Scrambled egg or French toast?

Last night, I dreamt that I had breast cancer and was dying. In my dream, I had been aware that something was very wrong for the longest time, but I ignored all the warning signs and soldiered through life…only to arrive at the end of it. I woke up feeling relieved that it was only a dream, but it hung over me for a good part of the day like a crow’s shadow.

It’s been a while since I wrote here or anywhere else for that matter. In August, I took the decision to quit journalism. I got tired of the endless cycle of news-noise. The adrenaline rush to be the first to file a copy. The pressure to write reviews within hours of watching a film. The need to be informed about everything under the sun. The compulsion to post my articles on social media. I found myself typing a thousand words without having to think at all. I could write in a crowded coffee shop, in a shaky auto, in a stuffy cab — just about anywhere. I was regurgitating my own words, my own lines. I was writing something supposedly new, but it was the same-old. I was an omelet turning into scrambled eggs.

Besides, I was really bored of talking to people from the film industry. I’m sure they’re bored of talking to journalists too. Oh, do tell me, what is your acting process? Have you always been so marvellous? When you were doing that scene, did you think about that movie like I did? Yes, I’m an astute film critic and you’re an amazing director and this interview is just the cat’s whiskers.

Jesus Christ.

I got bored of this circus because rarely can you ask an honest question and receive an honest answer. They’re not your friends. They’re simply there to promote their new film and they’re simply tolerating you because they have to. They don’t know you and you don’t know them.

Anyway, I had had enough. I decided to leave and teach in a school that had shown interest in my work a few years ago. So that’s what I do now. I co-teach English and Sociology in high school and do a bit of storytelling with primary school. This means I’m either wondering why nobody is saying anything or why everybody is saying everything. Teenagers in sweatshirts and eight-year-olds in Snoopy T-shirts.

Is teaching my calling? I’m not sure. Sometimes, a corner of my brain is wondering why anyone has to learn any of this. Why do you have to know how to write a leaflet? Am I supposed to object when someone falls asleep in my class? Would it be rude to interrupt their nap? Or am I supposed to wield authority and wake them up when they’d rather sleep? How are you supposed to be interesting every day when you’re at least over 20 years older than these kids? Old people became interesting to me only when I became old(er) myself. Wouldn’t it be the same for them? I try to remember what I was like as a teenager and I only recall it in colours. Largely red and black. Alternating between rage and depression. My brain is frozen in such everyday dilemmas.

I have bouts of self-doubt when I think I’m boring everyone to death. I grow tired of the sound of my own voice. I want someone else to talk. I have no idea if this answer requires 150 words or 400 words or 700 words. I want to say, ‘It doesn’t matter, child.’ I don’t want to grade anybody’s writing when I begin all my creative writing workshops with the statement — ‘This isn’t school.’ I want to say everyone deserves an A, and there’s nobody who can write like you because there’s only one you.

I want to say you should write whatever you want. It doesn’t matter what the form is, what the structure is, what the language is. Sometimes, when I’m required to talk about all this, I hear Simon & Garfunkel ask, ‘Can analysis be worthwhile? Is the theatre really dead?’

But there are also days when I feel like I’m doing something good. Sometimes, I see their eyes light up when I’ve inadvertently said something interesting (inadvertently, because if I knew the trick, I would perform it more regularly). Sometimes, I see a child open a book in the library because I told them the story in class. Sometimes, a child gives me a hug before going home for the day. Sometimes, a teenager hesitantly approaches me and asks for publishing advice. On those days, I’m no longer an omelet or a scrambled egg. I’m French toast with cinnamon sugar.

Two days ago, I had a terrible headache. I told one of the primary kids about it and she asked me why I had turned up in school. I said I had lots of work to do. ‘So what? It’s okay to take off for a day,’ she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. I tried to remember when I had taken ‘chutti’ — the word she used — for a headache and I drew a blank. See, I’m the sort who will soldier through breast cancer and turn up for work. So, what’s a headache even if it’s killing me?

But I thought about what she said. I thought about it for a really long time. An unnecessarily long time. I wanted the line to percolate in my brain. I wanted it to become an aspirational idea. I think I’d like to become that person who wakes up with a headache and goes inside the blanket again because everyone deserves to take off. Maybe I will achieve permanency as French toast with cinnamon sugar then.