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rooellensuwanai-blog · 7 years ago

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Learning From You Part 3

However, what I did feel was a sense of awe.

I guess my parents were the progressive type when it came to housing after high school. Our family owns an extra apartment room a ten minute drive away from our actual house. It was supposed to be a side business for dad. Earning income from the rent that people pay to stay there for a couple nights. Though I didn’t understand why exactly we happened to own a second house when I was younger, about four or five, now I think that dad made a clever plan.

As soon as school ended, I was made to move into it so I can “take my own reins and get a feel for what it’s like to live on your own” before actually going away to college. I guess it’s sort of like my parent’s idea of a behind the wheels training session before I actually spread my wings and fly away. I know, I know. It seems like I made two contradicting statements. Earlier I said they were above averagely strict, and now I’m introducing the concept that I was sent to live alone? I have an explanation for that. I truly do. Quite simple, actually. I had an infallible facade as a model student and daughter. They also trusted me, because I caused minimal trouble while I was just a wee high school student. The only thing I’d do was steal a few of my mom’s chocolates without telling her, and those situations always wrapped up nicely with a dismayed “Not again”. Naturally, they thought of my whole living ten minutes away before college thing was a perfect idea.

For me, my new living situation was a perfect opportunity for me to completely unhinge and go ….wild. Drop my facade. Cheesy, I know, but I’m gonna say it: discover myself. Just think about it. No one. Not even my parents would find out if I got home at three am, completely drunk and high out of my mind. Which, I previously could never do under my parental supervision. I never had the guts for it. Or the willingness to risk everything for a little taste of adventure….and freedom.

It’s the middle of June. I graduated exactly a month ago from today. That fact still baffles me as I wake up every morning. This morning in particular though, that thought echos sonorously in my head not as a mere thought, but as a spontaneous realisation. In my muggy mind, the realisation triggered more sonorous echoes, pulsating through my brain. It was an irritating pulse, and every little thought seemed like a huge burden to squeeze out.

I groan as cheerful sunlight spills out through the curtains and illuminate the dark space behind my eyelids. The sound of my groan becomes amplified through my head, and reverberates intensely, bouncing back and forth between my skull and the crevasses of my brain.

Fuuuuuuuuuck me.

As I squint, I find myself sprawled out on the floor. Yet again, for the third time in just this week. The light increases my agony by tenfold, and I struggle to retreat back to the safety behind my eyelids. As I gather my dull senses, I slowly recollect fuzzy memories of last night.

The pitch dark. The flashing lights. The pulsing beat and so many bodies pressed up against mine. It was musky and….moist.

Glowing orbs illuminated me from a million different directions and I was soaring. I was soaring through space. My body moved as one with my people. So many hands brushing up against me.

Limbs tangling. I was now in a dimly lit bathroom stall. The pulse was still there. Though a bit distant. It was there, carving out a definite rhythm. Hands fumbled down my back. I clung. My nose caught the tinge of sweat. One of the people. That’s all I knew about this mass I clung to.

Hot breath on my neck. Hot breath on my cheek. Wet on my lips. Boiling hot on my neck.

I took a sharp intake of breath, as the cold air brushed it’s fingertips across my now bare back. The dress slowly lost its grip on my body…..now clammy hands were touching me directly. Warning bells flashed in my head. What was wrong? I giggled a bit. Only a bit of my back was out!!

Hands roaming on my bum.

Wait.

Hands are roaming on my bum.

Wait.

Hands roaming on -- My arse is out.

My arse. Is. Out.

A sheer, overwhelming sense of panic overcame me. I felt suffocated and so��.unsafe. You know that feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you absolutely know for a fact that you done fucked up? That feeling where it feels like an octopus magically appeared from the dark crevasse of your belly, just ejected a gallon of ink in your stomach and promptly fleeted away, squirting all its inky darkness into the midst of you? I went through that by tenfolds when my delirious brain caught onto the inevitable turn of events that were going to follow in the next five minutes.

The next few moments were a blur. The boy who had now moved onto passionately (if what he was doing really counts as passion…) making out with my collar bones, had me tight in his grip. He was like an actual leech, draining the calmingly ecstatic high from me, replacing it with a sudden urge to claw his hands off of me, and also his eyeballs out of his face for good measure. My panic reflex lashed out, as I kicked and groaned and screamed for the wretched thing to get off of me. The rest was all a blur for me, honestly. I’m still not sure how I got out of that cramped bathroom stall, waded through the sweaty mass of people, and got back to the flat. All in one piece, with my virginity intact.

