Wounded Scar

As I begin to type about my wounded ‘scar’, the anger that filled me up three days ago has slowly dispersed with time.

It is amazing, with one question asked right on your face and the next thing you knew; you shed a tear or two. With the symposium going on, stressing about the late lunch (which I was REALLY pissed by it), hay wired schedule of the day and me being unwell were just to the top of my patience. Surprising enough, I handled them with smiles and gratitude. As things were almost back to the initial plan, someone just had to pull me down, six feet under. Someone, who I supposed to be mature enough not to have any kind of judgement, made a remark about… the language I spoke. *smirk*

That night itself, I cried my heart out. The pain that has bottled up in me ever since I came to Dublin burst. Once and for all, I let the pain flow out through my tears. Rolling down my cheeks and disappear. I apologised to my friends who had to see me in that condition. I wish I was a bit stronger, stand a little taller. Yes, I know I shouldn’t cry over things like that. But the fact that that question wasn’t thrown at you, you have no idea how bad that felt. How hurt my heart was. How painful it was for me to open my mouth and speak; making me feels like I’m ignoring my roots. As if I should never learn this language, I should never know how to speak so fluently. I should just be like everyone else, like the norm which I can’t and I will never be. I am just me for God’s sake.

This wasn’t the first time. During my first year I was bombarded with critics, judgements, labels, you name it. I took it all in knowing perhaps they haven’t known me for who I am. I’ll give them time. Yes, time was what they needed and if they still need more, they are more than welcome to have all the time in this world to know me. It saddens me that I’m receiving all these here in Ireland. Never ever have I ever criticize their way of speaking both in English or Malay or even in those different dialects there are.

Perhaps it is my fault… to learn and to know how to speak fluently. My fault for having more Chinese friends than the Malay ones. My fault to be here in Ireland. My fault to be different. My fault not to be like every hijab-wearing girls; being all passive and dull. My fault to be me.

Well, what goes around comes around. But here’s praying it will never come around your way because I know how painful it will be.