The grownups would always tell their children. "You children get to do whatever you like. And that's okay. But grownups can never do what they like, because they have jobs. You need a job to live. Your job is the most important thing in your life. When you are at work, you have to do things you don't want to do, even things you think are mistakes. But don't worry. When you tum twelve, you'll have an operation. We'll open up your head and take out the child inside of you. This operation will transform you into a grownup. Then your mommy and daddy can relax, too."
The week before this operation – the week before each child's twelfth birthday- was called the "final week." No one from the village was allowed to speak to that child. They spent their last week in solitude. I don't think anyone ever told us why this was, although every child I knew had a theory.
When I finished my clumsy explanation, Kino said, "I see. That's a brutal system."
"Why do you say that? With this operation, every child can become a proper grownup!" I was genuinely puzzled. If you couldn't hate the operation and become a grownup, what would become of you?
"I don't really know what you mean by 'proper grownup.’ Is a proper grownup someone who does things they don't like? Can you really enjoy life when all you do is stuff you hate? And forcing everyone to have an operation... I don't really understand that, either." Kino frowned.
I had to ask, "You said you were more grown-up than me. So did you have an operation or not?"
"No. No operation."
"So you're a child?"
"No."
He wasn't a child, and he wasn't a grownup? I didn't get it. "So what are you?"
"What am I? I'm Kino. A man named Kino. That's all. And I travel."
"You like traveling?"
"Yes, I do. That's why I travel. Of course, you can't make a living traveling, so I sell medicinal herbs I find on the way or un usual items I pick up here and there. You could call that a job, I suppose. But fundamentally, what I do is travel. I do what I like to do."
"What you like..." The thought struck hard. I was very jealous. Until then, I had believed that children should have this operation and become grownups. Liking something or hating something were feelings only children were allowed to have.
My childhood was almost over. And now, here was Kino telling me it might not have to be.
"What is it you like the most?" Kino asked.
I answered quickly, "I like to sing!"
Kino smiled at me. "I like to sing too. I often sing while I travel." And he started singing. It was a fast song, and I didn't understand the words, and he was really bad at singing. When he finished the song, he said, "But I'm not very good, am I?'"
"No," I agreed wholeheartedly and laughed, relieved that he knew he was terrible and I didn't have to hurt his feelings.
Kino chuckled. "But even though I can't sing, I enjoy trying."
I knew exactly how he felt. I sometimes sang when I was by myself and there was no one around to hear my song except me.
So I sang a song I liked. It was slow, but happy, a very pretty melody. I still sing this song often.
When I finished singing, Kino applauded. "You're really good! I'm surprised. You may be the best singer I've ever heard."
Embarrassed, I thanked him.
"You like to sing, and you're really good at singing, so why not become a singer?" Kino asked.
"I can't become a singer."
"Why not?"
"Because my mother and father aren't singers."
He shrugged as if to say he didn't get it, so I thought I'd better explain it to him.
"The reason grownups have children is so they have someone to take over their jobs, right? Things have always been that way. It's-"
"Custom? Duty?" Kino supplied.
I nodded.
Kino said, "I see... that's the way your village is." He looked very sad about it, but turned back to curing the motorcycle.
I watched the back of his head for a moment, then said, "It's not like that everywhere?"
He paused in his work, then shook his head.
I went back to my room.
That evening. I lay in my bed, thinking. I had always believed that the best thing – the only thing to do – was have the operation and become a grownup. Now, I started to wonder if there wasn't something unnatural about the way my village did things. Something unnatural about not doing what you liked for the rest of your life, but rather something you hated. And worse – not even being able to say you hated it.
I thought about this for some time, and I reached a sort of conclusion. I didn't want to be a child always, but if I was going to grow up, I wanted to do it myself. I didn't want to be forced to grow up the same way as everyone else. Even if I got the order and timing wrong. I wanted to become the kind of grownup I wanted to be – the kind of grownup Kino was. And I wanted to find a job that I was good at, and that I liked – both at the same time. I wanted to be myself.
The next morning when I woke, "Last day!" was written on a banner on the wall. I went downstairs to the outdoor patio at the front of the hotel, where my parents were. They were not allowed to talk to me, but they could respond if I spoke to them first.
I rewound everything I'd thought about the night before, and said, "I don't want to have an operation to become a grownup. Is there any other way to grow up? A way to become a grownup and stay myself?" I just asked, not making a fuss.
But those words were to change the course of my destiny. And Kino's as well.
My parents reacted as if they were having a nightmare. They stared at each other, terror leaping in their eyes.
My father shrieked, "Stupid child! How can you say that! You wicked, wicked little girl! How dare you speak such... such treason! Such blasphemy! Do you want to stay a child your whole life and never grow up?"
Then he looked at my mother, and she took over – her words lashing out like a whip, stark fear in her eyes. "Apologize, you silly child! Say you're sorry! To your father! To me! To the village! Beg us to forgive your foolish whims! Promise you will never again say such a thing, and we'll... we'll forget it ever happened."
"Why would you suddenly say something like that? Did somebody teach you these insane ideas?!" my father shouted.
It makes sense to me now that they reacted as they did – after all, neither of them had been able to resist having this operation. They had convinced themselves it was a wonderful thing. It was a defense mechanism to protect their own peace of mind. But while my mother was eager to believe these were the foolish ramblings of a child, my father could not dismiss my words so easily. He looked for a way to attribute them to someone else. Someone like Kino.
Hearing the commotion, nearby grownups began to gather round the patio.
"What's wrong?"
“I heard shouting...”
Their manner was reproachful, since my parents were not behaving the way proper grownups should.
To my surprise, my father said, "I do beg your pardon. My foolish daughter said the most terrible thing! She does not wish to undergo her operation tomorrow!"
I was stunned that he had told them this – that he hadn't tried to cover his shame.
Our neighbors' response was predictable.
"What? Idiot! You raised her poorly! This is your fault!"
"Grow up without an operation? The very idea is insane!"
"How can you talk about the great operation that way? You might be a child, but some things are unpardonable!"
Then they began to shriek at me, like something had broken inside and they had to continue until they ran out of words.