Member-only story
The Journey Long After Shakespeare
and the fruitless innocence of wanting to be anyone but myself
Adults left in the problematic company of myself, to distract from their shameless scrutinising stare, would often playfully ask,
“And what do you want to be when you grow up, clever little boy.”
“An artist! Maybe a writer. I haven’t yet decided.”
The adult is stung to laugh even before the answer.
But clever little boys speedily learn to disregard the raucous laughter of strangers. And they’re discouraged from speaking too much with them.
They could mean harm.
But my family wants what’s best for me. I know they do. Otherwise, they would poison my supper in that long ago time.
And yet…and yet…
“So what are you going to choose? You can be anything you want, you know! So, what is it?”
“A writer.”
“You can’t be that! That’s silly. What do you want to be?”
It’s not hard to remember when I last experienced this. It was like that first time my school girlfriend flirted with another boy.
They were thunderclaps. And when the quake was over, the ground was no longer beneath my feet.