This rewind of events force my mind to shrink back. I feel as if my gut is getting flayed by the sheer cringe of that particular situation. Of course, I was glad that I didn’t end up having my first time in a dingy bathroom stall. At the same time I was dismayed at the sheer disgust I felt at being completely left up to someone else’s touch and disposal. It was so uncomfortable and disconcerting. I hated it. Especially when I had no flipping idea who the heck that someone was. Never again, in my waking days am I letting some mangy stranger take control over my body like that. Never again.

I could have done something I completely regretted…

My reason whispers to me, and I shrunk even tighter into a ball on the floor of my seemingly safe flat. I felt so disgusting. Disgusting, disgusted and disgust. My entire body felt foreign and contaminated to me and I got a sudden urge to scrub myself clean and forget all about last night.

Slowly, with great care, I hobbled up onto all fours, then on my two feet with the help of a nearby couch and teetered into the bathroom. I peered into the mirror. There, staring back at me were two mascara smudged brown eyes. My lipstick has long since worn off, and my hair was falling out in a frazzled disarray. I’ve got to admit, I was a mess. I looked like a goth rat, and I wasn’t liking it. That human in the looking glass didn’t look like me. I needed to wash her away.

I closed my eyes against the hot water seeping through my scalp, trickling on my face. It was a nice familiar feeling. One of which I’ve felt on a million occasions. I always relish this moment. This moment when I can feel the warmth engulf me in a comforting way. And it was great, too、because I’d come out nicely clean ! This occasion, though, I think I came clean both mentally and physically.

I’ve got to admit, I had this empty void in my heart these couple of weeks I spent partying constantly. It was like something wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it. But I felt really empty. I didn’t feel like I was doing much, and it was true. I really wasn’t doing much. Eat, sleep, party, hangover, eat, sleep, slightly less hangover, sleep, party. It was an endless cycle of just that. The initial adrenaline rush of my first time in a proper drinking, drugging, grinding party was quite an experience for me. I felt freed and I felt so invincible. I’d hop across all the bars in the area, and migrate from one club to the next, using my before 10PM lady privileges. I’d run shrieking onto the road, as I ran barefoot swinging heels in one hand. Some girls even joined in, and the boys saw it as a daring hunt to catch us. It was like the night moulded itself into whatever I made it into, and no one, not even my friends, or most of all, my parents could change it. They have no idea what exactly I’ve been up to this whole month. That’s always made me giggle a bit. A giddy feeling, like you’ve just discovered for yourself a box of unexpected candy. But now, that just filled me with….I don’t know. More squid ink in the pit of my stomach.

….I guess I didn’t like it as much as I thought I would. Yeah, I’ve dislodged myself from my normal life. Just like I've always wanted to. But it really didn’t leave me with anything, did it. Except for maybe a nearly stolen virginity, and an uncanny realization that maybe I wasn’t even remotely appetized by the prospect of sex. Is that normal? I’d have to look into that later.

I scrubbed and scrubbed myself in the hotter than usual water. I take time to rinse my hair thoroughly, make sure all that excess grease from the hairspray was gone. Clumps of mascara flowed down my eyelids, and I thoroughly scrubbed my skin. I didn’t want any breakouts that I would surely regret in my sober days. I wanted to be all natural. Just me. I wanted to feel like myself again. I splashed on three different types of shower gel, all a slight variation of mint. It was cooling, then burning and the herbal smell filled the steamy space. I inhaled sharply, and let the strongly scented air sting the back of my nose.

Perfect.

When I finally emerged, I felt brand new. My hair damp and dripping, I cleared away a messy window on the foggy mirror and found myself again. I grinned, tilted my head this way and that. That crusty face was gone and nowhere to be seen. I looked a bit younger than I remembered too. Maybe it was the freshness. All that was left from the night before was my buzzing hangover that clouded over my brain like an angry horde of sluggish bees

Today was my one month mark as an independent young woman looking to start her new life on campus in a handful of weeks. I was going to start my second month on the right leg, and on a solid step no matter how I spent the previous month. A fresh start.

Personally, I think that anyone can have a fresh start whenever they decide that it is time for a new beginning. Growing up, that was how I operated. Each day was a new blank page for me. If I was having a bad day, I’ll take a delirious nap, then wake up, get hydrated, and start back up as a new and reborn human being again. It works, you know? That’s how I coped with my crippling perfectionism. It was always a problem I had. If everything didn’t turn out perfectly for me, I’d get so disappointed in myself. Lose interest in virtually everything I’d been investing my time in up until that point. It’s a really precarious situation when I fall into those slumps. If those slumps lasted for more than a week, I’d be completely behind on everything I’d ever tried to achieve. That was part of the overwhelming stress of being bound to an occupation such as a student.

