Give me an “F”

Since early age, we were told to fear failure, to avoid it and to hide it.

As loathing as it was, I had a few run-ins with it , yet none “failed” to produce positive results.

First time I failed was at the entrance exam to a public high-school: limited supply, high demand (three students to a small desk in a non A/C room).

With French linguistic and geography, singing and Physical Ed background, I was in no shape to compete, the Vietnamese Essay in particular. As if in a trance, I drew a blank until the examiner called for time. Give me an “F”.

365 days later found me at the same spot, facing the same challenge. This time, better prepared, I took a deep breath and let it go.

In fact, there was no stopping since, until I hit another wall: the high-school SAT-equivalent scoreboard. How come my name was not in there? Friends with half my dedication passed with flying colors. This couldn’t be. Deer facing headlights.

The papers printed fake news that I committed suicide (someone from the school apparently took a disliking to the IBM machine intrusion into our entrenched Mandarin educational testing).

When you fell, you know who your friends are. That morning found me at my own “wake”: a few friends, co-ed by then, showed up early. They thought they had been there for my viewing (the papers said so).

Still in pajamas, I was blushing. Among the unannounced were some girls in my class (my parents had to “receive” a lot of my unannounced friends, but on that occasion, at 18, it was my first “beast” graced with “beauty”).

The embarrassment was the last straw from the past few days having close friends lounging around, not wanting to celebrate (our equivalent of prom) since “all for one/one for all”. The IBM machine didn’t spit out my name only my friends’. (It’s like your neighbors getting the stimulus checks, while your mailbox is empty).

The day after, one of my friends barged in, out of breath: “you passed”.

We started our revving and rolling in a New York minute like a gang in Grease. And sure enough, the Addendum had my name and student ID i.e. not having to die needlessly (Nixon’s Vietnamization of Vietnam) from a then-rigged war.

Beer overflowed, paid for by my proud Dad who just days before, not sure about his son’s uncertain future. Of all the people in this wide world, he should have known better.

Yet you can’t argue with failure just like you can’t with success.

I once got an “F”, then an “A+” from flunking to acing exams, like a pendulum.

From having a broken heart to thriving with a heart full of gratitude. I understood life from both sides, more from its underside. I experience how long it is, those interminable moments in purgatory and doubt.

People are not that merciful to those who failed (California gives $500 to each undocumented immigrant in the State – is quite an exception).

We set up hoops and walls. Exams and exemptions. Those who are inside feel just as “trapped” as those on the outside (COVID-19 is holding up its cosmic mirror for all to see themselves).

I once had an “F” with its untold social consequences (ostracized). To come to my “wake”, friends would have to turn me over for an ID. But in no time, since I take my time, they found me bounce-back from face-down in the gutter.

An “F’ is a pre-requisite and preparation for real life. We are goaded to avoid an “F” at all costs – parents would pay a fortune for Ivy League admissions (what if your child is autistic or stuttering). Only when you make friends with darkness that the stars shine brighter. (Garfunkel’s “Hello darkness my old friend”.

As trite as it may sound, one should embrace an “F” and its narrow road, for the road to Hell is always wider and more welcoming.

I know who my friends are in hindsight. At least, who showed up at my supposed “wake” that comedic morning. The beer paid for by my Dad has never seen the likes of it since. Failure behind, success tastes all the “tastier”.