“Today I laid on the grass and blew a dandelion in the air. Seeing the seeds drift into the sky is the closest I have come to see the stars in daylight. Someday the sun will be still shining and I will see all the stars for real.” she wrote, and I swear I could hear her in my head saying it loud and clear. I still remember the goosebumps on my skin, when I read that sentence in her final letter…
Last summer was the first time when I received a letter from her … One day I woke up and saw my mail, delivered to my room, where I have been staying for the past couple of months. Along with some advertisements and a postcard from a friend, there it was. It wasn’t signed. I was curious about the contents of the peculiar envelope so I immediately opened it and read it.
Dear Eight,
Your address was listed in the register of a program in school and they said you are number 8. This number is quite nice. It was on the list of candidates to receive a letter from students in school. So here it is – the first one.
Hope you are doing well. Do you have many friends? Sharing with you a few things about daily life here is the first things that comes to mind… Let’s see… The homeroom teacher has a strange haircut. She also has a very small and narrow chin. All the kids in school are refugees from the Yugoslavian war. They don’t talk much. This is the most interesting thing here now…
Oh, also, the drop of the “I” has been one hell of an obstacle to get rid of for a while; however, it isn’t really a loss. It is an attempt to reduce it as much as possible, so to silence the thing inside that says that everything should be different. This has been a hell of an obstacle, especially in English. This thing, which just can’t agree with the circumstances and makes people want something else, than the dealt cards they’ve got, also feeds on ‘me’ and ‘my’, and they also require an effort to avoid. You can think of it as a game now… Anyway, it will be a pleasure to hear from you soon, so feel free to write right back.
Hugs,
Dazzled, I gazed at the trees I saw from my window. It was as if this student’s letter has appeared out of nowhere. I never signed up for such a program and I started thinking that it had to be a mistake. I went up to the custodian’s office to tell them that there is a letter addressed to me from a program I didn’t sign up for and to sort things out. One of my favorite ladies was on shift, so I talked to her about it.
‘Today, with my mail, came in a letter from a student, which says that my address and room number were signed up for a program…’
Samara (the custodian) said:
‘Oh, I signed you up, I thought you wouldn’t mind. It’s harmless, and it could do you some good, especially since you often complain that your days are boring and nothing interesting is happening around here. You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to.’
But I wanted to…
‘No, no, actually it is okay, I might think of something to write…’ I said. And so I sat down and wrote my first letter to her. In my mind it was a “her”, anyway, and I even called her “Phantom girl”…
Dear Phantom girl,
Your letter was quite eccentric. Why would you want to drop the “I”, as you call it? Is it a new game in your school? I must tell you that the “I” is not such a bad a word, it distinguishes you from everyone else and is an essential part of the language. You might drop your marks in school if you take this endeavor too seriously. What is that thing you are talking about that feeds on prepositions? Is it like a monster in the closet?
It is nice to learn a bit about your school. My days here are quite boring and I don’t have many friends, thank you for asking. Maybe you could be my friend now.
Kind regards,
P.S. “Eight” sounds nice.
Days turned into weeks before I received another letter. I was thinking about her quite often, without any reason whatsoever. With one letter she reminded me of something, I just didn’t know what it was. I was curious what would make her to do this. If this is a new game the kids are playing these days, what would become of them: losing their “I”s like this? So many questions circulated in my head as I was waiting impatiently, and looking forward to hearing from her. One windy morning, on the promise of heavy rainfall and thunderstorms in our district, I woke up, checked my mail, and saw her second letter. I was anxious to read it so I opened it.
Dear Eight,
So good to hear back from you. Your questions are fair, so if you need an explanation for this “endeavor”, as you called it, maybe you will be dissatisfied… The reason might disappoint you. There is this girl in Homeroom period who had an imaginary friend – a boy with ginger hair for a while. To her he was quite real. She saw him first when her family was having problems and had to move here. So, she was the one that came up with this practice. She shared a bit about her family while trying to loosen up in conversation in English when she first came. She said she lived in absolute opposites and that all the opposites have opposites on all sides, thus making her a walking conflict with the inability to comprehend identification with anything. So she said, “if there’s nothing to identify with, why bother have identity at all?” She was transferred from another school. I think she’s been to quite a few, because she was bullied and made fun of her accent and last name… There’s nothing more to say about that really, but if you want to know more, it will follow up in future letters.
