Do not ask for help

I’m six years old, and I’m in first grade.
It’s spring, almost summer now.
After school, Mom takes me to the park to play with my classmates.
I’m happy, it’s sunny and the days all seem good to me. The school will be over in a while, too, finally.
At the park we have fun on the swings, we run after the ball, and then we finish playing hide and seek. At a certain hour, however, we all have to go home, mothers are inflexible.

Daddy’s home, he just got home from work. He’s had a shower, he smells good. He’s tired, but I don’t notice it. I’m a child, I can’t see it. Mom always tells me to ask him if he’s tired. He always says no, that he’s not tired and caresses my forehead with smiling. I don’t understand why I have to ask him if he says no. I will understand it later when I’ll grow up, when I’ll try to work too, and I’ll feel tired as soon as I walk through the door. I will realize how much having someone who cares if you are tired or not, that that simple question, can drive away all the tiredness.

I took a shower, and then I sit on the couch next to Daddy. He’s got a book in his hand and his face looks confused. He’s studying for his driver’s license. I like the book. It has a lot of colourful pictures that catch my attention. Daddy’s asking me for help. He asks me what the word “roadway” means. It’s the first time I’ve heard that word. I’m six years old, I’m in the first grade, my vocabulary’s restricted. I find that word very difficult. I can’t help Dad, and I’m sorry. Then he goes and asks our neighbour. She tells him that a roadway is a road, but he doesn’t seem happy with the explanation.

I try to understand what that word means, and in the meantime, I wonder why Dad doesn’t know why he asked me for help? Why did he have to go and ask the neighbour? What about mom? Why doesn’t mom know what the roadway means either?
I’m six years old, I’m in first grade, and that word shows me that mom and dad don’t really know the language of the country we are living. I should have figured that out sooner, I guess. We speak a different language at home than people use on TV. Mom and Dad only use Italian when we’re out. Why can I speak both of them? Maybe I have superpowers.

I will spend that period of my childhood thinking that I am a superhero. That I can speak both the language of my parents and the language of my teachers, my classmates and people on television.
Dad will get his license the first time.
Growing up, I’m going to realize that for some things I can’t ask my mom and dad for help with. There are things about life in Italy they can’t help me with. I should ask my classmates or my teachers for help, but I’d be ashamed to do it because I don’t want to show myself to be different or inferior. Then I’ll end up never asking for help, for any obstacle I have to overcome. Linguistic, physical or psychological.

It will be the others who will ask me for help, who will trust my support, my knowledge. Not me, never.
I like to say that I am a guy who prefers to listen, that makes me uncomfortable asking someone for help.
To be honest, I really have no idea how it works, what needs to be done and whether it’s really worth it.
I haven’t learned how to do it yet, to ask for help.

Gezim Qadraku

Non chiedere aiuto

Ho sei anni e sono in prima elementare.
È primavera, quasi estate ormai.
Dopo scuola mamma mi porta al parco a giocare con i miei compagni.
Sono felice, c’è il sole e le giornate mi sembrano tutte belle. Tra un po’ anche la scuola sarà finita, finalmente.
Al parco ci divertiamo sulle altalene, corriamo dietro al pallone e poi concludiamo giocando a nascondino. A una certa ora però dobbiamo tutti andare a casa, le mamme sono inflessibili.

A casa c’è papà, è da poco tornato dal lavoro. Si è fatto la doccia, profuma di buono. È stanco, ma io non lo noto. Sono un bambino, non posso accorgermene. Mamma mi dice sempre di chiedergli se è stanco. Lui mi risponde sempre di no, che non è stanco e mi accarezza la fronte sorridendo. Non capisco perché devo chiederglielo se poi lui mi dice di no. Lo capirò più tardi, quando sarò grande, quando proverò a lavorare anch’io e mi sentirò stanco non appena varcherò la porta di casa. Mi accorgerò quanto avere qualcuno che si preoccupa se sei stanco o meno, che quella semplice domanda, sia in grado di scacciare via tutta la stanchezza.

Mi faccio la doccia e poi vado a sedermi sul divano, di fianco a papà. Ha un libro in mano e la sua faccia ha un’espressione confusa. Sta studiando per la patente. Il libro mi piace, ha un sacco di immagini colorate che attirano la mia attenzione. Papà mi chiede aiuto. Mi domanda cosa vuol dire la parola “carreggiata“. È la prima volta che sento quella parola. Ho sei anni, sto frequentando la prima elementare, il mio vocabolario è ridotto. Quella parola mi sembra difficilissima. Non riesco ad aiutare papà e mi dispiace. Allora lui va a chiederlo alla nostra vicina di casa. Lei le dice che una carreggiata è una strada, però lui non sembra soddisfatto della spiegazione.

Io cerco di capire a cosa voglia dire quella parola e nel frattempo mi chiedo perché papà non lo sappia, perché mi ha chiesto aiuto? Perché è dovuto andare a chiederlo alla vicina? E mamma? Perché neanche mamma sa cosa vuol dire carreggiata?
Ho sei anni, sto frequentando la prima elementare e quella parola mi mostra che mamma e papà non sanno bene la lingua del posto dove stiamo vivendo. Avrei dovuto capirlo prima, penso. A casa parliamo una lingua diversa da quella che le persone usano in televisione. Mamma e papà utilizzano l’italiano solo quando siamo fuori. Perché io invece riesco a usarle tutte e due? Forse ho i superpoteri.

