Untold

 

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."                                                                                                      _ Maya Angelou 

Remnants of burnt pages, a cup of seawater collected from the infinite ocean, a leftover of the buffet. That is what people seek when they ask me to tell them my story. And often I don't complain answering them in the way they want to hear it. Because I too have been socialized to pursue such a manner of storytelling. When I let out my past, I tend to divulge the parts that make sense to me and dismiss the rest, because stories are supposed to be coherent. The everyday tale does not fit into that category.

I would start by talking about the times I questioned my objective in life. The time somebody asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I squished my brain to apprehend what it meant as a kid. But I did manage to come up with an answer, but every time they asked back, I would start over again and come up with another answer. But I connect the dots anyway and say I have always sought to be only one thing as I tell my biography.

Then maybe I would mention the obstacles I had to face in the middle. I would make my listeners picture me in my room, sobbing as if those tears would wash away the disasters. Some of them do disappear in time, but some stay, and I have to carry them every day. But who would want to hear about those pieces of misery that I couldn't fit into the puzzle? Even I don't know how to let them out, so they remain under the rug. As my favorite author puts the phenomenon, "Illness is a story told in the past tense."

The peaks of course would follow. I would tell about the moment I got accepted to the college I wanted to go to, and how I felt like I was flying at the moment. I thought all the problems of my life were brought to ashes, and I felt free.

I would say something about the time I hiked with my friends after school. That day, as I remember it, was the happiest day of my life. I finished my first quarter midterms of ninth grade, and my friends and I decided to climb a hill near the neighborhood of some of my friends. Up there, I could see my school, my house, and all the places my life resonant. And being above all of it convinced me that a human being's spirit is made to soar even if its bones can't carry it.

I would mention the day my parents bought me a laptop computer. I scored a good grade on my national exam; so they saved money to surprise me. And even though my father needed to buy a pair of shoes for himself, and my mom owned old-fashioned dresses, they decided to get me a computer to let me know how proud they were. Of course, my sister was a little jealous which boosted my happiness a bit. But she got over it quickly.

Me and my sister had a Tom and Jerry relationship. We would always argue, and be sarcastic around each other. I can't remember a point when we talked affectionately. But we always have each other's backs. One time I wanted to join the national space science society so bad, but I didn't have the 20 birrs that were required to get an ID card. I was so excited when my sister offered to pay for me. I never loved her more. Of course, she eat my snacks for the rest of the month, but she still helped me in my moment of need.  

These are the checkpoints I would use to compose my biography. However, this is not my story, it is just what we are taught to tell.

Because I don't know how my everyday life would fit into the "I started at the bottom and climbed the ladder." patterned storytelling. You see, stories are supposed to be told vertically and not horizontally. What I ate for breakfast last year at this time is written off as insignificant in my head, so I forget it. I forget most of my life and keep a cup of it in my memory.

But those forgotten "everydays" are what make up my personality. The way I respond to my routine is where my essence resides, so I might as well start to live it well before it fades away.

I am the untold.