Anyway today was quite a silent day. It seems as if not a word has been spoken because of exams and frustrated teachers in the hallway. Sometimes wishes do come true, don’t they? There’s this song by Van Morrison called “Days like this”.
Some popular girls in school says that listening to old people’s music is weird but music is ageless, isn’t it? This song is quite suitable for this moment.
Hugs,
P.S. “Phantom girl” sounds nice.
I immediately wrote her back. My letter included questions such as “Are you the girl, who sees the ginger boy?” hoping to be on a hunch and “Why are you talking like this?” I still didn’t understand any of the things she said. After that I didn’t hear from her for more than two months… I was counting. One day I woke up to a letter delivered to my room again, the very same way as the first time.
Dear Eight,
Theatre class is amazing and turns out to be a wonderful practice of constantly changing and being a new character. New memories, new persona, new clothes. Oh, it is a new life… Well, it is basically everything that goes with the new shoes, so some things that come out can be a bit harsh. A lot of interesting things have been happening for the past couple of weeks. Today Eliza Doolittle is writing to you. She is a character in “Pygmalion” – a stage play by George Bernard Shaw. Theatre is such a wonder, you can never understand it fully until your heart starts pounding and aligns with the rhythm of the steps you take up on that stage in front of the curious crowd staring at Eliza.
As to your question about the girl… It is irrelevant and unanswerable. Is it a trick question? You see, since she is non-identifiable, how can anyone know who she is? Isn’t this the whole point of not identifying with anything? She is every character in a book she reads, or a movie she sees and also nowhere to be found. Physically she has an appearance of some sort, but it is rarely seen in the corner of the back the room, she also skips class a lot. When is here, she is always quiet as a mouse...
If you are that curious, maybe the following will satisfy your curiosity as to what are the reasons for her coming up with the dropping of the “I”. As all people, even the unidentifiable unfortunately, she also has parents. So, she says that her father treats her like nothing, beats her and calls her names. She says she is no more than a “stress ball” to him, and her mother treats her as if she is “everything worth living for”. Being someone’s meaning to life is quite a burden, wouldn’t you agree? The pressure is coming from all sides. Isn’t it strange how things turn out? You see, when she was still in her mother’s womb it was her father that wanted her more than anything, and her mother wanted to get rid of her. He begged her mother to have the child. She learned this from her mother when she was 10… Isn’t it ironic how opposite sides generate more opposite extensions to themselves and don’t seem to have a meeting point nor end? In a way, it is like theatre. If there is no opposition, the play will be boring. Also you never know what role you’re actually playing in the other character’s life until it plays out. So life is much like a stage play in that way… This theatre experience is the first step to a whole new practice, which is, in summary, a deliberate contradiction. It is the act of doing the opposite that makes you comfortable and it usually appears as a thought first. The thought can be something like “this can’t happen” or “this is impossible to do”…
Well, soon the stage will be lit, all will be played out, and much will be seen. The greatest thing about theatre is the enigmatic feelings it gives when everyone is holding their breath and something is about to happen. It is the only thing the audience is able to go back home with and it’s what makes people come back again.
So, “These are the days” here. How are yours? It seems that Van Morrison wants to end these letters to you.
Hugs,
“So, now she was on a new practice that is complementary to the other.” I thought. It was something strange, but at the same time it didn’t seem unnatural. I was sure that the girl she was talking about was her, although she was completely seeing herself as another person, a sign for dissociation or maybe bipolar disorder. I can never get these terms straight. Anyway, in a twisted way it looks somewhat logical: Not being able to see yourself in either of these two extremely opposite identity roles in a family, while also being bullied at school, seems the only logical thing to do if you want preserve your sanity. Many people would go with the identification from the mother’s point of view. They will find a comfort zone and grow in it, but it will mutate into an unpredictable form and can become destructive, leading into a path of what someone else would want you to do and become…
The complete dissociation is a real sign of a mental illness, if caught at an early stage, it can even be reversible, but this reverse can also do damage… So it seems that the long term sanity preservation, in this case, with abuse from all sides, is the dissociation – a pursue of dropping the “I” and deliberately contradicting, while playing different roles in theatre or in life…
Let’s look at it from another side. Again, being “the mother’s will to live”, and “the father’s punch bag” at home while also bullied at school during the day is a complete lack of safe ground. It’s like living in an emotional war zone without any safety equipment other than these practices… I read somewhere that the stress a child goes through in an abusive environment is similar to the mental state of a soldier on the front line… Well, maybe not that much, but they probably have some sort of similarities.
