Hangman

First,

learn to say yes

before anybody has finished asking.

It saves time.

Yes, sir.

Yes, ma'am.

Yes, of course.

Yes, absolutely.

Yes, I understand.

You don't. That's fine.

Understanding

was never part of the syllabus.

Obedience is simpler.

Then learn the important words:

well-behaved.

good family.

good job.

good boy.

Nobody will tell you what good means.

They will keep saying it until you are too old to ask.

Get educated. Get employed.

Take the loan. Buy the house.

Buy the sofa that nobody is allowed to sit on.

Buy curtains to hide the windows.

Buy insurance for the life you are too afraid to live.

Marry someone nice. Not someone you love.

Love is volatile. Nice has documents.

Have children.

Give them names

you spent three months choosing

and a future

you spend thirty years trying not to resent.

Tell them:

Study hard. Be practical.

Don't talk back. Don't make trouble.

Think about your future.

And one afternoon

you will hear them saying it in your voice.

That will be the first time you understand inheritance.

At work, sit properly.

Don't slouch. Don't swear. Don't ask why.

Laugh when the boss laughs.

There is always a boss. There is always laughter.

There is always somebody

standing somewhere above you

who has mistaken altitude for depth.

When they give you more work, say 'thank you".

When they ask if you're happy, say "of course".

The mouth must learn to lie

before the heart learns to stop expecting honesty.

At home,  when your mother says she is tired,

say,  " get some rest".

Never ask what she is tired of.

When your father stops speaking, leave him alone.

Men are not supposed to have reasons for being sad.

They are supposed to have cholesterol.

When your wife cries, hold her.

When you want to cry, go to the bathroom.

Close the door. Turn on the tap. Cry quietly.

The neighbours must not think the family is having problems.

Brush your teeth. Spit. Look down.

There is your face swimming in the sink.

Do not recognise it.

Cognizance causes complications.

Gargle. Loudly.

Yes, sir.

Yes, ma'am.

Yes, my lord.

Excellent.

Your tongue is clean now.

Your life isn't.

That's alright.

Tomorrow is another day to pretend.

Give it time.

You will become very good at it.

You will learn how to say I'm fine

with your chest full of furniture burning.

You will learn how to be delighted

for the people who got what you wanted.

Eventually, you will learn the most useful word

of all: sacrifice.

It is a beautiful word.

It makes genocides sound holy.

Years will pass.

Your children will grow.

Your parents will shrink.

Your hair will leave like it never knew courtesy.

Your knees will revolt in ways you were taught not to.

You will ignore them. Of course.

You have been ignoring yourself for years.

Then one ordinary Tuesday, nothing will happen.

Nothing.

You will simply be drinking tea 

and you will finally let it sink in:

you have spent your entire life

making yourself easier 

for other people to live with.

And you will laugh.

Because what else is there?

You will laugh so hard the tea will come out through your nose.

It will hurt. 

Good.

Pain is useful 

when it arrives 

without an appointment.

Look around.

The house. The job. The marriage. 

The respectable clothes. The respectable opinions.

The respectable little corpse

you have been carrying inside your chest.

All of it. Yours.

You built it. You paid for it.

You defended it. You called it a life.

And suddenly you will want to do

something completely stupid.

Not heroic. Not meaningful.

Not socially transformative.

Something useless.

Something your obituary

will not know how to describe.

So you break the cup.

Just one.

Your wife comes running.

Your child looks up.

Your neighbour hears.

Someone asks, "What happened?"

And for once, 

you don't have an answer prepared.

You look at the pieces. You look at your hands.

You look at the tiny bloodstain where the broken ceramic has opened your foot.

And you realise, you are standing.

Not kneeling.

Not apologising.

Not explaining.

Standing. 

Barefoot. Bleeding.

Completely fucking useless

to everybody

who spent their life

teaching you how to behave.

And somewhere inside you,

something small,

something badly raised,

something you have been

beating into silence since childhood,

finally bares its teeth.

Do not call it freedom.

Do not call it courage.

Call it nothing.

For once,

let a thing exist

without turning it into a lesson.

Stand there.

Let them stare. Let them worry.

Let them call you selfish. Let them call you mad.

Let them say, "This isn't like you!"

And finally,

finally, 

they will be right.

Because the whole point

of becoming a good citizen

was to become someone

who could be trusted not to make a mess.

So make one.

Break another cup.

Open the window.

Take off the respectable shirt.

Spit the tea onto the floor.

Say the thing you have been swallowing for thirty years.

And when the old voice inside your head

clears its throat and asks

"What will people say?",

look at the blood on your foot.

Look at the broken cup.

Look at the life 

you almost managed to live 

without ever entering.

Then smile.

And say, "For once, let them."