The Girl Without A Heart

One summer day in my first years of primary school, I found myself in the bathroom.  I was washing my hands in the sink, looking at the girl in the mirror.  She was wearing a navy blue and white checked school dress, with her blonde hair falling out of her pony tail around her freckled face.  I felt something caught in my throat.  Grabbing some of the rough, yellow paper towel from the dispensor, I started to try to cough it up.  It didn't take long before I got it and spat it out into the paper towel I was holding.  There it was, a dark, blood-coloured ball sitting in the hollow of the palm of my hand.  I don't know what I had been expecting, but that was definitely not it.  What was it?  What could be that big?  And that colour?  There was only one thing that came to mind: my heart.  I had just coughed up my heart.  But why wasn't I dead?  You can't live without a heart.  Maybe it would just take a while?  That wasn't that important, what was important was that my death was imminent.  I would most likely die that very day.

I was gripped by a nervous fear: I couldn't tell anyone firstly for fear that they would scold me for having been so very foolish as to cough up my own heart, and secondly, in the case that I hadn't actually coughed up my heart, that it was something else, that they would mock me.  The rest of the day and part of the next I spent in quiet anxiety, awaiting the end when death would take me and everyone would realise that I was heartless.  But as the second day stretched into the afternoon it began to cross my mind in waves that maybe I wasn't doomed afterall.  Repeatedly I banished the thought, not wanting to jinx myself, but gradually as the day passed I was immersed in a sense of peace and relief.  I had spent a day heartless and was still alive, this probably wasn't my end, I was probably safe for now, probably...

Afternoon Rewards

I remember one afternoon, riding in the back of the family’s old, red station wagon.  Turned to face the window, I watched the landscape as we passed by.  We were driving through town. It was summer and we had been brought along to ‘help’ Mum with her errands in town.  I always thought though that it was more that they just wanted to get us off the farm for a while, especially while Dad would be working down there by himself, he wouldn’t be able to watch us as well.  Always I had hated these trips.  Unless there was the promise of going to the movies or something of the sort, it was a long, boring day in which we spent a lot of the time in the car in over thirty-five degree weather, driving between errands.  It left my blonde strands sticking to my skin and a constant paranoia at the threat of my fair skin being burnt.

I was watching the buildings pass, unenthusiastically.  Then I saw one building that caught my attention.  It was just a small, dusty, box-like store that looked like it wasn’t earning enough, like the other stores to its side.  This one had ‘Trophies’, written in big, triumphant letters across the front window, behind which gold, plastic figures towered.  At first I think I may have laughed, amused and confused at the concept.  But then I understood what it meant: you could buy trophies.  You didn’t have to earn it.  You didn’t have to compete in any event.  You didn’t have to be the best. You could simply buy yourself a trophy.  For a moment I thought that this was a tempting idea.  I didn’t have to compete; I didn’t have to be the best.  But then I realised that if I could buy it, anyone could buy it.  Anyone could have a trophy; and if anyone had a trophy, no one may as well have one because they would not be worth anything.  What was the value in a recognition that you could buy for no cause?

Life Decisions

From a young age we are groomed, trained, to fit into the societies in which we are born. Societies into which we are arbitrarily born, and so, may not be the ones which we are best suited to, or would choose given the choice.  Social roles and expectations we may find liberating in one society, and suffocatingly restrictive in another.  We are born into a society, a world, with inherent problems that we are either expected to accept, solve, or make sense of.  No matter which of these paths you end up taking, conformity is expected in a functioning society.  A certain level of individualism is expected and even encouraged; for it is through an appropriate level of diversity that the society can reach its maximum potential, although after a certain point, it would result in a chaotic breakdown of the system.

I remember this from a young age.  In first grade, I remember the whole class sitting down, cross-legged on the floor in a circle, and being asked by the teacher, one at a time, what we wanted to be when we grew up.  Instantly I felt panic churning in my stomach.  I always hated being put on the spot, especially in front of the whole class, but more than that: I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I had never thought further into the future than what I would watch on TV when I got home from school.  I don’t think it had yet occurred to me that I would have to ‘be’ something when I inevitably grew up.  Putting my hands on my ankles, I asked myself: what did I want to be?  And was my answer final?  Or was there still the option to change it at a later date?  What if I never was what I replied, would they think I’m a failure?  There was no answer to the question; it just kept coming back blank.  Thankfully we were going around the circle answering, and I was seated most of the way around the circle, so I had some time to think.  I decided that the only solution was to copy someone else’s answer.  I listened to the answers spilling out of the other five year olds mouths as it went around: a fireman, a teacher, a builder, a mum… it was clear that they had thought about this before.  Why hadn’t I?  Why hadn’t I prepared myself for this unforeseeable situation?  Listening to their answers I knew that I didn’t want to be any of those things that they had said, but my turn was quickly approaching.

“A mum,” the freckled, pigtailed girl beside me replied without hesitation.  The time had come.  Everyone was looking at me.  My hair around my face had fallen out of my ponytail, leaving my freckled face framed in blonde strands.  Blue eyes flicked up to the teacher as I opened my mouth to mumble, “A mum,” like the girl before me.  The teacher nodded and looked over to the boy to my left.  The pressure was gone. It had worked, she had believed me.

The truth is that I still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up.  But the problem is now slightly more imminent due to the unfortunate fact that I am now grown up.  I still don’t want to be a fireman: I always liked starting fires more than putting them out.  I don’t want to be a teacher: learning is more interesting than teaching. I don’t want to be a builder: while I like making things, doing it all the time would be kind of brain-numbing.  And I definitely don’t want to be a mum, maybe it will change, but I do not have the patience or the inclination now.  And let’s face it: I have trouble looking after myself; I should not be entrusted with that responsibility. I have things of my own to do and achieve before I admit that I am good for nothing more than pushing out babies, something half the population is capable of.  I do however know what I want to be: I want to be me, and I want to be happy.  This seems much more important than however I choose to spend my time.  The teacher didn’t seem to understand: no one, not even working adults, knows what they want to do for all of their working lives.  The more important issue is to understand who you want to be, how you want to be.  This everyone should know; the answer should be an easy one.