To anyone in the future who might be
reading this,
This
is a late-night rant about me. Somewhat narcissistic because I’m at the centre
of everything, but I can’t help it -- it’s the way my life is narrated in my
head, therefore I must be the protagonist. And honestly, it’s good to reflect
on what you have done to better prepare yourself for the much, much more you
have yet to do. No pressure or anything.
It
might be a stroke of good fortune or a convoluted curse that I found out about
medical illustration so early on. I was 13, and this is the love story about
trials and tribulations, tantalizations and turmoil, turning around and turning
up. It’s an interesting story, so far only lived and not recorded. So here is
my fate with the love of my life.
You
know those stupid health days that is somehow required for all junior high schools?
Usually it’d be a day of running outside, doing some form of group activity
tackling some topic like bullying or sexual health (accompanied by lots of
immature giggling). You get the picture. These things usually take place on
Fridays, and those are half days so kids can’t wait to go home. With
acne-covered faces and gawky posture, we thought we were the coolest. Nobody
gave a rat’s ass what the teacher had to say about the far future ‘cause it’s
simple -- we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I was 13, several months
younger than most of my peers, and held similar cynicism towards health days,
but taking my future more seriously than most. That is the precise topic on
this day. The teacher was talking about our future careers, and I was in the midst
of my existential crisis. No, I am not joking. I’ve had this stupid crisis
since I was 12, and cannot seem to shake it off. Of course I have not read
literature on it and did not know how to name it, so I generally called it “The
Pointlessness of Life”. The truth is, at the tender age of 12, I can already
see far, far into my future:
I
would finish junior high, go into high school, enrol in the International
Baccalaureate Diploma program, get into a good university, graduate, possibly
pursue some form of post-grad (or not, doesn’t make a difference), and then
work a 9 to 5 job until I retire, wonder where life has disappeared to, and
then wait to die.
There may be
some small variations from time to time. I’d marry someone different; I’d become
an artist on the side and sell some of my paintings at those art stores in a
mall... But the prescribed plot is killing me. I had too much time to think,
and I can’t think of other options. At this point in my life I’ve been academically
successful-ish, in the sense that I took over teaching my math class, I got the
top grade of my math and science courses, my art teacher loves me, and everyone
looks at me with expectation and a sparkle of promise: This kid’s going to be
so successful. No. I was ready to die.
If
I knew what I was going to do when I’m 15, 25, 35, 45, 55...what’s the point of
actually living it? Might as well save some resources for the other kids and
off myself now. I’m smart, I’m intelligent, but I don’t want to be a doctor or
be one of those people who bend over their microscopes everyday and don’t see
the sunlight. I’m good at math but I don’t like math. So this career day was
really important for me. Some people might say it’s premature for a child at 13
to decide what she wants for the rest of her life, and they may be right, just
like how Romeo and Juliet ended tragically because they fell in love too
quickly. But if you’ve ever seen the beginning of the movie Up, you’ll know
that it doesn’t have to end that way.
We
filed into the library and opened up a website called “careercruise”, it’s a
straightforward and underadorned html site. We created our profiles and clicked
into a career-matching personality test page. I began to answer:
I
consider myself to be a logical person.
Strongly agree
I
consider myself to be a creative person
Strongly agree
I
like science
Strongly agree
I
like art
Strongly agree
I
like organization and filing
Disagree
I
like to observe everyday things
Strongly agree
At this point I
was mentally and physically grinning: “Yeah take that you stupid adult system.
I don’t fit into anything so I’d like to see you try”. And, readers who inhabit in the future, you know the results already. Hanging above doctor, artist,
designer, music composer (yeah), were two giant words: “Medical Illustrator”. I
have never seen these two words put together into a noun. I have never
connected the concepts. I have, however, always complained about the quality of
our textbook illustrations, sometimes even putting sticky notes over them and
doodling my own, but I never thought that somebody would specialize and be paid
for this stuff.
I began to read.
It was a lot of reading for a 13-year old, with a job description,
requirements, and three lengthy interviews. By the time I got to the first
interview the teacher was calling out to us that we need to move on to the next
activity. I stared at the words some more, not realizing this is love at first
sight, but it struck me and stuck.
I know this all
sounds cheesy, and you may feel free to think that, but this is the thought
that kept me going through the latter half of high school.
Fast-forward a
year to the beginning of grade 10. A lot has happened, and it has put some
distance between this dream job and my dream. Mostly people just tried to
convince me that I’m better than that. They told me that I’d be better off just
focusing on science, and try to become a doctor. Do art as a hobby, do it on
the side. It’s not important and art cannot pay your bills. Go study something
more practical, something that would give you a good future... and I believed
them. Even now, six years later, as I’m typing this, I feel a mild revulsion at
these words. They’re mean and sick in the darkest sense: The speakers don’t
know how deep the words cut, so they keep on repeating them like a cursed mantra. I
understand where they’re coming from, because they have lived through an age of
deprivation, an era where pragmatist meant the difference between an empty and full
stomach. I’m sad because these people are the ones making today’s decisions,
and they’re the ones who tend to set the paths for our generation.
