Waki waka wakakakk

Photo by JING on Unsplash

It was a breezy Saturday when I took my youngest child on a morning stroll around my parents' housing complex. I stumbled upon a familiar face, that he recognized me as well, by giving me a smile and a nod. Took me a while to realize that it was the face I'd been trying to erase forever from my childhood recollection. I hastened my pace, and put my poker face; I turned my face away, hoping he wouldn't say me a hi and gave in a small talk. Inside, I felt like out of breath, my head suddenly felt dizzy, I almost lost my balance.  

After few meters away, I looked back just to check him out. He's gone, probably took a turn in the next street alley towards the school that he used to teach there. And it was my school. 

That man, lean and slender figure with a friendly smile was Mr. B, a math and Bahasa Indonesia teacher in my elementary school. He was everybody's favorites, including some parents. He was sociable, he loved to chat and to greet everyone. He knew Backstreet Boys and Westlife, he got mingle easily with students. He once took a guitar and played a song by The Moffatts, making good impression especially to the female students. But, it wasn't on me. 

I wasn't affected by his so-called charismatic traits. In fact, I had this indescribable rage inside towards him, or whatever it was I had, I didn't know how to define that. 

Until I'm on my 30's. I recalled the vague memory of him and I validated this feeling of disgust. Mr. B had touched me without my consent--damn, even writing this down made me want to vomit. The 12-year-old of me was so clueless about what happened, I told nobody and I buried the memory deep down inside, so no one, not even myself could ever find out ever again. 

Few months ago, my mother told me, Mr. B had passed away. Many people including his ex-students came to his funeral to pay the last respect. Suddenly, I feel relieved. Suddenly, the whatever-uncomfortable-feeling-I-had slowly fading away. I still hold that resentment, apparently. Do I forgive him? No, never. There's this paradox that keeps pondering. If your harasser died, shouldn't you cherish on that?