I’d have to say though, my perfectionism was a big part of what got me through as a straight A, honor roll student throughout my years in grade school. As I grew up, I sort of just, embraced the fact that I procrastinate, and that sometimes I can’t get everything seamlessly finished in the nick of time. I’d deal with it by taking a hot shower just like this one, sleeping it off, drinking water, and feeling good about myself again. Nursing my self esteem back to health. So I can function as a day to day human being again.

I know that everyone must have these inner demons inside of them. It can’t be just me, feeling frustrated at myself sometimes. But when you’re alone with your thoughts and illogical, untamable beasts called feelings, sometimes, just sometimes, you feel like you're chained down. As if I’m bound to some invisible social construct. I never know what it is, but I know it’s there. And I just feel, as if it’s slowly suffocating me.

Mentally telling myself that from this second, it was going to be a fresh start for myself helped me get out of there. Also, the vague hope and belief that gaining independence would help me get out of it for good, chained me to sanity all my time as a child under my parent’s wings.

I walked out the front door in an orange sundress and sandals. Minimal makeup, hair still damp. The air still contained not, the dense humidity that accompanies the full rise of sunlight. I deliberately picked the color orange to wear for the day. Gentle promise for a bright future, but still powerful. I felt positively glowing. I have no idea how valid my own assumptions about appearances are, but at that moment, I felt beautiful. It’s a welcome feeling to have, especially after I realized how utterly worthless my recent endeavors to break my personal norms were. Especially after I felt slightly soiled under the work of that faceless somebody’s hands. And especially after I haven’t had a proper day of tranquility in the recent weeks.

My parents’ flat lies in a fairly large scale neighbourhood just on the edge of the city midtown. Not too much commotion, but just enough bustling to give it a nice, busy drone. It’s been a long time since I moved here that I actually took the time to enjoy the atmosphere. It’s peaceful. Nice and compact. From the flat, it’s a short walk up to a stately corner belonging to a grey and red modern home. This particular house tickles my fancy all the time, as it’s symmetric, orderly rectangular structure really brings a sense of satisfaction to me. Just around the bend are a variety of cafes and tiny boutiques that line the main street of my neighborhood. Cassa Avenue Historic Business District, they call it. I agree with their title. The number of petite shops on this street indicate lots of business, and yep, the buildings are all made up of positively ancient quirky works of boards and planks. They’re the sorts of rickety buildings that look as if it can topple over with a slightly hard whoosh of a wind. It’s a wonder they’ve been staying up for over a century now.

Inhale through my nose, exhale out. Inhale through my nose, exhale out. The air is anything but stagnant. Delicious to my frazzled nerves. It smells of cut grass and clipped blossoms. Good, wholesome smells of home drift from the bakeries and it makes me bubble inside. It’s a different kind of excitement than the streaking shots of adrenaline I felt when I walked into a buzzing club. It’s the bubbly innocent sort, like something completely utterly new and just fabulous was waiting for me out there. It translates to a slight bound in my step. That haggard and wasted woman I saw in the mirror this morning I’ve successfully abandoned. I felt good about myself. It was a nice fresh start. I internally pat myself on the back. I got myself out of the ditch yet again. And I’m proud of that.

My feet semi automatically point towards the San Francisco Coffee Brewers & Co. I always like to refer to that cafe by their full name. I really don’t know why, and while most people call it just the Brewers, it just feels weird for me to say it. Doesn’t roll off my tongue as well as San Francisco Coffee Brewers & Co. Maybe it’s the small sense of control I feel. You know? My absolute freedom to say anything in however manner I like with no consequences, and the burst of satisfaction I feel when I end on the “Co.” Sure maybe it’s a waste of breath for the majority. But it isn’t for me. It’s a source of joy.

I lug open the heavy wooden door, and the welcome bell jingles lightly. Warm smells engulf me, this time of roasted coffee beans. Gentle cacophony of clinking mugs and grinding beans accompany the aroma. This place is set up in the traditional cafe style, with a counter featuring busy handed baristas, while the rest of the space is occupied by dozens of comfy chairs sprawled out around coffee tables, and secluded counter seats for the more solitary customers. It’s nice. The warm browns within the space really compliments the rays of low sunrise peaking in through the potted plants set up at the large windows.

This morning was busier than usual. A clump of tired morning goers lined the space all the way between the order counter and the door. I slid into place and started waiting. I’m a patient girl. Growing up, I’d always see adults who were supposedly more mature than us young ones constantly clucking at cars in front of them starting slightly slower after a fresh green light, or when the shopping line at the groceries seemingly “hadn’t moved in the last 30 seconds.” I’ve never gotten impatient at those little things, because I know that it’s virtually useless. It’s virtually useless to fret over those little things. What point is there to cut down on your lifespan by that sort of miniscule stress?

