and I hold her in high esteem. She's been in two relationships.
The first has become a sort of joke to us. The guy was a professed Nazi. He was racist. He was racist against Asians, and technically, she's half Asian. How, we wonder. How on Earth do you justify sticking to that kind of guy?
We laugh about it, but her answer is basically: "Well, I didn't know beforehand. But then, when we were together, I just, I believe that once you get into a relationship, you stick to it and try to make it work no matter what."
She's a nice kind of girl.
Anyway, they were together for quite a while, I'd say over 5 months. It broke down because of time. He didn't make time for her. It sounds pathetic, but from what I was told, I think it was a fair reason. She tried so hard to make it easy for him, she was willing for them to just have a phone call a fortnight. Generous? I think so. But he couldn't do it. It ended hard. Even though she initiated it, she didn't want it to end, but he didn't fight for it. So it was over.
Her second guy. He's a weird story. He swept her off her feet in this whirlwind romance. Drive in cinema. Late nights at the park. Christmas dinner, and holidaying, with his family. $200 ring, then a $500 ring as a present in advance - he told her about it, but said that her friend had said it would be weird to give her two rings, so he withheld it. But he said that he didn't know if he could afford it in the future, so he was buying it now, just in case. He said he hoped they'd spend many Christmases together.
Oh, there were many romanticky words.
Even the big ILoveYou.
And then, just 20 days after, he drove up to her house, uncalled for, and announced that they were over because he 'just didn't feel it anymore'. No other explanation. No gradual break down. No other woman. Just like that.
Mind you, that relationship was only about 2 months long. I didn't realise it was that short, or I might've been more skeptical at the start.
Needless to say, it gutted her. She has been listless ever since, swinging between the extremes of 'what a complete a**hole', to 'what did I do wrong? what's wrong with me?' It gutted me too, because I hate seeing her this way. Putting aside typical insecurities, she's usually very well put together. I think she's a good role model. But now she's so broken, in a way. I have spent many a late night on my phone, or long hour at uni, hearing her out and trying to make her understand that sometimes people do selfish or inconsiderate things, and it's no one's fault, and there's nothing wrong with her. It always only works temporarily. The other day she told me that every day when she gets up, she has to convince herself that it wasn't her fault, or she can't get through the day. She said that she feels like he took her self-esteem with him. Ouch. It hurts my soul, and don't ask me for explanations, but I kind of know where she's coming from.
It's also added to my growing trust issues with the opposite gender. Sorry guys, but your record with the people I know isn't very impressive. Work on it.
But anyway, the one thing good about Jazz getting pensive is that she spouts out some wise and wonderful stuff. And this, my silent friends, is one of those thoughts. Of course, we discussed this, so this is kind of the refined version, but all credit to her :)
So what this is is kind of the foundations of what you need to establish when you're looking to get into an official relationship. It's not about the personal preference stuff, what to look for in the opposite gender, stuff to do with qualities. It's kind of neutral to that sort of thing. This is just to establish if you have the baseline to continue.
Of course these are just ideas, a hypothesis that hasn't been tested formally. But it sounds all right to me. It really just feels like common sense, but I guess when you get into the high, 'love is blind' and all that, you forget these basics. Make what you will of them. Here goes.
#1: Time.
The funny thing is, to be in a relationship, you actually have to be with that person. Physically. For regular periods of time. What 'regular' is is subjective, as is how much time is enough, but essentially, if you are never with a person, you guys are not in a relationship. In the average relationship, if one person doesn't make time, the other person will eventually go crazy. This is not just my friend's relationship. In Freedom Writers, that's what happened Erin Gruwell, and honestly, she was keeping kids in school. Still, you can't blame her man either. If you can't help it, you can't help it. So get it straight before you get into one.
#2: Fixer vs. Replacer
There are many kinds of people in the world. There are two kinds of people we're concerned with. The fixers are devoted to trying to make a relationship work, even when it hits the rocks. The replacers believe that when the going gets tough, it's best to get going and find someone else. Whatever, okay? I'm not here to point fingers. But what you need to understand is that fixers and replacers do not go together. In the event of a conflict, both react to it differently, and basically, a replacer will end up destroying a fixer. Let's say it's not personal. But it'll still hurt. That's not to say all fixers will fix every relationship they're in and get on with it. It just means they'll try harder. You need to decide where you are on that spectrum.
#3: Flaws.
