I just graduated, and I’m feeling this deep sense of dread. It’s not the fear of being “free” in the big world, I’m relishing the idea of never (or any time soon) being in the halls of academia. I’ve spent years honing a specific craft and I failed to venture into other things.
I have one talent, it’s this. To write, to read, to yap. In elementary school, I was one of a few “special”1 kids that got invited to a prestigious gathering called “Running and Reading”. I will note that it could have also been “Reading and Running”.
On Thursday nights, we would gather in the hallowed halls of our gymnasium. The floors were almost always glossy, and the dust between the crevices collected like spackle. The stage was covered in ripped deep purple mats and there was a massive anatomically incorrect purple T-rex (Raptor?) watching over us. Sometimes, we would be blessed by the presence of athletes from the Maple Leafs or the Raptors, all because we were a part of a minority the government labelled underprivileged. We didn’t complain. Call us underprivileged, we had some famous guy to carry us on his shoulders.
Reading and Running was exactly what it sounds like. We ran around in circles and then sat down in straight lines to read in pseudo-silence for the next half hour. The books came in a plastic box — one your mother would use for extra sheets or plush toys rotting from the inside. We would fight over the Captain Underpants. When I won the war, I sat with it on a corner of the stage, never reading2, just flipping back and forth watching the artistic rendition of an atomic fart.
I wish my parents just agreed to all my wild ambitions as a child. In an ideal world, I would present them with a dream job and they’d say sure. I would practice and then get bored with it and move onto something else. In reality, I said I wanted to be a writer, and they said I had to be a doctor. They were very insistent. My father, who doesn’t like spending money, took me to ToysRus and bought me a pink doctor set to really cement his convictions. It had a plastic bandage that fit around my teddy bears3 and a stethoscope that kind of worked. I’d put it against my father’s heart when he was in a good mood, measure out his heart beats and memorize them. When I cried at the kitchen table over math equations neither of us had learned before, I tried to remember he had a heart. I think we donated that doctor set.
There’s an obvious sense of guilt. My parents clawed their way through the world and across an ocean to settle down in a country that doesn’t appreciate their education, only for their daughter to beg to be a writer. They strive for perfection. They fear time, thinking that a day off will ruin my future.
When I scribbled birds in waxy crayon, happy enough to recognize where the head ended and the beak began, my mother would fix it for me because it wasn’t perfection. Most kids understand this experience. A report card with an A- deserved no attention, a report card with an A+ made them wonder why I couldn’t have gotten it before. An annoying vicious cycle. I’ve tricked myself into believing I’ve broken out of the cycle. I’m going to keep tricking myself until it becomes truth.
For my thesis, I made a novella. Which started as a game, which stopped being a game, which gave me a novella and is now also game again. All because I am unaware of my talents. I have not explored them. I only ever reach for skills when deadlines are due the next day4. This manic need to pick up a skill, execute that skill and be perfect at that skill is soul sucking. Especially when you’re preprogrammed for harsher criticism.
Do I love the game? No. Am I happy I made it? Yes
“Finding Roses” is a point-and-click adventure. I made the art in a couple of days, the coding is a compound of a prebuilt kit, tears, and Unity’s forums. I can’t consciously call it a labour of love because it is a labour of spite. All in all, I’ve made something that is imperfect, usually I would punish myself for that lack of perfection, but I’ve found peace and gratitude within the effort. I’m choosing to be kind to myself.
When I learn something new, when I try creating something, it does not need to be perfect. It needs to have heart. It needs to be appreciated for the effort it took to create. After all this, I should probably share my game and be proud, but the lie hasn’t cemented into truth quite yet. I am trying my best, though.
love,
gitanjali d. bal
instagram:@g.dvya
The word “gifted” was shoved down my throat so many times, I grew an inflated ego which quickly dissolved as I hid my failed 7th grade math tests from my mother.
I’ve never actually read Captain Underpants, I just looked at the pictures.
This caused a brief stint of wanting to be a vet. They were against it, that was beneath being a real doctor, but this was before we had three cats.
This is just adhd.