There’s always bigger things you could be spending your worry lines on. Or there always was, at least for me. I never got impatient over the small things in daily life. Rather, I got impatient on...my life. It seemed so slow as a student. It seemed like I’d never get out of that constant loop between schooling and sleep. But seeing the light at the end of the tunnel didn’t really mean it quelled my worries. It triggered me to be so uncertain about what lay ahead for me. As I lay awake on my bed late at night, those thoughts would plague me. What the fuck was I gonna do out of school? I’ll go to college, yeah, because that’s what you’re supposed to do by societal norms. But what matters is after that. What if I end up...jobless? Homeless? Futureless? What if I screw up? I had no flipping clue what I was supposed to do, after school. The more I thought about it, the harder it was to face it.

I always just thought, assumed, and even felt entitled to have the privilege of gracefully slipping into my adult career as if it were just a second skin. Wasn’t it that way for everyone? I was naive.

Now at this exact moment, my life is nearly sorted out for the time being. I’m going to a fairly prestigious school starting this fall.

It will turn out okay. I can start adulting.

I silently console myself, while a dark tinge of last nights events plague a corner of my mind.

….starting today. Starting now.

I add for good measure. Because everyone experiments and makes mistakes right? I experimented, and I figured out after a month gone by that that was not exactly what I’d always thought I’d wanted and needed.

As I stood, a breath of warmer air engulfed me from behind as the door swung open and the welcome bell let out it’s light hearted jingle again. I automatically shifted myself towards the front as much as I could, to provide space for the mystery person who’d just decided to burden themselves with a ten minute plus wait time for their morning coffee. Up ahead, at the counter, an older woman was arguing with a bambi eyed barista over a iced latte. I could faintly hear something about substituting the milk with soy milk….or something on that degree.

“It looks we’ll be here for a while,” the presence behind me spoke up, in an amused manner.

The sudden voice startled me, and I quickly whipped myself around to face the other person. These situations always give me anxiety. Honestly, it’s one of my biggest fears whenever I go out on my own. When someone speaks, my mind runs through a million repetitions of Were they speaking to me? Do I answer? What do I say? Wait were they even talking to me? Which typically results in my awkwardly laughing and agreeing with whatever they’re saying, regardless of whether the situation was humorous or whether agreeing with the person was an appropriate response in that point in time. This was one of those moments, as I whipped around and just said….

“Yes.” Of course, accompanied with a short bark that barely passes as a laugh. As always. Classic me.

Before I could recover from my own awkwardness, the person hit me with another dreaded question.

“Do I know you ?”

“Ummm…” I look him up and down and stare at his face. I know, kinda rude but it’s socially acceptable when you’re trying to discern whether or not a supposed stranger has ever traversed through your life.

He has glasses. You know, the wired rectangular kind, that never fails to give off a nerdy aura. Though they did suit his overall gentle looking face. He had pouty lips, but not in the irritating way, like those Barbie™ Ken dolls. They just had a soft shape (I know kinda creepy, but I had no better imagery okay?) that naturally curves up into a gentle smile. That was the first thing i noticed about him, as I looked up into his face. Darker than usual brown eyes, rounded eyebrows, and dusty dark brown hair. Probably not effable, if he were ever put up to ye old Victoria’s standards. My good friend has constantly maintained high standards, all these years, ever since grade school.

“I think….” I begin as I rapidly search my mind for the familiar face. It’s truly irritating, really. When you have that nagging sensation where you know you’ve seen a certain face somewhere before. But you just can’t place it in the correct spot. It’s the most uncomfortable sort of frustration, as you know deep down that you already know the answer.

“I’ve played for you before, haven’t I?” the man offers.

My mind was suddenly freed from its endless game of match the face. Recollections from a few years ago flood back into my system. The light bulb goes off in my head as the lines connect, and I burst out “OOOOOooooohhhh!!”

I then realized just how obnoxious I must have sounded and cover my mouth.

“Sorry, um I mean. Yes! I do remember you. Mr. Mark, right?” I tried again, a bit more calmly this time.

“Yes, that’s me,” he gently laughs. “And you’re Lillian. ...I hope, otherwise this would turnout to be a very awkward hello.”

“It’s alright. I’m Lillian, no worries.” I smile up at him.

“That’s great ! I didn’t mess up and get the wrong person. How have you been? I haven’t seen you around since I accompanied piano for you at that performance. That was about….”

“I think it happened like 2 years ago,” I finished his thought. “Because it was my sophomore year when I played with you, I think.”

“Oh yes.Yes, I remember now.” Mr. Mark nodded. “It’s very nice to see you. Did you go by Lillian or Lilli, I forget. Have you graduated? What’s going on for you? Are you still playing your instrument?”

I open my mouth to answer his questions. But they jumbled in my brain, and it took me a moment to construct an intelligible answer.