I have always thought that relationships are not so much about finding the perfect person, but finding the person whose flaws you can live with. I think that might be a paraphrase of a quote, but I'm not sure. Anyway. I guess this speaks for itself. However, it might be problematic when you only become aware of these flaws after you dive deep into the relationship, when you put a ring on it or something. So the way you try to get around it is this: when you think that is it, this is where you want to get serious, you sit down and think to yourself - what don't I like this about this person? And you do not stop thinking until you find something. Maybe you need to quiz him/her, but you find something. You ask them to do the same for you. You establish exactly what you hate about each other, and then you decide, in advance, if you can stand them. It's not foolproof - you're still bound to come up with other stuff later on. But hopefully you can cover some of your biggest pet peeves.
#4: What?
One of my favourite quotes from The Little Prince is: Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but looking outward together in the same direction. The reality is, if you intend to spend forever with someone, you have to make sure you have the same idea of what forever is. To some, it means 4 kids. To others, it means no kids. To some it means a ring on a finger. To others it needs no labels. I mean, maybe one of you doesn't even want a forever, in any way. So there are two parts to this. One: contrary to #3, what exactly do you like about this person? If all you can come up with is 's/he's a hottie', then perhaps you need to reconsider taking a serious step. Two: what are your goals
You know what? This. Is. All. Complete. And. Utter. BS.
You can pretend like you can plan ahead and prevent conflicts. You can act like you know all the necessary rules and principles to deal with problems. You can act like things like compromise, and talking about your feelings, and all that crap, can result in some kind of forever.
But you cannot control people. You cannot help the moment when they change their mind and decide they don't like you anymore. You cannot help it if they decide that the relationship you have is not worth fighting for anymore. You cannot stop them if they decide to leave you behind. And there's nothing you can do if they take your stupid heart with them.
Really, the only thing people should keep in mind is that when someone decides to entrust you with their heart, and you accept, you have a responsibility. And it's freaking huge. Don't screw up.
But the key word there is 'should'.
People should throw their rubbish in the bin. People should be loyal in relationships. People should refrain from murder.
And yet, there's rubbish on the streets, infidelity is rife, and we still have murderers in the world. So I guess it's okay to screw up someone's heart.
Peace in,
Laila
The first has become a sort of joke to us. The guy was a professed Nazi. He was racist. He was racist against Asians, and technically, she's half Asian. How, we wonder. How on Earth do you justify sticking to that kind of guy?
We laugh about it, but her answer is basically: "Well, I didn't know beforehand. But then, when we were together, I just, I believe that once you get into a relationship, you stick to it and try to make it work no matter what."
She's a nice kind of girl.
Anyway, they were together for quite a while, I'd say over 5 months. It broke down because of time. He didn't make time for her. It sounds pathetic, but from what I was told, I think it was a fair reason. She tried so hard to make it easy for him, she was willing for them to just have a phone call a fortnight. Generous? I think so. But he couldn't do it. It ended hard. Even though she initiated it, she didn't want it to end, but he didn't fight for it. So it was over.
Her second guy. He's a weird story. He swept her off her feet in this whirlwind romance. Drive in cinema. Late nights at the park. Christmas dinner, and holidaying, with his family. $200 ring, then a $500 ring as a present in advance - he told her about it, but said that her friend had said it would be weird to give her two rings, so he withheld it. But he said that he didn't know if he could afford it in the future, so he was buying it now, just in case. He said he hoped they'd spend many Christmases together.
Oh, there were many romanticky words.
Even the big ILoveYou.
And then, just 20 days after, he drove up to her house, uncalled for, and announced that they were over because he 'just didn't feel it anymore'. No other explanation. No gradual break down. No other woman. Just like that.
Mind you, that relationship was only about 2 months long. I didn't realise it was that short, or I might've been more skeptical at the start.
Needless to say, it gutted her. She has been listless ever since, swinging between the extremes of 'what a complete a**hole', to 'what did I do wrong? what's wrong with me?' It gutted me too, because I hate seeing her this way. Putting aside typical insecurities, she's usually very well put together. I think she's a good role model. But now she's so broken, in a way. I have spent many a late night on my phone, or long hour at uni, hearing her out and trying to make her understand that sometimes people do selfish or inconsiderate things, and it's no one's fault, and there's nothing wrong with her. It always only works temporarily. The other day she told me that every day when she gets up, she has to convince herself that it wasn't her fault, or she can't get through the day. She said that she feels like he took her self-esteem with him. Ouch. It hurts my soul, and don't ask me for explanations, but I kind of know where she's coming from.
