Dying Dreams

Earlier this week, my friend asked me to review his second short article criticizing a theater performance he watched and was disappointed with. Last night, he told me it has been published and asked me to comment on it. This morning, I read it. 

It was an easily understood article. His arguments were strongly elaborated, his complicated and literally-translated terms were sufficiently explained, the article was introduced and concluded nicely... so overall, I think it was a good article. Surely it was, because it has been published. 

Reading the article, I felt a bit nostalgic because, first, criticizing art (movies, books, etc) was what we did in college and it has been so long since I last did it seriously. Second, it was because my friend used the theory I had used as a tool in my thesis. That is, the adaptation theory by Linda Hutcheon. But that doesn't matter.

I also felt proud for him because he wrote something worth reading and even got it published. As far as I know, he hadn't wanted to be a writer or journalist, so I could only think that getting published was probably not his aim; getting people to know how he think about the play is. Hence, I was happy for him.

However, and this is so low of me, I feel kinda sad. I had been the one who wanted to be journalist and here I am, stuck with the job I hadn't wanted the most. And I envy him because he used everything he learned at college - not the grammar part, because he wrote in Bahasa - and got where he is right now. He looks like everything I want to be; everything I had dreamed of - not just a journalist, but also a critical one. 

Considering what I have been doing up to now, I am nowhere near my dream of becoming a journalist. Nevermind the critical one. This got me questioning: is my dream dying now? Am I now too occupied with my job? I can't help thinking that way, because working as a full-timer really occupies my life, but no. That is not the problem. 

To be completely honest, back when I didn't have a job (and was frantically looking for one), I didn't even think much of being a journalist. I hadn't applied for a journalist position - I had applied for editor or translator position because those were what I liked best. Even up till now. What's more, I hadn't tried to write anything critical and post it on some media. I hadn't used everything that matters that I had learned in college to create anything worth considering. During my vacant period, I had only been looking for a secure job. Something to guarantee a constant income so I can live from month to month.

It doesn't mean I was wrong. Being jobless for six months could really turn your head spinning, and we, the fresh graduates, were well-informed that not having a job means being a burden for your family, your country, and your own. We knew that we could no longer burden our family; we have been funded for 12 years of school, if not 16 years in total including higher institution. But most of all, we longed for that bit of independence. For standing on our own feet, paying by ourselves for everything, being able to treat the family that has been there for us. For starting from scratch by ourselves and creating our own rules for our little world. Having a job is the first step for all that.

So, yeah, probably my dream to become a journalist is dying. Has been dying for a while now. I exchanged it with the dream of being independent. So I got what I wanted. It's just that after three months and not liking what I do, I'm sorry for not trying more things before settling. Being a critical journalist, though could be a permanent job, needs more trial-and-errors. If not from applying directly to the media, it can start with what my friend just did. 

Still, trying to look at things with positive outlook, what I'm doing can be seen as a trial-and-error. I am trying this out and so far the end results are errors, but that's okay because then I know this is not for me. Meanwhile, I can continue pursuing my other dream: to be a writer. Not doing what I like gives me enough time and will to do what I like best. That is, writing. And writing, especially writing fiction, has flexible hours. 

Okay, some of my dreams are dying (or frozen, as I prefer to think it can be relived someday), but there are certain dreams whose pursuit means sacrificing other dreams. Nothing's wrong with that as long as you are fully conscious when you make your choices and you are aware that each choice has consequences.

The Truth Recently

They say what matters is not the way people feel about you; instead, it's how they make you feel about yourself. And I am so unhappy right now that I know this whole situation might be really wrong for me.

I have been complaining since almost the very start... had thought it would pass but eventually it became more and more serious. I'm disgusted with myself and I feel so low and in a way I feel trapped. School is clearly not the right institution for me. When I was a student, I had hated it. When I am a teacher, I still hate it very much the same. I think and think and wander if I'm just exaggerating. I had thought it was perhaps because I wasn't ready for work. Had believed it was perhaps because I was still caught up in the utopia of college's lifestyle and way of thinking. Maybe it was.

But it hasn't stopped.

