Frustration

Thought I’d be the usual irresponsible person that I am and forget about posting?

Well..

HAH.

:D

I remembered!

Which is because I set a reminder on Saturdays to post on my blog, but yesterday I was all busy and stuff (not to mention I got home and just sat on the couch blankly for about five hours hurhur).

Then I remembered today about posting. Yay! Plus, today I have decided to do all of my homework and EVERYTHING possible so that tomorrow, which is President’s Day (a school holiday), I shall relax without anything bothering me (such as frantic thoughts about doing homework at 11:00 PM).

Which is actually what I plan every day before there is a school holiday. I usually end up procrastinating anyway. Oh, what’s the use. This is an era of procrastinating adolescents. What can I say.

 

Today’s writing is…

hmm.

Frustration.

(No, it’s about frustration. I’m not frustrated. Heh.)

 

“I’ll be back around four thirty!” I shout. Slam the door. Walk down the steps. Don’t even look back, no use waiting. And, of course..

The door swings open.

I don’t look back. Keep walking.

“No you won’t!”

Keep walking.

“You’re coming back on the first bus. You need to clean the house before the landlord comes!”

“You do it,” I say. Mainly to myself. Too loud. She heard.

A few curses, something hits my backpack. Slipper, probably.

Don’t even care about what the neighbors think anymore. Just keep walking.

“Have an important meeting at school! Be back around four thirty!”

I imagine a nice mother, smiling and waving, saying “Sure, honey! Have fun!” Or at least just wave and disappear behind the door.

Some curses. None that I haven’t heard.

Another hit. Other slipper, probably.

She has good aim. I chuckle. Could’ve gotten somewhere with that.

Actually, no. Not with that personality. Couldn’t have gotten anywhere, not with that personality.

. . . . . .

“Mom, I’m staying after today. I have a Green club meeting today.”

“Don’t you have the other meeting today, too? I thought you in Math club, too!” She says, in her broken English, strong accent. I’ve gotten used to that—you kind of have to. But sometimes, it’s scary. The only time she speaks in English is when it’s important. And usually, her value of importance is different from mine.

“Oh, yeah. I know.. But… The Green club meeting is more important.”

“No! No it’s not! The Green club is the small club you join for fun! Pick up trash at park for community service! Not the serious club! You need to be on math team!”

“No, but Mom—it’s really important today. We’re planning new ideas for the club! I want to be the President of the club next year!”

“Why you wanna be the president of the Green club? Why you not be the president of math team? Math team is better! You go farther!”

“Mom. There is no math team president. You just try out.”

She stares at me, indignantly.

I decide to tell her, then. “Besides! I didn’t even make it last week!”

Her eyes widen. “What!? You didn’t make it?”

“What, I’m not a math person!”

“Not the math person! Not the math person! Why you so stupit? You have to study, study hard. I came here for better life, for you, and what? You not study hard! I gave you the textbook to study! You have to work harder! What you want to do when you grow up? Be the hobo?”

“I want to be a vet!”

“You wanna help animal? Be the doctor and help human! Make more money!”

“Mom, I have to go. The bus is coming soon. And I’m just going to the Green club meeting.”

“No, go to math team! I write the letter to teacher for you. Let you try out one more time.”

I sigh, exasperated. “Mom!”

I open the door to leave, but she suddenly stops me, shoving a humongous lunch box in my face. “You forgot the lunch!”

I look at the huge bulk. “What is this?”

“It’s the good food! Help you grow stronger! Taller! Have to eat it all! Not one rice left!” And she pats me on the back while pushing me out the door.

“Have the goot day! Go to the math club!” She shows her teeth in an awkward smile, and waves half-heartedly.

I sigh.

. . . . . .

Cold outside. Sitting alone. First two seater right behind the doors. I put my head on the window to sleep, but the broom wedged between the seats and the window (probably for cleaning the bus) is poking into my arm.

Pull out the permission slip in my jacket pocket. All wrinkled. What am I gonna tell the teacher.

She won’t sign it because I have to wash the dishes for her.

She won’t sign it because she’s an insensitive human who won’t do anything herself.

She’s a parasitical idiot who I refuse to admit as my biological mother.

She won’t sign it.

She’s in the hospital?

Mind is blank. What should I say?

I really need to go this time. I really want to. Important for my career. I want to try this out.

Test if this is right for me. If this is where I’m meant to go.

. . . . . .

I’m sitting squished in between two random seniors, barely awake, when I remember. We’re getting our midterms back today! For math!

I sigh. I’m barely managing a ninety in that class. I didn’t understand two of the chapters so far, and right now, I feel really behind. A feeling of anxiety crawls up my back and bites me in the neck.

What if I get a low grade? Even an 85 will bring my grade down. What’ll Mom say?

Could I maybe ask for a retake?

But what if I do worse?

