Back to School

Over two decades later, I was back to school.

I recall clearly that day when I handed in my last final thinking to myself: that’s it, my last exam. I wanted to pat my shoulder to congratulate myself for a job well done in persevering to the end for the past 19 years of schooling days. Like my fellow comrades, I fought a good fight, kept the course and now waited for that well deserving trophy – the last diploma. I remember too promising to myself as worthwhile or meaningful as it had been, I had had enough of schools and that would be true end of an era.

Windows 7 broke that promise. With the computer world evolving continually, we the IT support face the reality of keeping up with the changes. The company then decided to send us all to school for a whole week. Incidentally my sign-up week fell on the time just when most schools started. So here I came, backpack and lunch bag packed, marching along with the student crowd for the same mission, much more in age and apprehension and unfortunately less in joy and hope.
What do students expect of the first day of school besides new outfit and gear? From a world of different time and space, it hardly ever revolved around new shoes or clothes – uniforms took care of that and school supply was merely new pencils and erasers since the rest was provided by school. On that same road back to school after a 2-month summer vacation was a child with a book bag nearly empty yet a heart filled with much anxiety: Would I make new friends? Would they like me? Could I finally make it to the “good students” list so my teacher would love me as they loved my sister? Many, many years later, there I was again, standing in front of that classroom – still the same child within and yet so different in many ways: instead of walking, I had driven my cross-over utility to school; instead of growing my hair is now thinning and brain shrinking; instead of many ambitions and resolutions for a better me, my head stirring with only one question: how do I survive this week without looking like a fool?

My classmates of the week may be from different groups but were of the same floor, so there were no strangers to deal with. Our “teacher” was but a well-paid outsider who cared no grades or disciplines thus no one to seek approval from. Yet, I still intuitively sat myself at the far end aisle seat next to door for easy, necessary escape. My survival instinct was miscalculated when another coworker took his seat right next to me seconds later. He was not at all in the category of “strangers” since we had had our occasional “dealings” back at the office in our IM sessions and chocolates tossing across the partition between our cubicles. This unfortunate mishap actually cost not only my safety but also my sanity for the whole week as my “no-stranger” neighbor dutifully performed his daily instigator and tormentor role. Instead of hiding behind the enemy line, I was tossed out mercilessly in the war zone with him pushing the button and I yelped and cussed despite all effort. All eyes or heads would turn at me with frown and disapproval while I sat mouth wide opened and defenseless. Gone was all well designed safeguard, gone was productivity and gone was, most sadly, propriety. In short, I successfully committed the exact crime I had feared most: becoming a fool.

A week has passed since the school day revisit. As much as I would like to pin it on my enemy, I am well aware that I couldn’t help being baited like a silly 8-year-old. I had anticipated everything in that classroom – everything except teasing, as harmless as it was, something that the younger me had known a thing or two about and the older and wiser me taught my own children of. All that experience and wisdom rendered useless in a setting of reality. Do we ever change over time and space? Across the Pacific Ocean and another continent with many, MANY years of wisdom and experience acquired, I went back in that classroom as helpless as I had been on the very first day of school. I think of my other “classmates” there, many of whom I knew little of except crossing path at the office, still I am sure they too had reversed to be their younger selves in that classroom: some reserved, some dutiful and focused and some teasers or bullies as they had been since day one. The truth is: they never left the classroom.

So how was training? Some asked. I smiled with my usual wise answer: “Best thing was the last day: we had 3 dozens of donuts and 1 batch of chocolate cookies”, when the real revelation in fact was: Forget Windows 7, forget pens and pencils, but don’t forget the bullies.

"Are we there yet?"

August continued on to week two. For college son and husband, they have yet 1 more week to go before a new academic year begins in full session. Since the ending of the high school era, we have been slacking in taking summer vacation as a family and finally became convicted enough to take remediation on this setback. We had come up with a couple of choices: Pittsburgh or Baltimore. Both seemed doable as far as time frame and budget are concerned, but Baltimore won eventually in its merit of location (closer) and time (shorter).

23 years of parenting and 25 years of marriage later, I have concluded that playing is definitely NOT in our gene pool. Some believe in “practices make perfect”, but I would argue that it may improve but never overcome, let alone perfect. In this family, vacation is work (and vice versa) for parents. For children, it is somewhat a split. The older son would consider a ride on Interstate Highway with his camera in action vacation already, while the younger one merely tags along for the motion only. He seems forevermore detached and neutral with whatever decisions we make: what to do, where to go, McD or Wendy. Vacation to us is a picture of 4 faithful and long suffering pilgrims trapped in the car performing their playing duty.

In the past, the man of the house extended his authority to the domain of the car and thus had always been the designated driver. I might have stepped in a couple of times as the reluctant substitute out of necessity. Unexpectedly, this trip deviated when the younger son popped the question: do you want me to drive? At 20 years old, he has been driving since 17, mostly for errands or agendas of his own but strictly limited to the local routes. Still, I was taken by surprise. The request may sound logical from a young man of his age, but not from one who is anything but logical. Intense and atypical, he has had no social activities such as phone calls, partying, or outing with people of his age throughout his growing years. Nowadays, he has been withdrawing from family trips whenever an option is in place. Even with his presence, it would be at best in the company of a shadow, who with his ear piece on is anywhere but there in the back seat of the car. Outside of the car, the shadow moves away even farther, skirting and dancing 50 feet ahead of us with almost a painful look. An outing with him, as rare as it may be, is no dream vacation that we would get thrilled about. His volunteer to drive to some degree was more disturbing than unexpected for the worrisome mother. The father, however, being a born teacher with the most persevering faith and patience, hesitated no time to turn in the driver’s seat. Baltimore is but a 3+ hour drive. With the route we planned, the proposal seemed harmless and feasible to him. Just like that, another driver was born, I mean, on.