It's also added to my growing trust issues with the opposite gender. Sorry guys, but your record with the people I know isn't very impressive. Work on it.
But anyway, the one thing good about Jazz getting pensive is that she spouts out some wise and wonderful stuff. And this, my silent friends, is one of those thoughts. Of course, we discussed this, so this is kind of the refined version, but all credit to her :)
So what this is is kind of the foundations of what you need to establish when you're looking to get into an official relationship. It's not about the personal preference stuff, what to look for in the opposite gender, stuff to do with qualities. It's kind of neutral to that sort of thing. This is just to establish if you have the baseline to continue.
Of course these are just ideas, a hypothesis that hasn't been tested formally. But it sounds all right to me. It really just feels like common sense, but I guess when you get into the high, 'love is blind' and all that, you forget these basics. Make what you will of them. Here goes.
#1: Time.
The funny thing is, to be in a relationship, you actually have to be with that person. Physically. For regular periods of time. What 'regular' is is subjective, as is how much time is enough, but essentially, if you are never with a person, you guys are not in a relationship. In the average relationship, if one person doesn't make time, the other person will eventually go crazy. This is not just my friend's relationship. In Freedom Writers, that's what happened Erin Gruwell, and honestly, she was keeping kids in school. Still, you can't blame her man either. If you can't help it, you can't help it. So get it straight before you get into one.
#2: Fixer vs. Replacer
There are many kinds of people in the world. There are two kinds of people we're concerned with. The fixers are devoted to trying to make a relationship work, even when it hits the rocks. The replacers believe that when the going gets tough, it's best to get going and find someone else. Whatever, okay? I'm not here to point fingers. But what you need to understand is that fixers and replacers do not go together. In the event of a conflict, both react to it differently, and basically, a replacer will end up destroying a fixer. Let's say it's not personal. But it'll still hurt. That's not to say all fixers will fix every relationship they're in and get on with it. It just means they'll try harder. You need to decide where you are on that spectrum.
#3: Flaws.
I have always thought that relationships are not so much about finding the perfect person, but finding the person whose flaws you can live with. I think that might be a paraphrase of a quote, but I'm not sure. Anyway. I guess this speaks for itself. However, it might be problematic when you only become aware of these flaws after you dive deep into the relationship, when you put a ring on it or something. So the way you try to get around it is this: when you think that is it, this is where you want to get serious, you sit down and think to yourself - what don't I like this about this person? And you do not stop thinking until you find something. Maybe you need to quiz him/her, but you find something. You ask them to do the same for you. You establish exactly what you hate about each other, and then you decide, in advance, if you can stand them. It's not foolproof - you're still bound to come up with other stuff later on. But hopefully you can cover some of your biggest pet peeves.
#4: What?
One of my favourite quotes from The Little Prince is: Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but looking outward together in the same direction. The reality is, if you intend to spend forever with someone, you have to make sure you have the same idea of what forever is. To some, it means 4 kids. To others, it means no kids. To some it means a ring on a finger. To others it needs no labels. I mean, maybe one of you doesn't even want a forever, in any way. So there are two parts to this. One: contrary to #3, what exactly do you like about this person? If all you can come up with is 's/he's a hottie', then perhaps you need to reconsider taking a serious step. Two: what are your goals
You know what? This. Is. All. Complete. And. Utter. BS.
You can pretend like you can plan ahead and prevent conflicts. You can act like you know all the necessary rules and principles to deal with problems. You can act like things like compromise, and talking about your feelings, and all that crap, can result in some kind of forever.
But you cannot control people. You cannot help the moment when they change their mind and decide they don't like you anymore. You cannot help it if they decide that the relationship you have is not worth fighting for anymore. You cannot stop them if they decide to leave you behind. And there's nothing you can do if they take your stupid heart with them.
Really, the only thing people should keep in mind is that when someone decides to entrust you with their heart, and you accept, you have a responsibility. And it's freaking huge. Don't screw up.
But the key word there is 'should'.
People should throw their rubbish in the bin. People should be loyal in relationships. People should refrain from murder.
And yet, there's rubbish on the streets, infidelity is rife, and we still have murderers in the world. So I guess it's okay to screw up someone's heart.
