Kitty Litter

I've been watching a lot of movies lately, and using them as excuses to sniffle. But you know you've reached a low point when you see "Cinderella" and cry at the sight of the fairy godmother.

I'm one of many girls who wished for one, and who probably still wishes for one. But there comes a time in your life when you realize that, for a happy ending, you have to be your own fairy godmother. No one's going to step in and wave a magic wand and make things all right. You have to step up to the plate, swing with all your might, and deal with the aftermath.

M told me something a few days ago that made me think. "Are you going to be plankton, flowing with the tide all the time?" Hard as it is to admit it, she's right. Things have fallen into my lap; I don't go for them. I've learned not to fight back when it comes to people I know, preferring to take out my anger on strangers.

But at some point you have to ask yourself if it's fair to yourself and to those around you to be so pliant, so obedient, and self-sacrificing. Or is it just a case of being spineless?

Whatever happens, I still wish I had a fairy tale to come home to. But I'm not any of those princesses, and I'm not an evil stepmother or stepsister. I identify with the plump stepsister in "Ever After"--you're pretty much just there.

Sometimes you wish you were smarter, prettier, stronger...someone more like those Disney princesses. Or that someone will see you as being his princess.

But when you end up being someone else, and you realize how far away from home you are--wherever that is--is it still worth the fairytale in your mind?

Yet another survey type entry. Yes, I’m tired from work but happy. If you enjoy reading this then swipe it (I got it from y_slaybelle) and let me know! ^_^ Haay, I love online communities. Wala nang hiya-hiya kasi.

High School Survey

1. Bakit ka nahuhuli sa pila bago mag flag ceremony?
Because I commuted to school and hated waking up at 5 am, plus I am prone to unusual accidents. (Buy my book for details. Hehe)

2. Anong favorite mong bilhin sa canteen?
Breaded porkchop. I thought it was good; proof that our standards are much lower when we’re younger.

3. Na-guidance / principal’s / ARO ka ba?
Yep, and sometimes for fighting. Manoman I was such a dork then. (Wait, I’m still a dork now.) They couldn’t figure out why I kept scoring high on IQ tests but tended to flub Math. Too bad Bart Simpson (the “underachiever”) became popular only when I was in college. Why should a high IQ translate to high grades? It’s not the IQ that matters; it’s how you use what you’ve got, and who knows how to do that at fifteen aside from Christopher Paolini?

4. Sinong favorite teacher(s) mo?
This is sad, but my favorite was this English teacher when I was in third year. I thought she was so cool, but when I entered UP, I realized how much she had lied to us about life, writing, and authors. If there is just one thing I could change about the world, it would be the salaries and prestige for grade- and high school teachers. They are, after all, parent substitutes.

5. Sinong most hated teacher mo?
Miss Pagayoso, our Filipino teacher, who regularly humiliated me at the beginning of each school year by making me read my pitiful Filipino compositions in front of the class so that they could laugh at my atrocious grammar (“umtalon” as the past tense of “talon” for one) and word choice (“Mapangit ka!”). I think it’s because of her that I still eagerly pick up dirty Filipino words and use them, regularly.

6. San ka usually tumatambay?
Library. Natural habitat for dorks. Or around the fishpond of our school-natural habitat for frogs.

7. Your most unforgettable experience? And 8. Most unforgettable anything in high school?

7- The time I swiped my mom’s sexy lace undies and the damn thing ripped apart in the crotch at recess. I had to beg my mom to bring me new underwear since I wasn’t wearing my half slip.
8- I firmly believe that the mind anaesthetizes itself whenever necessary when it comes to embarrassing or traumatic stuff. Therefore I have no memory of anything like that from high school, and that’s about 10% of my life, hehe.

Winning a school-wide writing contest as a freshie sounds good, and it’s true. But my proudest moment came when, during our graduation practices, our Music teacher, Mrs. Capalongan, was desperately trying to find the right soloist for our grad mass. She rejected girl after girl, each of whom was known as a great singer. Finally she got down to me: finalist for singing contests for all four years of my high school life, and four-time loser.

After I sang, she told me, “You’re the one.”

And I have vague recollections of applause after I sang. Of course my mind could me manufacturing that memory.