All that came out was a very intelligent sounding “Uh,”

Mr. Mark shifted. “Whoops. Sorry. I pulled the classic adult move didn’t I?” He apologetically cocked his head. “Bombarding the young ones with too many questions. Very uncool.”

“No, no it’s fine! My friends call me Lilli, it really doesn’t matter. Yes, I’ve graduated a month ago. And as for my flute….” I think back to the silver instrument, lying within the confines of it’s leather case placed on the top shelf of my closet. I haven’t picked it up, let alone blown into it for at least an year now. “I haven’t been playing as much these days.” I quickly wrap up, pushing away the slight mist of dark guilt.

Thankfully, he didn’t seem as if he caught onto my apparent unease at the mention of my flute, and responded innocently enough, “Well that’s a shame. That first time I rehearsed with you, I immediately thought I never will or have come accross a better flute player.”

I cringe at the memory of the first rehearsal I ever had with Mr. Mark. I wasn’t exactly the best at keeping with the piano whenever I played solo, and that day was no exception. I started too early, lost my count and lost my cue, and when things seemed to be going smoothly I’d mess up the flowing sound with an unexpected falter in my fingers. I felt like crawling into a shell whenever we had to stop on account of me. The whole ordeal was agonizing for me, who’s always dealt poorly under performance stress, and probably more so for Mr. Mark, as he had to continuously playing back to the start for me numerous times, like a broken record.

I let out a very distressed “Noooo….” and rapidly shake my head back and forth. “I was average, at best. That first time we rehearsed together was the complete worst for me,” After a second’s discretion I quickly add, “and probably for you too. You had to deal with me messing up all the time.”

“Ahem.”

I quickly whip around, for the second time this morning. In what seemed like a few passing moments, we had drifted up to the order counter, pleasantly engaged in amicable conversation. The poor bambi eyed barista had been replaced by a plump older woman, who held an air of absolute authority despite being half my size and holding a welcoming smile on her face.

“What would you like today, dear?”

“Yes! Um I,” I stutter. I feel assaulted by an immensely awkward life or death decision, as I frantically scan the black menu boards for a welcome sounding drink. “I, I would like an iced black coffee please. Medium sized. Straight. I mean, with nothing in it, thanks.” I manage to let out, in the nick of time, just before the time spent sputtering spanned over socially acceptable standards.

“And for you, sir?” the lady expectantly turned towards Mr. Mark.

“Um actual--”

“I’ll take a small hot latte please.” I looked at him, dumbfounded. He had just naturally interrupted me. And just naturally placed his order. Like it was the most natural thing to do in the world.

What are you doing ????

I will him to hear me as I stare at his profile, completely calm as opposed to me, whose innards were twisting in confused turmoil.

“That will be 6 dollars and 25 cents.” The plump lady swiftly added up.

“Okay...let’s see….” Mr. Mark mumbles as he begins pulling out what looked suspiciously like a wallet.

What the fuck are you doing Mr. Mark nonono stop.

Alarm bells go off in my brain, as I let out, “No! I can’t let you do that!” Imaginary sirens start blaring up in there too, as I watch him shuffle through the wallet, in a casual manner.

“It’s okay, Lillian, I’ve got it for the both of us.”

“But. I’ve got it too! At least my part of it! I can pay, really…” My voice falters, and my will to fight for my dignity diminishes as well.

Oh, crap.

I reluctantly throw the white flag up, as I watch him hand over the exact amount, finalizing the deal.

“I don’t know what to say...I mean thank you! I really appreciate it but you really didn’t have to do that for me.” I quickly try to make the situation better for me. Oh, how I hated these unexpected occasions where people just spontaneously decided to be nice. I, for one, had no idea how to react, other than say a million thank-yous, and tying it off with the overused line, “I really appreciate it.”

“No worries. It’s my treat for this occasion. You don’t see ex-students around every day.” Mr. Mark yet again smiled one of his really gentle, wholesome smiles. The sort of smile where the eyes also smile, deepening the laugh lines, but where the mouth is just a slight upturning. The subtle kind, that wasn’t too in your face. It had a magical calming effect on most everybody. I remember he’d calmly smile like that at every occasion where I’d made a mistake during a rehearsal.

“Anyways though...I think I conveniently forgot about your mistaking multiple times during our first play through together.” he picked up the conversation again. “I just remember your final solo performance being a huge success.” He quirked an eyebrow, as he handed me my drink.

“Thank you !! For the coffee, I mean. And also thank you for that feedback, “ I added sheepishly. “I think it really was definitely better than our first run through.”

“It would be somewhat problematic, wouldn’t it, if you hadn’t improved at all.” He teased.

