Back from Dark Waters (and about to dive back again)

It has been a while since my last post (or, more accurately, finishing my last post that was there 2 months ago). School has held me up, with a second round of midterms and scarcely 3 weeks or so later, finals. All of which pretty much pushed me past what I perceived as my limit. 

As impossibly difficult as I make it sound, I did not get the worst end, although I definitely did not get the easiest either. At least it is over. For now. 


After I put my pencil down for the last final, I should feel intense relief, intense relaxation of my too tight muscles, intense inclination to scream to the Heavens, "HALLELUJAH~~!!!" But I didn't. I just felt intensely hungry. After I left the exam room, all I could think was what and where I would eat. My gluttony... one day I just know it'll get the better of me and drive me fat. 
And I felt tired. Exhausted. I just wanted to sleep and catch up on all my lost sleep. So I slept, from 3  to 5. I felt miserable for whatever reason when I woke, perhaps because the room looked so desolately dark and I happen to strongly dislike the color blue, which was just what my room was filled with. A deep, dark, sickly color blue. If I hadn't gone for sushi that night with family, I would've continued being miserable. The bright colors in the sushi parlor, the abundance of good food and the lovely warmness of being with family saved my life. 


But to know that I have to go through that AGAIN and AGAIN for the next 4 years? Or more? And to know that even if I try hard, I might not get what I want, that is, the Dietetics program, is a horrible feeling. I feel sick in the stomach, 5 days left until I am sent back to school... I feel like I'm counting the days to an execution... (that's very exaggerated I can imagine, since I can't even imagine the horrible feeling of counting down the days that you have to live). 

The Peanut Goes Global (final)

2 years passed. 2 years of living in a UN refugee camp eating the plainest of foods and living in waiting for the day when they will hear news that they will be sent to Canada. The day when the immigration office will take only his mother, Michel and his little sister and no more. His sisters, that day, will be left behind with 6 children, 4 to one of Michel's sisters and 2 to the other. The day when Michel will begin his wait for his sister's, niece and nephews, whom, to date, has not yet escaped the Congo. 
During this time, his cousin described to him what he should be expecting in North America. 
"In North America," his cousin began. "You can wear white socks, walk from one end of the street and back, and they'd still be just as white!" 
That sounded absurd to Michel, but not as ridiculous as...
"In North America," his cousin continued. "There's this guy called Michael Jordan, and they pay him 30, 000 to shoot a ball into a basket! 
Michel was dumbfounded. Immediately, he grabbed the nearest ball and shot it straight into a nearby basket. 
"No one," he cried. "No one in there RIGHT MIND would pay me 30 000 dollars for doing that!"
He then spent the rest of his time in the UN refugee camp anticipating his arrival to an insane country. 


The plane landed. Outside the window, Michel saw something he had never seen before. Something white...sparkly white. It looked like caramel. 
"Ladies and Gentlemen," a voice announced. "Welcome to Toronto International Airport. The temperature outside is -42 degrees Celsius." Now, Michel had never felt anything close to minus before, nor could he imagine anything like it. So, he immediately decided that "minus" is something Canadians added before they told the temperature. What it really was was 42 degrees Celsius! Well what was he doing in a jacket a scarf and what not? Hurriedly, he began to take it off. The people who could see him stared at him, thinking him insane. Michel thought of them equally so. 
When he went outside, he froze. Literally. His fingers turned purple, his nosee felt as if it might fall off. He had never felt such cold. So maybe that jacket and scarf did have its uses. Oops. 
Yet, dumbfounded as he was about the cold, he could not help but notice that it was quiet. Too quiet. He stared into the wide skies. There were no bullets wizzing past, there were no tell-tale flames and smoke smell, nor any thunderous sounds of bombs going off in the distance. Nothing. It was quiet. It was the greatest peace Michel had known. It felt wonderful.
But then...
"Mom," he said,"Can we go back to the Congo? And when it's not so cold here, then we come back?" 


It wasn't long before Michel was sent to High School. Between the day he landed in Canada and starting High School, he had time to get to know this strange land called Canada. He couldn't wait to try to walk from one end of the street to the other and find his socks still starch white. He had tried the stuff that looked like Caramel, although always a fan of walking on the mischievous side, Michel decided that instead of trying the ones that were cotton candy white, he might as well try the rarer blackish ones on the side of the road. His analogy? If it looked like Caramel, it had to taste like Caramel. When he tried the "caramel" he decided maybe his analogy is a little flawed. But the best thing. He fell in love with this country. 
Where he was used to, Michel always used the word "stylish" to refer to ladies who looked pretty and "smart" to men he thought looked not half-bad. On the first day of High School, here was this STYLISH lady!
"Hey, you're really stylish!" He said, shamelessly walking up to her. She looked him up and down.
"You," she said. "Are really creepy." 
From that day on, he was known as the "Creepy African Kid". Not a bad start. 


More and more, Michel learned the way of High School. It was brilliant! Free education for the win! He made friends, feeling himself settling in. All was wonderful.
Except for that one thing that nagged him, a little hand pulling him opposite of paradise. 
It was discontent. 
Not him. Here in Canada, all was well. No bullets, no war, no fear of death save for from the cold. Yup, Canada is excellent. The discontent came from the people themselves, the people themselves were discontent. 
Take that other day. 
A girl in his school had complained she hated her parents.
"I hate my parents, they bought me the wrong color!" She had shamelessly announced. Now what exactly it was, I had not caught, but whatever it was, it was something that Michel had thought to himself, if she didn't want it, please give it to him. 
All around, he heard ridiculous complaints. Complaints for absurd little things that we here in the developed world hear often enough that I don't need to repeat. When we complain, of course we mean what we say. When it is said, it makes absolute sense. But to Michel, it made no sense. How could there be complaint in a world like this? No bullets, no bombing, no need to worry... what was it? ... Hakuna Matata. It frustrated him to no end that he nevertheless still heard discontent. 
His frustration continued to build, enough that he decided it was time to take action. He wrote an essay.


The essay introduced a story many have heard little to none. A story of a traumatizing childhood, of a living Hell of bullets and endless fear that the next day may be the last. A story that Michel decided to write because he couldn't understand why with all the money and freedom the people here are blessed with, why they would not choose to help but instead, spend every weekend shopping or ranting about the last thing that had not gone perfect. 
Days later, his friends approached him. How can we help, they asked. What can we do? 
Michel then understood and smiled, satisfied. These people were not uncaring, cold, selfish animals. They are simply blessed ignorant. 
Since then, he traveled about, telling these unknowing souls his story, telling them what they must know. Telling people like me, so that one day, we can be the change that we can be. Just because we can. And just because they need us now.