Teenage Dreams: Superman
It was the birthday of my best friend, and she wanted me to sing for her. I was pretty scared of what she was asking me to do. Well yes, I could sing, but I never really sing for other people. Maybe a little music jams with my friends, but not for the crowd…
no way. She was determined to, according to her, “unleash my talent.”
“Please! Please! You need to sing. Just think of this as your gift for me. I won’t demand for anything else. Just this one,” she repeatedly pleaded. This was the fifth time of the day that she called me.
“First of all, why are you so eager on making me sing in front of your guests? IN FRONT OF YOUR GUESTS! I can’t do that. And second, I can always sing for you, anytime you want, but not this way. Please.” I said.
“Yeah, I know that. But you can’t hide your undeniably awesome talent forever. It has to come out! I want you to be successful.”
“And you think that this talent will make me famous? Or successful, eh?”
“Yes. Why not? You can really sing, I swear! You could have beaten every singer in the school choir. You’re just so shy to even open your mouth. You’ve been hiding inside your shell ever since… ever since…”
“My father died.” I continued. “You know what happened. I told you everything. Still, I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. But if you really can’t do it, it’s okay with me. I guess I need to call for other performers, and spend a lot of money, and stress about it…”
“Hey!”
“Kidding! I understand. I’m your best friend, right? But think about it. I wager your dad would be so proud of you, wherever he is, if you pursue your dreams... Good bye then. See you soon!”
“Okay. I’m really sorry. See you.” That was the end of our conversation.
I kept on thinking about what she said, about making my dad proud, about pursuing my dreams.
My dreams. I had no idea of what my dream really was. I was taking Management as my degree, just for the sake of having one and because my best friend was taking it, too. But ever since I was a little girl, with my ponytails and red plaid dress, I wanted to be a singer. My father was a great music man. He sang any songs from jazz to country, from Abba to Guns and Roses. He was a versatile singer, and I was lucky enough to inherit some of his talents. When I was five, he taught me how to play several instruments. When I learned how to legibly write, my father helped me write little songs. We were best friends – best friends who could sing and make music. Our favorite song was
“All You Need is Love” by The Beatles. My mother would always take a video of us. At the end of the day, we would all watch it using our old, battered but well taken care of video player, with a bowl of buttered popcorns for them and a jar of cookies for me, and soda for them and milk for me. We would laugh at how silly we looked, and I would usually cover my face because of shame every time my skirt would fly up and they would see my underwear. My dad and I,
we were inseparable. My dad plus my mom plus I,
we were a happy family.
I wanted to record songs with Dad. I wanted to just make music with him. Mom supported us both. She was such a diehard fan of the Father-and-Daughter tandem that I even secretly thought that maybe she was already keeping a stack of flyers and posters with our faces on it under their bed. It was all I’ve dreamt of, and it was pretty possible. Heck, it was within my little hands reach. But,
poof, I guess I left those dreams behind, just like how my Superman had left me.
I was twelve. He died of lung cancer, and I had no idea about it until he was in the hospital with all those tubes in him. He told me that he was sick, and it couldn’t be cured by any drug from our medicine box anymore, and that he couldn’t live long enough for him to come to my graduation day. He also told me to continue singing, because he believed in what I can do. He was saying something else, but I didn’t understand because I was crying really hard. All I remembered was the sight of him closing his eyes and me burying my head on his chest.
After that incident, my mother got all…
lost. She was like a
living zombie – she was working full time for us to get going, but she didn’t have a life. She barely smiled. We barely talked. She barely noticed me. She barely noticed herself. It was awful. It felt like I not only lost my talented father but also my supportive and loving and beautiful mother. It took several months when she finally woke up from her dreadful trance. I didn’t hate her for not being there for me when I was going through that stage when I still couldn’t accept that my father was gone. I realized that maybe she was like me too – not accepting, denying,
hurting. I understood her. So I was glad and relieved when she got back, when she had a life again, when it wasn’t just me anymore, but the two of us.
Also, I stopped singing. It reminded me of my father and our dreams. Maybe I was just so busy with school, or maybe I couldn’t face the truth that I would play my guitar all by myself, that I didn’t have a partner anymore. Sometimes Mom and I would see our videos again. Sometimes we would laugh. Sometimes we would cry and miss him. Once, my mom asked me why I haven’t touched my guitar ever since he died.
“I can’t. It still hurts, Mom. I’m afraid that if I touch it, it will be just soaked wet with tears.” Then I started crying, and Mom held me tight and tried not to cry. It was very untimely because I was doing my Math homework, and it got all smudgy with my tears so I had to start scribbling those crazy numbers and operations all over again.