I hate the bureaucracy. I hate the formalities. I hate the rules. I hate the limitations. I hate that the students' way of thinking needs to be shaped. I hate the complains. I hate the nagging. I hate the never ending expectations. I hate the standards I have to fulfill. I hate that teachers are responsible for the students' scores. I hate that parents intervene with the way education is carried out. On top of it all, I hate myself because I feel this way. It makes me sick.

I hate it when I hate the world around me. It makes me feel pathetic and despicable. I hate school and I am incapable of being a teacher, and I hate it when I feel incapable. It makes me feel unworthy. And because this cycle of hatred has finally reached this level, it makes me realize school is just not for me. 

My problem doesn't lie with the students. Come on, they're students. They're young and only half-exposed to the world. Some are pains in the ass, some others are all sugar, while some others just so-and-so. It's normal. The core problem is that I am not a teacher at heart. Looking at those young people, I don't have the desire to teach them ABC or telling right from wrong; instead, I desire to befriend them or simply neglect the problematic ones. I desire to talk to them about their lives. About their dreams. I desire to be their friend. And that's neither correct nor can happen.

Being a teacher, I am told, means there's a certain gap you have to establish so that students respect you. There are formalities you need to assign to the class so that students know their place. You can behave the way you want outside classrooms, but there is a set of rules inside. I can't separate the two.

I have long known and felt that there are better things beyond formalities. That respect has nothing to do with the way you address or are addressed. That gap doesn't mean people know their place - sometimes it just means they don't want to have anything to do with you, and other times it just means that they drive further away from you.

The same person who told me all the perks of being formal doesn't even gain the students' respect. How ironic. But then again, school has always been a formal institution. My first mistake was waltzing back in.

Speaking of formalities, I also have a problem with the hierarchy here. Fuck hierarchy, really. And fuck conflicts of interests. I want to elaborate more, but that can wait. I need to organize my thoughts better so it won't come out as simply an outburst.

Review: Come on, Cinderella.

When I heard that there is a live action remake of Disney's Cinderella, I had hoped for a plot twist like they did with Maleficent. But, alas, what I got was a two-hours of beautiful dresses and a tale of a girl who was too kind for her own good.

Perhaps this was because I'm a skeptic and I don't believe pure kindness can get you anywhere at all. There's a fine line between kind and stupid, and Ella was more to the stupid side. She couldn't stand up for herself, she couldn't say no, she couldn't protect the house she kept saying she loved for her mother and father... so what did she actually do for good? She waited for the right prince to come and sweep her off her feet. Only then was she able to chin up and waltz out of the house. 

There was an additional scene where Ella and the Prince met in the forest for the first time. I don't know if it was meant to show that the Prince fell for Ella's natural beauty/charming wit in contrast with the original version where they met for the first time at the ballroom with Cinderella wrapped in her all princessy dress, still...

Well said, Elsa! You see, with Frozen and Maleficent, I thought Disney had made a change of direction and is heading to a more women-empowering approach for their movies. However, because of this too high of an expectation, I am disappointed with how Cinderella turned out to be. The additional scene changed next to nothing, especially because her 'wit' was not so much of a wit. "Just because it's what's done, it doesn't mean it should be done" -  really? Sounded like simply quoting from another source. (Okay, maybe I'm too harsh. I know it was supposed to refer to the tradition of princes marrying princesses because in the end, Kit the Prince disobeyed the tradition and married Ella the commoner). 

Speaking of wit (and advice), the "Have courage and be kind" advice from Ella's mother seemed to be ignored by Ella in most of her life because simply, none of her action after her father died represented courage and kindness. She couldn't say no, so it wasn't kindness. She was okay being moved to the attic, so it wasn't courage. She remained quiet while being treated less than what she deserved so it wasn't a form of kindness - it was stupidity and cowardice. The only time she was able to say no to her stepmother was when the Prince came to her house and officially asked for her to see him.

I had expected too much... Part of me had expected to see a breathtaking and mind-shaking retelling like the one Intan Paramaditha did in Perempuan Buta Tanpa Ibu Jari. Another part of me had expected more elaboration on the step-family's characters, but even that they didn't do. However, I couldn't blame Disney because Cinderella is one of the most famous classic story, and despite the truth that she is no princess, the truest princess with all the magic and transformation.

Probably even Disney doesn't have the heart to ruin Cinderella's magically happy ending for their audience.