I’m glad they
did what they did, because without them I wouldn’t realize how much I’m willing
to fight to keep art inside my life.
At that time, I
read books on neuroscience and psychology, I was fascinated and hooked on it.
The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat? Daniel Tammet who had Asperger’s,
synaesthesia, and has a photographic memory? Autistic savants? It was sci-fi
come true, and that is exactly what I had in mind when I filled out my IB
application.
For those of you
who don’t know, IB is a gruelling 3-year program where the students get no
sleep, write a 20 page lab report every week, for every science course they’re
in, write separate exams from the ones given by the province, and read lots of
books for English and other languages. I knew I was going to do a diploma
program, which consists of six courses -- a primary language course (English),
World History, Math, a second language, one of biology or physics, and the last
one of chemistry, computer science, or art. I filled out everything else on
that form except for the unchecked 6th course. I know science is
important to pursuing a degree in neuroscience/psychology. I’m not stupid. So I
checked off chemistry. Afterwards I was deflated, and spent the next month
mentally preparing myself for a full 3 years of artlessness, sometimes
regretting my decision, sometimes thinking that this is like ripping off a
Band-Aid (when in fact it’s more like ripping off a limb).
But alas, this
is one of those instances where the stars aligned and everything clicked. To
this day I do not know what I did in my past life to deserve this kind of luck,
but our Chinese IB teacher decided to retire that year. Which in turn means that
the Chinese IB students must take this course on the weekend, with a local
Saturday Chinese school. Most students groan at the loss of half a day of
weekend time for the next two years, but I jumped up in joy. Why? This change
frees up the exact amount of time in my schedule for me to take another IB
course. The courses are not limited by number, but by your schedule. For me, my
schedule was packed full including summer school, taking physics because I do
not have the room to take it during the year. I have never enjoyed a spare
class in high school and I was more than happy to sacrifice it.
I race to our IB
coordinator’s office and told her about it, and after I finished, she just
looked at me like I’m insane.
“You know this will be a lot of work, doing
all these courses? Will this even fit?”
“Yes I know, and yes I checked, the time
frame fits.”
She just flashes
me her signature fake smile and told me to submit another application come May.
I was so happy to be delving into the arts again that I didn’t really care I
had to write another essay, fill out the same forms, or talk to my art teacher
for a reference.
It turns out
that the timeframe fitted, but the specific period didn’t fit. So I had to go
to my counsellor, who had to go to the IB coordinator again, who had to talk to
both art teachers at my school, and then I was enrolled into an art IB class
all by myself. Well no, I actually sat with art classes of all different
grades, I just did my own thing. Did I feel overwhelmed? Yeah. Did I feel lonely
sometimes? Yeah. Did my art teacher hate me because she never really knew what
to do with me? Hell yeah. But did I care about the other people? Not
particularly. I got into the best scenario possible, and I made sure I didn’t
complain a peep.
Sometimes at 4:30 am in the morning after writing a lab report
and sketching the next assignment, I would weep quietly to myself. Sometimes I
can’t finish a reading for English because I had projects or workbook pages
due, but I made sure to at least read sparknotes, and never used art as an
excuse. I know I have earned the right to use the lack of time as an excuse for
my other assignments, which were overwhelming even to those with the standard 6
courses, but because of my pride, I didn’t. I talked about art always with
flying colours, with a spark, even though my art teachers did nothing for me
and I learned nothing in that class. Even though she frequently marks me absent
and never checks up on me. I ask her for a material and she would forget. I write down the title of my piece for her three separate times and she would still type it wrong. She told me I will not succeed in starting my own art club. It was infuriating. People frequently treat anomalies this way, and oftentimes without
good reason, and their immaturity and inertia really pissed me off.
The best support
for my art came from my chemistry teacher. The irony is astounding. But after 17 years of my life,
he was the first person to tell me to “just go for it”. Unprecedented relief washed
over me when somebody acknowledged exactly what it is I wanted. To hear, for
the first time “I think that’s a terrific thing you do” rather than “no, your
dream shouldn’t be this way, it
should be this way”. Everyone is
always quicker to give advice than they are willing to take responsibility, and
the young mind is especially susceptible to influences and easily injured. I pick up my trampled dreams, dusted off the footprints, and hug her tight.
Like someone who
is dating the love of their life, and people pointing out “her hair is too
curly” “she’s too skinny” “she doesn’t powder her face”. I don’t care. I don’t
give a single fuck what you think about the love of my life, because it’s my
life, and because she is perfect. I will stroke her hair every day, curly or
straight, hold her body close, fat or skinny, and brush her powdered or
unpowdered cheek and tell her how perfect she is. Sometimes we will have our
falling outs, sometimes we will get frustrated and want to rip at each other’s
throats, but at the end of the day, I am the luckiest person on the planet if
she’s willing to take me, to accept me and acknowledge my efforts. She makes me
a better person, and I’m only human, so I will make mistakes. I might not be
good enough for her, but I’m making goddamned sure that I show up well dressed
for our first date with a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolate.
