A few weeks ago, I took my colleague S out for her farewell lunch at Chilli's. Having been mostly MIA from the office for the past few months, I felt a little guilty for not having been able to spend time with her during her last few weeks at work.
As we waited outside of the packed restaurant for a table, a frail Caucasian lady with wispy white hair waiting alone alongside of us caught my eye. She was dressed in earthy clothes that hung loosely off her slight frame; baggy pleated khakis, a thin white linen blouse, brown leather sandals, and a long shoulder bag slung neatly across her chest.She made her reservation on the waiting list with the hostess for a party of two under" Mrs. T". From her clothes alone, I could have instantly recognized Mrs. T, my Advanced English teacher back in high school. But her shocking white hair, the several new wrinkles lining her face and her shrunken appearance made me hesitate. It had been over 10 years since I last saw her, 10 years since I graduated from high school.
All things considering, Mrs. T arrived relatively late in my education, as I had already decided I wanted to be a writer of sorts at the precocious age of 11, while hunched over my wooden desk scribbling furiously on my A4 notepad about the trials and tribulations of an adolescent pre-teenager.
But it was Mrs. T, she with her infinite wisdom and her seemingly simple yet effective approach to teaching which had earned her the respect of not only her fellow colleagues, but from her peers across several international schools in the region, that helped me build confidence in my writing, my voice. She was always encouraging, her helpful comments lining the margins of my English papers in neat cursive script. It was she who pushed me, saved me, when I was borderline suicidal while struggling to write the 4,000 word (a big deal back then) Extended Essay for my IB diploma in English Lit, and really the only reason I got full marks for it in the end.
Mrs. T taught me how to use words carefully, earnestly, efficiently; it was from her that I learnt that there was nothing worse than an overly verbose writer – one who liberally uses pretentious words they don’t understand how to use and worse still, to hide a lack of voice.
And yet, as much as I secretly worshipped her, was enamored with her, I never allowed myself to show it, afraid she would misconstrue my hero worship into a lack of personality or worse, a form of ass kissing.
In my self-assessment essay for my senior year portfolio, I wrote I wanted to be a writer, my biggest goal in the future being to write a novel. In her neat cursive script, she wrote in the margins, “And I look forward to reading that novel!” It was a silly and lofty goal, but I tucked her encouragement into my pocket and carried it with me throughout the years.
And now, 10 years later, as I waited outside Chilli’s in my black suit, patent leather shoes and swish handbag, I felt like a complete failure.
Because I never amounted to what I had so earnestly told her I would be. Because my job entailed caring about IRRs and ROE and trading comparables and doing up fancy football fields (not the grassy kind) in power point. Because I knew deep down inside if I was really being honest to myself, the most I would amount to in my line of work would be at best, mediocre. Because after all that waxing lyrical about wanting to write, I ended up living a severely capitalist lifestyle. Because I was really nothing but a phony.
How would I explain to her what I did, why and how I ended up doing what I did? Why I never even attempted to pursue my silly, lofty goals, to do something I actually loved, was relatively good at? And how disappointed she would be in me.
Or even worse, having had such a supposedly profound affect on my life, what if she didn’t even remember me at all?
In the end, I couldn't bring myself to say hello to her and let her see what I had made out of my life. I crossed my arms across my black suit and forced myself to look the other way.
Yet somehow, I could feel her eyes burning into the back of my head with vague recognition, and perhaps, a hint of dissapointment.
7 comments:
i'd read your novel! i think it's still not too late!
go easy on yourself toots.
reckon you're just collecting material now for your novel non? I'd shell out to read your stuff!
*hugs*
*that* time will come but for now don't feel guilty about doing what you do well too... remember Marquez didn't write Cien años de soledad until he was 40... until then, he like what you are doing now is sewing a big big big collage...
i've always wanted to be a writer too u know, to just sit on the balcony and write word after word after word. many many years on, i haven't even started on that book i've always been meaning to write.
and here i am, just like u. i think i am just lacking the guts to just leave this corporate world and plunge into something i would actually love.
hang in there, ur not alone...
you are so hard on yourself on this. you are a great writer, i am your biggest fan.
as for me and mrs t, she intervened to be my mentor when mrs the-other-teacher gave up on me and said my writing was "opaque". sigh, those words still burn.
always have the opinion your writing deserves a place in print.
mooke
I know that feeling. I am keen to get back in touch with my HS English teacher, Mrs. C, with all her encouragement on my writing (and just such an inspirational person generally). Even Mrs L., my MS *math* teacher told me I would be a writer some day and she looked forward to reading my writing. Working in finance, I haven't written so much as a research report. At least you have a blog (which is a true joy to read, btw!)I don't really know what I would say to Mrs. C and Mrs. L.
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