WHAT I WANTED TO BE, REALLY?

Teacher: So, what do you want to be when you grow up?

Me: An Architect!

 

Yes, I was in the brighter-ones lot.

 

I was the best student in 1990 and dropped to seventh place in 1991. My mother decided not to attend the price-giving ceremony because of that, because I slump from the top to the seventh place. I still remember receiving a pencil box that looks akin to the ones other students – who were in the 4^th until 10^th place – received and I did not feel good about it. To my surprise, I can still remember the smell of it! So the next year I studied harder and grabbed back the title from either Faisol, the son of an Ustazah in the school or Nawarat, the popular Siamese girl who always looked like she never take the morning bath. So was the year after that and few more years after that. I maintained the place at the top for four years in a row.

 

Yes, I was a bright student and I wanted to be an architect. But there were times when I felt like becoming a pilot or a doctor. I did not know back then that I have first to get an A for Biology or Physic to become either one of the two.

 

So I stick to architect.

MY DREAM JOB WASN’T THIS

I still remember, when I was in primary, the standard answers my friends and I would give when teachers asked about our ambition.

Khairunnisa wanted to be a teacher. So did Nurul Liza, a quite tall girl who had a book full of song lyrics and pictures of her favourite artistes. Few others shared the same dream. Siti Haslina, Nor Haswani, Nor Hisham, Nurul Fadila, and few other girls. Boys would go for more challenging and manly jobs like army, policeman, and fireman. Anuar, the shortest in the lot, proudly told the teacher that he wanted to become a Rambo, not knowing what occupation really means – I remember we had a good laugh at that. The brighter ones proudly raised their hands and loudly announce the more popular jobs like doctor, pilot, architect, and astronaut. I remember a girl wanted to be a fashion designer but can’t recall who exactly.

It was then, back in 1994, when my friends and I were 11, and we barely knew what the jobs really were.

15 years later, now, I am sitting behind a 3 ft long wooden table while I am typing this down, behind a glass wall, through which I can see children running, fighting, and calling names. They are of all backgrounds – refugees, Malays, broken families, abused, homeless.  Sometimes they’ll knock on the glass making faces trying to get my attention. They’ll normally succeed because I am a sucker.

I am 26 year old this year, and I am a Child Advocate – and that was not what I wanted to be.

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