Slings and Arrows

Aahi was only four when she was taken from her destitute parents to be fostered by a young couple across the Pacific in an uptown suburb of West Coast. It was a noble cause, and they took it up happily when they decided to not have their own children.

Aahi, like any child would, cried for her parents every now and then initially, but gradually time consigned the memories of her early childhood to deeper layers of her young mind. She adopted her new carers, country, and culture as she shot past the marks on the growth chart hanging on her scalloped peach-and-white wall.

All was good at school, or so it seemed; no-bullying policy safeguarded and respected her ethnicity while teachers were around. But that never ameliorated the ocaasional sting of isolated slings and arrows, 'You don't belong here'. 'Yes, I do,' she'd retort back, but deep inside a lump of discomfort lingered. She groped her memories to solidify the amorphous memories and put together the silhouettes of her biological parents, fill in with the details of imaginary features on face, and drape them with apparels she knew; yet they'd fall apart like a crumbling sand castle. A wooden toy that she brought from her homeland was all she could cling to for solace. She called it Queer Quentin and used it as  bag-tag - a touch of time that she was forced to leave behind.

Silently Aahi endured the stigma and nurtured the hope of meeting her real parents someday. How would that be though? Her eyes welled up in grief, rage, and despair, she'd yell inside, why did you let go of me; but the other voice was softer, happier,  affectionately hugging those familiar but distanced, disconnected, dissevered bond of birth.

This bit of pain was her own - she never shared it with anybody. But in certain moments she'd spill it out unwittingly. The other day in her Engish class Ms Lam was explaining the use of proverbs, 'An apple doesn't fall far from its tree. Always tuck in such tools in your written expressions,' she was instructing when Aahi's hand slowly rose up as if on its own.

'What if the apple didn't know which tree it fell from?'

Ms Lam took a while to gather herself before patting her gently on the back and replying, 'Isn't it a smart question? Well, you know, whatever tree they are from, they are aways healthy, crunchy, and juicy; and you all are like a bag of freshly plucked ones. Now go on, start your writing. I'll need you to hand in your first draft by the end of this period.'

Ms Lam did have a word with the Principal and Aahi's foster parents afterwards; but they could do only as much - Aahi's inner unease was her own.

When the school organised their annual event "Dress as your favourite storybook character", Aahi slipped into a brown jumpsuit and stepped into her class with pride - she was her Queer Quentin.

"What are you? You're not a Jedi or Darth Vader!"

"She's neither Belle, nor Moana."

"I know! She's Groot, or at least she looks closest to that!"

"Who's Groot? I'm Queer Quentin,' she lifted her bag-tag to them.

Some giggled, some sniggered, others broke for the recess; Aahi fidgeted with her toy cum bag-tag for a while and padded along the path to the school canteen; it's okay if they do not know who you are, I do and that's what matters - she comforted Quentin. 

Every student knew Aahi was special - they were sensitised by their parents and teachers to behave well with her, help her, empathise her. Most were slow to cotton it on but a handful did, especially Damian, who always stood by her side. Damian shared her gaping hollow somewhere. His parents were separated and he spent alternate weekends with mom or dad - never got them together.

The day they were asked to prepare for a public speaking competition, Aahi picked up the topic "Every family has a story". She didn't know hers, but she weaved one beautifully; one in which her biological and foster parents blended into a perfect fabric of a family. She ended, '... and they never parted again!' It was moving. The deck where the parents were seated, went whisper quiet; the students assembled near the stage hushed to each other about how touching the tale was. The teachers were still trying to find the right words when Ms Lam strode up to her, hugged her, and announced, 'We do have today's public speaking winner - a sweet crunchy apple, Aahi - who knows not only the trees she fell from but also their roots! Well done Aahi.'

Life can turn on a dime. Aahi was fortunate it turned to a brighter side for her because that event was open-sesame to her golden days. Since then those slings and arrows never impaled her little mind. Her teachers started guiding her for the Zonal Public Speaking Competition. Her classmates suddenly wanted her in their teams of tag games, basketball, debating club, even if she didn't cut the mustard always. Her foster parents realised the psychological needs and reunited her with her biological parents - they spent the warm summer holidays together every year. The family fabric she had woven for days finally substantiated into a firm and colourful one; she treasured every moment, more so when she saw her closest chum, Damian, wasn't as lucky.

Dona, Sydney, 14th November 2022