9. Varsity
I think I am the only nerd to have played both varsity and cheerdanced. I played basketball because I was useful for offensive fouls, then I was chosen as a cheerdancer in junior year because I could execute a split and a cartwheel. Yes, I used to be skinny.

10. Sinong unang nakilala mo nung high school?
Fanny Enriquez. She transferred to a better school in 2nd year. Wonder where she is now?

11. Sino-sino kabarkada mo nung high school?
Like Y_Slaybelle, core barkada of 5 girls and guess who was the odd one out? I was too weird, too wild, and too temperamental. Oops. Still describes me.

12. Namimiss mo ba uniform mo?
Only because it was so hentai ^_^ and looked good on me.

13. Ilang beses mo nawala ID mo?
Seven times. I hated forking over P 20 each time to replace the freaking thing.

14. Favorite teacher’s quotable quote?
Not a teacher but a line from the bastardized version of our school fight song. I have no idea who wrote it, but there was a line about getting laid by the Atenean boys. Seems they were the pinnacle of our desires back then.

15. Most unforgettable person?
That I couldn’t think of an answer is disturbing in itself.

16. Best friend nung high school?
Several: Ana P (a Kris Aquino lookalike), whom I would exchange adolescent romance stories with; Kathy DLR, who kept my feet on the ground; DangDang M, who put up with me, and Janice T, who wasn’t from my school but was someone I worshiped anyway.

17. I-describe ang mukha mo sa grad pic
BIG hair. Tilted head. BIG FREAKING HAIR. Bird’s nest hair. Did I forget the BIG HAIR part?

18. Anong binibili mo sa labas pag uwian?
Fishballs!

19. Nakakita ka na ba ng multo sa school?
I think I did, but I’m not sure. Was walking down the deserted corridor in front of our chapel at around seven in the evening when I was a freshie, stopped to genuflect, and I think I saw something coming towards me. Didn’t bother asking what it was; like any brave Catholic schoolgirl, I screamed and fled.

20. Nangarag ka ba sa updating / paghahabol sa graduation?
Huh? Nope.

21. Anong unang-una mong ginawa after graduation?
Went out and had photos taken with as many batch mates as possible. I still have those photos, and they will never see the light of day lest they bring on Armageddon.

This is a LONG mushy post that requires knowledge of the anime/manga Fruits Basket. Skip this if you don't know what it is, and try this funny link: www.stupid.com.

This is for Jen, who asked me to post this here ^_^

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It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas now that it's finally cold, thank God. But one thing I dislike about Christmas and cold weather is that it turns you sentimental, makes you remember things you try to forget. Plus, as I mentioned to Bianca several weeks ago, so many people around you are breaking up and you hav to run around consoling distraught friends.

But it's also a time for stories, and here, Jen, is my Furuba story. It's not fanfiction; it's true, but for obvious reasons, I've changed the names of the people involved because some people who read this blog know the people involved.

---

I like watching Furuba anime episodes over and over, because they delight me and cheer me up. But there are episodes which I skip because they are too painful to watch.

It’s taken me a long time to write about this because I also don’t want to remember. But, as Momiji says, even our most painful memories make us stronger. We write to make sense of the world, and if memories are part of who we are, then I must write about this episode of my life in order to come to terms with it.

Episodes 7 and 8 feature Hatori, and it is very difficult for me to watch these episodes. I once knew someone like Hatori, and felt something special for him; only, I was too young to understand what it was that I felt.

-o-

I was eighteen, and he was nineteen. We were both in college; I wanted to become a writer (like Gure-san!), and he was on his way to becoming a doctor. I’ll call him “Hatori.”

I met him when I was set up with a good friend of his. His friend—let’s call him Ayame—cheerfully moved aside when he discovered that “Hatori” and I liked each other. True to his namesake, Ayame went on his merry way and encouraged my relationship with “Hatori” by urging “Hatori” to call me and see me.

“Hatori” was proverbially tall, dark, and handsome; he was also mysterious, stern, and remote. The manga drawing of the real Hatori does not come close, but the anime rendering! … The first time I saw Hatori in the anime, I lost my breath. Trim his hair a bit and darken his skin, and you’d have my “Hatori.” That’s why, for a long time, I refused to watch the rest of the episodes in which the real Hatori appeared, or if I needed to see them, I would forward quickly once I saw Hatori.