Why do we continue to expect life anything but unexpected when it never fails to surprise us with its unpredictability? Once he was behind that wheel, the shadow took shape and came alive for the first time since forever. In that metal box only big enough to be called “Cross-over” utility, he was not only animated but also engaging, violating all evidences of his 20 years of existence. That Hallmark moment even includes those silly, nonsensical interactions with his Autistic brother. For a little while, we were almost a normal family, taking a trip while we joked and conversed from movies, music, to nothingness. The rest of the first day - the motel that GPS could not locate, a baseball stadium too crammed for comfort, the anticipated attraction, Inner Harbor, jam packed with Saturday crowd on a hot and humid August day – failed in every category to qualify for a fun and relaxing vacation, but somehow it became irrelevant. Like good sports with perseverance, we came, we saw, we conquered.

After we concluded our first day in a brand new, hopeful American family spirit, the next day delivered another surprise when we headed on to Annapolis. The contrast between two worlds – that inside of the car and that outside – became strikingly evident. Once outside, he reversed to that amorphous ghost whose presence was too gloomy to ignore yet too far to reach. The charm by the water with shops, restaurants and blue sky might well have been as invisible as he was. Gone was our normalcy of a typical American family, gone was the bliss and gone was that amiable son. In as little as an hour of chasing after our illusion, we returned to our car and there he was again, alive and well, behind that steering wheel.

On the way back, I couldn’t help wondering if we did or did not have a good trip. Thus far, I was, and still am, uncertain with my conclusion. Somehow, the object of my assessment is no longer the trip but once again the million dollar mystery: the phantom, our son. Trip or son, I would probably wrestle on forevermore. But this I do know: while most parents take drastic measure for the road trip to avoid the dreadful question from the back seat “are we there yet?”, we are definitely spared from this predicament. For us, it is more like: “Thank God, we are NOT there yet”.

Skirt Experiment

After months of drought, the rain finally came. It started in the form of fury with Friday’s thunderstorm, flooding cities in various areas and continued on the next day to relieve the long suppressed agony. To our pleasant surprise, it wept more steadily yesterday till nightfall. I went to bed with windows open and the sweetest, most primitive music on earth, the sound of the raindrops.

As we marvel the long overdue miracle from heaven, another lesser form of miracle took place on earth this morning: I put on my girly outfit, a sweater and a skirt, to come to work. Two years and three months of my professional life, I have been anything but professional in the wardrobe department. To be fair, I did start out proper: blouse and slacks. Overtime in observing other “less formal” colleagues I started “slacking” off and sneaking in more and more “casual Friday” spirit on non-Fridays until finally the Friday spirit took over EVERY DAY.

In my defense, the nature of my job position does not require formal wear or dress code. In addition, the office has not been accommodating in its temperature control. It is always so cold that I end up with a sweatshirt and a blanket regardless of what I wear. My coworkers of the same sex, however, never seem to be afflicted by the same hostile condition and exhibit much more exciting spirit in both colors and varieties: dresses, skirts, heels, sandals and all that fixings. Unfortunately it failed to shame my instinct of survival and yes my contrarian nature in that “different” is good, especially when “different” means comfort and less effort. As any fallen creature, still, I have the full capacity of being vain in every way, and that includes my jeans and T-shirt, which are carefully selected every day. Such effort behind my plain yet deliberate choice achieves barely to satisfy my own vanity. The truth is: most people don’t really pay attention to a middle aged, married coworker like me.

So why skirt on an overcast, sad Monday after all this time? Impulse, curiosity or vanity? I don’t really know. What matters is that I did it: put on the outfit laid on the chair the night before, walked out of the house without returning to change and drove off to my expedition. At 4:10 I sat alone in my cubicle, my white sweater and red skirt loud and clear in plain view. I was thinking brave and feeling exactly the opposite with every ticking minute. 5:10 I had my first audition when I walked over to talk to the 2nd arrival of the day. It was met with no reaction at all. 5:30 was my 2nd face-on – still nothing. And the pattern continued on till finally my 28-year-old female coworker favored me with her giggles, which turned out to be the one and only attention for my major fashion undertake in 2+ years.

On top of my bewilderment, I was once again staring at another episode of life’s irony, which seems to have repeated too often to be surprised. My daring attempt to deviate from my usual fashion course turned out to be nothing worth noting or commended as I had anticipated. I thought of another irony that had just happened on Sunday at church when I made exactly the opposite choice, NOT to stray from my comfort zone, as we were all called up to parade to the front to pray together. Being the frozen chosen with a phobia of any public exhibition, I obstinately stood the ground for fear of violating my principle and nature as a good Presbyterian would do even at a Baptist church. Unfortunately, this safe choice rendered me anything but safe since I was miserably exposed standing there all by myself in trying to be myself. This unexpected miscalculation made me wonder if I should have done it otherwise and thus no eye brows would have raised and I be spared from the excruciating public display. Being singled out from everyone else turned out to be more strenuous than blending in. Maybe conformity is the comfort zone in that it can be a mean of camouflage, leading to an opportune and much needed safety?

The skirt experiment may have been a somewhat disillusion for my vanity’s sake but none the less a profitable revelation at the end. Sometimes, it is easier not to be you outside than to be you inside.