Honor Your Parents

One of the Ten Commandments listed in the bible is – infuriatingly – to unconditionally honor your parents. God expects that for the sake of virtue, as unworthy of honor a parent can be, his son will manage to delude himself and emulate artificial respect for that sordid creature.

I’ve never had a great relationship with my father. From the pits of my memory, I can recall having always favored my mother greatly over that man. But I also recall ancient days when I still had remote bits of love for him - like I actually enjoyed his presence. Now that love has been replaced by a nauseating feeling of disgust for my kin, and a bitter longing for that man to disappear from my life.

Over the past years, I have grown to feel underappreciated. My overall great academic life, talents in music, and indisputable practicalities for this household has been left unheeded for him. Instead, he criticizes me for what he considers to be fatal imperfections.

You see, I am the complete opposite of him. Unlike him, who is social, aesthetically distasteful, sickeningly inartistic, ancient, mathematically adept, and stingy, I am socially inept, aesthetically tasteful, musical, well-informed, mathematically average, and capable of enjoying luxuries. Somehow, the man expects his son to be a reincarnation of him – for his choleric personality requires everything to agree with him. And so, with my being the complete opposite of his wishes for a son, he expresses his disappointment with endless, unjustified, moronic denigration.

Worse of all, he blatantly displays his severe incompetence as a parent by comparing me with my sister – who he worships as if she is godsend, despite her clearly obvious faults. It’s probably because she’s more like him – musically inept, mathematically-inclined, and interested in sports – than I am. Ironically, even she, who fortunately spends most of her time away from him, can’t stand him.

When treated with endless belittlement, a person would either be saddened or annoyed. The latter applies to me, because among many things, the only trait I share with him is stubbornness. Over the years, he has become more and more of a nuisance – probably because over the years, he sees more and more that I am unlike him. So now, I avoid seeing his gorilla-like face in dread of the itching irritation I experience whenever I argue with him. And whenever I am stuck in an argument with him in the car, I deafen myself with my iPod and my earphones – my lifesavers – and allow him to express his parental ineptitude to himself.

I suppose, like Okonkwo in Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, the man deserves some sympathy. His son never turned out to be the way he quite wanted him to be, and the daughter he is so proud of doesn’t share mutual feelings for him. But I am not sympathetic for that incubus of familial calamity. Desensitized, I have been, by the ceaseless infuriation that man had caused me.

I know he loves me, but like my sister, those feelings aren’t mutual. Oh, the horror.

If only I was witless enough to be tolerant of lunacy, then we could be one happy, harmonious family. How unfortunate it is that I am not; that my honor for him is nonexistent; that I am stuck in this spiraling deathtrap of familial discord.

To Inherit Fire

Living fire begets cold, impotent ash. –Things Fall Apart

Earlier in English class we were discussing Part Two of Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, and we got around to talking about whether or not Okonkwo deserved any of our sympathy when his own son turned against him. Most of the class were against Okonkwo, and I suppose their dislike of him is justified. But despite his hotheaded temperament and condescending attitude towards other people, I think Okonkwo is still entitled to a little bit of pity, or, in my personal opinion, a substantial degree of sympathy.

I could never imagine walking in his shoes. If I had been in Okonkwo’s place, how would I have felt? I don’t know what it’s like to be a parent, but I suppose it has a lot to do with placing your hopes on someone else’s shoulders; expecting them to carry it onwards into the future that you can’t be a part of.

Wouldn’t it be heartbreaking, then, if the very person you trusted with your everything shrugged your cherished dreams off his shoulders and let them hit the ground?

Maybe my friends are right, to some extent. Okonkwo has to take some responsibility in causing Nwoye to run away to the Christians. He should never have pressured Nwoye so much. He should never have assumed that Nwoye wanted the same things as he had as a young man. Maybe despite knowing Nwoye wanted different things, Okonkwo was doing all he could to give Nwoye the best out of the life he knew. Okonkwo is a father, after all, and perhaps—even if we’re not willing to acknowledge it—he, like our parents, knows what it’s like to not want to follow your father’s footsteps; your mother’s footsteps. Perhaps when our parents were like us they had decided never to follow someone else’s decisions, and ended up making choices they never thought they’d agree to; walking down paths they’d hoped to avoid while still dreaming that they would end up somewhere different.

I think we sympathize with Nwoye more easily because most of us know what it’s like to fall under the pressure of someone else’s expectations. We readily back him in his decision to tear away from his father’s ways because some part of us has already known what it’s like to want the same thing. If I had been in his position I would have done the same—I suppose I would have at least contemplated running away.

