ARTS / CULTURE & LEISURE
Reading makes me aware of the importance of finding my true self
The weight of life
Editor's Note:
"Read ten thousand books, and your pen will be guided as if by the gods" is an ancient Chinese idiom that can be seen in students' textbooks. China's Ministry of Education has published an action plan to further promote reading among students across the nation. With new and diverse book recommendations, the reading scene is expected to be revived not only at schools, but also across society. To contribute to this endeavor, the Global Times launched "My Reading Life" essay contest for middle school students.
Please pick up a pen and share your stories with us at reading@globaltimes.com.cn
Participants will be rewarded once the article has been selected.
Physically, we carry backpacks for school, babies on our backs, and clothes to keep us warm. But there are also so many things that we carry mentally - abstract concepts, ideas, or even morals that can be represented in a single, concrete object.
In a generic sense, carrying things meaning an extra weight or pressure has been put on someone. This can easily trigger one's anxiety, but in the long run this extra work will often be precious sources for developing one's sense of responsibility and confidence.
Powerful narrative
The soldiers in The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien carry green rucksacks full of objects necessary for their survival and objects that represent the life they wished to live instead of trudging through the forests of Vietnam.
Tranquilizers or dignity. Letters or love. The objects they carried meant more than just something that added weight to their backs. I don't carry nearly as much as those soldiers, but I do carry a pair of purple elephant pants.
These purple pants are made in Thailand from a thin, flimsy material, 110 grams in weight, with two pockets just big enough to fit a cellphone. Intricate designs of elephants in different sizes and designs of various shapes run down each pant leg.
Flowers, leaves, one is different from the next. The elephant's tusks curve, almost like they're smiling at me.
A thick white drawstring hangs loosely around my waist, and two elastic bands wrap tight around my ankle. "Made in Thailand." It's a gift. A gift from my brother brought all the way home from his 8th grade school trip. Maybe through all the petty arguments, hair pulls, and fights, there is love hidden beneath, hidden in these pants. He tells me he got us matching ones in two colors so we can be the coolest sibling duo in school. So I carry the pants every day, wearing them as they sit loosely around my waist.
One day, the purple in my story exited stage left. Lost in the wash or misplaced in another family member's closet. I searched for weeks until the purple pants left my mind and were erased from my closet rotation, no longer something I wore every day.
Time goes on, and my backpack gets heavier as I carry the weight of more books, more homework, and more expectations. What classes do I take, what clubs do I join, what positions do I run for?
My brother, student council president, leader of so many clubs, and the smartest person I know, emerges victorious in all his high school endeavors, and I am told to follow in his footsteps. "If he can do it, so can you," my parents tell me as the impending transition from middle to high school looms over my head like a cloud. Sometimes, when clouds cover parts of the sky, they shade the little colonies of people below, giving them a chance to rest on a hot day.
Sometimes, they group together as different creatures and scenes, the perfect canvas for a child's imagination. Other times, there are gray clouds that cast shadows on people below, brewing a storm and wreaking havoc on the ground beneath. My brother was a dark cloud, concealing me under his shadow and offering only a sliver of light for me to follow. A sliver of hope to find my own path. I chased that sliver.
The clock strikes midnight - a new day. A new day means time to close the books,
submit to the yawns, and climb into bed. I clean up my desk, sweep eraser shavings onto the ground, pack everything into my school bag, and open my closet door to pick out tomorrow's outfit. But instead of grabbing the first shirt I see in the stack of clothes I wear every day, my arm drifts to the back of the shelf. I feel my hand connect with a smooth piece of fabric. It's light.
Yanking it out, I stare at the purple elephant pants that have returned to me. I pull them over my shorts, eager to see if they still fit. The pants that used to sit at my ankles now rise to my mid-calf, and the once-white strings are dotted yellow. I chuckle, thinking back to when I would wear these pants nonstop, wearing them with the pride of being Mark's little sister.
A realization
But now? I hate being called Mark's little sister. I hate people looking at me and
immediately recognizing me as someone I'm not - just the sibling of someone everyone knows. I've stumbled through my first year of high school, blinded by who I am expected to be and who I want to be, just like Tim O'Brien or Rat Kiley, who felt the burden of "the soldier's greatest fear, which was the fear of blushing," resting on their shoulders with every step they took.
The green rucksacks on their backs are a constant reminder of who they should be and who they really are. I learned that contrary to my parent's expectations, I like science more than math. I am not student council president. I am not friends with everyone or the smartest person in the room. I am not my brother. As I clung to that tiny sliver of light, the dark cloud left me and I held on like it was my lifeline.
The purple elephant pants are light. They are shorter on me now.
I've outgrown them. As I entered high school, the purple elephant pants, once a reminder of my brother's overshadowing presence, became a metaphor for my growth and the shifting expectations around me.
Realizing that these pants, like the role of "Mark's little sister," no longer fit, I shed the weight of others' expectations. I embraced a path defined by my unique strengths and curiosity, forging a future on my terms.
To anyone feeling overshadowed by another's legacy, remember: We must outgrow roles that don't reflect our true selves. We must set down the things we carry.
