Some call it stubbornness, others call it resilience. Whatever you may call it, I’ve had it all my life.
Age three. I was a clumsy toddler who can barely hold a pencil, thick curly hair pulled out of what were once neat braids, legs riddled with bruises and scratches, stains upon stains on my clothes - but most noticeably - my clothes always on the wrong way. Two legs in one pant hole, shirt on inside out, shoes on the wrong foot. But the best part was my hair, which I had ‘done’ myself. In reality, it was two barrette clips stuck in an arbitrary position on my head, accompanied by the sparkliest headband I could find. I’m sure it must have been frustrating for my parents to have to redress me every morning, as in addition to being clumsy I was also stubborn. I refused to let anyone help me get dressed.
“I can do it, mama,” I confidently told my Mother every morning. But without fail, I would come out of my bedroom looking like a tornado had swept through my house. My mother would take me back into my room and fix whatever mess I had created.
“Oh Maya, what are we going to do?” She would murmur to me whilst carefully redoing my braids. “When will you learn to wear clothes properly?”
I would take a break from squirming in my seat and turn around with a big grin, staring up at my mother.
“It’s okay, I’ll just keep trying, I can do it.”
Age twelve. I stood in a dance studio with the harsh LED lights shining down on my face, possibly blinding me. The music sounded far away and the room seems like it was spinning but still, I stand making eye contact with myself in the mirror. My teacher counted.
“One, two three four.”
I threw myself into the movements, trying my best to look effortless like this was just another dance, but I feel my heel slip and bite the cheap plastic vinyl. I pushed myself up, pushing stray pieces of hair behind my ear (I still hadn’t quite got the hang of keeping my hair neat). I push myself back into the movement before once again, feeling my legs slip across the slippery floor. I grab the extended hand of my dance teacher as she pulls me up and dusts me off.
“Maya, you’re just not getting it, the competition is in a few weeks, what are you going to do?”
I readjust my tights before once again staring at myself in the mirror.
“It’s okay, I’ll just keep trying. I can do it.”
Age sixteen. I sat in my room with the lights off, the curtains drawn and the door shut. I still have the thick curly hair but this time it’s sticking out of a messy bun - one I had tied myself might I add. My legs have fewer bruises and scratches on them, I’d invested in the cream that makes the marks go away. My clothes are on the right way at least. My desk it littered with test papers, blotted with harsh red pen displaying percentages. Looking down on me are the words, ‘one week till IGCSE exams’. My door is pushed open and my dad walks into the room.
“How’s it going?” He asked, but I’m sure he already knew the answer. I let out an unintelligible grunt in response.
“I just can’t get it, I keep making the same mistakes over and over again,” I say, burying my head in my hands.
“What are you going to do?” He asks.
“It’s okay, I’ll just keep trying. I can do it.”
Whenever I meet someone, a family friend, an old relative, or a random acquaintance from years ago, they tell me the same thing,
“You haven’t changed a bit.”
I always shake my head and laugh a bit. Of course, I’ve changed. I’m a whole different person. I tell them so.
“Of course physically you’ve changed. I would be concerned if you still looked the same as you did when you were a baby.” I laugh. “But in there, you’re the same. The same stubborn girl I’ve known forever.” I turn up to look at them.
“I prefer the word resilient.”
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