On my Patronus, Critical Role, Patrick Rothfuss, and Life itself
I did not like my Patronus. The night the quiz came out, I was the first among my friends to find it, and I did it, and I got a tortoiseshell cat. I do not understand why. I like cats, I do, they’re small and cuddly and really nice to pet. But I always thought I would get a dog, or a bird, or anything else, but not a cat. Cats are not very me. The only thing we have in common is we like napping.
The cat did not feel right to me, but I was too lazy to get a new account and do the quiz again. So I closed the tab and accepted it. I had bigger fish to fry.
A few weeks later, I found a link on tumblr. It led me to another Patronus quiz, this one comprising of all 30-something questions they had on Pottermore, of which Pottermore itself makes you only do 8 or so. This, however, was more scientific in its methodology. I did the quiz, and thought of my happiest memory, and I discovered before me, a silvery white fire-dwelling salamander. I did not know why back then, but I felt drawn to my Patronus this time. It felt right, far more right than any dog, or bird, or mouse, or dragon or phoenix. The salamander was mine. I knew it to be true, deep inside, like I had found a piece of myself that I did not know I had. I was content.
There is an episode of Critical Role where the author Patrick Rothfuss comes and plays a character. Kerr is a blacksmith, old, and a retired adventurer. He and Keyleth, our awkward, badass, nature-loving druid bond over shared similarities and differences and life itself. Later, after a particularly gruelling adventure, they come home to find a letter from Kerr to Keyleth. I will not trouble you with the details of this letter, but allow me to quote a bit of it.
“Did you know that there are some seeds that cannot sprout unless they are first burned? A friend once told me that. She was… she was a bookish sort. I think of gardening constantly these days. I wear your gift, and I think of you. And I think it is interesting that there are some living things that need to pass through fire before they flourish.
I ramble. You have the heart of a gardener, and because of this you think of consequence, and your current path pains you. I am not wise, and I do not give advice, but I have come to know a few things. Sometimes breaking is making. Even iron can start again, and there are many things that move through fire and find themselves much better for it afterward.”
With the letter, he enclosed a small ring. It was once a sword, but now it had become something else. The ring had branches swirling around it, and an engraving: “I have passed through fire.”
I think of the letter constantly these days. It prompted me to go and read A Slow Regard of Silent Things. Rothfuss has a way of writing that is magical in and of itself. Not the fast magic of a duel in Harry Potter. Not the ancient magic from beyond the dawn of time that comes into your life and changes your world for the better over the course of a Gaiman novel. Rothfuss’ is an old magic, the magic of glaciers, slowly carving fjords over the centuries; of rainforests, biding their time, growing, ever larger, ever stronger. And of silence, ever present, all consuming and ever so gentle. And I thought that was it, that was why I was so attached to the letter, because I loved Rothfuss and his words. Only, then, later I realised something else.
Before I continue, I must clarify. I write this because I must get these thoughts off my chest. It is not easy for me to talk about, and half the reason I can talk about it is because I do not know if anyone but me will ever see these words. It is not easy for me to talk about, but I must. I write this for myself. If you are still reading this, and your name is not, and never has been Yaameen, know this as I move forward.
I have not had what one would call a normal, healthy life. I lived with my parents and my sister for the first 19 years. By the end of it, I was itching to leave. See, I love my parents, but I do not like them. They were not the best of parents. My mother is a woman who never really mentally aged beyond a 10-year-old. My father, a hot headed 16-year-old. As you can probably tell, the point where our parents become our equals came far too early for both my sister and I. Another result of their maturity, both of them were emotionally neglectful towards us, to the point of emotional abuse. They both have tempers too, which resulted in them also being physically abusive. Dad capped it off with some good old financial abuse. I had normalised it, and did not realise growing up, but my family was not ever very functional.
There are many things I remember growing up in my household. Do not get me wrong, there are a lot of pleasant memories. A lot of them are, however, not very pleasant. I remember being scared whenever dad was home. He worked from home a lot, so every time mum picked me up from school, ten-year-old me would ask her, “Is dad home?” I was overjoyed whenever she answered in the negative. I remember high school too – my parents’ 25-year marriage was at a crumbling point, and things were getting very violent right during the lead up to my A Levels. I remember nights spent crying, hot, angry tears on my pillow, on my notebooks, smudging my math, with the cacophony of my parents’ umpteenth argument providing the background score. I remember knuckles bruised from protecting my mother and sister from the man who should be protecting us.
I also remember Melbourne – the first breath of air outside the airport, on a cool summers evening. It tasted of cars and of people and of a city waiting for me to find myself in, and it tasted of freedom. And I remember at the end of my first year of university, my father pulling more hijinks with me, even while I was 9000kms away. I was scared, terrified that I had not gotten out of this, that I would, forever more be in his power. I remember a failed attempt at ending it. It was half hearted, desperate, propelled on one hand by the fear of my father, and on the other by the fear of divine consequences. That was the lowest I have ever been.
As a child I was always scared I would be my father when I grew up, or my mother – a better option, but not by much. I had a rage fiery enough to match his, and many relatives would complement me, saying I was growing up to look just as handsome as he is. Now in my early 20’s, I consider the possibility that I am not cut from the same cloth as him. My anger has not surfaced in years. My sister says his rage is one of entitlement and ruin, mine of protection, and preservation. My friends say I am kind, and supportive, and that I give good hugs. I trust them and their judgement, and therefore, as hesitant as I am, I choose to believe them. I am not proud of many things about myself, but I will allow myself to be proud of these, no matter how small they are. I will be proud of these qualities, and I will work to be not a man in my father’s image, but the man Uncle Iroh and Neil Gaiman know I can be.
I know people, friends, acquaintances with other messy familial relationships. I know everyone goes through shit in their lives. I do not mean to discredit others. I do not mean to put myself on a pedestal, or ask for sympathy, or pity. But I do not believe that I would be too wrong in saying that, in ways, I have passed through fire, and I have found myself much better for it afterward. Much like a salamander, I do still sometimes dwell in fire. The traces of those 19 years are hard to erase. Maybe one day they will be gone, and I will have forgiven my parents. Maybe that day, my Patronus will change. Or maybe I will forever remain a salamander. These are not ponderings I claim to have the answers to. All I know right now is I have passed through fire, and the salamander is mine.