The author is a student at Hong Kong International School
"Read ten thousand books, and your pen will be guided as if by the gods" is an ancient Chinese idiom that can be seen in students' textbooks. China's Ministry of Education has published an action plan to further promote reading among students across the nation. With new and diverse book recommendations, the reading scene is expected to be revived not only at schools, but also across society. To contribute to this endeavor, the Global Times launched "My Reading Life" essay contest for middle school students.
Please pick up a pen and share your stories with us at reading@globaltimes.com.cn
Participants will be rewarded once the article has been selected.
Photo:VCG
"They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity, the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity." Every one of us has things we carry, and I gradually realized this when reading the book The Things They Carried.Physically, we carry backpacks for school, babies on our backs, and clothes to keep us warm. But there are also so many things that we carry mentally - abstract concepts, ideas, or even morals that can be represented in a single, concrete object.
In a generic sense, carrying things meaning an extra weight or pressure has been put on someone. This can easily trigger one's anxiety, but in the long run this extra work will often be precious sources for developing one's sense of responsibility and confidence.
Powerful narrative
The soldiers in The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien carry green rucksacks full of objects necessary for their survival and objects that represent the life they wished to live instead of trudging through the forests of Vietnam.
Tranquilizers or dignity. Letters or love. The objects they carried meant more than just something that added weight to their backs. I don't carry nearly as much as those soldiers, but I do carry a pair of purple elephant pants.
These purple pants are made in Thailand from a thin, flimsy material, 110 grams in weight, with two pockets just big enough to fit a cellphone. Intricate designs of elephants in different sizes and designs of various shapes run down each pant leg.
Flowers, leaves, one is different from the next. The elephant's tusks curve, almost like they're smiling at me.
A thick white drawstring hangs loosely around my waist, and two elastic bands wrap tight around my ankle. "Made in Thailand." It's a gift. A gift from my brother brought all the way home from his 8th grade school trip. Maybe through all the petty arguments, hair pulls, and fights, there is love hidden beneath, hidden in these pants. He tells me he got us matching ones in two colors so we can be the coolest sibling duo in school. So I carry the pants every day, wearing them as they sit loosely around my waist.
One day, the purple in my story exited stage left. Lost in the wash or misplaced in another family member's closet. I searched for weeks until the purple pants left my mind and were erased from my closet rotation, no longer something I wore every day.
Time goes on, and my backpack gets heavier as I carry the weight of more books, more homework, and more expectations. What classes do I take, what clubs do I join, what positions do I run for?
My brother, student council president, leader of so many clubs, and the smartest person I know, emerges victorious in all his high school endeavors, and I am told to follow in his footsteps. "If he can do it, so can you," my parents tell me as the impending transition from middle to high school looms over my head like a cloud. Sometimes, when clouds cover parts of the sky, they shade the little colonies of people below, giving them a chance to rest on a hot day.
Sometimes, they group together as different creatures and scenes, the perfect canvas for a child's imagination. Other times, there are gray clouds that cast shadows on people below, brewing a storm and wreaking havoc on the ground beneath. My brother was a dark cloud, concealing me under his shadow and offering only a sliver of light for me to follow. A sliver of hope to find my own path. I chased that sliver.
The clock strikes midnight - a new day. A new day means time to close the books,
submit to the yawns, and climb into bed. I clean up my desk, sweep eraser shavings onto the ground, pack everything into my school bag, and open my closet door to pick out tomorrow's outfit. But instead of grabbing the first shirt I see in the stack of clothes I wear every day, my arm drifts to the back of the shelf. I feel my hand connect with a smooth piece of fabric. It's light.
Yanking it out, I stare at the purple elephant pants that have returned to me. I pull them over my shorts, eager to see if they still fit. The pants that used to sit at my ankles now rise to my mid-calf, and the once-white strings are dotted yellow. I chuckle, thinking back to when I would wear these pants nonstop, wearing them with the pride of being Mark's little sister.
A realization
But now? I hate being called Mark's little sister. I hate people looking at me and
immediately recognizing me as someone I'm not - just the sibling of someone everyone knows. I've stumbled through my first year of high school, blinded by who I am expected to be and who I want to be, just like Tim O'Brien or Rat Kiley, who felt the burden of "the soldier's greatest fear, which was the fear of blushing," resting on their shoulders with every step they took.
The green rucksacks on their backs are a constant reminder of who they should be and who they really are. I learned that contrary to my parent's expectations, I like science more than math. I am not student council president. I am not friends with everyone or the smartest person in the room. I am not my brother. As I clung to that tiny sliver of light, the dark cloud left me and I held on like it was my lifeline.
The purple elephant pants are light. They are shorter on me now.
I've outgrown them. As I entered high school, the purple elephant pants, once a reminder of my brother's overshadowing presence, became a metaphor for my growth and the shifting expectations around me.
Realizing that these pants, like the role of "Mark's little sister," no longer fit, I shed the weight of others' expectations. I embraced a path defined by my unique strengths and curiosity, forging a future on my terms.
To anyone feeling overshadowed by another's legacy, remember: We must outgrow roles that don't reflect our true selves. We must set down the things we carry.
The author is a student at Hong Kong International School
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