“That would be horrifying, yeah,” I quickly respond as I impale my drink with a straw. “if the final product resulting from like 5 weeks of continuous rehearsals just sounded like a dying duck. Yep, great finale. Fabulous job, Mr. Mark and Lilli.” I say monotonously, acting out the role of the fictional unimpressed audience.

My sarcasm earned a small laugh from Mr. Mark. I feel my self confidence for interaction with this man build up, as I feel somewhat proud for being capable of eliciting actual amusement from a former mentor. I felt a bit mature, as teenaged Lillian never could make smooth small talk with an authority figure aside from maybe her parents.

“I’ve been wondering though...why have you always called me ‘Mr. Mark’?” He asked with a somewhat more serious air.

I felt my triumph rapidly shrink, as various thoughts rapidly rushed through my mind, most of which being Oh no, did I offend him?? As we settled ourselves down into a set of comfortable arm chairs with drinks in hand, I tentatively started, “Um, well. I’ve been calling you Mr. Mark because...I wasn’t really sure how to pronounce your last name, and I didn’t want to be disrespectful or anything, you know?” My speech speeds up, as I catch Mr. Mark’s brow furrow for a split second. “I didn’t want to just address a mentor just by their first name, that’d be a bit awkward and a tad disrespectful, so I thought adding a ‘Mr.’ at the beginning would make the situation at least somewhat better. Like I thought it was better to do that instead of butchering your last name every time into a million pieces.” I watch him earnestly as he processed my explanation.

Right when I thought that I’d messed up for real, it took me by surprise when Mr. Mark suddenly began chuckling quietly. “That….” He said in between breaths. “that, is really funny and actually, quite smart of you.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just ended up dumbly saying, “Oh. Really?” I guess he took it in a positive way. My tension slowly receded as I listened to him go on in amusement.

“Yeah, really. Very effective way of avoiding uncomfortable situations. It’d have saved me so many irritated verbal corrections back in my school days.”

“Oh no, what happened?” I smiled, and asked out of curiosity at what my former mentor sitting in front of me, who’d always seemed so soundly confident, may have been like when he was more my age.

“Well. I think the worst occasion was when I was in college, studying piano under this really gruff Russian professor. A large, large man,” I couldn’t help but laugh a bit at his choice of expression. He carried on, acknowledging my little giggle, “I mean, not in an offensive way, really. He just had this big presence.” Mr. Mark demonstrates with his arms. “He had an even larger, very impressive beard. And virtually no one had the guts to go up and have a one on one, heart to heart conversation with him. Just a very intimidating man.”

I follow along, “Oh yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Right ??” He cocked his chin forward, emphasizing his point. “And I had the absolute blessing to go ask him a very urgent question. But I’d never really heard anyone say his name before. Even the other professors called him the ol’ gruff. The only thing I knew was that his name ended with something something - vich. You know? The stereotypical Russian ending for all names. So I just took this really wild guess. Totally butchered his name. He ended up coaching me for a whole ten minutes to say his name with complete accuracy, accents and everything! But I did nail the vich part. That was a plus.”

I start laughing a bit when I picture the mental image of a younger Mr. Mark quivering under the glare of a slightly more wild, rough version of Santa Claus with a heavy accent.

“I mean, I can’t really complain because my name isn’t exactly the most simplest name out there either.” Mr. Mark added on after taking a sip of his latte.

“How exactly do you pronounce your last name?” I ask, thinking that I might as well learn now.

“You do sort of a harsh ‘cuh’ sound, the ‘fa’, like as in the musical note, and then ‘relly’, like really without the a. Sort of confusing, isn’t it.” He explained.

“Cafarelli?” I begin somewhat uncertainly. Convinced by Mr. Mark’s encouraging nod, I tried again. “Cafarelli. Mr. Caffarelli !” It feels foreign in my mouth at first, but it slowly moulds itself on my tongue, and it rolls out effortlessly.

“That’s it, very nice job.” He gave me a small round of literal applause, which I found funny, seeing an adult actually trace a circle in the air with his clapping hands. “Everyone always makes it sound way more Italian than it needs to be. Like Cu-fa, REEEEELLI.” He rolled his eyes as he demonstrated his overemphasized Italian accent. “But feel free to call me just Mark from now on.”

Bewildered, I reflexively ask, “Wait, what?” I know I sounded a bit dumb, but it was just a foreign suggestion to me. “But I was a student...you know, I don’t want to be disrespectful?”

“Well, technically I was just your mentor, but that doesn’t matter now!” He flat out denied my argument. “You’re no longer a student under my mentorship wing anymore, don’t bother with all the different titles. Alright?” Mr. Mark gave me an encouraging smile.

“Alright Mr. - I mean!” I quickly fix myself, when he raises a questioning eyebrow. “Mark.” I smile weakly, and shrink back in my seat a bit. God that felt weird.

