Post by stratford on Oct 8, 2022 19:11:57 GMT -5
When a starlet bursts into life, when a budding flower flourishes into full bloom, when a superstar emerges from obscurity, one thing people often say is that they were ‘born to do it’.
That they were born to play in the NBA, to brush oil onto canvas and create wonder, that they came rolling right out of the womb with a guitar pick between their fingers. You understand, I’m sure.
Prodigies are curated though. Trimmed, pruned, clamped and defoliated like miniature deciduous trees that people pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for. Typically, a talent that noteworthy is nourished and groomed by greedy adult authority figures in their life. Pressuring them, pushing them, forcing them to dance to the rhythm they dictated by the marionette-like control they exert over them under the guise of ensuring they ‘don’t waste their potential’.
“You have a real knack for persuasion, Stevie.” Uncle William’s lip curled in curious enjoyment as he watched me talk through the various intricacies of immigration and emigration and what that meant for the state of New South Wales with an angry old sheila who had accosted him on the short walk from a podium to his tour bus.
“I just listened to what she had to say. Then diffused it. She had nothing more to argue.” I could hear the cogs as they turned in his mind.
When I was younger, I spent a lot of time in the company of my uncle as he canvassed for support across many of the cities and townships of New South Wales in his bid for a seat in the Senate. His sister, my mother, worked in his team and in lieu of any structured form of childcare, inevitably I would be dragged in tow from place to place and would watch as truths became malleable and narratives shifted to suit the demographic.
“He has a wonderful mind, Bernie. He’s analytical, thoughtful. If he could understand what we do, he could be a leader.” I’d overheard him saying one night, as cubes of ice clinked idly against the crystal tumbler that housed his nightcap of brandy.
“He’s twelve, Bill.” My mother’s response was derisive and curt, but Uncle William laughed it off.
“If someone would have mentored me when I was twelve, I’d have been off the campaign trail two election cycles ago, I’d already be Prime Minister. Stevie? He’s born for this.”
And despite my mother’s protests, William would frequently appear at my school, or arrive unexpectedly at the house, to talk to me. We would engage in debates, he would try to outsmart me, always probing and sparring. He would always insist that it helped to keep him sharp, and he never took 'no' for an answer.
When it came time to make decisions about further education, William was very involved and pushy. By this time, I felt as though my mother had been convinced, too. They wanted ‘more’ for me than what I wanted, which was to enjoy my adolescence. To discover myself. To release the pressure valve and fight my way through each day and see where I ended up at sundown.
Because here is the thing about so-called wunderkinds - through their sacrifice and hard work and a great deal of good fortune, perhaps it pays off. Perhaps. But if you’ve ever met somebody who has endured this grooming, you’ll be familiar with the vacant look behind their eyes. Whether they were successful or not.
It eats you alive. You feel no autonomy. Just a marionette, moving at the behest of a puppeteer.
I was not born to do 'this'.
I found my way in, through the back door. Running from one teenage catastrophe to another with severed strings trailing from each of my four limbs. Fucking and punching my way through an obstacle course of calamitous missteps, just like life should be. We weren’t built to have instruction manuals, our composite parts were not laid out on an assembly line ready for consumption.
Much to the disappointment of the entirety of my family, I fought for my right to be an individual.
Not confined by the constructs laid out by social convention. I expressed myself as myself entirely, not only in the nonconformist way that I presented myself visually, but in the physical sense, too.
Through my exploration of self and the smoky beer-sodden venues that came along with it, I realised that I could get paid to fight.
I fought for everything until fighting became everything.
That they were born to play in the NBA, to brush oil onto canvas and create wonder, that they came rolling right out of the womb with a guitar pick between their fingers. You understand, I’m sure.
Prodigies are curated though. Trimmed, pruned, clamped and defoliated like miniature deciduous trees that people pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for. Typically, a talent that noteworthy is nourished and groomed by greedy adult authority figures in their life. Pressuring them, pushing them, forcing them to dance to the rhythm they dictated by the marionette-like control they exert over them under the guise of ensuring they ‘don’t waste their potential’.
“You have a real knack for persuasion, Stevie.” Uncle William’s lip curled in curious enjoyment as he watched me talk through the various intricacies of immigration and emigration and what that meant for the state of New South Wales with an angry old sheila who had accosted him on the short walk from a podium to his tour bus.
“I just listened to what she had to say. Then diffused it. She had nothing more to argue.” I could hear the cogs as they turned in his mind.
When I was younger, I spent a lot of time in the company of my uncle as he canvassed for support across many of the cities and townships of New South Wales in his bid for a seat in the Senate. His sister, my mother, worked in his team and in lieu of any structured form of childcare, inevitably I would be dragged in tow from place to place and would watch as truths became malleable and narratives shifted to suit the demographic.
“He has a wonderful mind, Bernie. He’s analytical, thoughtful. If he could understand what we do, he could be a leader.” I’d overheard him saying one night, as cubes of ice clinked idly against the crystal tumbler that housed his nightcap of brandy.
“He’s twelve, Bill.” My mother’s response was derisive and curt, but Uncle William laughed it off.
“If someone would have mentored me when I was twelve, I’d have been off the campaign trail two election cycles ago, I’d already be Prime Minister. Stevie? He’s born for this.”
And despite my mother’s protests, William would frequently appear at my school, or arrive unexpectedly at the house, to talk to me. We would engage in debates, he would try to outsmart me, always probing and sparring. He would always insist that it helped to keep him sharp, and he never took 'no' for an answer.
When it came time to make decisions about further education, William was very involved and pushy. By this time, I felt as though my mother had been convinced, too. They wanted ‘more’ for me than what I wanted, which was to enjoy my adolescence. To discover myself. To release the pressure valve and fight my way through each day and see where I ended up at sundown.
Because here is the thing about so-called wunderkinds - through their sacrifice and hard work and a great deal of good fortune, perhaps it pays off. Perhaps. But if you’ve ever met somebody who has endured this grooming, you’ll be familiar with the vacant look behind their eyes. Whether they were successful or not.
It eats you alive. You feel no autonomy. Just a marionette, moving at the behest of a puppeteer.
I was not born to do 'this'.
I found my way in, through the back door. Running from one teenage catastrophe to another with severed strings trailing from each of my four limbs. Fucking and punching my way through an obstacle course of calamitous missteps, just like life should be. We weren’t built to have instruction manuals, our composite parts were not laid out on an assembly line ready for consumption.
Much to the disappointment of the entirety of my family, I fought for my right to be an individual.
Not confined by the constructs laid out by social convention. I expressed myself as myself entirely, not only in the nonconformist way that I presented myself visually, but in the physical sense, too.
Through my exploration of self and the smoky beer-sodden venues that came along with it, I realised that I could get paid to fight.
I fought for everything until fighting became everything.