Sam

My father used to give tuition to primary school children in our home and there were times when I felt that our abode was fast developing into a motel with the number of strangers streaming in and out past our creaky metal gates.

One day, he brought an unexpected guest home together with my lunch. The boy was one of his tuition students and my father had found him loitering in the playground near our house. As we sat down for lunch together, my father introduced us in his own brusque manner. “This is Sam. He has run away from home again. His parents are separated, so he is a very pitiful boy.” Nice touch, that. Then it was my turn to be introduced. Nodding in my direction, he offered, “This is my son. Don’t worry, he is a nice boy.” I cringed. No worries, Sam. I’m not exactly a cannibal.

Sam seemed mild-mannered in contrast to some of the tiny terrors who used to come for tuition. Seated opposite me across the dining table, his short boyish crop and fair complexion highlighted his doleful eyes. They were beautiful eyes, large and expressive, and rippled with the reflections of his inner soul. Yet the only emotion that they reluctantly betrayed was one of a tender sadness.

Sam didn’t speak much, nor did I. When my father empathized with Sam’s anger at the world, I thought I saw Sam’s eyes ignite with a fiery glint. Then my father went on to reassure him that everything had happened through no fault of his own, and that his experience would ultimately make him a stronger person. Sam nodded his head earnestly, trying to make some sense of the turmoil in his life.

After lunch, my father went through Sam’s homework with him while I sat around reading a book. My father then left for work after calling Sam’s mother, leaving me to keep an eye on Sam until his mother came to pick him up after work. I wanted to have a chat with Sam, hoping that I could somehow comfort him, but given that my conversational skills were as limited as camels in the ocean, I dug out some yellowing Spiderman comics --- decorated with authentic cobwebs --- to keep him occupied.

Eventually Sam’s apologetic mother called to say that she would be over in half an hour. As I walked Sam down to the main road to wait for his mother, I asked him where he lived. It was a simple question to most people, but my innocent query was evidently causing Sam some distress. After struggling with himself, he eventually whispered in his waif-like tone, the separate addresses of his biological parents.

Reeling from my own insensitivity, I tried again, asking Sam if he’d like me to bring him out for a movie someday. There was a moment of contemplative silence before he replied with an affirmative smile.

There were two things that I noticed about Sam through the brief dialogue we had. The first was that he took extreme care to analyze every question contemplatively, taking his time to think them over, before venturing an answer. The other thing I noticed was that he didn’t know what he liked. Sam had no favorites.

It seemed that the pain of rejection had caused Sam to retreat into a self-defeating shell in which he could deny his own feelings. To profuse a liking for anything would be a sign of weakness. To hold onto his sanity in the turmoil around him, he had insulated himself from his own emotions. Hence he had no favorite color, no favorite song and no favorite sport. He liked nothing in particular. This way, nothing could be taken away from him ever again.

It could be that Sam just didn’t feel comfortable confiding in someone who bred silverfish in yellowing comic books, but that wasn’t the case. Sam did tell me about himself, but he only described the activities that he participated in, devoid of any emotional input. Thus when I asked him about his favorite sport, he answered, “Nothing in particular. But my mother brings me roller-blading sometimes.” When I asked where, he just shrugged after another thoughtful silence. “Everywhere.”

I found myself grieving over the loss of spontaneity in an eleven year-old child. Being able to react spontaneously is a precious gift granted only to the innocent, before years of experience and social-conditioning eventually erode it into a more skeptical and unquestioning nature. Yet Sam labored over all of his answers. On his face was written a world-weariness not befitting of an eleven year-old.

I guess I saw a lot of myself in Sam. The sadness, denial, contemplation and weariness. I couldn’t pin-point the exact moment when I lost my spontaneity as a child, but it was a rather marked change. Perhaps my grandfather’s death had a lot to do with it. Suddenly nothing was so simple and straight-forward anymore. I became guarded and found myself floundering insecurely in this new world that seemed to engulf me like an abyss at times.

“Is that your mum’s car?”

I pointed out the yellow convertible turning into our street. Sam didn’t answer. He just walked up to the road, almost hurriedly, and got into the car without turning back to say goodbye. His mother turned to him, as if prompting him to wave goodbye, but Sam just looked down at his feet. Almost embarrassingly, she waved to me, smiling sweetly, before driving off.

It would be so easy to walk away, to be driven into the comfort of your own world. But Sam, sometime in life, you will have to take over the wheel, and when that time comes, looking down at your feet just wouldn’t do at all.