Peace in,
Laila
Friday, March 6, 2015
Let's just die.
I hate people. I hate life. I hate university. I just want to shoot myself.
In summary, I'm a bitter, old hag. Whiny, First World brat. What's new?
I'm doing a mental health unit, this semester, actually. I get the feeling I'm going to end up nuts by the end, self-diagnosed with jizbillions of conditions. I already I think I'm something like manic depressive. My tutor mentioned something along the lines of these people having a tendency 'to internalise all their problems, not discuss it, and just lose it at some point'. Something like that. It sounded like me. Then everything does, when you do this sort of course. I could probably convince myself I'm pregnant. Immaculate conception.
So I had a bad thought recently. Well, it seemed like a bad thought, but I'd like some feedback. Not dying for it. I've gotten used to you people not saying much. The views increase, but alas, all is silent on your front. I swear there are echoes sometimes.
Anyway, I was in a lecture the other day, and the lecturer was discussing all these statistics about the demographic of Oz and all. She talked about birth rates and death rates. Our birth rate isn't too bad, but from what I could deduce, our population isn't growing due to birth, it's more that we live longer. Hurray.
She then showed us these tables on the top causes of death throughout the last years. It varied some, with us 'curing' stuff and other conditions replacing them. Our lecturer very briefly mentioned that the moral is that we're all going to die of something. You cure one, something else comes along.
I don't know why, but this just stuck in my head.
My thought, in summary: why don't we just let people die?
I've worked in aged care twice, as y'all know. Two different places - one in an affluent suburb, another in the ghetto that is where I live. It's the same thing.
Old people on drugs being shuffled about in this mind-numbing routine, around a prison like setting. They're not really there. Some have loving relatives that come all the time, but too many just sit and stare their days away. They're washed and changed and fed and put to bed like babies. They don't remember things on a daily basis. I'm sure the nurses and PCA workers care for them - I like to think that most people who go into the profession don't do it for the dough. I don't really know if there is a lot of dough involved, actually. I know I cared. Regardless, even if we assume they do care, the point is, it's still a job. It's hard to appreciate the company if you know they're getting paid. For a relationship to be meaningful, you need to be able to share your burdens on equal footing. You can't have a policy or boss dictate the terms and conditions. And yet, for the most part, that's the only kind of relationships that most of these old souls have.
And what is the point?
Aren't we for quality of life, over quantity?
It's not that I think that we should just stop taking care of our elderly and let them rot. And I can't bring myself to propose a step back seeing as we've come so far.
There is something beautiful about how we traditionally take care of them. You in the Eastern world know what I mean. We keep good old grandma and grandpa in our big family home, forever and always. They get to watch their offspring blossom and expand into an empire. We take care of them, not an institution. Yeah, they may see the doctor frequently, and get given meds. But they're not freakishly doped up, you know? And we're always there. To the end. No one dies alone in a foreign room, staring at an empty ceiling, attached to tubes.
And when they reach 70, 80, 90, or 100, whatever affliction takes them, it still feels... healthy. Normal. Does that make sense? We fight for the lives of our elderly, but not to the point that they live an almost artificial existence. Our elderly, no matter how they decline, are regal. Not neglected. And in that sense, growing old is beautiful.
It's just not the same here.
But as I said, I don't mean that we should stop the drugs now. I just think that we need to stop trying to cure certain conditions that take old people. Alleviate pain, yes. Prevention, yes. But stop trying to fix 'death'.
JUST LET THEM DIE, FOR GOD'S SAKE.
LET THEM GO.
Stop holding onto people who aren't even there.
Is that a bad thought?
It's not just that. I remember in year 11, when I was doing literature, we were just starting on Frankenstein, and our teacher asked us if there was anything wrong in trying to banish death.
"Who doesn't want to live forever?" he asked.
I pulled a Hermione, for some bizarre reason, with my hand just shooting up. I was the only one. I don't think it's because I'm the only one who had this view. Perhaps the others just hadn't thought about it, or were smart enough to try and keep their opinions at bay.
Of course my teacher beamed.
"And why not, Laila? How could you possibly turn down immortality? Imagine all the never ending fun you could have."
I don't remember exactly what I said, but I remember floundering a bit. I couldn't find the words, but it just felt wrong at the time. I thought about it later, of course, and I realised that a life with a time limit is a meaningful one. When our days are numbered, every now and again, we wake up and realise that we have to make 'em count. Not always, but you know those random YOLO occasions. In this weird way, if we don't die, we have nothing to really live for. When you feel like you have all the time in the world, you don't really take the time to savour it, right?