Just like my mom, I partially lost my life when he left us. I managed to carry on because I know Mom needed me, and we couldn’t afford to have two living zombies in our family. I found my voice again with the help of my best friend and my friends. I could sing for them – but only them. Anything beyond that was utterly impossible. But after deep thinking, I realized that I should do what my best friend was asking me. There was nothing to lose. She was my best friend, and I owed her so much. I could still be wasted up until now if not for her. I should sing on her party, and I would make my father proud.
© Christine Faye Ordas
The characters and events portrayed in the story are fictitious and are from pure fantasies. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the [aspiring] author. Excerpts or lines borrowed from novels, songs, or any source will be properly credited.
“All You Need Is Love” is a song written by John Lennon and credited to Lennon/McCartney. It was first performed by The Beatles on
Our World, the first live global television link. Watched by 400 million in 26 countries, the program was broadcast via satellite on 25 June 1967. The BBC had commissioned The Beatles to write a song for the United Kingdom's contribution. Rolling Stone magazine ranked it at #362 in their 500 greatest songs of all time.
©
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Teenage Dreams: Superman
It was the birthday of my best friend, and she wanted me to sing for her. I was pretty scared of what she was asking me to do. Well yes, I could sing, but I never really sing for other people. Maybe a little music jams with my friends, but not for the crowd…
no way. She was determined to, according to her, “unleash my talent.”
“Please! Please! You need to sing. Just think of this as your gift for me. I won’t demand for anything else. Just this one,” she repeatedly pleaded. This was the fifth time of the day that she called me.
“First of all, why are you so eager on making me sing in front of your guests? IN FRONT OF YOUR GUESTS! I can’t do that. And second, I can always sing for you, anytime you want, but not this way. Please.” I said.
“Yeah, I know that. But you can’t hide your undeniably awesome talent forever. It has to come out! I want you to be successful.”
“And you think that this talent will make me famous? Or successful, eh?”
“Yes. Why not? You can really sing, I swear! You could have beaten every singer in the school choir. You’re just so shy to even open your mouth. You’ve been hiding inside your shell ever since… ever since…”
“My father died.” I continued. “You know what happened. I told you everything. Still, I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too. But if you really can’t do it, it’s okay with me. I guess I need to call for other performers, and spend a lot of money, and stress about it…”
“Hey!”
“Kidding! I understand. I’m your best friend, right? But think about it. I wager your dad would be so proud of you, wherever he is, if you pursue your dreams... Good bye then. See you soon!”
“Okay. I’m really sorry. See you.” That was the end of our conversation.
I kept on thinking about what she said, about making my dad proud, about pursuing my dreams.
My dreams. I had no idea of what my dream really was. I was taking Management as my degree, just for the sake of having one and because my best friend was taking it, too. But ever since I was a little girl, with my ponytails and red plaid dress, I wanted to be a singer. My father was a great music man. He sang any songs from jazz to country, from Abba to Guns and Roses. He was a versatile singer, and I was lucky enough to inherit some of his talents. When I was five, he taught me how to play several instruments. When I learned how to legibly write, my father helped me write little songs. We were best friends – best friends who could sing and make music. Our favorite song was
“All You Need is Love” by The Beatles. My mother would always take a video of us. At the end of the day, we would all watch it using our old, battered but well taken care of video player, with a bowl of buttered popcorns for them and a jar of cookies for me, and soda for them and milk for me. We would laugh at how silly we looked, and I would usually cover my face because of shame every time my skirt would fly up and they would see my underwear. My dad and I,
we were inseparable. My dad plus my mom plus I,
we were a happy family.
I wanted to record songs with Dad. I wanted to just make music with him. Mom supported us both. She was such a diehard fan of the Father-and-Daughter tandem that I even secretly thought that maybe she was already keeping a stack of flyers and posters with our faces on it under their bed. It was all I’ve dreamt of, and it was pretty possible. Heck, it was within my little hands reach. But,
poof, I guess I left those dreams behind, just like how my Superman had left me.
I was twelve. He died of lung cancer, and I had no idea about it until he was in the hospital with all those tubes in him. He told me that he was sick, and it couldn’t be cured by any drug from our medicine box anymore, and that he couldn’t live long enough for him to come to my graduation day. He also told me to continue singing, because he believed in what I can do. He was saying something else, but I didn’t understand because I was crying really hard. All I remembered was the sight of him closing his eyes and me burying my head on his chest.
After that incident, my mother got all…
lost. She was like a
living zombie – she was working full time for us to get going, but she didn’t have a life. She barely smiled. We barely talked. She barely noticed me. She barely noticed herself. It was awful. It felt like I not only lost my talented father but also my supportive and loving and beautiful mother. It took several months when she finally woke up from her dreadful trance. I didn’t hate her for not being there for me when I was going through that stage when I still couldn’t accept that my father was gone. I realized that maybe she was like me too – not accepting, denying,
hurting. I understood her. So I was glad and relieved when she got back, when she had a life again, when it wasn’t just me anymore, but the two of us.
