Very Good

The other day I received a pleasant comment from someone in my acquaintance about something I had made. Notice, I say 'pleasant comment'. He did not gush or shower me with flowery praise. He just said it was very good.

Not a compliment to write home about.

Not a compliment to shout about over the rooftops.

Not a compliment grand enough to evoke gurgles of happiness from deep within the part of my heart where joy resides.

And yet, the simple unassuming words brought a tear of pride to my eye. A blush to my cheek. It was extremely hard for me to moderate my voice and behave normally after that. And in the car ride home I was dancing in my seat much to my husband's amusement and bemusement. I danced up the stairs and danced the length and breadth of our living room.

He definitely wondered what he had married. But you see, he didn't understand. The giver of the 'pleasant comment' is usually frugal with his words. Not particularly emotive. And, I have never in the entire span of our acquaintance done anything worthy of receiving a 'pleasant comment'. This was my first, and how delicious it was! That 'very good' was synonymous of having Simon Cowell compliment a contestant in American Idol.

It blindsides you and makes you speechless. And all warm all over. You feel... very good.

Roll Call

People come, people go. Over time, relationships grow and wane and alter their shapes and colours. It's a part of life. I say this with ease, and rather matter-of-factly. Of course, the reality is often a roller-coaster and typical of what this journey of life is about: growth, and change. Some of these comings and goings are subtle... you don't quite realise when someone has lodged themselves into your heart or quietly slipped out of it. Other movements are a little more bombastic, and leave you significantly different with their arrivals or departures. I'll understate the significant shifts in internal joy and sadness, and call it... personal growth?

But you know what I mean.

It's not something I really dwell on, unless it's been one of those remarkable shifts that either seared my soul or set it soaring. I mean, those quiet movements are those that hardly register unless some random incident or memory sparks an internal query: 'Isn't it funny how we became close?' Or, 'Whatever happened to her?'

However last weekend I was forced to take a sort of roll call of the people who I've been privileged to know and love. I was looking through some photo albums for a particular picture and realised there are so many people absent in my current roll call - people I had at one point or another thought would always be around. There were others with whom the entire equation has changed - the closeness has gone. I felt quite sad, and I won't lie: I sat for a few minutes feeling a little sorry for myself, walking down memory lane, and missing a lot of people. Missing the way we were (yes, with Barbra Streisand singing in my head).

As I looked at photo after photo, the sadness dissipated to a bittersweet feeling. I still had some wonderful memories to peruse, and I recognised that in the same way that my position in so many lives had changed, so had theirs in mine. It wasn't a bad thing, it just... was. I had forgotten my belief about people. Whether for a short stint, or for an entire chapter, they come in for a reason. I've been lucky that way. Each person has made me richer, in ways I may not have recognised at the time. I am a little bit of every person I have loved. And the best bit? There's some amazing people still present on my roll call, slowly enriching me, and teaching me. 

How can I be sad about that?

Teacher

My grandfather was possibly the best English Language and Literature teacher that existed. Ever. I don't say this because he was my family. I say this simply because it is the truth. Throngs of ex-students, spanning several decades, will drop everything and rush to verify it should I ask (that's the kind of loyalty he inspired). Under his tutelage you learned the nuances of this often frustrating, rule-breaking language; how to mould your own specific voice and, immerse yourself into a particular text you might be studying such that you'd be spouting references in every day conversation. No matter the roadblock, he would find a way to get into your brain and psyche. He would come to you at your level, with absolute humility, and approach you in the way that worked specifically for you. He got through each of his students in markedly different ways... speaking to them in the context of each individual's experience and understanding. Not only did he recognise that each person understands and communicates differently, but he also managed to get through each person at their unique wavelength.

I haven't met a single other person yet who has that gift.

We lost him last May. Gone, missed and never-to-be-forgotten. While he left behind a tremendous, painful gap, he lingers somehow. Not only did he leave behind bittersweet memories, but important lessons. Going to him to learn English was going to him to learn about life and the sort of human being you could and should be.

My memories of him were given another glorious layer when a few months ago I fell into teaching English a few hours a week. It took me some time to even take it up because of the great example I had had the privilege of learning under, and I knew I wouldn't even be half as good. However, I knew I would be earnest in my efforts, something that my grandfather understood was lacking in a lot of today's teachers.

