Mine has been a life of much shame.
Amongst a flock of white sheep, I was born the peculiar black sheep.
I cannot experience the joy my companions can feel, or the sadness my companions can feel, nor can I eat the same things my companions can eat.
Alien to its companions’ feelings of affection- love, kindness, empathy, and many others, all the tragic black sheep can do is cover its black wool with white powder, and pretend to be a white sheep.
Even now I am still wearing the mask, and play the part of the clown.
The first time I noticed my deviancy was when my grandmother, who treasured me very much, passed away from this world.
I remember after my grandmother had the heart attack, she had to stay on her bed all the time. Whenever I came near her bed to visit her, she would always gently stroke my head and say, “You are such a good child.” She would look pleased. Her eyes would squeeze into two tiny lines as she smiled.
But I was not what my grandmother thought I was- an obedient and empathic child. Her scrawny hands, her shriveled up face, her muddle white hair, and the disgusting medicine stench emitted from her body, all these revolted and horrified me to no end.
“You are such a good child.”
Every time she used that coarse voice to whisper to my ears, I would feel like she had laid a jinx on me. My neck would become stiff, my body would shudder.
If grandmother found out I was not a good child; if she found out that I loathed her- no doubt she would stand straight up from her bed. Her white hair would stand on their ends like a yashya , red flames would come out of her hazes, and that would swallow me alive. I was
really frightened by these thoughts, so dreaded that I would lie in bed at night, eyes wide open, cold sweat coming off my back.
So, I became even more careful. Careful so that she could not see my true face. I tried even harder to be a good child. I would deliver her three meals every day. I would wipe her sweat.
I did all I could to comfort her. I even placed my face onto her chest, and sweetly said “I love you, grandma,” or I would kiss her cheek.
The skin of the senile grandmother was as dry as arid leaves, and reeked of those repulsive medicines. I was really scared that her disease would infect me as well. Every time I was done
I would dash to the washroom. I would rinse and brush my mouth as hard as I could. I brushed so hard sometimes my gum starts to bleed, and blood would seeps all over my cavity.
At this point, I often felt I was a very bad child who only knew how to lie well. My throat would start to ache, and my face would become red hot.
One day, grandmother‟s body became cold. She would not move anymore.
“You really are a kind and sweet good child.”
As grandmother muttered this as if to herself, her hand, which was patting my head, dropped down suddenly. Her face became as pale as a wax candle. I did not feel sad. I just left the just deceased grandmother‟s body on the bed, and ran to the city park to play. I went back to my home near sunset. As I entered the door, my mom immediately ran to me and hugged me. She said, “Grandma died.” At that time, however, my heart was strangely as calm as a desolate forest.
After a few days, the funeral service for grandmother started. During the service, I did not shed a single tear. All the adults in the event noticed this and talked amongst themselves: “It is probably because he is so young. He doesn‟t understand that his favorite
grandmother has passed away. What a tragedy!”
When I heard the adults say that, a great sense of shame swelled inside of me. My ears became very hot. I could not lift my face up and stare ahead. But that wasn‟t because I was sad for my grandmother‟s death; No, I was ashamed of my deceitful acts.
And that, since I was small, is how I lived my life.