I donno. Just a thought. I realise this post is kind of pointless. No one is going to read this and care enough and nothing will change.
I think this was just for me to make a mental note: at some point, I have to die.
At some point, the battle to stay alive isn't worth the fight.
I'm a nurse in the making, guys. Take a good look at your future ;)
Peace in,
Laila
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
My sincere apologies
I did something revolutionary today.
In my family, we do not apologise. For little, meaningless things, yes. Bump into one of them as we walk by, a reflexive 'sorry' might just make a brief appearance, but really, it's not deep or something to actually be acknowledged.
I mean that in our family, the apologies that we need, the ones that matter, never happen. The ones after a huge fight, where we've said really cutting things that we don't really mean but still have a ring of truth to them, which is what makes them so sharp. Silly misunderstandings that escalate, unintentional damage caused to something that's important to someone else.
Don't get me wrong - I don't think we mean to be so unapologetic, unforgiving, shameless. Prideful. It's just that my family is really, seriously unsentimental. We don't hug and kiss a lot, genuine I-love-you's are rare, we never talk feelings (shudder). We like to be tough, we like to Just Get Over things. We rage, and then we go on as if nothing happened. If we ever try to do something different, it's usually met with suspicion, derision, or just plain discomfort. So we don't.
But ever since I realised this, I've felt bad. I don't mean it constantly plagues me - just, on occasion, it pops into my head, and I feel a little guilty. Particularly if I've done something bad.
I remember, in our old house, the toilet, my dad had this thing on the wall, and among the many important phrases/words, it stated that the six most important words were 'I admit I made a mistake'. (Actually, it was really good food for thought... so I found it again. Here.)
It shouldn't be that hard. It's basically just 'sorry'. One word.
But ohmyGod, how hard is it to do that, to put aside all that pride - not arrogance, just dignity - after all the screaming, the blind defending and attacking, the ranting and raving and I'mrightyou'rewrong-ing, to put it all aside after being so very sure, to admit DEFEAT.
It's so hard. Particularly with my family. I can apologise to friends. But family. Family who can tear you apart and you can't do anything about it (besides tear them apart?). Family you can't just not see again. Family, who no matter how they cut you down and make you hate the whole entire world, are your comfort zone. Family who will never let anything you did go.
But I said I did something revolutionary, and so you know I did it. Firstly, my mama. You know from my last post that she was driving me crazy. There were a few yelling matches. But. But. I said sorry. Two times. And even though it took a lot of self-pep talking, it was worth it. It wasn't a monumental event. My mother just made 'okay' kind of sound, and, as we do best, life just went on.
But it felt good, a genuine, pure relief; a certain kind of weightlessness. It was lovely.
However, I must admit - I don't know if this is just a retrospect thing - but I think that on the scale of people in my family, my mother, while at the hard end, is not the most difficult person to contend with. No, that role would go to my older sister.
We had a fight today. It was a stupid fight (as most fights in my family are). I was defending someone she was annoyed with, she made it seem like I was 'taking their side', whereas, in my view, I wasn't taking any sides - just presenting the other side. But then it escalated, and I said stupid, nasty things that implied she was a bad sister - I wasn't even being logical (though I guess that's pretty typical of a stupid fight?). Regardless, even though I still think a lot of what she had to say was unfair, I was... inspired... to try and apologise.
You do not approach my sister when she is mad. I think I have posted about this occasionally, in the past years. Regardless of whether whatever she says makes sense or not, she just has a tone that can cut you to shreds. That's all it takes. The smart move is to avoid her until the storm passes, and you can resume life like nothing happened before.
But. But I knew that if I waited that long, my apology would become a bit...redundant. I mean, she'd be over it, I'd be too, and it wouldn't feel as valuable.
Yet I could not approach her, in person. I was very much afraid of her capacity to shoot before and ask questions later. So. So. So, I sent her text.
...
Is that stupid? Cowardly? I can't help it. I'm scared of her. She doesn't have to do much to make me cry. This will be an incomplete post, because I only just sent it to her, and I'm awaiting her reaction/response. Whether I upgrade to verbal apologies in the future really depends on how this one pans out. Still, despite my underlying fear - this feeling of waiting in line to be executed - I feel good. It feels good to do the right thing. I know it's cheesy and so goody-two-shoes, but I can't help it.
