Last night I had a wonderful dream. I dreamed as if I had applied to some very prestigious British college. The college was not far from my place of residence, as if I did not live in faraway America, but somewhere in Europe, and I only had to swim across the English channel to get to my destination.
Candidates were selected on a very competitive basis. One had to present his work as an admission exam. In the dream it was unclear what kind of work, but it definitely meant something fundamental.
I was wandering the college halls with Jeff, waiting for the results to be announced. It was the end of summer, the very time when the peak of heat and events is winding down, and a feeling of quiet happiness and calm is gradually creeping in. The old college building was permeated with light and warmth. It was my place, and I realized that in my dream with great clarity.
Finally the commission announces the results. I am accepted! My God, what a blessing! Happiness, happiness, happiness!
It turned out that studying in pairs was one of the conditions the college set up for its students. The commission announces the prearranged pairs… My study partner is a little black man. I walked over to him, greeted and asked where he was from. He said he was from Turkey. I joyfully exclaimed: “I also have Turkish roots!” To which the man did not react. Seems like a hard nut to crack, – I noted to myself.
And then one of the members of the admission committee, a kind and intelligent old lady, was talking to me about my examination work. She asked me what I was writing about. But instead of answering her question, I began recollecting an episode from my early school years.
…In my childhood, children read books according to the list recommended by the school. Of course, they read other books too. But the teachers were not interested in these “other” books. Once, when I was in the fourth grade, the teacher began to question us as to what we were reading out of the officially recommended list. When the turn came to me, I stood up and honestly said that I was reading the novel “The Golovlevs Family” by Saltykov-Shchedrin*.
A change passed over the teacher’s face; it was clear that she did not believe me. “And what is so attractive in this book for you?” – she was trying to find out. Alas, I could not answer anything intelligible. At that time, I obviously didn’t have any command of literary criticism and its specific terminology. I couldn’t share my reading experiences in simple sentences either.
I was not able to tell the teacher that reading immerses me into the world where I wander through strange places, acquaint myself with strange characters with whom I laugh or cry, love and hate… And this book world, a fool’s paradise from the beginning to the end, is as exciting and real as the real world.
I did not know how to tell her that I loved to travel in that other world.
Yes, of course, I read all sorts of literary prefaces to books, but to me they always seemed quite unimportant. At school, however, for some reason, these most boring and unimportant prefaces were always valued higher than the book itself. The ability to embellish an essay with pseudo-scientific phrases borrowed from such prefaces was greatly appreciated. No one ever asked what the student himself felt or thought. Nobody ever asked whether the student liked the reading or not…
In this sense, my schooling was just scratching the surface, giving some limited information and then requiring that the student, without deviating, would reproduce exactly this minimum and nothing more. Exchange of views, creative collaboration between the student, the teacher, and the author of the book were out of question.
In the dream I felt unbearably sad about those memories, and I began to cry. I cried about how for years I have lived being misunderstood, unaccepted, unloved. I cried about an insurmountable barrier that has always existed between me and others. I cried about the fact that I always had to adjust myself to others, sacrificing the dearest things, but others would never want to adjust to me and to find out what those dearest things meant. I cried about the fact that I have always been forced to listen to the idle, empty talk of others and to survive in harsh conditions, doing meaningless jobs. I cried about the fact that a meaningful job was always pushed to the back seat as an abandoned child.
And this abandoned child was looking at the world from his corner, asking in silent disbelief, “What are you all doing? You’re wasting precious time fulfilling crazy plans and ideas that do not lead you anywhere. Don’t you know that you are in a world designed to study, not to settle in it as if you are going to live forever? Wake up, don’t you see what you are surrounded by, and for what reason? The world is a school in which you have to know yourself and to become creators. Why are you running after all these earthly riches? You already have everything – just stop, listen, and accept what’s falling into your hands from the sky. Take the celestial jewels – only they will make you happy, not your money and your palaces.”
And I suddenly realized that my crying was that very fundamental examination work, which the commission has taken into consideration. In a strange way what the real world always rejected and ignored, in my dream college was most important and valuable. And because of that there emerged another feeling, a feeling of complete and final acceptance. As if I found my very closest and dearest family members. I found my folks. I finally found my flock. Probably, the Ugly Duckling who grew into a swan and joined the flock of relatives felt the same way. And this was one of the most powerful and beautiful feelings that man can experience.
…And then I remembered that Jeff was somewhere around. He had stepped away, and I began looking for him. I couldn’t find him, and I had neither my purse, nor my cell phone with me. I have run all around the building trying to find him. And once again I felt a wave of anguish…
*This novel is considered difficult reading for young children, and is offered in the high school literature course.
Photo: Gabriela Drygała.