As black darkness heralds night,
as white radiance brings forth light,
have we need, a dull gray, to sight?
Have we need, at all, for the twilight?
I once swore to myself never to have children. Not that I am planning to live a life of celibacy but I simply think I cannot handle any brat for the rest of my life. It was quite a puzzle then, this morning, when I pondered upon the question regarding how a child could be raised properly.
Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it was the bratty kid next door whom I could hear screaming at four in the morning, asking what's for breakfast. Maybe it's their stupid household help whose intense voice splits the air in unison with her charge's yells in a delightful cacophony. Maybe it was the "Harumph" I always sigh whenever I hear the barbaric duo, silently cursing the kid's parents for not educating both larva and slave about the concept of noise pollution.
Really now, I do have a mind of calling them one day, whilst they be immersed in yet another colorfully pointless childish debate. I digress.
Anyway, I was in the shower, a very uneventful place were it not for... never mind. As I was shampooing my hair, nourishing my healthy cover of dandruff, my trivial musings drifted to the different people I met in my childhood. Sure, there were groups of kids whose popularity permeates the entire classroom; almost every ear listening to them and almost every eye focused on their facial expression so that when they laugh, all the others might laugh as well.
I never was a very popular guy. Back then, I wished it was me cracking jokes but now that I have the hindsight to look behind at the sordid mess that was my past, I am quite grateful I never belonged with them. Sure, I do resent quite a lot of them and, given the chance at speed and stealth, would kill them at the present. Perhaps that must be the reason why I don't want to be one of them anymore.
Another group, or stereotype, if you will, is the Outcast society. It is here where I belonged once. We would speak in hushed whispers or low voices lest some Popular hear us and broadcast our words as a joke. Where the Populars often talked about music or fashion, we talked about them. I know, gossipping is bad but I was a kid then! Until I stepped into high school, the outcast group was often composed of really smart students or really dumb and silent shy people.
Where does the rest fit in? Nowhere. They were separate clusters of temporary liaisons, breaking up and re-coagulating many times within a year. They were the innocents caught in the crossfire between the Populars and the Outcasts. They were the butt of jokes in the rare instances where the Populars are not picking on an Outcast. They were the excluded ones in the clandestine telepathic conversations of the Outcasts. They cannot unite themselves for their social skills were nowhere as audacious as the Populars and the oppression they suffer is nowhere near enough to give them anything in common.
As I was rinsing off, I was struck with the unholy idea of raising a kid. I was utterly mollified now but I paid no heed then. I was more concerned about the way I would raise him. My mom raised me to be a prodigy, an Outcast. My dad tried to undo the damage whenever he was around but alas! 'twas too late and I grew up a geek. Obviously, I would not want my child to grow up like me. Obviously, I wouldn't want to turn into my own mother and cultivate another vegetable limping through life.
I never wanted my son/daughter to grow up a Popular, either. 'tis the primary reason why I wished not for a progeny. I am quite afraid of the horrors raising a brat as bratty as all the other brats. I wished not for a rowdy boy who wallows in the mud like some pig or a snobbish girl who moodily snorts at everything like some pig.
Alas! I am running out of options. I suppose I'd choose the least evil amongst the three in the very unlikely event that I happen to father a child. I never wanted my kid to be a nomad but I suppose my kid will thank me in the very far future. He could quite adapt to be able to glean some trivial information from the Outcasts. She could probably maintain her cool and be innoculated from the teasings and annoyances called Populars.
Walking out the shower room, I shuddered, partly due to the cold winter atmosphere, mostly due to the forbidden thoughts running across my mind. As I switch on the radio, I vaguely conjure a thought analogous to my shower daydreams: I want my child to be neither Pop nor Classical but rather Alternative or Wave.
Gah! I don't even think that makes sense. Coming from a mind ignorant of music genre, it probably doesn't.
