Of the Child-Self, and Dreams that Never Die

> sir ben would surely have my fingers for breakfast if he learned i posted this on my blogspot for everyone to see.>_<. however, since i don't suppose there are as much people out there crazy over blogspot as they are over friendster beta, i guess what i'm doing's still safe >.< hey yana, i know you're the only one who reads my blogs so don't tell on me! <> sir ben was one of the youngest instructors i've had; the year i entered the PF was the year he graduated, and this e-mail was a two-months-late response to his e-mail way back in 2nd year.>_<.

Hello po!


Thought i could disturb you a bit, since it's summer and you can't be doing much. then again, you might be. oh well.

Thanks po pala uli for the friendly-talk last time. prior to that, i was cooped for a week with my sibs and had a big need for a good conversation.

You told me about idealism, and how ideals sometimes (or rather, oftentimes) clash with reality.

And months ago, you wrote about dreams and passions.

Attached to this e-mail is an essay i wrote for my Comm.1 class, which i took three semesters ago. i edited it some, thinking PDI might find it print-worthy (i submitted it but i never found out if it ever got published, and i honestly do not care right now, because i submitted it partly out of daring to toe the lines of my percieved boundaries...what matters is that i did it, that i did something i've been itching to do. the act of submitting it was my end). i've been planning to mail this to you for months now, following my near brush with dismissal from the school. Or rather, following the thing you wrote about dreams and passions. it was a wonderful piece, really. i've once dreamt of becoming an astronaut, too, and i could relate to the encyclopedia thing. and i even dreamt of becoming a PMA cadette, a lawyer like my handsome uncle, a newscaster (i even vowed to become the first Igorot newscaster!), a lady painter, a journalist for the National Geographic magazine, and a world-renowned novelist, among other teenee wishes (like becoming the reincarnation of Buddha Himself---in female form, of course). Anyway, the most striking part of the mail was the last portion, where you mentioned me, followed by something like "and to all those who are sleeping, but not dreaming".

***

Have you ever cried over something but can't really explain why you're crying over it? crazy, right? i managed to stop myself from bawling (well, bawling's not exactly the term, but crying in front of a blinking monitor-machine in a public place felt like a crime at that time, so i practically had to hold on to the computer table---the hardest and heaviest thing i could hold onto. somehow, the tight gripping had the effect of psychologically shutting tears.) i can't explain why the simple statement struck so many of my strings at once. once i was clearheaded, i thought about the whole thing over. i can't say i reacted the way i reacted because the statement was true, that i lost the child in me that once made grandiose dreams both attainable and not. i tried forgetting the whole thing, since i know it was a well-meant message, and how i reacted to it is something i am responsible of; besides, from where i'm standing, the message was meant to challenge me. and i can only be challenged by people i respect.

but at the same time i cannot help getting angry. one, i rarely broadcasted my dreams, my ambitions, to anyone. so nobody has the right to say that i do not have something far ahead to look forward to and strive hard for. Maybe i gave the impression of a listless existence: one devoid of motivations or drives or reasons. but impressions are fleeting; i am more than a bundle of somebody else's impressions. i wouldn't have cared one bit about your---or anybody else's----impression of me. but then you happened to be a brother and a mentor, someone i look up to.

***

I know that many things can die within a person. ideals, for one, die. they usually fade away with age. but i know myself well enough to know that the child in me had not. yes, i lost my drive to study, and the absence of that motivation was a terrible blow to myself; however, during that time when diploma, degree, and career---everything related to my studies---mattered little, another part of me awakened: my child-self, the one that dreams of literary distinction, of staggering success, of seeing myself brandishing proofs of success despite a lack of college degree (at that time i felt certain i would get kicked out). i acted on that new motivation by writing profusely. i dug out my best essays and sought ways to get them published. i wrote a poem on innocence, of a little girl who crushed butterflies in her small palms, innocently guiltless, knowing the butterflies would pick themselves up again. a few months after, i read this poem over the radio while sitting with poets, all of whom were Palanca recipients except for Ma'am Precy, the university Chancellor. And i'm not yet through. i'm up to join a playwrighting workshop this May. and i know that will not be the end of it.

***

i'm a good gurl now, studying like the rest of the student populace. most of us are like cows tethered to a tree, grinding the cud generously provided for by the system. i once stopped chewing the cud when i saw the cowshit surrounding us. it was unbearable, chewing cud and shitting it. i know you know how frustrating that is. and i'm glad that you are the teacher and i am the student and it's not the other way around...because had i been in your place, i wouldn't have had the wisdom and courage to persist.

***

now i'm back with the herd. not grudgingly, no. but now i'm also acting on something else. and i'm eyeing something far ahead.

***

so there, i've written everything i've been wanting to say for so long now. know that i am no longer angry and that i look up to you still, especially after seeing you perform (headbanging and all!) the "Hoy, soksay akooo!" song with all the youthful zest of of a ten-year-old dreamer. i guess the child within us all never really dies.

***

the essay. i attached it here so i could share with you one of my passions. i hope you could relate to it, as you once had the predilection for creative writing.

thank you po uli. when you thanked me for something i wasn't aware i did, i felt uncomfortable. now i know how you must have felt, because, as you can see, you've been a blessing to me, too. in disguise, of course.

thanks again. i know i took much of your time, and i'm glad i did. tee-hee!


ciao!

abby ;)