Que Sera Sera

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother
What will I be
Will I be pretty
Will I be rich
Here's what she said to me

Que sera, sera
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que sera, sera
What will be, will be



Jay Livingston and Ray Evans, 1956.

:::

I have never met anyone who didn't have at least one childhood ambition. Growing up, everybody must have dreamt about growing up to be someone or something - a zookeeper, a fairy queen, an explorer, the person who invents new ice-cream flavors, a chocolate/food taster, etc.

I myself had a few things I'd wished to be "when I grow up": a ballerina, a musician, an artist, a vet, a princess, Snow White, a writer, etc. And, still in the midst of growing up, ambitions continually evolved - an air stewardess, a teacher, a computer programmer, a hacker, a fashion designer, an activist, a writer, etc.

But then, somehow, when you've grown all up and could only grow old, all those dreams either prove to be just that - fluffly, naïve dreams - or they have completely disintegrated into a fine dust because you've long since forgotten where you'd left them and can't be bothered with them (because you don't have time for such silly things now).

It's funny how I was never pressed for an idea when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, but now, with a slight paraphrasing of what is essentially the same question (i.e., "What do you plan to do [now that you've graduated]?"), you'll find me lost for words.

"Uh, a teacher ...?" is my standard answer. When I'm not bored with regurgitating this answer to the question I get asked almost ad nauseam these recent years, I usually give it with a high-rising intonation (hence the question mark in orthography).

The thing is, I don't know what I want to do; I only know what I don't want to do. Teaching happens to fall into the neutral ground between the two; at best, it's not something I don't want to do.

The thing to remember is: two negatives don't necessarily make an affirmative. And just because you can call a square a rectangle, doesn't mean you can call a rectangle a square, does it?

Also, you start finding fault lines in your dream world - lines that divide the fantastic from the realistic. As it turns out:

• you're maybe forty pounds too heavy to be a ballerina (and possibly two inches too tall);
• you have stage fright, which messes with performing for an audience;
• coloring within the lines in your coloring books and not ever painting an elephant purple or the grass pink really mean you'll make a terrible artist;
• you could be a vet, if only you didn't consistently struggle in science classes, and weren't so terrified of reptiles and amphibians, and squeamish about innards;
• monarchies are vanishing and/or being overthrown in today's world, which continually and rapidly reduces your chances of catching a prince's eye (besides, even if you found your prince, your marriage would result in civil unrest and massive protests);
• Snow White is a fictive character for cryin' out loud; the only other way to be Snow White would be to apply to Disneyland or Disney World where you find all employees' perkiness way too creepy;
• you're more likely to push a pushy passenger off the plane than politely spit in their drinks;
• you think Swift's suggestion of eating children is an excellent and inspired disciplinary approach;
• books on computer codes and programming make good anaesthetic (even though they give you weird dreams in gibberish);
• you can't even hack into your own email accounts when you've forgotten your passwords, much less into other people's accounts;
• you have so much fashion sense you've continually proven to be ten years ahead of your time (either that, or you're ten years behind; but that's all right, since fashion trends tend to come back every decade or two);and, finally,
• you can't even hold a meeting without governmental approval, much less a demonstration.

So that just leaves you with the very last of your childhood ambitions: writing.

The ambition to be a writer and/or a poet is prolly the dirtiest of your secrets; it's even dirtier than Tomato Rodriguez's "adolescent crush on a dog named Billy" (after Billy the Irish setter initiated an attempt at cunnilingus on her), and you're more than embarrassed - actually, make that ashamed - to confess it to even yourself.

What makes you think anybody would want to read anything you write (without any bribery)? More to that, what makes you think you can write - just 'cuz you can string words into a more or less grammatical sentence? Hell, then even dumb ol' Dubya can write.

(Okay, maybe that's a little too harsh (to you) and too optimistic (for him) - but with the help of SpellCheck, you can prolly spell better than him.)

It's a sad day when you find what you can do is a one-eighty from what you want to be. I think that's called "being an adult".

Why couldn't I have more straightforward and practical childhood ambitions such as growing up to be a mother and/or a homemaker?

What will I be?

Or, really (since there isn't a lot of stuff that I can do): what can I be?



(12:06 SGT)