The first impression leaves a lasting one. Circumstances shape the outcomes that create this first impression. And reinforcement strengthens, spreads and maintains that initial damage to your reputation from ever healing.
OK I’ll try to make this as conversational as possible. Conversational meaning, trying to be as nice as the laws of physics will allow me to be, avoiding big words as much as explanatory simplicity will allow, and being the least bitchy as much as my inhibitions can keep up with the effort.
If you were expecting a clinical neuropsychology thesis, you may redirect away from this page now before I suck you into my lowly layman story, which probably violates all the story-telling techniques and formats that English literature had taught us in school. It goes like this:
Relative W walks in. Mom serves them diabetes-inducing drinks or cholesterol-laden meals. As I casually head for the stairs to supposedly attend to some urgent business upstairs regardless of how empty my bowels are in actual fact, Relative W’s motion sensors suddenly train their spotlight on me. Busted.
“Oh by the way, T, why aren’t you working as a {insert-profession-here}?” Spotlight asks.
I sigh. Then begin my soon-to-be-routine explanation about how I finished (“wasted” would appeal to them more) those years in university and finally obtained the degree with much difficulty; how I never really had a passion for the job it was preparing me for (sounds nicer than “despise” and less future-ruining than “fell out of love with”); how I appreciated the knowledge it had provided me with (this part mostly for the politician role I occasionally need to play); and how my love/interest lies elsewhere, but couldn’t pursue it due to… circumstances at that time (sounds nicer than “I was forced into it by the ‘Superior Authority’” and “my results qualified me for it, so taking up anything else was out of the question as far as this ‘Superior Authority’ was concerned”); and finally, how I’m (hopefully) going to get to chase after my true love this time, now that the deal with the ‘Superior Authority’ was completed (I got the degree).
That’s one long explanation. Exhausting if needed repeating.
Relative W, with a dismissingly I’m-so-disappointed-you’re-such-a-failure-how-dare-you-let-down-your-Superior-Authority-like-this-after-all-that-they’ve-done-for-you frown, says, “You should’ve been a {insert-profession-here}.”
I should’ve been talking to a wall.
Another day, Relative X walks in. Superior Authority serves them the usual disease-causing provisions. I lay on the couch, looking as terrible as I do during those migraine days.
“What’s wrong with T?” Relative X asks in a rather accusing get-up-you-lazy-bum-show-some-respect-to-your-relatives kinda way, rather than a caring concerned way. Not that I’m some attention-deficit-sympathy-seeking victim-role-player anyway.
Thankfully, Mom offers, “She’s got a bad migraine. She can’t really move/talk/see/hear properly when she’s having those bad ones.”
Unconvinced, Relative X goes on, “Migraine? Oh you mean those harmless headache things?” then turns to me with their blaring loudspeaker voice (distorted perception happens during migraines to some people, in case you didn’t know that) “Come on, T, a little headache and you’re bedridden? How the heck are you supposed to be a {insert-profession-here} when a harmless little headache turns you into such a baby?”
OK. I heard that. That hand that covered my eyes twitches.
Mom detects this trigger-finger gesture. Being Superior Authority, she steps in to prevent a large-scale war, “Oh she’s not serving as a {insert-profession-here}. She’s changing to {insert-true-love’s-name-here}.”
“{insert-true-love’s-name-here}??! What do you mean {insert-true-love’s-name-here}?” Distorted Loudspeaker blares. “Why don’t you just go ahead and be a {insert-profession-here} for God’s sake?!”
Painfully I get up.
Oh look, she’s alive, that lazy bum, Relative X’s facial expression gives away.
Non-verbally forewarned by Superior Authority, I put my best effort to repeat that super-long political-diplomat explanation {scroll up to longest paragraph to find it}, though this time the edited cut is slightly shorter.
And then I figure again I should’ve been talking to a wall.
As in the local Sarawakian-Malay dialect, the saying goes: Kentut pun salah, sik kentut pun salah.
[Crudely literally translated: You’re wrong when you fart, you’re still wrong when you don’t fart. Replace gas-expulsion term with “breathe” for better effect.]
For the next 5 relatives/neighbours/family friends, the same story follows. Like a bad pointless nightmare where the same horridly meaningless event agonizingly keeps repeating itself for years on end, even though in the Realm of the Awake, the whole thing happened over a few minutes.
OK I’ll try to make this as conversational as possible. Conversational meaning, trying to be as nice as the laws of physics will allow me to be, avoiding big words as much as explanatory simplicity will allow, and being the least bitchy as much as my inhibitions can keep up with the effort.
If you were expecting a clinical neuropsychology thesis, you may redirect away from this page now before I suck you into my lowly layman story, which probably violates all the story-telling techniques and formats that English literature had taught us in school. It goes like this:
Relative W walks in. Mom serves them diabetes-inducing drinks or cholesterol-laden meals. As I casually head for the stairs to supposedly attend to some urgent business upstairs regardless of how empty my bowels are in actual fact, Relative W’s motion sensors suddenly train their spotlight on me. Busted.
“Oh by the way, T, why aren’t you working as a {insert-profession-here}?” Spotlight asks.
