Letting go.

My grade 12 Writer's Craft in-class exam.

 

Purple clouds. Purple… and blue, and pink. They spanned the navy skies like great puffs of mist that struggled with each other and crowded together for a good view of everything going on down below. I could remember it all so vividly, almost as if I were sitting at a table and describing ever detail of a picture set before me in a gold embossed frame that haughtily demanded the attention of all. I could remember the billions of tiny stars that twinkled shyly from behind the colorful clouds, which lit up every few seconds in various areas- the glow from the spectacular fireworks being sent up from down below. On the ground, where I was, at the time…

Where I could see, smell, touch and taste every essence of the sheer, rich culture that practically emanated from every stall on that crowded street. I could hear fishmongers yelling out their prices to passersby; the jingling of bells as tourists rode along in the backs of makeshift rickshaws pulled by laborers; the laughter of orphaned children playing games with marbles on the sidelines. I was especially aware of the thick crowd of people walking about the marketplace, busy shopping, eating and bartering, themselves completely oblivious to their own loud voices floating up towards the sky, creating a kind of familiar surrounding hum that made me feel safe inside. It reminded me so much of the tendrils of steam rolling off of various delicious foods being cooked down below, merging into a thin haze that settled protectively over the marketplace and caused the stars to shimmer ever more.

This was home to me. These people, with their yellow skin and eyes that always looked half closed the way they would if one's face were to be permanently fixated with a laughing, wide smile. They were my family, even though I towered over most of them though my skin was darker than theirs, and though my hair was nothing like their long, sleek locks of darkest night. Though they spoke a different tongue, wrote in different characters and dressed in totally different clothing, these people, this world,…in my heart, it felt like my very own heritage. However, I think what I remember most of all, even more than the beautiful people and culture, were their hearts. Despite all of our differences, they had always accepted me for who I was.

I always remembered the face of the lady who offered I keep the basket of fruit I had gone to purchase, but had been unable to pay for entirely after I realized I was short on money.

"What? A-are you sure?" I could feel my eyes widen automatically in my shock at her offer. But all she did in return was smile kindly and nod.

"You may not understand completely, but… it gives me great pleasure."

I went to school with their children, played with them, learned with them, grew up with them. I learned their ways easily, because I was a willing student, and they saw that in me. I learned quickly because they sensed my thirst to know more, and that my respect for their wisdom was earnest and genuine.

For that, they regarded me as one of their own. Always; open arms, and an open heart. It was bliss for me; pure bliss, the kind that blinded you to the negative qualities… because apparently, there were many.

I don't remember the day my parents took me aside to give me the news. It wasn't a noteworthy moment; wasn't beautiful or memorable like the rest of my life had been thus far. It was one of those days where you wouldn't be able to recall there you were or what you did no matter how hard you tried, because none of those little things compared to the weight of the lone thought that kept penetrating your mind. The knowledge that everything you knew about your world, your friends, your family and yourself was about to change forever.

***

The west was a cold place. Or perhaps I simply felt this way because that was exactly how I had been treating my parents ever since they tore me away from the lights, sounds and smells I had grown to love all of my life. Here there were four seasons- distinct, and with unquestionably spectacular colors. But I think despite how much the fallen red and orange leaves reminded me of back home, or how the oceans of blue and white skies during the summertime struck such similarity to how we only ever used to have two seasons in the old country, my favorite time of year in this strange new place will always be winter.

I have yet to put my finger on exactly on the reason why, aside from my bitter hate, but I think that the main reason for it may have to do with all the existing parallels I sensed between the weather and the people of the west. While I was used to the friendliness and companionship of a people who were so naturally comfortable with one another- even with complete strangers- the citizens of the west seemed to have so much more on their minds whenever one would pass them by. There was this air about them, of always being so preoccupied by and worried about what others thought of them. I could feel it as they scuttled by without making any eye contact, so that I barely caught a glimpse of their faces from behind their thick, fur-lined coasts. And it made me feel lonely in turn. All of them, always very busy with something or the other, enough that it never ceased to remind me of the snow that twirled around them; a million flakes, none the same as the other, but all dancing frantically in the same direction. Trying to fight the wind, or fate, as I called it, and make their way to their destinations on the ground without being diverted, I imagined. And the more they avoided one another the better, they appeared to think. Little did they realize that should one flake of snow merge with another, they could become a far greater force against the howling fate that tossed them so. Their joint work could propel them towards the ground more quickly and purposefully, and they would made the journey together, one that would be far safer than any other attempting to tackle the wind alone.

Like the moaning wind that really ground on my nerves during those first few months, I begged my parents to take me back home. But they always had this look in their eyes whenever I bitterly confessed my homesickness. There was sadness there, and worry. But there was one other thing that I continuously failed to understand up until today, as I looked out my window at the neighbor's fluttering red and white flag; torn and bedraggled from the last snow storm.

It dawned on me that that look that I had resented for so long was really one I should have looked to for strength. I finally understood the look of sacrifice and determination to create a better life for me reflected in my parents' eyes. I should have known that they loved me, cared for me, and knew me better than anyone. My happiness made them happy, and I was in pure bliss back home… but what they soon came to realize was that it was blinding me. Back there, all I had cared about was my fantasy world in which I learned, had friends, and most of all- felt at home. Felt comfortable, and accepted. There were no challenges for me to face, or weights for me to bear; for myself, or for others. How could I possibly grow as a person?

And when I was brought here… all of that changed. It was as though my eyes had been opened to the real world, as hard as it had been for me to face change. A place of hardship, sadness, loneliness. Where people had to learn to live independently, and work to earn such a luxury as happiness. Where the poor begged for money, the rich held on to as much as they could, and the middle class struggled just to get by. I had never even heard of such concepts before… and although at first I was reluctant to acknowledge the fact that this new place could possibly help me in any way, it was soon impossible.

There was one vital lesson here that I couldn't ignore no matter how I tried: here, I had learned what the rest of the world was really like.

Here, I discovered that just because I lived in a new place, dressed in different clothes or spoke in a different accent, it didn't mean I wasn't allowed to miss my old life. In fact, trying to forget my past would be doing a disservice to my first home. Today in this strange new place, I finally discovered something I loved doing. And that was teaching others about what I had learned in turn. About the values of that rich, beautiful culture that had taught me to really love the world, as well as the important morals I had gained by leaving it all behind.

The part that made me feel like life was worth living, and the part that inspired me to finally stop thinking about myself. Here, I could teach these new people whom I live amongst from my own experiences, and show them how to love one another unconditionally the way I had learned from my teachers back home. My memories became the real tribute to my people.