It is that time of the year again, when many are excited to return to school or in this case, university and see their old friends and familiar places. However, nothing like your first year of college, aka Freshman, right?! It is exciting, exhilarating, new school, new town, new state or country, new life, new beginnings; you are meeting new people, making new friends, carving your niche, paving your tomorrow but in the age of Ms Rona, things have been thrown for a loop a bit. Home and a computer screen are more like it. Thank you 2020. In many cases, some countries, freshman year is marked with traditions and rituals, like an induction to a wall of fame of sorts and in Portugal it is called, Praxe. It is a rite of passage, an initiation ritual of baptism students are subjected to into the university, akin to Greek Life and their pledges, “the ripping of the traditional academic suit of the students when they finish their first cycle of studies.” It is interesting thing to observe, with some students eager to experience. Here’s to life and new beginnings. Make it count. Make it worth. Cheers!
But its is strong enough to break someone’s spirit.
One early Friday morning as we walked towards our office from an empowerment drill meeting across the adjacent building, we were going by under a garage, still riding high with a smile larger then a cruise liner, I was my usual chipper self, rejoicing, conversing and dancing my way around like an ostrich, putting up a side show of sorts that not even a chicken would comprehend.
It was my attempt to energize the walking dead crew as we crossed the campus as I carelessly embraced the morning without a care in the world, saying Amen to life and end of the week, with both paying dividends in full back to me.
There were four of us in the group and many others walking behind, two laughed at my “routine” but the other, one in particular sour apple, appeared to have had a case of acid reflex as she was not enjoying the dish being served.
Just as we were inching closer to the door as if bitten by a tsetse fly, irate, she turns to me, ”oh gee, what is it with you? You don’t have to be that happy all the time? I mean, oh please! Geez, Lord have mercy!”
Huh?! I was taken aback for a good half an hour. I walked around like a wounded step soul, feeling like a meteorite that landed on terra firma. My spirit was broken, finding my tails in between my legs with a load of dirty underwater stuck on my back. Disconcerted to even think straight, I quick swallowed the poison that had been thrown at me but dejected, I refused to settled in.
I began to question my chicken self. Why did I let her get to me? When did a laid an egg and allowed such egoistic ego invade my territory? Why was it so upsetting that made my nostrils burn? Why? It was just “her”. I mean, who is she? Who died and made her queen of my universe, gave her the ticket to my misery?
With the utensils still on my plate, it quickly came to me, it wasn’t me; it wasn’t my baby to beginning with, so why arbor it? I was not the dejected soul, she was nor was I about to be one either. I was sucked in, contaminated like a bad salad dressing and allowed her to pour it all over my salad.
I wanted it back, yeah, I wanted it back, I decided. I wanted my power back and all the keys to it, now!
I found her walking around like a lost pedigree. Her head down, beaten, dejected. She had a blatant stare I did not care to decipher nor know the story. I sensed one but there was not the task at hand. I went on the dance flour hurricane style. I quietly approached her, tapping her on the shoulder and demanded an apology. She asked for what and I would only say, I was there to take my power back, reclaim the time she stole from me while almost wrecking my spirits.
It had no windows, nor doors and it just went on and on, olive oil, scrambled eggs, puree, bread… all coming out at once from the salad bowl to hearing her, “I am sorry. It was never my intention. It is just…”
And breathe… The End!
©️ Angela Aguiar
Living Statues contest Jury Prize Winner.
It is Art and he is a winner just for standing in the same ole position for a long time. Yes, the life of a street artist.
The shoemaker drill presses the shoes,
The shoes is drill pressed by the shoemaker
The tip is bent
Bent doesn’t penetrate.