Report Card
From the ages of six to nineteen, averaging three times a year, my father would take out his fountain pen and sign my school or college report card with a flourish. Most years, this was a straight A report, and the cause of much secret vanity on my part, much joy on my dad’s part and much smug satisfaction on my mum’s. I had, after all, inherited her academic genes.
My report card sang praises of my good behaviour and fine leadership qualities. My peers would have translated that to mean teacher’s pet and class bully. Consequently, I have spent a large part of my adult life trying to make amends for the little shit I was.
In turn, I signed many report cards for my two boys. I will sign the last one in a couple of months, when my younger son finishes school. Each time, my eyes would go first to the teacher’s remarks. Most years, I read: can try harder; capable of better grades; well behaved; a pleasure to have in my class. Once in a while, a failing grade in Hindi needed comfort and consolation, but my kids did the best they could and that was enough.
I think about what my report card would say on completing forty eight years in a couple of weeks. What grades might I expect for living and learning? No straight A’s on this one, I think.
Adulthood. No teachers to write encouraging remarks. No parent to sign off on perfect grades. Instead, experiments, false negatives and Q.E.D. Learning to let go – of the ego (okay, still working on that), of the past, of things that no longer matter – that’s been a long hard course to master. The Relationships section could have been highlighted in red but I was saved from a complete wipeout by some wonderful friends, two patient kids and a best friend who is also everything else.
Do I get a passing grade for adulting? Yes, perhaps, but adulthood is only half way done yet (I think, I hope) so we’ll see.
Motherhood. I came perilously close to failing the first attempt. I took the course without reading up on what it took – the absolute surrender of former self because this little person demanded it all – energy, time, money, passion. Everything. The surrender came hard to me. I resented it and fought it. By the time I figured out that it wasn’t the surrender that comes with loss but the sweeter one that love demands, it was almost too late. Though my older son and I drifted far apart, he was the one who rescued and redeemed me. He was the teacher. I, the student. He tested me every way possible and forced me to re-learn the art and the science. I pulled that grade up in time and I think I’ve earned a reprieve the second time around. The younger one taught me the meaning of patience and the value of quietness.
Consciousness? Of the environment, of the self? Of politics, gender and otherwise? This has been the strangest learning curve. I was awake and aware in the early adult years. Then life distracted me, bedazzled me. Just when it seemed that trauma and grief, jewels and clothes, fine things and the high life, yes and love too, had converted me into some unrecognisable version of my younger self, a beloved person died. She took with her all the pretense, the facade and the frailities. A light switched off in the room marked Possessions and switched on in other dark places. Places of identity and worth, corners of the mind where waited hope and anger, letting go and learning to be. Love was tested, measured and turned out to live up to all the promises and commitments. Tested again, just to be sure, and love was weighed, measured and found wanting. A third time, for statistical reasons. And love failed every test of trust and faith and friendship. So I let it be. One out of three ain’t bad. And that one is the only one that ever mattered.
What grade to assign then to the self? Doubting, egoistic, hurting self? A passing grade, but with scope for improvement. Negative marks for self absorption and self pity, more encouraging grades for sucking it up and trying again, most days.
How wonderfully strange to be student, teacher, examiner all at once. To teach, to learn, to test myself over and over again. To self report a score card no one will ever look at, let alone pay the slightest heed to. To grade myself on vanities, frailities and strengths. To come to terms with successes and failures. To sign off on a mid life report.
As mental exercises go, it is possibly futile, even a waste of time. Still, it has its uses in keeping a rampant ego in check. Plus, the process satisfies the book keeper in me. To set out the good and the bad and the merely stupid in rows and columns. It is deflating and sobering to see the totals. The teacher inside keeps the student on a long rope, so there are mistakes still to be made and lessons to be learnt.
This is my report card of life and love and everything in between.