In a weird sort of irony, I think that putting aside your pride to do something like this only results in it coming back afterwards, more blown up and self-righteous than before ;)
Peace in,
Laila
In my family, we do not apologise. For little, meaningless things, yes. Bump into one of them as we walk by, a reflexive 'sorry' might just make a brief appearance, but really, it's not deep or something to actually be acknowledged.
I mean that in our family, the apologies that we need, the ones that matter, never happen. The ones after a huge fight, where we've said really cutting things that we don't really mean but still have a ring of truth to them, which is what makes them so sharp. Silly misunderstandings that escalate, unintentional damage caused to something that's important to someone else.
Don't get me wrong - I don't think we mean to be so unapologetic, unforgiving, shameless. Prideful. It's just that my family is really, seriously unsentimental. We don't hug and kiss a lot, genuine I-love-you's are rare, we never talk feelings (shudder). We like to be tough, we like to Just Get Over things. We rage, and then we go on as if nothing happened. If we ever try to do something different, it's usually met with suspicion, derision, or just plain discomfort. So we don't.
But ever since I realised this, I've felt bad. I don't mean it constantly plagues me - just, on occasion, it pops into my head, and I feel a little guilty. Particularly if I've done something bad.
I remember, in our old house, the toilet, my dad had this thing on the wall, and among the many important phrases/words, it stated that the six most important words were 'I admit I made a mistake'. (Actually, it was really good food for thought... so I found it again. Here.)
It shouldn't be that hard. It's basically just 'sorry'. One word.
But ohmyGod, how hard is it to do that, to put aside all that pride - not arrogance, just dignity - after all the screaming, the blind defending and attacking, the ranting and raving and I'mrightyou'rewrong-ing, to put it all aside after being so very sure, to admit DEFEAT.
It's so hard. Particularly with my family. I can apologise to friends. But family. Family who can tear you apart and you can't do anything about it (besides tear them apart?). Family you can't just not see again. Family, who no matter how they cut you down and make you hate the whole entire world, are your comfort zone. Family who will never let anything you did go.
But I said I did something revolutionary, and so you know I did it. Firstly, my mama. You know from my last post that she was driving me crazy. There were a few yelling matches. But. But. I said sorry. Two times. And even though it took a lot of self-pep talking, it was worth it. It wasn't a monumental event. My mother just made 'okay' kind of sound, and, as we do best, life just went on.
But it felt good, a genuine, pure relief; a certain kind of weightlessness. It was lovely.
However, I must admit - I don't know if this is just a retrospect thing - but I think that on the scale of people in my family, my mother, while at the hard end, is not the most difficult person to contend with. No, that role would go to my older sister.
We had a fight today. It was a stupid fight (as most fights in my family are). I was defending someone she was annoyed with, she made it seem like I was 'taking their side', whereas, in my view, I wasn't taking any sides - just presenting the other side. But then it escalated, and I said stupid, nasty things that implied she was a bad sister - I wasn't even being logical (though I guess that's pretty typical of a stupid fight?). Regardless, even though I still think a lot of what she had to say was unfair, I was... inspired... to try and apologise.
You do not approach my sister when she is mad. I think I have posted about this occasionally, in the past years. Regardless of whether whatever she says makes sense or not, she just has a tone that can cut you to shreds. That's all it takes. The smart move is to avoid her until the storm passes, and you can resume life like nothing happened before.
But. But I knew that if I waited that long, my apology would become a bit...redundant. I mean, she'd be over it, I'd be too, and it wouldn't feel as valuable.
Yet I could not approach her, in person. I was very much afraid of her capacity to shoot before and ask questions later. So. So. So, I sent her text.
...
Is that stupid? Cowardly? I can't help it. I'm scared of her. She doesn't have to do much to make me cry. This will be an incomplete post, because I only just sent it to her, and I'm awaiting her reaction/response. Whether I upgrade to verbal apologies in the future really depends on how this one pans out. Still, despite my underlying fear - this feeling of waiting in line to be executed - I feel good. It feels good to do the right thing. I know it's cheesy and so goody-two-shoes, but I can't help it.
In a weird sort of irony, I think that putting aside your pride to do something like this only results in it coming back afterwards, more blown up and self-righteous than before ;)
Peace in,
Laila
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