He pursued me with such passion that I found it funny. I was a pretty silly girl, and was more interested in clothes and the idea of romance instead of the idea of actually working to keep a romance alive.

In order to get close, he tried to join the organization I was applying for; failing that, he took to seeing me after my Spanish classes each day. We would walk, and talk, and one of my greatest joys was hearing him sing. I still remember the first lines he ever sang to me. I asked him who he sang like, and he told me, “Rick Astley, and I’ll prove it to you.” “Hatori” then sang the first lines of “Cry For Help”: “She’s taking my time/Convince me she’s fine/But when she leaves/I’m not so sure/It’s always the same/She’s playing her game/And when she goes/I feel to blame…” And I’ve never heard any other man sing to me that beautifully. I regret that I was never able to sing with him.

Then he gave me a copy of his poems, something he had never done before.

He told me that I should be a little more serious and a little less silly. I laughed this off, and told him to live a little. We would talk on the phone until the sun peeked over the horizon; we had so many stories to tell, so many things to share.

Then, just like in the anime, the dream ended.

I think “Hatori” got tired of my laughter and silliness. He wanted a deeper, more committed relationship; I was still hung up over my ex-boyfriend. “Hatori” tried his best to get my mind off my ex, and when he got tired of the subtle approach, he asked me to marry him.

“Marry you?!?” I laughed, thinking it was a joke.

“Why are you laughing?” he responded.

“I’m eighteen, and you’re nineteen. Why, you intend to go to med school. I sure as heck am not going to work to send you through school,” I replied jokingly.

“Hatori” sat silently, then asked me, “Do you love me?”

I giggled, and asked, again, if he were serious. He made no reply, only staring at me quietly, waiting for a response.

When I couldn’t stand the pressure anymore, I blurted out, “I’m too young!”

“For the last time…and after this, I will never ask you again,” “Hatori” said. “Do you love me? Because you already know how I feel about you.”

It only occurred to me much later that he did not tell me, specifically, that he loved me. He wanted me to say it first. I think he didn’t want to take a chance on something that would never be.

But at that moment, my response was to laugh, and remind him that we’d known each other barely a month.

He was silent for a long time. After several minutes, he stood up, turned to me, and said, “So this is goodbye.”

“See you tomorrow!” I waved cheerfully.

That was the last time I ever saw him face-to-face. Though I would pass him in school corridors, he never again acknowledged my existence…save once.

The real Hatori in the anime erases memories. So could my “Hatori”…except the memories he seemed to have erased were only his memories of me. He became like the bitterest cold in winter; when I called his house a week later to ask why I hadn’t seen him all week, he told me that he didn’t hang around with silly writers. I admit I reacted badly, and tried to defend myself; he hung up on me. That summer turned into ice as he refused to take my calls after that last call.

Ayame, being the good guy he is, tried to get us to talk the spring before our graduation from college—two years after the incident. He felt that there was still hope, as he’d noticed something. I had an early class in that particular building, and every morning, as I ran up the stairs, “Hatori” would be sitting there, ostensibly studying. I could feel his eyes on me, but whenever I looked straight at him, his gaze would shift somewhere else.

Ayame found this ridiculous, as their organization had benches which were usually vacant that early in the morning. In addition, “Hatori’s” classes didn’t start until after lunch. Thus, Ayame felt there was still something there. “It would be sad to see such a nice beginning go to waste,” he told me. “So I’m gonna go talk to him, then I’ll get him to talk to you. That day, “Hatori” was on the third floor of the building, and Ayame had told me to wait on the first.

It didn’t take me long to understand how angry “Hatori” was with me. His beautiful voice floated down the stairs, and he was screaming at Ayame. “Shut up! Shut up! I don’t EVER want to talk about HER EVER again, and you will NOT bring her up AGAIN!”

Ayame came back down the stairs. He knew I’d heard everything, and he was trying to look for something nice to say. I tried to save him by saying, “Well, I guess I won’t have to climb all those stairs now,” in a cheerful way. Or so I thought. Ayame looked at me pityingly, then he held my hand. “I’m so sorry,” was all he could say.

