Right now all of us 12th graders are put under a gigantic amount of pressure, considering the exaggeratedly demanding yet useless Indonesian educational system that requires us to have brains as big as Einstein’s.
At times like this, boys become books. Hanging out at the malls becomes studying at home. Stalking random people on the internet becomes stalking your teachers at school for extra lessons. Being angry at God for reasons unknown becomes begging God to bless you with enough patience and perseverance. Gossiping about whom made out with whom becomes discussing about the velocity of gravitational pull and the interconnection of DNA determinations. Wanting to become a movie star becomes striving to get into a good university.
Most of my friends have two options: If they don’t get accepted into one of the best universities in Indonesia, they have one of those expensive, foreign-owned, socially-homogenetic private colleges for back-ups. But me, I don’t have any back-ups. I have one option, and one option only. It’s either architecture ITB (Bandung Institution of Technology), or total embarrassment. The pressure is doubled, and I become like a weak donkey who’s spine almost cracks in two due to the obese, merciless master fully pressing his weight upon the pitiful donkey.
At times like this, I wish Holden Caulfield would come to rescue:
“ Here’s my idea. How would you like to get the hell out of here? Here’s my idea. I know this guy down in Greenwich Village that we can borrow his car for a couple of weeks. He used to go to the same school I did and he still owes me ten bucks. What we could do is, tomorrow morning we could drive up to Massachusetts and Vermont, and all around there, see. It’s beautiful up there. It really is” ... “I have about a hundr
ed and eighty bucks in the bank. I can take it out when it opens in the morning, and then I could go down and get this guy’s car. No kidding. We’ll stay in these cabin camps and stuff like that till the dough runs out. Then, when the dough runs out, I could get a job somewhere and we could live somewhere with a brook and all and, later on, we could get married or something. I could chop all our own wood in the wintertime and all. Honest to God, we could have a terrific time! Wuddaya say? C’mon! Wuddaya say? Will you do it with me? Please!”
If only he would magically materialize from the pages of the book and popped me the question, I would shout on top of my lungs with vibrations so ear-numbing I’d kill birds: “YES!!! A THOUSAND TIMES YES!!! PLEASE HOLDEN, JUST GET ME OUTTA HERE!!!” Hey don’t judge me, all I want is a sweet escape! Plus it’d be way fun to live somewhere deep in a forest, with nothing to mind and nobody else to interfere. And when winter comes, all day long I’d sit on a rocking chair on my wrap-around porch and watch the muscles on Holden’s arms flexing as he chops the firewood.
If only...
At times like this, boys become books. Hanging out at the malls becomes studying at home. Stalking random people on the internet becomes stalking your teachers at school for extra lessons. Being angry at God for reasons unknown becomes begging God to bless you with enough patience and perseverance. Gossiping about whom made out with whom becomes discussing about the velocity of gravitational pull and the interconnection of DNA determinations. Wanting to become a movie star becomes striving to get into a good university.
Most of my friends have two options: If they don’t get accepted into one of the best universities in Indonesia, they have one of those expensive, foreign-owned, socially-homogenetic private colleges for back-ups. But me, I don’t have any back-ups. I have one option, and one option only. It’s either architecture ITB (Bandung Institution of Technology), or total embarrassment. The pressure is doubled, and I become like a weak donkey who’s spine almost cracks in two due to the obese, merciless master fully pressing his weight upon the pitiful donkey.
At times like this, I wish Holden Caulfield would come to rescue:
“ Here’s my idea. How would you like to get the hell out of here? Here’s my idea. I know this guy down in Greenwich Village that we can borrow his car for a couple of weeks. He used to go to the same school I did and he still owes me ten bucks. What we could do is, tomorrow morning we could drive up to Massachusetts and Vermont, and all around there, see. It’s beautiful up there. It really is” ... “I have about a hundr
ed and eighty bucks in the bank. I can take it out when it opens in the morning, and then I could go down and get this guy’s car. No kidding. We’ll stay in these cabin camps and stuff like that till the dough runs out. Then, when the dough runs out, I could get a job somewhere and we could live somewhere with a brook and all and, later on, we could get married or something. I could chop all our own wood in the wintertime and all. Honest to God, we could have a terrific time! Wuddaya say? C’mon! Wuddaya say? Will you do it with me? Please!”If only he would magically materialize from the pages of the book and popped me the question, I would shout on top of my lungs with vibrations so ear-numbing I’d kill birds: “YES!!! A THOUSAND TIMES YES!!! PLEASE HOLDEN, JUST GET ME OUTTA HERE!!!” Hey don’t judge me, all I want is a sweet escape! Plus it’d be way fun to live somewhere deep in a forest, with nothing to mind and nobody else to interfere. And when winter comes, all day long I’d sit on a rocking chair on my wrap-around porch and watch the muscles on Holden’s arms flexing as he chops the firewood.
If only...
No comments:
Post a Comment