Let’s imagine it this way; Okonkwo’s modern day equivalent would be a prominent bussinessman with influence left and right in a sprawling metropolis—a highly successful public figure whose life is characterized by outstanding achievements in an Ivy League university and an offer to join a prestigious company upon finishing his second year. It is hard enough to imagine being a daughter to such a man—but to be a son who is expected to continue the legacy? In my head I imagine Atlas with the world on his shoulders, passing it on to a nervous, slippery-fingered, scrawny teen who knows the world will tumble and crash out of his hold.

Then again, isn’t that just what we are expected to do?

In an episode of Heroes, Peter Petrelli comments that “...we’re just cheap knockoffs of our fathers.” For me personally, it feels like a punch to the gut. It hurts more than a little to know that no matter what we do we’ll still be compared to our parents. That we won’t have any trace of things that people thought would still be imprinted in us. That we’ll probably never be good enough to satisfy what people expect. In this sense, I sympathize with Nwoye.

Is it any wonder then that we want to break away from the paths our parents have set out for us? Isn’t it plausible to think that we attempt to build paths other than someone else’s because we’re scared of being less than what they were? I don’t ever want to be known as ash remaining from someone else’s fire.

I don’t want to grow up chasing my father’s shadows and pursuing my mother’s victories and mistakes. I don’t want to destroy what they worked so hard to build. I don’t want to be the one responsible for the look in their faces when they find their life-long struggles are for naught.

Do you still think Okonkwo deserves no sympathy?

A part of me wants to exclaim that I could never forgive Nwoye for tearing down what Okonkwo had given his all to build. I could never forgive Nwoye for taking the dreams Okonkwo had carried with him from childhood to fatherhood—the dreams he had kept alive by pouring out his sweat, blood, and tears for—and allowing them crash and burn. I could never forgive Nwoye for insinuating that Okonkwo’s lifelong struggles held no importance, by walking out on everything his father worked for.

If Okonkwo held true to the hotheaded and violent nature we have associated him with, I would have expected him to take his machete and separate Nwoye’s head from his body. Doesn’t that sound like something he would do?

But people like me who have no idea what it’s like to be a father or a mother will never understand what it is that makes them love their children so much. I may never understand why Okonkwo still allowed Nwoye to pursue his own choices; why Okonkwo would allow Nwoye to build a new life and support dreams of his own when Okonkwo’s hopes had been sullied and broken beyond repair by his son’s betrayal.

I may never understand how Okonkwo can retain love for a traitor. But at least I can imagine him thinking about Nwoye and sighing at the fire. Perhaps at that moment some semblance of weakness crossed his features. Perhaps at that moment we would be able to see the face of a broken old man, mourning the death of his wasted, uncontinued dreams; still harboring an amazing, undying love for the boy who blew out the fire and left behind only ash.

The Pianist

My brother asked me to write a lyric for his musical composition a few days ago. I did not nod, nor did I refuse.

The tune was somewhat familiar. I can’t recall to what song it was similar to though, but he told me his girlfriend said the same thing. I do believe there are at least three songs in this music world that sounds identical. Look at Maroon 5, all their songs sound exactly the same!

We’ve always known Dio was talented in music. He was about to apply to a music university in California, when my mother said, "No, music is not going to be your career. It's good that you have the talent, but a music career will not last." I somehow agree with her, but she makes it sound so harsh.

Noel, my oldest brother, had trouble saying 'Dio' when he was learning to talk, so my parents gave up and just let him say ‘Do’.

Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Si Do…

It was the beginning of his highly appreciated musical journey.

My parents love music. I mean, who doesn't? My mom especially. If you have the chance to see my house, you'll understand. My balcony fence is decorated with a G-clef and a few notes. My stairs hold the intro to Für Elise; my dining table is engraved with the whole score. G-clef shaped lights are everywhere, and the Baby Grand piano has the right to be called brand new. I even have musical towels! Peculiarly, neither one of my parents know how to play a tune. They said they never had the privilege to learn. Lucky me.

As a result to their musical incapability, they decided they want all their kids to at least be able to play the piano. "Just in case," they said. Just incase what? Just incase my job does not make enough money? Well, they never finished that sentence. I was left hanging. Just incase...

I learned how to play the piano when I was three. I loved those cute little stickers the teacher stuck on my page every time I finished learning a song. I wonder what Dio's motivation was, because when I became too old for a stamps and stickers, I despised piano lessons. I abhor the hour, excited for it to end. Unfortunately, she will never let me quit. I want to, I still do. The way I see it, I am only wasting my parents' money. Why continue?

We have Dio to serenade us by tickling the ivories at home.

I was amazed when I saw his old room... It was filled with golden G-clef shaped trophies I never knew about, some almost as tall as I am. Now that is talent. He is doing what he does best. He is the pianist, I should back off. I have my hands reserved for something my heart superlatively prefers. Just incase. Dio and I can still work together. We can be a team. I will make use of my microscopic hands.

I shall paint his melody with amorous poetry.

So may I quit, Mom?