Father, Mother, Sister, and I, let me humiliate myself for one more day.
Let me ride a bicycle, wobbling though it may be, with no support. Let me thrash in the swimming pool and scream high heavens while you step backwards. Let me be a child and praise me for writing a whole page detailing you my dream room. Let me humiliate myself for another day, so that one day I can look back on it and laugh, and maybe somewhat learn, the lesson of humility.
Have me fail – forward – while I still have the bare guts to, for sooner or later, this will all be over, and I will not have done much.
Father, Mother, Sister, and I, if I seem assured, absurd, you must know of my 80% truth. This is the girl that ‘dreamed’ of an average life. This is she, who said, “I don’t want to be anything big in life.” And she never found that sad, until a comment a later ago. Right now, she wants to do something big, and being something great has never been easy. Call it my petty streak, but I want to be significant too; I want to live a life of value, if I might as well have to.
Remember those days of my insane youth; I played basketball, and climbed trees and raced boys because I wanted to be better. And I became. Not because you did not tell me the calluses on my hands were ungraceful, or that the scraps on my knees were unflattering, but because I played and played, until one day someone would shout out my name to say, “Good Job Sarah !” And at that time, though I did not mind it, I grew muscles and lean arms, I ran fast – I practically flew on air – I remember, how it felt to be so liberating, to be rewarded with something you never even knew you were working towards, but in the process of doing something you loved and wanted, it just happened.
I’m sure, when I first began, I was not anybody’s first choice. I’m sure I still cannot aim. I’m sure I was definitely not the best player. Yet somehow, I became something slightly better than average, because I maintained to play. It was a team work, for if you could shoot and score, I could steal and pass. And because I did not sit aside with the other girls in the shade to watch you guys, and because I threw myself towards the ball in the same fierce animalistic way that made us friends; because I did not feel the effort, the work that went into it. So even when I missed a ball, or a catch, or a goal, or a steal, it was strengthening, urgent for me to go on and make the next one.
For that, I miss being a child. If not only because you would never say it wasn’t okay, or tell me that it was inane, but that I did not mind failing, and making a fool of myself and laughing it off. I did not develop the awareness that we have over-cultivated to make us feel ashamed.
I miss being a child, because I had wanted to just win. So let me humiliate myself for one more day, and so be it, if I can make it or not, to win or fail, I did something great.