Also, I stopped singing. It reminded me of my father and our dreams. Maybe I was just so busy with school, or maybe I couldn’t face the truth that I would play my guitar all by myself, that I didn’t have a partner anymore. Sometimes Mom and I would see our videos again. Sometimes we would laugh. Sometimes we would cry and miss him. Once, my mom asked me why I haven’t touched my guitar ever since he died.
“I can’t. It still hurts, Mom. I’m afraid that if I touch it, it will be just soaked wet with tears.” Then I started crying, and Mom held me tight and tried not to cry. It was very untimely because I was doing my Math homework, and it got all smudgy with my tears so I had to start scribbling those crazy numbers and operations all over again.
Just like my mom, I partially lost my life when he left us. I managed to carry on because I know Mom needed me, and we couldn’t afford to have two living zombies in our family. I found my voice again with the help of my best friend and my friends. I could sing for them – but only them. Anything beyond that was utterly impossible. But after deep thinking, I realized that I should do what my best friend was asking me. There was nothing to lose. She was my best friend, and I owed her so much. I could still be wasted up until now if not for her. I should sing on her party, and I would make my father proud.
© Christine Faye Ordas
The characters and events portrayed in the story are fictitious and are from pure fantasies. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the [aspiring] author. Excerpts or lines borrowed from novels, songs, or any source will be properly credited.
“All You Need Is Love” is a song written by John Lennon and credited to Lennon/McCartney. It was first performed by The Beatles on
Our World, the first live global television link. Watched by 400 million in 26 countries, the program was broadcast via satellite on 25 June 1967. The BBC had commissioned The Beatles to write a song for the United Kingdom's contribution. Rolling Stone magazine ranked it at #362 in their 500 greatest songs of all time.
©
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
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Already several months had passed, and I am missing
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry more and more each fleeting day. There are just some things in life that we can never forget – especially that something that had given us knowledge, skills, strong relationships and a second home. I am glad that everything in the magical world is now at peace, since Voldemort (yes, I can now say his name; no need to be afraid) had died. I had secretly admired Tom Marvolo Riddle (Voldemort’s birth name) though, because of his intelligence, passion and love for magic. Wasn’t he very clever to think of and conjure his seven
Horcruxes to preserve his life, or form a clan of
Death Eaters who were very loyal to him and would give up their lives just for him to succeed? Not everybody can acquire that much loyalty from people these days. I do not, however, admire him for the way he had carried out all of his plans. He had a good agenda, his means just weren’t morally right. But he still is one of the darkest wizards of all time… and let’s leave it that way.
Oh, for all those who are baffled of what I’m saying here and who the heck I am, my name is
Christine Faye Ordas, and I am an alumnus of Hogwarts. I came from the bronze-and-blue-clad house of the smart ass witch Rowena Ravenclaw and her dictum
“Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure.” And yes, I know the wonderful Luna Lovegood (she’s such a darling) and Harry Potter’s first crush Cho Chang. I had just left Hogwarts last May. Right now I am trying to pursue a career in magical researches, literature and writing. It’s my dream to inscribe intellectual books, publish and sell them in
Flourish and Blotts for the future Hogwarts students’ use. I am also planning to credibly write for the
Daily Prophet, the magical world’s primary news bulletin. And of course, I will be very much honored to contribute to Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood’s
Quibbler (hence, my interest in magical researches). I have always found the Lovegoods a fascinating family, and I bet working with and for them will be very exciting. Or maybe, in Merlin’s beard’s time, I can write legends and bedtime stories like the famous – and wickedly brilliant – Beedle the Bard.
And that’s how my life goes these days. I am utterly missing my old school, my friends, the Great Hall, the bronze eagle knocker just outside the Ravenclaw common room, Professor Flitwick (the head of our house), Hogsmeade, the Quidditch matches (although I didn’t actually play for the house), the moving portraits, the castle ghosts, the pumpkins on Halloween, the giant pine trees on Christmas, Rubeus Hagrid’s (Hogwarts’ gamekeeper) tea and treacle fudge – even the crabby Argus Filch (Hogwarts’ caretaker) I miss. Maybe I can visit the school grounds sometimes and see how the magical world’s been doing since Voldemort died (I’ve been spending my months in the muggle world, you see). I’ve heard everybody’s been moving on and starting all over again; the ministry is back on work under Kingsley Shacklebolt; and Harry Potter’s scar haven’t been disturbing him since.
All is well, indeed.
And because of that, we should celebrate and drink firewhisky! Oh, I still don’t drink firewhisky; I can take butterbeer or tea or pumpkin juice – just not firewhisky, please.
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