Maybe to ask for extra credit?

But he doesn’t do extra credit.

What am I going to do—I couldn’t even finish the whole test!

She’s not going to let me go to Green club anymore then.

What am I going to do?

. . . . . .

Best thing is, I have World History first period. Don’t even have time to think about any lies.

Looking through the window—door’s closed. Purple tie today, Mr. Ellis. My least favorite color.

An omen, perhaps?

Should I walk in? Then it’s more time to talk privately. More time to reveal that I can’t go.

But. Less time for excuses.

Walk in? Don’t walk in?

He sees me through the window. Dang it.

Opens the door. Smiling.

“Heeey, how’ya doing? I see you’re early today. Come in! What were you doing out there, standing awkwardly? Don’t want to be in World History more than the required time, eh?”

He laughs.

I smile. Awkwardly.

Expression changes. Probably means he remembers—

“Oh, right! So, did you think about going to the Politics Convention? You know, I think that trip is perfect for you! You’re very involved in the political area, you know. And I see that you have a lot of opinions and insight.”

I think. Think. Think think think.

Blank.

Hospital? She’s in the hopsital?

But he might call her.

Sick?

Tell him she changed her number?

Make him call my aunt?

“Are you okay?” Different expression. Worried.

“Mmm, yeah, I’m fine.”

“So what do you think? Did you get it signed? Can you go?”

Think think think. The truth?

Maybe that’s best.

The truth.

“Mr. Ellis?”

“Yes?”

“The truth is…” The truth, the truth. The truth!

“The truth is—” I can’t. No. I can’t tell. “I can’t go.”

“Oh, Amanda! Why not?”

Think think think. Why not. Why not? Why not why not why not?

Something I can’t help. Something, something…

A funeral?

“We have a funeral on that day. I’m sorry. I can’t go.”

“Oh, Amanda, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“Maybe next year, right?”

“Yeah…” Look down. “Maybe next year.”

“What does your mother think about it?”

“Oh, my mother?” Think think think. So he won’t have to call her. Something, something. To make him not want or need to contact her. “She thinks it’s a great opportunity for me. She likes it.”

“Glad to hear!”

“But she’s not sure if she can afford it…” I add. Ease the excuse into it.

“Oh! Well, always remember—we have financial aid, when you need it!”

“Oh. Well—”

A kid walks in. “Good morning, Mr. Ellis.” (With a nice, cordial reply, “Good morning, Eric, I like your shirt today! Abraham Lincoln. Haven’t seen him in a while, have we?)

“Well—”

Rrrrrrrrrrrrring!

Kids pour in.

“After class, okay?” Smiles.

Smile back. Awkwardly. Sit in seat.

 

And I walk straight out right after class.

 

. . . . . .

I have math fourth period. It’s excruciating. For three periods, I am frantically looking at the clock, wondering whether I want to see my grade soon, or I want to have it an unknown number for as long as possible.

The time passes by so slowly, I’m starting to think that the school might be doing this on purpose, making the clocks slower so that all math students can feel the extreme pain of the suspense dangling in front of our eyes.

First period.

Second period.

Third period…

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring!

I rush out the door, dash right up the stairs, nearly run into about three people, and burst into the math room.

The teacher looks up at me, surprised. The room is empty, it’s bright, the walls are white, and it’s kind of blinding me in comparison with my third period class, which is psychology, where there’s only one window and the room’s really dark. It’s quiet, except for the rustling of papers at Mr. Lindberg’s desk.

“Never seen someone so eager to get to math class early.” He chuckles.

He’s sitting at his desk, with a pile of packets. Is that our midterm? I wonder aloud.

“No, it’s your midterm preparation packets. I’m almost done grading them.”

“Are we getting them back today?” I ask.

“No, probably tomorrow, I still have a few classes left. He pats the pile that I had been looking at.

I stare, confusedly, but then I realize that he has misunderstood me.

“Are we getting the midterm test grades back today?” I word it carefully.

“Oh, the midterms? Yes. We’re going to go over the test today. You won’t get to keep it, though.”

Oh.

“How did I do?” I can’t help it. I’m dying to know.

He smiles. “Kids ask me that all the time. I have no idea, Jess. Everyone asks me that, but I always answer, ‘I don’t know, as the Grading Machine.’ It was multiple choice. I’ve only graded the open ended, and besides—I’ve graded practically 100 of them. I don’t really remember. But you’ll find out soon enough.”

I sit at my desk.

The bell rings. Kids pour into the classroom. And I’m drumming my fingers on the desk.

“Okay class,” he walks up to the front of the room as the class settles down and some announce that they “heard from so and so that we’re getting the midterms back today.”

“You’re right,” he smiles to the girl in the back. “We’re getting them back today.”

The class stirs in reaction to this.

“I’ll hand it out alphabetically.”