Courtesy of images: Google

The Conversationists

"My idea of good company, Mr. Eliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company." - Persuasion, Jane Austen.

Consider it an attempt at being disgustingly sentimental. Those in the picture are bound to mock me if they read this. They will laugh and tease me because that's what they do. I love them anyway.

Unlike how it seems, it is hard to put in words the overwhelming happiness of spending four years in college and ending up together. Maybe it is hard because I have no other motive in writing this except that I miss them a lot these days and I want to relive those days with them when our time seemed to stop. Usually one writes more easily if one has concrete objective.

There are so many things I want to talk to you about them. I had thought that it would be best to start with the things and moments that tie us up, but it seems irrelevant now. It was probably IKMI and our fondness of gossips that brought us together. And maybe our nonexistent curfew did, too. We seemed to have always been available for staying the night at campus' neighborhood (if not sleeping over!).

Talking of the way they have changed me would also have no point because it would be take too much explanation, so probably I'll just talk about the things I love doing with them.

As a chatterbox, I love conversations. Not just conversations, but deep talks. I believe conversations lead me to knowing people better - and not just about their characters, but also about their ideas and visions about practically anything in the world. And I can always count on these people to satisfy my thirst for conversation. In fact, that is the sole reason I pick that quote from Persuasion to put under the picture. They really are good company. At one point or another, there was always a time when each and every one of us got involved in an insightful conversation.

Oh, we did other things beside talking. We went on trips together. But it always seemed to me that engaging ourselves in conversations is what we do best. Talks with them could take hours, sometimes half a day. And we seemed to talk best after midnight. I don't know if it was because our minds were no longer completely sober and were overused, but we seemed to say better things and think more interesting thoughts from midnight till dawn. We were night owls. We talked about personal stuff (usually romance with the girls, and gossips with both genders) as starter, then we moved on to heavier subjects (by which I mean college stuff such as the study of feminism, gender, psychoanalysis, existentialism, movie critics - basically ideas that we can highly relate to our life and surroundings - and also religion: the difference between the practice and the spirituality).

Talks with them were not always good. We have had our share of bitter discussions and disheartening conversations. It was probably because we were forthright and painfully critical people; it was as if we had no filter of what to say. Some of the wounds left scars in our hearts or awful memories we can't get rid of. But that's sort of okay by me now. That was how I grew up with them. The talks were always challenging and consoling simultaneously. And I sort of learned that that was the way we love and support each other because we stay throughout even the most painful conversation.

For me, 'us' used to be forever. Like time was halted and we would see no end to living like then. At least I felt that way. Their presence did not only lift my spirit; they made me high-spirited all the time. I was boundless and strong in mind and body. And life was full of joy and really "all my friends are nice and gay!" and the image of us ending was nowhere to be seen.

But graduation made way, and eventually we had to stop being in the same place. The talkers can talk neither as often as they did, nor can they give any more critical remarks as frank. Believe me, place and frequency of meeting matter. Some things have to change in order to preserve this valued friendship. And so I miss them. How nice would it be if we are given a night to get together again soon!

A girl caught a bus to a certain post office in the neighborhood. She jumped off when the bus passed the post office and waved her hand to someone. It was her friend, waiting by the rustic gate of the old post office. 

"He gave you something," her friend said. The girl, in overwhelming sadness and confusion, went straight into the post office, followed by her friend, to pick up the package he had left for her. 

The package was sheets of papers, and it was not addressed to her, though there was a note addressed to her attached on the front. "Give this to S," the note said. After a whole day of confusion, such thing was no longer questionable - no longer needed questioning! Her friend was as clueless as she, so the only thing she could do was finding S. 

She walked and walked and in her way, thinking of how they hadn't talked for so long and wondered why he went this length of speaking to her through notes on package. At that time, it had already been two years since their last casual night out. Since the last time they were friends...

The girl's confusion was not something she only had for that day. She had felt it for the two years everything changed between them. They had stopped going out for talks and dinners, and meeting just the two of them. She had loved it; especially the long conversations they had every so often. She had confided in him, and perhaps depended on him without realizing, and she had lost a part in her when all that stopped. 

She wondered why he addressed the package to S when he wasn't supposed to know him.

