A Series of Unfortunate Events

Act 4 Chapter 2

I think cynical is the best word to describe my whole personality back when I was in Junior High School. I never took things seriously and although it started as a joke – a lighthearted persona who occasionally would mix up stoicism too – I got a bit too far when I turned 14. I got quite a reputation of playing the jester or the clown role of the group. Some people saw my indifference as wisdom and an act of resilience. But many saw it as stupidity. Regardless, I did find my people, they’re the funny ones with a shocking sense of humor because life was never serious. They were the cultured generation, in the midst of the bullies who never get to see the world other than something they had always believed, a black and white; fail and success. That love is inherently good and forgiving, even though it smacked you with a cane and berated you for speaking out. That I just need to have faith, that there’s a plan designed for me by the end of the narrow road. Keep on loving, keep on feeling, even if it hurts.

Maybe this is what happened to a child who grew up in The Guest House full of Strangers doing what’s expected of her. But I couldn’t see the value of an emotional bond, nor the feeling of belonging to something greater than myself. Because, by the end of the day, they leave anyway. They’ll never understand, and they’ll make it clear that you’re a lost cause. Nothing was truly permanent, so why waste my time when the world is demanding a lot from me already?

I wasn’t careful with anyone’s feeling because neither was my family. I wasn’t careful with my words because neither were the strangers in the guest house. And also, it’s because they didn’t get the joke, lame! Sometimes I’d echo the same words my parents used to describe me.

“Sorry if I was off yesterday. I wasn’t feeling well.” Said a friend to me.

“Why? Because of homework?”

“Well, yeah but it’s more than–”

Without letting my friend finished her words, I said, “ah come on man! We’re just 8 graders.”

“Look, they never give a shit if you do it properly anyway.” I insisted.

“Like I said, it’s more than just..”

“Sometimes I just turned in Lin’s work and none of them noticed. You should do it too.” I told her jokingly. Something about her changed that day. Usually the conversation derailed there. They would comment about how ridiculous I was and we started laughing. The distraction always worked, but not now. She gave a chuckle before saying something that would be ringing in my head, on loop for the next years.

“Sometimes I wished you listened instead of trying to make everything into a silly story.”

I was stunned.

“Life consists of the slow and barren seasons too, you know?”

Perhaps something changed about me too that day. Because I spent my whole high school career trying to find someone who’d finally see me as I am. A beacon of hope that would guide me through life’s toughest and longest winters, instead of convincing me it’ll always be summer if I just stop complaining. Someone, something, somewhere, that’d happily teach me what it means to be loved. What it means to belong. What all these fuss about solidarity and giving yourself for the group – Home – were all about. I had spent 3 whole years of my life trying to build a Home. And yet none of them are still standing today.