Dreams Deferred

I ran into an old student of mine from Chinese school today at dinner with my family. I had taught Kindergarten for three years, and had him when he was five; now, at 13 and a full 8 years later, I barely recognized him. He was one of the first set of many children I would teach over the course of my high school career - I was only 14 when I first taught him, and I saved the little drawings he made for me, still taped on the wall in the corner of my room. It was a revelation to see him today, so grown up, and even more of a shocker when he shyly came up to me and asked for my facebook(!! of all things!!).

The encounter reminded me of the passion I once harbored for teaching and working with children; nearly every job I took in high school involved teaching kids. In addition to weekly Chinese school classes, I taught taekwondo children's beginner and advanced two times a week, guppy swimming 3 times a week, and worked as a swim camp counselor for a summer. I loved every minute of it, and damnit, I was good at it. I had a quiet patience for the naughtiest of children, an ironic contrast to the low tolerance I have for ill-behaved kids my age; I saw these kids, and overcoming their difficulties and barriers and winning their love and respect, as the ultimate mark of my capabilities as a teacher. Much more than that, I hoped to touch their hearts and minds and gain some insight into the ways in which their innocent eyes perceived, understood, and responded to the world, a fascination that led me into the field of child and developmental psychology. I had grand dreams that years later, they would still remember me as "Ali jie jie" (big sister Ali), the teacher that they shared a mutual adoration and respect for/with.

Today, I'm just relieved that he still recognizes me. When Daniel peered into my face as I asked him playfully in Cantonese "Don't you remember/recognize me?", he replies, "Yes, but you look very different now." I realized that the changes we've both endured. He is no longer the affectionate, witty five-year-old that drew me a portrait of my 14-year-old self dunking a basketball with a giant heart tattoo on my forehead (a portrait I take as a high compliment). And I am no longer that naive, optimistic 14-year-old with my pursuit of a simple passion for teaching.

What happened to this deep passion? At what point did this dream of being a child psychologist and teacher get pushed aside for a more "pragmatic" and "practical" occupation? Why did I let this dream, which could've made me so happy, slip away? And how did politics- the very opposite of the traits I'd admired in children (honesty, frankness, an open soul and mind to the world worth interpreting and probing), become the very thing I look to be involved with?