Lost in Uncertainties

[Note: Parental discretion is recommended. Best viewed if you don't know the author.]

In my hands is a class picture taken a decade ago. The photograph, as it was neatly placed in a picture frame, still captured the emotions and dispositions of the persons in it: innocent yet full of dreams. That was transparent in the say-cheese smile of 23 boys and 15 girls who marked their last day of elementary schooling. In the middle of the photograph, sitting beside the principal and the class adviser, was a proud boy having six medals and smiled the best. I was that boy. I was pinned “Best in Class.”

My six medals, as I understand now, were the fruit of my intelligence, patience, and sleepless nights. Before, I was confused why I needed to learn arithmetic while boys of my age were just playing basketball. I did not understand why I needed to memorize lengthy poems while others enjoyed watching Voltez Five. Neither did I know why I was in a quiz bee competition while my classmates were just telling tall tales and jokes.

Hard work pays. All the answers to these puzzling questions arrived on the day of our elementary graduation. Many moments of that grand day were still fresh to me: the expression in my mother’s face as she pinned my sixth medal, the adulation of the teachers and my classmates’ parents, and the standing ovation given to me by my classmates. I felt as if they treated me with great respect, trust, and praises. Which they really did.

They believed that I possessed wisdom of King Solomon. Adults asked my opinions about current issues. My parents considered my suggestions in running our business. My classmates wanted me to tutor them about lessons they hardly understand. Obviously all of these started after I grabbed six medals. I am a yuppie now, and they still considered me as their immediate adviser.

Perhaps that was the reason why I had this unusual meeting with a former classmate. She called me late-at-night and told it was urgent. I sensed nothing wrong believing that she just wanted me to do a last-minute assignment or a near-deadline research. So I was relaxed when I knocked their door but when she let me in and hurriedly pushed me to her bedroom, I started to worry. (Truthfully I thought of having a very intimate evening with her—for we were opposite sex in an inviting situation.) Unfortunately  another thing happened.

She closed the door. She started to cry. I let her lean into my shoulder. (And I became embarrass of myself for having a dirty mind.) I let her cry until the last tears dropped to her face. Afterwards, I start looking through her eyes. When our line-of-sight met I knew I am the same adviser again. The one that was awarded “Best in Class.”

She started talking. She had her story in details and as it reached the main point I was already dumbfounded. Her story is realistic yet unbelievable: a lady being raised in high morals, attended church every Sunday, a college scholar, full of dreams, and—most of all—was carrying a fetus for two months. It turned out that she had a seven months old relationship with a man whom, through shared love, caused this. It also turned out that that man had a blue collar job and acquired minimum wage, which is not enough to raise a family. He was willing, as she said, to carry on the responsibilities but they were considering another options. And she wants me to give her an advice.

Being in the actual situation, with life at stake, is difficult. I am a pro-life so my advice must something that will sustain the life of her baby. But I started to think its consequences: shattered dreams, unwanted child, and embarrassment and being outcasted. I remembered our elementary times where affection and sperm-and-egg-cells talks elicited fear to us, where crushes were all secrets or else you would become the subject of rumors. And then one of those innocent children was bearing a baby. I was speechless for a minute, she was too. Not until I uttered: “Abort the Baby!”

The decision, as for me, is the most appropriate in her situation. But the most devil and barbaric. So looking back, I still could not believe why I gave such advice. But probably I was just concerned to her future or I just can’t believe that she is no longer innocent. Or I forgot the risks of having abortion to her health and how sinful it is. Or I was not a good adviser.

It happened a month ago and, at that span of time, I received no news from her. I tried to get-in-touch via telephone but her mother was of no help: she spoke a little. She told me that her daughter was taking a vacation to their province—no more, no less. I wanted to ask her current condition, regarding her pregnancy, but I thought twice. What if my classmate’s parents still did not know her situation? Besides, I became embarrassed for suggesting their beloved a bad advice. I just consoled myself thinking that she would never have and abortion though I told her to do so. (Because she was raised in high morals, attended church every Sunday, a college scholar, and was full of dreams) But I still experienced a deep guilt and grief. The thought of losing her child was losing like none other—it was a long term bitterness. The sin of suggesting an abortion remained in the shadow of my heart—it was a dark place.

Still in my hands is our class picture. I am still looking to the innocent and young faces of my former classmates. I am trying to enjoy myself by remembering each of their names and the way we dressed and smile. But my eyes are glued to the young boy in the middle sitting beside the principal and the class adviser. I saw him having six medals, he being the “Best in Class.” I saw him giving opinions, suggestions, and advice. I saw him in an unusual meeting a month ago.

This time tears fell to our class picture.

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