“Very nice,” he nodded approvingly.

We finished up the remainder of our drinks in amicable conversation. We stood from our table, slowly saying our farewells. You know, the usual things you might say to a distant relative you only see once a decade. “Nice seeing you, hope to see you soon, have a nice day, have a safe trip back home.” And of course, numerous more thank-yous for the unexpected free coffee that I’d gotten. The prolonged strings of parting greetings. The usual. But it felt….different, hearing it from Mark Caffarelli, my former piano accompanist, and music mentor. Or Mark, as I should be calling him under his discretion. I inwardly cringe a bit every time I think of Mr. Mark as just, plain Mark. I think he’ll just stay Mr. Mark in my mind for a while, even after today. As I parted with him outside the San Francisco Coffee Brewers & Co., I couldn’t help but look back at his slowly distancing figure. He was a tall man, who must’ve been very lanky in his younger years. I wonder how old he is right now? I ponder. Mr. Mark had an easy air, making me feel almost comfortable in his presence, though I’d never known him as well as my actual flute teacher from highschool. I could easily relate with him, which made for good conversation. Wholesome speech.

Wholesome. The entirety of the events that had taken place within the particular cafe left me feeling pleasant. Happy. Warm inside. I didn’t know what it was, but I left feeling glowier inside than I did when I arrived. Mark. I try again in my mind. A sort of giddy feeling bubbles up inside of me, and I smile to myself. Quickly, I cover it with my hand, trying to suppress the involuntary reaction. It felt like I’d been given a small amount of authority. Authority and….and certification to be on a first name basis with someone I’d respected and revered as a teenager. I felt like I had a bit of control. It even felt a bit, wrong too. Like I’d just dipped my bare finger into a pot of honey. That is reprimandable, not to mention completely unsanitary. But the licks of sweetness I got from it was irresistible. It gave me a certain high emotion. I don’t know what this is, but I like it.

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rooellensuwanai-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Learning From You Pt.1

It’s the middle of June. I graduated exactly a month ago from today. That fact still baffles me as I wake up every morning. More times than once, I’ve been gassed out of my waking thoughts by the seeping creeping sense that I was late for something. Only to remind myself that my days of being constantly chased by high school bells and tardy notices were over. It’s been taking me quite a long while to become used to the rare peace and tranquility that normally accompanies the arrival of dawn...in theory. I guess the public school system has trained me well. There are nights when I wake up in a cold sweat, remembering I had a non existent chem lab report that’d inevitably slipped from my mind since it was such an obscure lab.

But I remind myself often during the day: it’s all over for me. I’m done! No strings attached, nothing whatsoever. Astalavista Central High School, where I spent the majority of my late teenage years.

The reality of it all hasn’t really settled with me yet. I’m afraid it never will. Teachers at my school, wait, let me rephrase, teachers at my old high school used to tell us as soon as our class hit senior year “You all are going to be young adults when you graduate. There’s going to be so much more responsibility once you’re out of here.” They’d also tell us to “Learn what you can while you’re still here. It might help when you’re an adult and on your own.”

I distinctly remember myself sitting in class only designating a fraction of my brain to process the Surprise! You’re a senior now! talk. The rest of it disintegrated into the teacher drone I’ve grown accustomed to listening to at least seven hours a day, stored in my conscience only as a foggy memory. It’s strange. Though the lessons were dreadfully boring and sleep inducing at times, it had grown on me, a comforting buzz to my eardrums. It was like a daily reminder that all was, in a lack for a better word, normal. The same old, same old. Same old people you’ve known through their awkward blue eye shadow and Axe cologne drenching days. The same routine you always follow to get yourself through the day.

Some might say it’s boring. And I agree, the same old is boring. But at the same time, it gives you a sense of artificial security. You can predict what’s going to happen every day, and even if some thing out of the ordinary does happen to unfold in front of you, it’s probably just a little giggle. The perfect example of this would be our dreadfully timid endeavour we called our senior prank, which was basically releasing a gaggle of helium filled balloons to the high ceilings of our unnecessarily majestic looking lobby. In theory, it sounded cool and cute, but really, it just seemed as if an over enthusiastic teacher accidentally spilled about ten balloons they meant to use for a staff party.

There’d been talk of switching places with the entirety of the senior body of our across the city neighbor, Northern High School. However, many opted out of it because it was “too risky, it’d go against school rules.” That’s the perfect example for my other point, that that change is scary. Making risky moves is scary. Doing something different is scary. Trying something new is scary too. That’s why the same old gets comfortable, and becomes a second skin for you. It’s like a protective shell, I guess.