I decided to write my next letter to her with understanding and compassion of some sort, even share with her my point of view.
Dear Phantom girl,
I see that your practices are doing something to you. Are you enjoying yourself in these theatre classes? This new practice you call “Deliberate contradiction” can make you do things and end up on paths that can be dangerous for you, don’t you think? Maybe every extreme point can become destructive and delusive even this path of dissociation by dropping the “I”. Why don’t you think about your paths and choose wisely? Do you feel lost right now in your life? Maybe practicing this can make you feel confused and lost. In a strange way I feel connected to you and also a bit worried. All I want is the best for you. I know that the girl you’re talking about is actually you, maybe you’ve hidden her, but since you talk about her story, maybe she wants to come out… Think about it.
Hugs,
Eight
I sent it, although I felt that the tone of my last letter was a bit too admonishing as I knew better by now the fragility of the girl and her situation. She obviously started going on this path because she had no other choice. She was not doing these practices because it was something she wanted to do and came up with over a doll tea party. If you have a nice life and a fairly normal family situation you might have a smooth ride in life but some situations can make you do unpredictable things. The answer came soon enough…
Dear Eight,
They said that the program at school has come to its end, as spring break is just around the corner. This final letter might be a bit of a disappointment, but at least it will clear some things up for you, so you can rest your mind. These letters were never meant to be something that would worry you. They were just a brief explanation of some practices that are not so bad when you come to think of it. They do lead to unpredictable things, but as the Cheshire cat says: “If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will get you there…”
The girl who started this whole thing is far away now. Maybe she had a plan all along, and as she turned sixteen and she came back to her “I”, or maybe as you would say: “came to her senses”, she decided to go home to her country, but without her parents. When a person turns sixteen he/she has a legal right to choose not to live with family or relatives, so she took that option. Her last words were: “It is not fragility that leads us to the great strength and power within us, it is the absolute fragility. It is the constant breaking piece by piece that enables us to reach to that inner part of us that we call a life force. But holding existence dearly is not synonymously holding on to life itself and clutching to the constant fear of death, kicking only for that imposturous survival instinct that we can’t let go of, is what keeps us captive and deprives us of seeing what lies beneath which is also the highest point to reach. Soon one realizes that the deepest hole and the highest peak are simply the furthest point to reach…
Being able to break easily and becoming extremely sensitive to everything and everyone is what actually gives us the power and strength. It can also give us the satisfaction of feeling empathy and compassion, but those are just mere effects, they are not it.
Yes, I now understand better what “surrender” is but it isn’t a surrender to the self, it is a surrender and entrusting your entire being to vulnerability taking it to its furthest point. It is a in a way conquering the parts of you that are lying to you through vulnerability. And this fragile state often bears the disguise of misery and despair from inside and outside, but they should be looked upon with condescension for they are not the real stop. These layers are not to be peeled off because they are hard as iron. They are to be melted off with empathy and compassion, and underneath the hot melting iron, there are endless crooked pieces of deceiving mirrors which are to be broken. Underneath these mirrors, there are colorful porcelain plates with amazing figures that consist of all the colors in the world, pulsating and blending. It is a pleasurably painful ecstasy to watch them. They are to be shattered with no mercy or admiration for their captivating beauty. One must see them as a peaceful, neutral observer and then one will realize they are not where one needs to be. Only then would one attempt to swim into the depths where the self lies in its endless form.
Today I laid on the grass and blew a dandelion in the air. Seeing the seeds drift into the sky is the closest I have come to see the stars in daylight. Someday the sun will be still shining and I will see all the stars for real.“
Hugs and Goodbye,
It was really the very last letter from her. I felt there is no point of replying, since “the program” was finished. However, I read the letters a few times after. Today I read them outside in the garden. It was almost sunset and I decided to blow a dandelion into the air. The sun was still up when I saw a very small shimmery light in the sky, and then another one, and another one…