Passerò quel periodo della mia infanzia a pensare che sono un supereroe, che io so parlare sia la lingua dei miei genitori che quella delle maestre, dei miei compagni e delle persone in televisione.
Papà prenderà la patente al primo colpo. Non verrà bocciato né alla teoria né alla pratica.
Crescendo mi accorgerò che per certe cose non potrò chiedere aiuto a mamma e papà. Ci sono cose della vita in Italia per le quali loro non possono aiutarmi. Dovrei chiedere aiuto ai miei compagni di classe o alle mie maestre, ma mi vergognerò di farlo perché non vorrò mostrarmi diverso o inferiore. Allora finirò per non chiedere mai aiuto, per qualsiasi ostacolo io dovrò superare. Linguistico, fisico o psicologico.

Saranno gli altri a chiedermi aiuto, a fidarsi del mio supporto, delle mie conoscenze. Io no, mai.
Mi piace dire che sono un tipo che preferisce ascoltare, che mi mette a disagio chiedere aiuto a qualcuno.
In realtà non ho idea di come funzioni, di cosa bisogna fare e se ne valga la pena davvero.
Non ho ancora imparato a farlo, a chiedere aiuto.

Gezim Qadraku

23 years old

I’m 23 years old.
Some of my peers have already married and had a child. Most of the others share their lives with another person and are just waiting for the right moment to take the vital step. I, on the other hand, am alone. I who at family dinners always have to be asked the same question by relatives, “so are you seeing someone?”

I’m not even afflicted by a strange disease that prevents me from having relationships.
I am twenty-three years old, and I spend my life reading, preparing exams and trying to understand what I want to do when I grow up. Yes, I know I should already know what to do once I’ve finished my studies, in reality, I do nothing but change my mind every day that passes. So I use the line from the movie The Big Kahuna as an excuse:
“Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what to do with your life, the most interesting people I know at 22 didn’t know what to do with their life, the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don’t.”

I’m one of those who, once finished the studies, would leave with a backpack to travel the world. This could be a great job, going around the world at random. Without a goal. Go explain it to parents and relatives that your dream is not to have a house, get married, have children, have a quiet life. If you just try to bring it up, you’re labelled as the strange, crazy one, the one who doesn’t know what to do with his life, the unripe one, the one who doesn’t want to work, the one who studies so much that he becomes a fool.

I’m twenty-three years old, and for now, I’ve only done a few casual jobs, to try to have some kind of independence and not become a burden for my parents. Comfortable with money, it doesn’t bring happiness but makes everyday life less burdensome. Despite this, the idea of doing the same thing five days a week for years makes me nauseous and afraid.

I am twenty-three years old, and certainties frighten me, although perhaps I would also like to have some assurance.
I am twenty-three years old, and I take refuge in novels, with the hope of finding, between the lines of Dostoevsky or Bukowski, an idea of what I can become when I grow up.
I’m twenty-three years old, and in the evening I willingly stay home and watch an episode of the television series of the moment. My idols are Heisenberg (Bryan Cranston in breaking bad) and Rustin Spencer (Matthew McConaughey in True Detective). By dint of watching TV series, my prototype woman has become Meredith Grey (starring in Grey’s Anatomy). My only interest right now is the start of the second season of Better Call Saul.

I’m twenty-three years old, and I’ve discovered that alcohol, taken in acceptable doses, can become a great life companion.
I’m twenty-three years old, I’ve known love, and I carry my wounds on my heart. We meet different people every day. Some mornings we wake up in a bed that is not our own wondering where the hell we are. Then we turn our heads and connect that this was yet another late evening ended in a bed of a stranger until a few hours before. We all had one true love, and although we do everything we can, we will find it hard to forget it.
I’m twenty-three years old, and I screwed up diets and the mirror, I realized that if there is someone who wants me, he will have to be content with who I am.

I’m twenty-three years old, and I was lucky enough to grow up with very little technology, I realize how sad the adolescence of future generations is.
Ten-year-old children wander around me with their heads already fixed on the screen and their brains wholly lost.
I’m twenty-three years old, and I’m part of the middle generation, the ones who used technology first and now try to use it sparingly. I laugh in the face of my parents’ inability to use apps, and I cry when I watch children fiddling around on the computer better than I do.

I’m twenty-three years old, a lot has changed since high school; with some old friends we don’t say greet anymore, some friends stayed, some decided to move, to go to another country. So I stop and think, my parents’ words come back to my mind…
“enjoy life, because every moment is unique and never comes back.”
I think back to all the moments I spent with my friend, who now lives thousands of miles away from me. I wonder if I enjoyed them enough if I could have seen him more often when he lived across the road if it was worth keeping his face for some nonsense he had done.
I get lost in these thoughts. Then I come to the conclusion that if I can’t wait to hear or see him, then despite those miles, friendship is still there and maybe it will be there forever. Despite the distance, despite the daily problems, despite all the friendship remains and this allows me to sleep quite calmly.

I am twenty-three years old. I don’t follow any model, I don’t want to look like anyone. I would like to leave home as soon as possible, to become independent, to do something with my life, but I don’t know what.
I’m twenty-three years old, I don’t have bright ideas, but I’m one of those with whom a simple beer at the bar on a mid-week evening can be much more interesting than you can imagine.

I’m 23 years old, and I have no desire to grow up.

Gezim Qadraku

This article was written in 2016.