'My Mother'

My mother is a farmer, an ordinary farmer to anyone, but the very special one to me. Her face is wrinkle not just because of her age but also a long time of hard work in the rice farm. Her black, mingled with white, hair goes to different directions since the sun is very strong. It's not necessary for her to keep it neat for good looking is time wasting in rice farm maintaining. Her complexion is deeply dark since she does not know what is the sunblock. Her mouth is painted red by Isaan gum-the natural beauty. Once I was fed by the minced sticky rice out of her dark red mouth. I do not remember but I was once told that I never denied but always hungered for it. My mother's two hands are rough and dark. These dark and rough hands were once holding me when I was a babe, gave me a pang when I was not a good boy and have been working so hard and have me what I am today.

One of those warm moments I always bring it back when I miss her. In the middle of dry rice farm, the straw is standing dead in the cold December. There, a small open air shelter was standing alone. The winter wind was cold-heartedly stroming an almost white mostquito net. It was swung violently. Inside there, a little son was in bed. Not so long, a middle age mother came into the net, managing all edges of the net before she wrapped her little boy and herself with a big fold of solf blankets. The fellows; buffalo, hens, cocks, chicken, ducks and other livestocks, were shivering with cold in their den, but the little boy was having a good night sleep in his mother warm hug. It was one of the warmest night in deadly winter time.


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Such an ordinary boy, I am, who was born to a couple of farmers. In the middle of nowhere, I grew up among frogs, countryfied fish, buffalos, buffies' dung's insects and of course rice-fields. Among these stuff, there seemed to be no sign for me to live a better life as the world is changing so fast. My parents then sent me to the city after I finished high school. I left my lovely farmland and entered the city for a sage of higher education as my parents were keeping a kind of silent hope behind me.

In the city of Ubon Ratchathani, I was introduced to totally the new environment; nice roads with a lot of wonderful cars that I could never find in my rice-fields. When looking around, those almost clean pavements and sidewalks were filled up with people, heading to somewhere I never knew. In every corner, a lot of huge and strange buildings were standing highly and some of them were mushrooming in wherever spaces were enough for them to grow. I continued to walk back to my rented room--alone. 

The more I have gone further seeing and learning my new world, the more I found the differences between local and city people. When I looked to the left, many city boys and girls in white and clean uniforms were walking from a provincial famous school. "Why are they so lucky?", my jealousy was questioning me quitely and deeply inside.  I have no answer for my own question. When I looked back to where I have been from, I found a rural boy with his old and almost white uniform, walking across the paddy fields to the school, which is 2 kilometres ahead.

When I stopped and looked to the right, there, many kids, probably from the same school,are patting their friend's back and giggling into a tutorial school. The giggling sound was faded away and totally left behind eventually as I started to walk further and faster to submerge a kind of inferiority complex. Suddenly, my steps were slowed down and my mind was absent to the middle of nowhere. A picture of the same boy appeared on my head. After school, this boy had to be in the rice farm. There, with his two horns friends he was spending his time while the sun moving downwards the herizon. He had to escort his big black friends to a grassy place, feeding his buffaloes.  He also wanted to play with his friends, patting their backs or giggling with their funny stories.  He did not need to go to the tuturial school at all since going to the tutorial school could never be possible in such a rural place like that. There seemed to be no sign of opportunities to better his lives through education. Moreover, because of the words RURAL PLACE, these areas do not deserve to have highly educated teachers. That's because of the qualities of this rural area. That's because not that much money was waiting for them to make. Many highly educated teachers chose to be teaching in wherever they deserve. Luckily, the boy still had his countryside teachers, who were dedicated to their children as best as they could.

In front of me, I saw a group of boys, jumping onto the minibus. The small bus which is overcronded with human beings.  Another question raised again-"How can they stuff themselves in a small space like that". "They may be in rush"-my answer was.

 

How can I forget the days when I was that boy. Today, I have been given so many. How can I be glade to what I have if I see those kids, standing and watching their little chance flying away espite my little capacity to realise them. Today, I am holding some kinds of their hopes at hands and trying to be more than ready to give these opportunities forwards to them.

Now, a second year student of Thammasat University I am. With a dream of being a teacher sometimes ahead, I have been luckily given another fat chance to further my education in master degree. I am now moving closer to my dream. At the same time, I am more than lucky to have met a group of people who love working for communities. Now, with my workaholic teachers, some of my lovely friends and I am teaching some rural kids English for free. There, we found that the kids are eagerly interested in English and keen to learn English skills. On weekend (when we are free from the university), our teamwork is heading to that rural place to teach them some English. We are trying to give it back after having been given.