Her feet brought her to S in no moment at all. Perhaps he knows the answer, she thought, and before handing the package, look up to his face. S stared at her as if she was pathetic, which she probably was anyway, and she hated it. She hated him because the package was addressed to him instead of her. 

"Why?" she barked. She handed the package but wouldn't let go before he answered her. S shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know," he said quietly, aware of the fact that she was shaken. S - and everybody else - was no stranger to the story of this girl and her guy. 

"Why is this package addressed to you? What is inside?" she begged. She had missed him for years and this was what she got. A note on a package to someone else.

S ripped the package for her. Inside was notes on some college lessons. Sketches she was not familiar with. She didn't understand the significance of it at all. She didn't even understand why he gave it to S. Darn, she didn't even know he studied all of those seemingly difficult graphics! 

"The package only says this is inherited to me," S answered. 

The girl knew S might not know the answer but she just had to ask the question. "Why did he stop talking to me? Why did we stop meeting up?" S shook his head in desperation as grave as hers. 

"Why did he stop being my friend?"

The girl was not sobbing, but it felt like the hollow in her heart choked her. She wanted to know if he had left because he had been afraid she wanted more. She did think they could be more, once, but definitely not if it meant she had to lose his friendship! Even the thought was unbearable for her wounded soul. She had lost two years of his friendship and she felt terribly sorry for everything. She missed him. 

Faith in Humanity: Restored!

1) I have realized for quite some time that I didn't trust human in general. I didn't trust their kindness; I trusted their hidden agenda. I didn't trust people acting purely out of good will and generally I didn't think kindhearted people exist. I trusted that people are originally suspicious, selfish creatures. 

 2) It is kinda hard to live as a Muslim in the midst of all prejudices against us. The social experiment below was conducted to combat Islamophobia in the West, but I think it is applicable to the situation here in Indonesia where Muslims are prejudiced as being superficial, violent, aggressive, judgmental and negatively dominant (which, sadly, are sometimes proven true by some idiotic actions conducted by idiotic agents).

Social Experiment to Combat Islamophobia

Click the link! This experiment encouraged me to believe that kindness do exist. Humans still care about other humans. Humans are still willing to go some distance and break some wall and hug a stranger to show they trust him. Humans are still willing to offer their trust to those who prejudiced them - and that's my homework.

My Keepers

I was just diagnosed of having one of those scary-named illnesses yesterday. It is not something that can be cured with just a full day of sleeping in and it kinda freaked me out the first time I heard the diagnosis. But it is also not something that I am condemned to have for a lifetime or that threatened my life. I won't go into further detail about it. Besides, it turns out many people have had it before me and they are perfectly cured by now, so I won't worry too much. It's just a hormonal problem.

However, scary names are meant to be scary and when I told one of my friends about it, she overreacted a bit and told other friends in our circle. It had pissed me off a little because I don't like too many people knowing about it because if they freak out, they freak me out, too. And I hate freaking out because that makes me feel incapable and weak. I like to think of myself as the protective one; the capable one in charge of worrying - not someone to be worried about!

My mother told me people worry because they love me. It is an opinion I have a hard time accepting. Not that I don't understand... in fact, I worry about people around me because I do care. It's just that I am not used to being the one about whom people need to worry. I hate it so much that I came down to reflecting: am I shutting people out? Am I putting distance to our friendship?

Anyhow, some of my friends paid a visit earlier today.

It was not so much of a hyper-entertaining meeting we usually have, probably because my focus wasn't exactly in place, but we had a quite nice time. I remember laughing a lot to the old sarcastic and cynical jokes, to the goofy way of speaking, and even to the most boring jokes. By the time they all went home I found myself singing out loud, and generally my spirit was lifted. 

Only then that I realized I might have not really seen what this friendship is about: that it is still so warm and so tight, that it is losing if I keep not seeing it, and that it means so much to me.

I still hate too many people knowing about my sickness, mostly because I hate feeling weak and I hate the uninvited attention, but there's a part of me that now thinks I have to open up and accept the way they love me. They went so far to my house for just a visit to someone who barely has to lie still under the blanket - surely no matter how much I hate it, I would be sorry to have them ignore me! What else could someone ask for but a friend - more, friends! - who is willing to go miles just to see you? 

They are precious friends. They're keepers.