Five years later, on the brink of a new relationship, I saw “Hatori” for the last time. I was at a big mall, and I was, as usual, laughing with a friend. Wynn/Polar Bear was not yet my boyfriend then, but he was with my friends.

I felt a familiar gaze, but didn’t dare turn around immediately. I’d imagined that gaze so often that I sometimes would turn around, and no one would be there.

But this time, when I turned around, there he was, handsome in his doctor’s uniform, looking straight at me. This time, when he saw me looking at him, his gaze didn’t waver. He held my gaze for a very long time. Yet he never smiled. He looked at me for a while, then turned around and left.

Regret does nothing for us; Tohru once said that. We should never regret meeting people, or regret the memories we have. But there is one kind of regret that is difficult to let go of, and that is when you know that you threw away something that could have been beautiful.

I did learn something from “Hatori” though. I learned to tell people how I felt, and to appreciate what they do for me. It isn’t easy, but when I remember the summer that turned into ice, I remember the lessons I learned.

It does no good to think of the what-might-have-been; I love someone else now, and, nearly ten years after our time, Ayame told me that “Hatori” had fallen in love with someone else.

I only hope that I’ve learned enough from my sad ending to know how to find my way to a happy ending with the one I love now.

Don't you just hate it when you find yourself staring blankly at the screen, not wondering what to write, but because you're so full of stuff you want to write that you have no idea what to choose?

I don't want to write about work, because honestly, who cares? The last entry was already giddy and self-indulgent as it was.

So I turn to stories. Short anecdotes, each briefly describing something that gave me pause for thought. I hope they give you the same pause for thought too.

*.*

Earlier I thrilled my English 11 class with a discussion of why we like to tell stories, and they came up with their own conclusions: we like to share, build a sense of community, laugh, sympathize, feel. Brilliant? Of course not. But what surprises me is that they do not easily fall in love with writing mainly because they don't get to read a lot. Books are expensive, few high school teachers are inspired, plus good books aren't easy to find.

This kind of discussion, one that ends with a "I never thought of that before!" moment on the part of my students, is something I will miss when I go. I only hope that at the end of the sem, I can make at least one student fall as much in love with reading as I am.

*.*
"I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." Blanche DuBois

Every Christmas, I think of the time I was coming home from a friend's house in San Juan late one December night. I ran over a broken bottle of beer someone threw on the road, and blew one tire out.

I struggled to change the tire as cars sped past me on that dark road. No one stopped to help until this pushcart trundled along. The couple pushing it stopped and asked if they could help me. There they were, all their worldly possessions in a cart less than the size of my bed, and they were worried about me.

The man bent down and began to change my tire, cheerfully keeping up a stream of chatter in
which he mentioned that the garage he used to work for closed down. His wife offered me some bread, and told me to be careful when driving at night. They were far from your typical bitter poor person; no "You're rich and I'm poor" vibes came from them. Their small son asked me where I worked, and why I was out late at night, then told me that he wanted to go to school. I was feeling more and more guilty when the man straightened up, showed me his finished work, then pushed off.

I ran after them, desperately grateful for their kindness. I offered them a thousand pesos, because they were good to me, because they cared enough where others had simply passed me by. And the man laughed and told me to keep my money, because "kindness cannot be paid for. It can only be passed on." When I insisted, his wife drew back, looking insulted, and told me to go home, as it was late.

I want to think that they were rewarded somehow, somewhere, for what they did for me. I would like to think that they have a nice, small house and are celebrating this Christmas with toys for their boy, who should be happily in high school by now. And it nags at me that wishing is all I can do for them.

But I've also since learned that sometimes the best gift you can give in return is not to pester them with your gratitude. I've also helped out other people, mindful of what the man taught me, and now I understand what it's like to not want too much gratitude, to want the recipient of kindness to just go out and be kind to others as well. I don't want someone to run after me after I've already said, "You're welcome." I don't want someone who is grateful to grovel, because I feel it might demean my gift of kindness.

I think of what else they have taught me...that there truly is a reason for the season, regardless of your religion, social class, education, and other superficial barriers we erect between ourselves and others.

I hope the little boy finally got his kitten, because the last thing he told me was that once they had a home again, his parents had promised that he could keep a cat.

Like Stephen King, I hope.