In attempting to do what he did so effortlessly, every day, I grew more in awe of him. How did he do it? How did he get through to us? He was brilliant and passionate when he taught. I can still see him, eyes aglow and shaking his fist as he reads out the line "...fucking sissies? Queers?" when we were studying Tennessee Williams' 'Cat on a Hot Tin Roof'. I think I went cross-eyed in shock. Understand, I had never, ever heard this soft-spoken man swear before. He had a different persona for every book. He commanded the classroom, and I am reminded of how utterly enthralled we were.

I, on the other hand, involuntarily whisper if I have to say "whore" or "sex" while teaching a book. Gulp. On top of that is the uncertainty of whether what I'm trying to convey has been assimilated by my student. There's no way my grandfather would have had such doubts. I remember reading Shakespeare's texts under his tutelage and it seeming easy. As I gulp my way through 'Othello' I've been coaxing my memory to remember some of his methods to adopt as my own. It hasn't worked so far.

There are certain small things that I know I learned unconsciously from him. His little double tick when you had made a particularly clever point. Or the glorious one-word sentence 'Beautiful.' in the margins for a well-expressed sentiment. This had to be his highest praise. You were elated if you found that written in his signature chicken scrawl on your page.

Without realising it, I found myself using the double ticks. It's when I wrote the first 'Beautiful.' that it hit me, with a quiet, lyrical joy: somehow, even though he is gone, I am being taught by my teacher.

Words. Only words.

It was infatuation - the way it started. A spell I didn't even realise being woven around myself and them. Words. For as long as I could remember they held me in their thrall. Made me safe. Took me away. Freed me. Enabled me to explore. To climb out of my skin without really having to climb out of my skin. To belong, when I so often felt different and unable to relate.

Written words. Words in a melody. Spoken words. I loved them all. I would take them at face value (words in conversation, not the latest fiction novel I'd be totally absorbed in or the catchy lyrics to my latest favourite song). This was more than just my own personal brand of gullibility. It was the weight and credence that I gave words. It was how, personally, it would take every earnest particle I had to express anything remotely emotional such that I almost felt like they were being dragged from my very soul when I said them.

"Thank you."
"I'm sorry."
"I love you."

Perhaps it is this that made me believe that someone else's words were pieces of themselves too - in the same way that mine were little pieces of my very soul. If I said a word... used a word... you could bet your life on the fact that I meant it and there was no hyperbolic use intended.

As I grew older, I grew more comfortable handling these precious pieces of my self. Expression became easier. The words would flow from my pencil, my pen, and then the keyboard - like there was a direct pipeline from my feelings to my fingers. And, being as obtuse as I am, it took me too long to realise that few people had the same respect and relationship with words.

It started with the small disappointments: the cavalier promises made by those I treasured more than my words.

"It won't happen again. This is the last time, I swear it."
"I'll be there, no matter what."
"You'll always be special to me."

I know. You must think me foolish. But I believed.

Every. Single. Word.

I grew more disillusioned with words when they became whispers behind my back, taking another form when they finally arrived as formulated stories to my face. Some grew chasms between myself and others that I fear I will never be able to cross. The thing with words spoken about you, when you're not there, in any measure of innocence, is that the impact grows exponentially hurtful when they are eventually repeated to you. I suppose the good thing is, that by then, I had lost a little faith in the meaning of words, so they hurt a little less. A smaller knife twisting my heart around in my chest.

To add to it, were the platitudes I had begun saying at work - an occupational hazard of being in the service industry and of having at least the semblance of etiquette.

"You're most welcome."
"Thank you."
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

Don't tell me you mean these things every time you say them.

My love affair with words dissolved. Effortless expression became a distant memory such that even formulating two sentences for an email became a chore. It still is. I began to regard words with suspicion, examining each one as a potential threat. I clad my brain in armour, and my weapons were scepticism and cynicism. I became scared of becoming spellbound. And then the words stopped altogether for a while.

Oh, I could express the day-to-day stuff. But my outlet had disappeared. I was no longer a jukebox marrying songs I'd heard to a current feeling or situation. And my mode of catharsis - writing - became a tedious chore. I became clammed up - literally. Don't get me wrong, I've never been a sparkling conversationalist, but words began to die on my lips.

The thing is, the fault is mine. I gave them too much credibility. As my love for them returns at a painstakingly slow pace I'm aware that they mean different things to different people, and mean little if one doesn't look at the context of action that they are spoken in. And no two people express themselves in the same way. So, I'm a little lighthearted when I come across words now. A little patient... I wait to see if the actions meet the words. And you know what? It's perfectly okay when they don't. I may not always like it, but I'm better prepared than I was. They don't have that power over me as they did before, which is bittersweet... but hey, they are only words. I do believe there's a song to that effect... (the jukebox is slowly coming back to life too).