The Subtle Art of Delusion
A few weeks ago, I witnessed a rare and subtle form of delusion unfold before my eyes.
Listen to me.
If you ever find yourself at an inter-house sports competition for preschoolers, prepare to swoon.
You most likely will find yourself sitting among parents who eagerly want to share a bubbly chat about their kids' shenanigans, how many times they eat cereal a day and Cocomelon’s overstimulating tendencies.
Maybe you will be lost, but at least you will half-listen and you will smile. And it is always good to smile.
Kids are beautifully reckless.
From ducking under their parents’ outstretched hands to clinging to them interminably, you can feel the innocence of their souls in your bones and the flattery coated on your tongue may come out as a bated ‘awwww’.
Watching children also means that you get to observe their parents—who are typically bigger children moulded in adult bodies.
When you keep observing them, you will realise that there are four categories of parents present.
The ones overly attached to their children. It feels like an invisible magnet is drawing both parent and child and although it appears really heartwarming, I wonder how the children will participate in the game.
The ones that capture every moment, even mindlessly that makes you envy their phone’s storage space. Capturing moments is cute. Capturing moments every second is …well, good too.
The ones that came to chill. You can tell from their fancy shades and the thick musky scent of their cologne wafting through everyone’s noses when they arrive. They are observers too, glancing at their phone intermittently seemingly watching the competition but not paying attention.
The ones that seem indifferent. You can tell that they understand that life is more than watching clueless kids run helplessly on the pitch evoking mushy ‘awwwns’ with puckered lips from the parents in the first category.
Watching preschoolers can be a handful, but watching over 25 of them compete with themselves and all get medals even for doing nothing can reveal many things to you.
The medals on their chest swinging from left to right on their bodies attached to the lanyard with red, blue and white stripes was proof.
Watching parents offer pieces of themselves in the form of shared laughter, fond memories or amusing videos of their kids running or refusing to drop the ball in the basket—even when they saw their mates do it—was the result.
The children don’t care about anything except the shiny new thing on their chest like a garland.
Although it was light, it seemed to weigh on their emotions and it suddenly struck me how kids are made to feel like winners and how it can influence their whole identity.
It is the best form of good delusion.
Of course, as they get older they realise that life is not black or white. It is different shades of madness instead.
But they don’t have to know now. Not yet.
Even with the net acting as a barrier separating the parents from the children, there was a strong force pulling me to the middle of the field to go ahead and run.
To be reckless. To taste freedom. To receive my medal too and hold it with both hands.
To cry while holding my medal because I have no idea what it means to lose or win. To be unashamed.
To find humour in anything even as obvious as resistance as long as it seemed to evoke mirth.
To stand there with the world cheering me on just for showing up.
I watch the photographer walk with an easy gait.
His hands are clasped on his belt with the camera hanging loosely on his neck at a deferential angle—a position that revealed years of holding a camera in a glance. It was his own medal.
He is watching the kids run around, encircling him again and again and although he doesn’t look fascinated, he acknowledges their presence with a wry smile.
‘Stand up, stand up, for the champions stand up’
The lyrics of the song, stained with unwanted memories sizzle through every nook and cranny until it fills the whole space, choking every single iota of indifference.
Nothing is the same because the music has validated their victory.
The children look like little drunk creatures running around the field in little shadows of reds and yellows.
I am maudlin. It is inexplicable. Hormones or the music? I can’t tell
Everything begins to spark an emotion, that even when one of the teachers hands me a mini Aquadana table water, it stirs a weird sensation of nostalgia making me stare at it a little longer than normal.
‘I love this shit’
A man’s voice jolts me to reality. He is happy watching his son wear a crisp white and black taekwondo uniform, ready to fight.
The coach stands in front and holds out a board for a little girl to break with her left hand.
The cheer is not deafening. Instead, it is soft like a cool December breeze and it slithers through my body in approval.
The cheer goes on and on.
Again, I am distracted by something else— a mordant discrepancy between a parent and her maid.
The parent with a striking flamboyance, overly powdered face, and the maid in rough cornrows and intentionally loose clothing holding the lunch box and school bag for the child.
Even as they both appeared to sit close to one another physically, there was an invisible gap within the thralls of their relationship.
Then, I see another pair. And another pair.
My attention has now shifted back to the photographer who has resumed taking pictures, his arms jerking with each silent click of his camera.
The music has stopped now but I can still hear it in my head.
I crouch and take a look at the shiny gold medal emblazoned on the neck of a child close to me who starts to quiver because he thinks I want to take it.
I smile, hoping to quell his fears.
He resists.
I insist.
I hold the gold medal, feel the warmth tickle my fingers and I pick up my bag to leave.
For no reason, I want a medal too. Gold or silver.
My lover 🥺
All these medals for me😭
Thank you baby ♥️
I’d give you a medal everyday for the rest of the year, my stargirl!🎖️ No one does this shit like you.
And ohhhh, to be a child again😫