November 8, 2013 by Ain Nisa
I wonder, who carved, my soul?
Is it dad, who, at certain and crucial times, like when i was leading a girl scout activity, and watching my friends, shout at me, told me to go home. and then i did went home, though my friends’ eyes wandering through me. Questioning what the hell i did, what the hell had happened that he yelled at you that hard from the main gate, made you embarrassed from head to toe. We know from your reddish face. We know.
Or is it you, mom, who never hold me, never told me you love me. Is it you? who stay vague in my memory. And it dawns on me that you were working mother. That’s why the memory is so blur. But i think that’s not the point. Is it the way you criticize me in front of my cousins? Is it the way you never let me pick my own clothes to buy? Is it the way you afraid i will always mess up and break things at your rich sister’s house? A kid will always know when her parents doubt her. Any kids will do.
So when this time in the moment, that you all tell me not to yell at my kids, not to make them cry, my soul demands answers. I long for an explanation.
Who nurtured me to be scared of change?
Who taught me to be such a coward?
Who had lowered my self esteem?
Who, had made me be this way?
Who had successfully made a normal housewife from a middle-up family, blessed with wonderful husband and daughters, feel unhappy?
Who cultured me?
So they say i am not allowed to ask such questions. Because it means holding grudge. Because it was all in the past. Can’t a painter not asked about his painting. or a statue maker about his creations. Can’t parents be asked about their children, why they made mistakes they did. Dont you know that kids did finally grow up and they forgive, but their brains, never stop asking those questions:
Who carved, my soul?