Yelling and hatred penetrate the air around me and the opposition party.
I sometimes find myself thinking: Wasn’t this phase supposed to have passed some years ago?
Even in less drastic circumstances, it is as though my adrenaline is pumping during conversations. I am perched on my racing shoes, waiting for my turn to speak, and am ready to relay my disagreement, with an increasing frequency.
Openly discussing my outright disagreement with my extended family elders, something I would have never thought to do before, has suddenly become praiseworthy.
I told my father of the mini-debate I had with someone who is arguably the patriarch of the extended family. My father suddenly stopped and unmoving, he stared at me wide-eyed. “What did you say?”, he asked. After I had relayed the paraphrased version from my memory, he than said, “You didn’t do anything wrong”, as if to ensure himself, more than myself, that no harm was done.“You have your own mind.”
In fact, the elder whom I had a half-an-hour discussion with about career, finances, and family life seemed to have appreciated my presence, not for being the sole daughter of the family, but rather for my presence of mind.
Truth is, I throw around the word hate a lot and I do dislike many, many things. The few lucky things I happen to fancy include, but are not limited to: All things related to India (history, language, food, dance), shopping (for fashion items), academia (when examinations are not the focus), photography (when amateur enjoyment trumps technique), and writing/typing original content.
Way back when. as a young person of adolescence, I had rarely succumbed to the rebellious attitude. I never chose to hung out and logically couldn’t do so seeing as how my school day would begin prior to 7 A.M. and ended after 5 P.M. I never had the desire to go to prom nor date.
Dating is so filled with immature connotations; I just want to find someone who I can marry, is that too much to ask for? My God.
I never wanted to expose my belly button or eat out on a daily basis. The concept of allowance was non-existent and I was more than OK with that.
Yet these tentative days of young adulthood, I find myself in harsh disagreement with my parents, and many others, which is not so surprising if it weren’t to such a high degree.
Furthermore, the profundity of these disagreements loom large and encompass the core of how lives are lived. Why are you making this decision? How long did it take you to come up with? What you’re doing is wrong. I call out and call out and arguments ensue.
Some call this constant cynicism negativity, some call it a sorry excuse for pragmatism, and others call it judgmental.
I don’t need a happy pill.
What I need is an explanation.
For example, we all have emails that are meant to be regularly opened and checked, so I do not understand why anyone would feel the need to publicize that an email has been sent out over a social media platform when the recipients of said public service announcement, can easily read the email themselves. What’s the explanation for this?
When I express disagreement, I don’t swear or yell but I most definitely cloak the aforementioned under a diplomatic sheath that reads: “I understand your point, but…”
In this rebellious adulthood space that I am occupying, my disregard for “the other”, is masked in the form of scathing scorn that is so acute, it successfully produces a tension in the air. I want you know, just like you want me to know, that we are at odds because we both believe that we’re correct. That is to say, the nature of this phase is to purposefully showcase one’s own opinion so as not to have any one person’s intellectual integrity be sullied.
Call me a rebel.
Young adulthood is as good a time as any to form your own solid conceptions of political discourse, morality, and life in general. Sure I am not as experienced as my elders, but after doing my laundry for 4 years, I prefer the generous quantities of detergent that I use instead of my mother’s preferred method of following the directions printed by the company.
Call me a rebel.
Despite the immigrant narrative I have heard, I cannot help but think that my lifestyle may be better suited in another country. Perhaps Geneva, Switzerland may fit my desire for a more content life. In providing a prologue to your upholding of the “American dream” argument that reads along the lines of illegal immigrants having risked their lives to enter into the United States, I only find more ways to knock down your argument. I cannot empathize with those (mostly) men who crossed borders in the middle of the night only to be (in the majority), working for less than minimum wage and remaining in a stagnant position their entire lives despite the fact that this occurs in a country where the standard of may arguably be better. I would have tried and fight the system in the homeland and try to build up near my kin.
Call me an insensitive rebel.
This rebellious nature is in contrast to the childhood phase. Now, there is no need to harp on internal determination to convince the opposition to follow your suit. In fact, a follower is equivalent to a plagiarist, at least in my eyes. So disagree with me if you will and you will find that the ensuing quasi-argument will almost always end in mutual guards-up: “Agreed to disagree” and “It is what it is.”
In other words, sorry I’m not sorry I still believe that I’m in the right.
Call me a rebel if you will.