Raymond

Outside of the golden light of this room, the raucous Chinese middle school bell joins in a cacophony of roaring vehicles. The white moonlight mixes with the metallic scent of burnt garbage, glowing wispy-white in the swirling fog. Here in the Beijing suburbs, I have been rudely awaken from the intoxicating rush of quotidian life, reminded again that lifetimes are but breath upon a winter window.

Grinding to a halt, the machinery that contrived to fuel my ambitions and continued fervor is repulsed by the fact that Raymond is no longer here in this world. But I am further appalled by my own callousness and the fact that it is over a month. I have missed his funeral as well as a chance to bequeath my own wishes. His phone number is still written on my list of contacts, since he asked me to attend a concert next to his home the last time we spoke. Like the scent of smoldering garbage, unfinished business is most unbearable in this transient world.

It reminds me of how little I know about the lives of those with whom I’ve crossed paths in life. Perhaps some of my other friends have passed away without my knowledge. Jammed within the economic machine, Marx’s workers were alienated from their humanity. But one can’t help but feel alienated by the machine of personal dreams and goals, as humanistic as that has been framed (hey, Maslow’s self-actualization, right?)

My exploration of education and perceptions of education in China is coming full circle to an exploration of oneself. The need to be judged as an accomplished figure maintains importance in my life, even if I know it flickers tenuously on a phantasmagoric scrim. Having lost a friend without even knowing it, I question the importance of my dreams and goals, a virtue taught in so many educational systems. An ignorance of humanity derives from imbibing too quickly the intoxicating brew of ambition, personal satisfaction, and productivity.

But if these accomplishments are Plato’s shadows on a wall, what should my true aim be in life? Some friends in my life have opted for the subaltern world, defying the “hegemonic” educational track and ambitions for an unknown life. Ought I consider joining their ranks? My interest in education, I suppose, is an intensely selfish one.

The school bell, declaring its presence with a boisterous shout, rings again. It heralds the end of evening self-study. One day ends and the other must go on. Meeting him for the last time at a Starbucks in Taiwan, Raymond was relating stories about who he wanted to date, but couldn’t manage to keep his voice down. He never knew how to whisper. I think I can hear him shout.