Great, I’m about the thirteenth person. I’m sitting, looking around, hearing people with their “Yess!”s and their “I’m so stupid!”s.

He passes by and puts the packet face down on my desk.

Face down.

What does that mean?

I lift a corner, slowly. I peek at the grade.

Eighty three.

I sigh.

I lean back and cover my eyes.

I’m screwed.

. . . . . .

My heart is only half of what it was last week. When Mr. Ellis told me about it.

I can’t go.

I can’t go this year. Not next year.

Stupid mom. Not even a mom. Doesn’t even care.

Sit down at lunch. Halfway through the day. School food. Ugh.

. . .

I’m holding my books for the classes after lunch, but for some reason, it feels heavier than ever. I’m dragging myself to lunch, and I see Manda’s sitting at the table, picking at the school food. Chicken nuggets with peas and corn. Who serves chicken nuggets with peas and corn? Ugh—I hate it.

Until I remember, I have my packed lunch. Probably has some sort of oriental medicine to drink. The ugly-tasting one, the one I hate.

I sit down.

“Hey,” I say.

She nods.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“Nah.” She continues picking at her food. She looks a little mad. I don’t know.

I open my lunch box.

“I hate math.” I say. I hate it, I loathe it, it’s so despicably ugly.

It’s always in my way for so many things. I just can’t understand it.

. . .

“Why? Did you do bad on the midterm or something?” Still thinking about Ellis and Politics Convention, though. Could’ve changed my life—but stupid Mother had to rip it up. I’d taped it up anyway. No use, though.

I can’t go.

After all of that excitement.

Stupid mom. She doesn’t help me, she doesn’t encourage me. Just brings me down.

Doesn’t care. Doesn’t give a flying Frisbee about anything I do. As long as I’m her stupid servant.

Just keeps me from getting anywhere in life. Throws obstacles, that’s what she does.

Hates me, that’s what she does.

Just there to do the dishes and make the food.

Probably doesn’t want me here, anyway. A nuisance.

Why can’t I have a mother who cares about what I get on a test.

Or just not have a mother at all. She just brings me down.

. . .

“Ughh… I didn’t even do that bad. I got an 83. But it’s going to bring down my grade down to a B, and my mom’s going to KILL ME!”

I sigh. I can’t even imagine the look on her face. Why can’t she just encourage me for who I am? Just try to let me to in the direction that I want? Not everyone has to be a doctor!

I want some freedom, some independence to think and go in the direction that I want. I just want her to stop caring about my grades, for once. Just let me do my own thing in school. Find my own path.

. . .

“You always say that.” Kill her? Mine will. Not yours.

Already throwing slippers, throwing dishes. Making me clean them up.

Who’s the mother who’s gonna kill?

Wants me home to clean the house.

Pshh.

Clean it yourself, woman.

Making the mess yourself.

Probably won’t even let me leave the house after college.

. . .

“Yeah, because she’s such a nosy mother. Why can’t she let me be? I’m me, and she’s her! This is my life, why does she care? If I get an 83 in math, I get an 83. But I’ll just do good in biology and English and it’s all fine! I can be what I want. But she doesn’t really care about what I want, does she? She just wants me to be a freaking doctor!” I’m so overemotional right now. All of this anger towards my mom suddenly heightens. Why can’t she just let me be an independent high schooler, so I can make my own choices?

At least you can make your own choices. At least you get to go to clubs you want. At least your mom doesn’t look at every single homework grade.

. .

“At least she cares.”

What do you know about mothers who don’t care about what you want? What do you know? Have you ever been hit by a slipper? Have you ever had to skip school because you had to clean the house all day under the threatening of ripping your binders and notes?

I didn’t think so.

You have a mother who packs you lunch, who cares about your grades, who wants you to do better. And me? My mother?

“Shut up.”

. .

“Seriously? Shut up? I won’t even be able to make my own choices, because she’s just forcing me to do everything!”

Have you ever been spanked and scolded because you got a C on your test? Have you ever been grounded for leaving your homework at home? Have you ever gotten a degrading lecture about your stupidity and ignorance?

Do you know how it feels to have a mother who forces you to do things you don’t want?

. .

“Look, Jess. Your mom cares about you. She wants you to succeed. Be happy she cares.”

If only you knew.

. .

“She cares? She doesn’t care! She doesn’t care at all! She doesn’t acknowledge that I have these feelings that are depressed when she bashes on my ignorance, that I have dreams that are crushed when she forces me in other directions, that I have dreams to do and be things she won’t let me do, no, not in a thousand years!”

.

I can’t take it. Whiny Jess today.

Stand up. Go to the library.

Need some peace.

.

Fine, then. Someone’s a little moody. Leave me. Not that you’ll ever understand. You, what with pursuing your dream. Fine. Fine, then. Go.