When I was about seven or eight, I moved schools. And do you know what I remember the most? Being behind. And I don’t mean just a little behind. It was light-years. They knew English. I was pronouncing carrot like kay-rrrot. They knew division. I barely knew the 9 times table. They played basketball and handball. I was struggling with dodge ball. I felt dumb and silly and became quiet for fear of saying the wrong thing. Raising my hand? Believe me, that’s for the brave kids.
In the new school, they were very keen on exploring our creativity, so every day, we had 30 minutes of drawing or painting with gouache or making something out of clay. This meant that for 30 minutes every day, I didn’t suck as much — I was almost at their level (emphasis on almost). That was until a day came when the teacher decided to add ‘writing’ to the art time. And guess what? 5 months in, and I was back to being the worst. Yes, I was catching up on my maths & science & languages, but I was still anxious all day, every day. And I still wasn’t good because everyone else kept learning and improving too.
I remember feeling miserable while trying to put some words together and write 5 sentences in massive handwriting to make it look like something. I handed it in. I got it back with very sharp notes in red. And then I just kept doing it. Like maths, writing was part of the programme, so I just had to do it. And I started seeing patterns in the books I was reading (thanks, mum) and writing stories with those patterns. Simple things like beginning, middle & end were significant discoveries for me. I think the rest of the kids were taught to do that, but I wasn’t — I was expected to know it because it was 3rd grade. So I learned it. And I started using it. And by the end of the year, I was good. More than caught up, I actually was good. I wrote stories about girls living in a zoo (not very ethical, but I was 7), about a boy who liked gloomy weather and my favourite, about a kid who had little legs but loved to run. They all sound silly and probably were — I won’t ever revisit them — but they made me feel that I wasn’t that bad after all. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t start raising my hand or talking in English class, but still, something changed inside me just because I found one thing that I liked and could actually do.
And why am I babbling about this now? I have a very hard time with the concept of ‘practice’. Even though I just told you about little catarina training her writing, I struggle with it as an adult. Whenever I’m bad at something, I tend to give it up because I simply don’t believe I’ll ever make it. And yes, I hate to be bad at things. So I just don’t do them. I’ve been trying to change this, though. I’m bad at sports, but I’ve been practising yoga and don’t suck as much now. I’ve also learned to roller-skate, and my butt hurts 24/7 from falling. But I can cruise in one direction now, which is… something. I’m forcing myself to believe in ‘practice makes perfect’ — practising to believe in practice.
This letter was supposed to be all about this.
About how I started watching The Marvelous Mrs Maisel and surprisingly liked it (if you’re considering it, think Fleabag + Mad Men) and how the main character is a comedian who was just raw talent but decided to commit and practise and became really good. This is what I wanted to write about. A few words of hope for anyone out there who is just like me.
This letter was supposed to be all about this.
And then the world shook.
Again.
And I find it funny that my recent thoughts revolve around moving forward and practising to become better when the world seems to be going back. Funny is not the word, is it? Sad is more like it.
A couple of years after having moved schools, mum was watching the news, and something on abortion came up. I was like 9 and as naive as can be, but I wanted to seem smart, so I told her I was all for abortion. Mum looked straight at me and said, ‘okay, but it doesn’t matter if you’re in favour of abortion or not. That’s a personal choice. What matters is that this is a health issue, and no one should be punished for choosing what happens to their bodies.” Well, that shut me. And that made me too. Again, thanks, mum.
There’s this line by TS Elliot where he mentions being distracted from distraction by distraction.
I think of this line whenever something big happens, and we’re forced to get back to our lives. Eliot means it as a critique which you can easily apply to current times. We’re all very engaged in our own little worlds despite the real world crashing around us. But that’s very unkind, isn’t it?
Looking at recent events, don’t we need to be a little distracted to keep moving? I know I do. Not too distracted that you can’t fight and speak up for your beliefs, but enough that you can go on living. Books are it for me. Films too. I have a friend who knits. Another who gardens. One who does yoga (not like me, she’s actually good). And one who makes beaded bracelets. I don’t see these as escapism mechanisms. I hate that term, escapism. I see them as companions. Things that help us move and cope and not crumble. I read and write, and looking back, I’m glad I came across this at a young age. There’s some pleasure in turning an obstacle into a strength; I’m proud of little me for that. And yes, now at 27, I finally know the 9 times table by memory. Yay me.
Books
Trust by Hernan Diaz
I’m taking a leap here because I’m still reading this book. I usually wait a bit until I collect my thoughts and can write concrete words. The thing is, I am really loving it. I had this on my list since the beginning of the year, but then a friend read it and has been raving about it since. So I decided to pick it up and omg yes. I’m only halfway through, so this can easily go wrong, but I have faith it won’t. Here’s the synopsis if you’re interested but what I can say right now is that the writing is stunning. Light but precise and so elegant. And the ideas behind it are so sharp and clear. I don’t know where it will take me, but I haven’t been this excited about a new release in a very long time.
PS — I wrote this letter on a Friday. It’s now Sunday morning and I just finished this book. I’ll write about it on Instagram, but I thought I’d come here and mock my own naivety. This isn’t good. This is extraordinary.
Films
Paris, Texas (1984) dir. Wim Wenders
And we have a favourite. I don’t know why it took me so long to watch this, but I did recently and I loved it so so much. Paris, Texas starts with a man wandering in the desert, lost, tired and mute. We slowly find out who he is but it’s not until the end that we get full clarity about his story. You can find the plot here, but it’s not about that. This is a linear story, very simple. And it’s about loneliness & solitude and doing the right thing despite the pain it causes. And in the end, there’s still some room to wonder, was this the right thing?
bye xx
June was a really odd month and for a second there I thought I wouldn’t be able to write this letter. Well, here I am writing, not one, but three days before my self-imposed deadline. Oh the little joys.
Thank you for reading me and as usual, feel free to ping me on Instagram @fast.continuous.