I sigh. Then begin my soon-to-be-routine explanation about how I finished (“wasted” would appeal to them more) those years in university and finally obtained the degree with much difficulty; how I never really had a passion for the job it was preparing me for (sounds nicer than “despise” and less future-ruining than “fell out of love with”); how I appreciated the knowledge it had provided me with (this part mostly for the politician role I occasionally need to play); and how my love/interest lies elsewhere, but couldn’t pursue it due to… circumstances at that time (sounds nicer than “I was forced into it by the ‘Superior Authority’” and “my results qualified me for it, so taking up anything else was out of the question as far as this ‘Superior Authority’ was concerned”); and finally, how I’m (hopefully) going to get to chase after my true love this time, now that the deal with the ‘Superior Authority’ was completed (I got the degree).
That’s one long explanation. Exhausting if needed repeating.
Relative W, with a dismissingly I’m-so-disappointed-you’re-such-a-failure-how-dare-you-let-down-your-Superior-Authority-like-this-after-all-that-they’ve-done-for-you frown, says, “You should’ve been a {insert-profession-here}.”
I should’ve been talking to a wall.
Another day, Relative X walks in. Superior Authority serves them the usual disease-causing provisions. I lay on the couch, looking as terrible as I do during those migraine days.
“What’s wrong with T?” Relative X asks in a rather accusing get-up-you-lazy-bum-show-some-respect-to-your-relatives kinda way, rather than a caring concerned way. Not that I’m some attention-deficit-sympathy-seeking victim-role-player anyway.
Thankfully, Mom offers, “She’s got a bad migraine. She can’t really move/talk/see/hear properly when she’s having those bad ones.”
Unconvinced, Relative X goes on, “Migraine? Oh you mean those harmless headache things?” then turns to me with their blaring loudspeaker voice (distorted perception happens during migraines to some people, in case you didn’t know that) “Come on, T, a little headache and you’re bedridden? How the heck are you supposed to be a {insert-profession-here} when a harmless little headache turns you into such a baby?”
OK. I heard that. That hand that covered my eyes twitches.
Mom detects this trigger-finger gesture. Being Superior Authority, she steps in to prevent a large-scale war, “Oh she’s not serving as a {insert-profession-here}. She’s changing to {insert-true-love’s-name-here}.”
“{insert-true-love’s-name-here}??! What do you mean {insert-true-love’s-name-here}?” Distorted Loudspeaker blares. “Why don’t you just go ahead and be a {insert-profession-here} for God’s sake?!”
Painfully I get up.
Oh look, she’s alive, that lazy bum, Relative X’s facial expression gives away.
Non-verbally forewarned by Superior Authority, I put my best effort to repeat that super-long political-diplomat explanation {scroll up to longest paragraph to find it}, though this time the edited cut is slightly shorter.
And then I figure again I should’ve been talking to a wall.
As in the local Sarawakian-Malay dialect, the saying goes: Kentut pun salah, sik kentut pun salah.
[Crudely literally translated: You’re wrong when you fart, you’re still wrong when you don’t fart. Replace gas-expulsion term with “breathe” for better effect.]
For the next 5 relatives/neighbours/family friends, the same story follows. Like a bad pointless nightmare where the same horridly meaningless event agonizingly keeps repeating itself for years on end, even though in the Realm of the Awake, the whole thing happened over a few minutes.
By the 7th time I’m already beyond… irritated (nicer word for “pissed”).
By the 150th time – more precisely the 150th time for me, but only the first time for them – you can imagine how a lot of people came to believe I’m a horribly rude “emo” from the instant conclusion they derived from such a full-impact first impression.
And then the word of mouth goes around. At the same time the subsequent (past-150th) times my reactions either get worse, unenthusiastic, flat, or totally-not-interested-hence-unfriendly-non-conversational… thus facilitating and reinforcing the belief that the word of mouth has already spread.
End of episode 1. That’s right. No intro, no proper plot development, no closing, no moral-of-the-story. An abrupt end. Probably no sequel or prequel either, but heck I’ll call it “episode 1” anyway because it’s my story, like it or not.
By the 150th time – more precisely the 150th time for me, but only the first time for them – you can imagine how a lot of people came to believe I’m a horribly rude “emo” from the instant conclusion they derived from such a full-impact first impression.
And then the word of mouth goes around. At the same time the subsequent (past-150th) times my reactions either get worse, unenthusiastic, flat, or totally-not-interested-hence-unfriendly-non-conversational… thus facilitating and reinforcing the belief that the word of mouth has already spread.
End of episode 1. That’s right. No intro, no proper plot development, no closing, no moral-of-the-story. An abrupt end. Probably no sequel or prequel either, but heck I’ll call it “episode 1” anyway because it’s my story, like it or not.
~My futile efforts to continuously justify my shortcomings. Maybe I should just walk away, if that was ever possible~
2 echoes:
b strong, girl..my other two friends are facing the same situation..u kno those two that also choose not to be {insert-profession-here}..u kno how our society are..being a {insert-race-here}..aku pn somehow dah terimak akibat dari society tok..sigh..bena kata kau, kentut salah, sik kentut pn salah..
This is my achievement that my personality is very good. It said that The first impression leaves a lasting one. I like it.
Post a Comment