“If I could write words
Like leaves on an Autumn Forest floor
What a bonfire my letters would make…”
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I’ve often wondered if my letters make a difference. If simply by reading the way in which I, as one individual, has chosen to place one word in front of the next, it would actually have some kind of effect in the reader’s reality. Would it ripple into their subconscious, erupting into action at some later point in time? Or would it simply pass them by, like trains that don’t stop at their station?
I’ve seen both—the way some eyes roll quickly over the page, thinking it absurd some fool would make a living out of penning a thought—and also the way some eyes brighten slightly, those that have been stirred by the words; a reminder perhaps of an earlier feeling, or a foreboding of a future one.
Whatever the effect, it seemed inevitable that I write. And in order to write, it was imperative to read.
It used to always bother me that my father couldn’t commit to a book. He would read as many as four or five at a time—a chapter here and there, depending on the time of day and his mood. The exact opposite of him, I would abandon a book only if it begged me to—and I would never be so disloyal as to begin a new story before ending an old one.
I realized the difference was not in commitment—but on my insistence that there be perfection in writing. My father had no such high expectation; he appreciated each for what it was, or for the effort it made.
In much the same way, as South Asian parents, we find that any talent we discover in our child should be refined to the state of absolute perfection, achievement, and success.
If you really want to give up medicine to become a writer then you better be the best writer the world ever saw, and be paid a million dollars a word for it.
In the new generation of parents, helping your child find his or her ‘true calling’ has started to rank higher than ever before. Moving forward with this well-intentioned goal however, many parents fall into a trap they falsely believe they are avoiding.
If your son wants to play hockey, he’s taken to the best hockey coach in the state, practices every day after school, and needs to win the school championship—how else will he make nationals?
In line with the idea behind Chua’s Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, we are convinced that should we have been so gracious as to allow our children to act on their passion, the least they can do is become the Michael Jordan of it.
I started writing as far back as I can remember being myself. In my diary, in cards to my family, on random scraps of paper that found their way to my daddy’s wallet. I don’t remember ever having had a writing mentor, or entering a writing competition, or being told to ensure my words were of the highest order.
However, I do remember the unspoken pedestal on which my words stood. A file of anything I had ever written was stored under heaps of my father’s clothing; from the first line I scribbled to the personal statement I wrote for university. If I pulled out my journal on the plane, my sister would let me have silence. If I had trouble expressing my feelings, my mother would let me write them out in letters. Words were my way, and I was allowed to decide their fate.
This isn’t to say we shouldn’t encourage our children when they show an inclination towards a talent, a skill, or even an area of interest. We should, and when we do, we clearly see the benefits of our support.
But we do have to be wary of the power we hold as parents. If we raise the bar for the most precious object in our child’s life too high, she may give up reaching for it altogether. If we push a passion to the edge of its pressure threshold, we will surely destroy it before it reaches even half of its potential.
My parents were patient—I went from writing poetry to newspaper articles to jingles to travel columns to children’s stories to raps. They waited and gave honest feedback; but they never told me what to write, how to write, when to write it, and most importantly, who to write it for. The purpose of any calling you feel has come from somewhere other than yourself exists simply for its own sake.
I still don’t know if my letters make a difference. But I write because I cannot, not. And although I may never be a Dickens or a Shakespeare, there is one page I share with them.
While flipping through one of my daddy’s diaries, in which he had collected his favorite pieces of writing, I found the words of:
Rabrindanath Tagore
Spike Milligan
Sri Aurobindo
John Keats
Johannes Sebastian Bach
&
Myself
There is no sturdier ground to stand on than the one your parents hold up. If you truly believe in your child’s talent, allow it to manifest. Tread carefully on another person’s passion. Your words have effect.
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“The woods would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang best.”
