"Close your book!" my co-teachers tell me. They are referring to my legs, which as far as I am concerned, are crossed primly - one over the other. Filipino skirt etiquette requires that they be crossed at the ankle, and I have made the rookie mistake of wearing a skirt today. "It's closed!" I protest, and dare them to try to look up it. They teasingly dance around, trying to peek before finally admitting that my book is shut tight. "It's okay because your legs are white," they decide. "We Filipinos must be ashamed of our dark color."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Change has always been difficult for me. It's not so much the before and after as it is the awkward in-between. Any change, big or small, is faced with anxiety and a willful determination to persevere through to the other side. It's like diving into the ocean on those first summer mornings, before the sun-embattled, thicker months heat up the water. You walk in up to your knees and shiver, hugging your arms to your chest and slowly inch forward. Suddenly, your little brother crashes past you and dives straight into the surf. He's going to splash you when he comes up, so it's either lag behind and succumb to humiliation or get over yourself and embrace the salty, frigidness ahead. It's only a moment before you're under the water, swimming to catch up with his thin, spidery legs. As expected, it is miserably cold, but when you surface and gulp fresh air you don't feel relieved so much as vibrantly alive and ready to show-off.
0 comments:
Post a Comment