The place of being different

 

The place of being different

August 21, 2021

“Arey, why didn’t you wake up on time, now you have missed the bus. I’ll have to drop you.” I was annoyed, as I was going to be late for my own meeting at the office.

I was actually late already, as I had been dilly dallying whether to go for the morning meeting at work, or take a day off.

“But mum, I don’t want to go to school today, or ever!” and instead of reaching for the main door, he turned to the cupboard to get some cereal.

“What?”, it seemed, Arey had spoken something that I was thinking too. I don’t want to go to my work place either, today, especially. But putting away my thoughts about my issue with work, I turned to my son and his issue with his school.

He had come down from his room, dressed for school, but just in time to miss his bus.

“But why? What’s the matter? Did you not finish your homework, the story you had to right?”

Arey sat down on the breakfast stool, and started to pour milk into his cereal.

I decided to sit down too, and have breakfast with him, a piece of toast, or at least my cup of coffee, that I was planning to pour into my travel mug.

I had decided to miss the meeting, and reached for some cereal to nibble just dry with my coffee.

After he had eaten a couple of spoons of his cereal, I asked him again.

“Why, you usually enjoy your school, darling, what is the problem, are you in trouble about something, someone?”

My heart was racing, as I didn’t want my 10-year-old son to get into any trouble with any one, at school or anywhere else.

He was quiet till he finished his cereal, and slurped the last bit of milk from his bowl, and then he spoke, “Do you know, how hard it is to be so different from others?” He asked me.

Different, what was he saying?

“Yes, the story I chose, no one liked it, they don’t get it, I’m just so different, can’t you see!”

He had been going to his new school for the last few months, actually, and doing really well.

When he had finished year four at the local primary school, we had decided to send him to the opportunity classes, or if he didn't make it, to a private school, and when he finally got into this school, we were very happy. It was a better school, academically, from our local primary school, which had also lacked diversity, as there were not many children like Arey, ethnic, coloured and non English speaking. 

I had myself never felt as if we belonged to the community in our own suburb any way, I just couldn’t befriend the school mums gang, who would everyday congregate near the school gate before and after school, to drop off or pick up their kids. In the beginning, when I used to be home, I also used to go early, and try to be part of their group, and their activities. While waiting for their kids, they would all be chatting about whatever, and I'd stand on one side, they would be laughing, and I would try to smile, but I couldn’t be a part of that group. I didn’t have much in common with them. It was the same during the canteen volunteering or the library duty, I just could never fit in. And the worst part was they all ignored me.

Yes, Arey, I know, what is to be different! I wanted to say.

But, he was telling me about the story he had written for his English class, a story about his favourite animal, a unicorn, which used to be an ugly pony, in a family of beautiful and strong horses, who would beat him in every race, and made fun of him, till the day he realised, that he could fly. And then he flew away to the pink clouds, Arey was actually smiling, as he loved this story.

And I was thinking about myself, a migrant in a Western country, a different variety of a person, of a different colour, dark, with different features, and a different way of speaking in English, I was very different from those around me, and no matter how much I tried, I was not going to be one of ‘them’.

And at work, though, being an associate editor at the newspaper did reward my command of the language but then in the staff meetings, I remained unheard and unseen!

I was, mostly, just … an unacknowledged presence.

But I did make contributions to the paper, and I always tried to improve and enhance the work I had been given.

In the editorial meetings, I was usually the only person who had read the brief thoroughly, and had notes and questions, ready, and suggestions to make.

And no matter what colour my fingers were, my pen had the same power as everyone else.

And I yes, I knew my place!

I suddenly stood up and said to my son, “Arey, come on, you can still make it to your second period, you enjoy your History class, don’t you? And darling, no matter how different you are, you make your own place, we all have to, let’s go”.