Back in September, when I’d been listening to the You’re A Senior Now talk, I wasn’t aware that I was in that protective eggshell. It’s not like I have trouble stepping out of my comfort zone. No, that’s not the point. I just assumed back then that becoming an adult was a natural thing that came when I reached some sort of big check point in my life. Not some big whopping change, like boom, in, your, face.

I’ve always kind of made assumptions about how lots of things are going to happen since I’ve been a little kid, watching Disney and reading “feel good”, “happy ending” chapter books. For some giggles, I remember myself assuming that there’d be my very own prince charming that I’ll inevitably find myself wed to and have children with, I remember myself assuming that high school would be a place of dramatic encounters and bursts of music just like in High School Musical. I know, very cliche, but that’s what little me thought !! Over time, I’ve learned to not trust those assumptions because most likely, they are just dreams and stereotypes the media has painted glamorously for the public to subconsciously believe in.

Despite the laws of reality I’ve discovered for myself over the years, I found myself expecting that my final months spent as a high school student will be poetic in a sort of Ray Bradbury Dandelion Wine coming of age sort of way. The goodbyes will be bitter sweet, taken slowly one step at a time. Teachers will give welcoming heart to heart chats that you never knew they’d been capable of giving. Students will become more open with each other, forming some sort of truce like, yup, no more cliques. I imagined myself quite a few times, slowly traversing down a dimly lit familiar school hallway, tracing my fingers over the cold metal lockers and the rough surface of the wall. I thought that I’d slowly absorb it all, filing through my mental stock of memories and quietly smiling to myself about them.

But Nope!! It was nothing like that! Hahahaha. The last few months of high school were the quickest months of my life. I tread on a path furthest away from “poetic”. “Chaos” was a better word. So many things were getting finalized during those few months, it seemed impossible to even hear myself think. All the notable end of the year, senior events blurred together. If my life had been arranged like a Bob Ross paint palette, it would have been infinitely more easier. I’d just have to execute all my business one after the other, like I knew exactly what I was doing, starting from college signing, graduation gear, thank you cards to my teachers, final essays and senior exams. Bob Ross could paint seamlessly from one color to another in under thirty minutes. I believed that I could paint my final days as a high schooler in a neat orderly fashion, just like that. Make it into a perfect manifestation of all the hard work I’d poured into my academic career up until then.

That wasn’t the case at all. My make believe Bob Ross paint palette of must do tasks before I walk that stage resulted not in orderly dollops of events, but a clusterfuck of oh my god what am I doing why am I living off of coffee? moments. My paint palette representation of my life at that point was a very large smear of paint that looked like a gleaming mass of crap.

Before I knew it, it was all over. The night I came back home from my ceremony, I remember leaving myself sat on my bed, still dressed in the heavy gown, for a good hour or two. I remember myself tracing the careful steps I took across the stage, so I wouldn’t teeter off the edge of my heels I’d insisted on wearing. Now that I think of it, that was by far the worst decision I made. My feet were left sore, and those pretty shoes just added unnecessary stress to my night.

As I sat in silence on my bed after my parents bid me a cheerful You’re a Grad! good night, I pondered the last few months I spent as a high school student. It was so anticlimactic. Despite the sonorous blaring of Pomp and Circumstance that engulfed me as I walked into the auditorium, to me, it had no significance whatsoever. The whole process of graduation to me felt as if I were thrown into a swirling gale, tussled about for a few blinking seconds, and spat back out again miraculously donning a gown and cap complete with a leather bound diploma in my hands.

Wow.

That night, I looked about my room multiple times, sitting in the same spot on my bed. My hefty AP review books, that I never got through in time for the actual exam were still there, sitting on my shelf. My middle school watercolors were still pinned up against my bulletin board, with some polaroids in the mix as well. The notes I’d pulled out in desperation to not fail my senior exams were still in the scattered pile on the edge of my desk, too. The room looked like it could definitely see me out again in a busy storm heading for school starting next Monday morning. However, that was no longer my life.

It was all over. There were no extremely happy emotions that prompted me to throw my cap in the air, out the window, to outer space. No. Not really. There was just that nonchalant voice in my head reminding me that I was no longer affiliated with Central High School. During my vigil, I spotted the polaroid I took with my close friend, Victoria.

I smiled. The picture was taken on the first day of senior year, the same day when we all received the You’re gonna be an adult after high school!!, talk many consecutive times. We both looked so happy and so confident. Wearing flowy rompers that refused to let go of the final traces of summer vacation, our heads were thrown back as we clutched each other, mid laugh. The distant memory triggered me to suddenly be caught in confusion,

Am I officially an Adult, with a capital A now? Since I graduated? Am I really?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or slap my cheeks in shock when I reached that thought. I needed some kind of proof. More proof than my leather bound diploma. Or the distant warning words of my teachers. I pounced on my phone, and immediately summoned my good confidante, Victoria.

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