The moment I saw the theatrical trailer for Pixar’s WALL-E I couldn’t wait to see it. I was just so thrilled. I’ve always loved cute metal robots with human feelings. There was something about the rather rickety and rusty robot that was so emotionally appealing, something that strongly pulled and strummed at my heartstrings and told me I just had to watch it. So I did. I watched WALL-E the other day when it premiered in local cinemas, standing in line along with other pesky children my age. After waiting months to see it (the last movie I saw in theaters was the equally brilliant and moving Kung Fu Panda) I’m glad I wasn’t disappointed.
Perhaps because of excitement I woke up early that day (something I didn’t really intend but happened anyway) and met up with the good friends I left at the company I worked for until two weeks ago. We ate oriental (and quite expensive) brunch at an old but still decently popular Chinese restaurant and looked around the shops at the nearby bazaar. They still worked on grave yard shifts, the poor things, so they soon unanimously agreed to abandon me and leave me to watch the movie on my own. Fine. I’m getting used to doing many things alone these days anyway.
When I got to the mall (crowded, as usual) I still had some time left before the movie so I strolled around a bit, helplessly bought some graphic tee shirts (again), opened a new bank account to try and set aside and save some of what little that remained of my savings, and sent money to an online shop I ordered a shirt from the day before. I was beginning to feel miserable again. Soon I met up with my other friends (who only agreed to watch the movie because I’d been trying to convince them for so long) and we went to see the movie.
The movie is about WALL-E, an innocent, inquisitive, amusing, but hopelessly obsolete waste disposal robot that’s the only one of his kind left after centuries of working to clean up the mess humans left lying all around on earth. For most of his life he has been alone, cleaning up, collecting and neatly stacking up the garbage on an eerily silent planet. All alone. All he had was an adorable and (resilient) little cockroach for a loyal pet and a container van full of beautiful garbage to go home to at the end of his long day. As he goes about collecting trash everyday, he picks up things he finds interesting, bringing them home and wringing whatever little droplets of happiness he could get from them. Somehow, his longing for company, his desperation to escape the loneliness that envelopes his world like the mountains of trash, comes out once he is home, inspecting and staring at his collection, and watching old videos of happy people singing and holding hands and sharing the joys of togetherness with each other. For a long time, that is how things are for him. And then all of a sudden, one fine day, another being comes along, a sleek and sophisticated robot called EVE who searches for signs of life in the uninhabited earth WALL-E cleans everyday. His life begins to change.
Sometimes we forget what we have and how important they really are to us. We don’t realize it before they are taken from us, before we are stripped of all we’ve taken for granted. The movie reminded me how terrible a life it is to live without friends, without family, without love, without the many, many blessings we have but often forget to be thankful for. Every now and then it pains me that in life, in this very short life, there is so much separation. Living the kind of life we live nowadays, we simply can’t help but drift apart, unconsciously floating away from most things we hold dear. We’re often forced, ripped apart from everything we try hardest to keep, to cling onto. We often find ourselves separated from things we wish we could forever be with, finding comfort in the familiar togetherness of friends and family. I don’t show it often as I wasn’t raised that way, and I know it’s wrong to seek to become whole and complete through others. And yet I also can’t deny that seeing the threads of my ties and bonds with these people slowly unraveling is a bit of a heartache. I feel a dull pain deep in my heart. And I don’t think it’s just angina. We’re often told that in this life people will come and go. But that doesn’t ease the pain. Like characters in some elaborate story, they enter the scene, play their part, and exit whenever the storyteller pleases. And yet, in the end, the characters’ demise, no matter how expected, still manages to upset us in some way. I guess the challenge then is how to find, and keep, relationships that help us become altogether better people.
The movie was just fantastic. The animation was perfect, the characters were absolutely adorable, and the plot simple yet succulent with valuable realizations. It was both an ominous reminder of the importance of ecological preservation and an endearingly warm love story set in the bleak future. Grown-ups should go see animated cartoon movies more often. It’s a bit sad to say but really, I think we all sometimes feel that way, alone and abandoned in this big planet, quietly living our lives in our own little impenetrable bubbles, that we, at some point or another, inevitably begin to feel detached and distant and separated from everything and everyone around us.
We live our lives in stoic loneliness despite the millions of other people around us, as if we were living alone on a cold, deserted planet. We fill up our houses with things we don’t really need but feel good about having, finding some twisted form of friendship with clothes and gadgets and furniture and everything else that’s unfortunately too inanimate to reciprocate our gestures of friendship, hoping to replace the companionship of the people we’ve lost touch with with the material things we drown ourselves in. Then there really are times when the desire to connect with each other and the longing for companionship simply becomes too strong to fight off and ignore, times when we feel all alone and yearning for something, someone, to come along and change things. I guess that is what life is about, finding and realizing you have found whatever it is that completes you. We all need somebody, someone to fill the gaps in our existence and ultimately complete us. A big part of life is about figuring out who or what can complete us, and finding that missing piece to create our own masterpiece. Like most cartoon movies, it had a happy ending. But it left poignant lessons in its wake as well. I’m so glad I went to see that movie.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
God bless the jobless!
Earlier this week I resigned from my (somewhat depressing) job as a call center agent. For some reason I still can’t seem to figure out, despite the sweet success I had already achieved, I couldn’t help but feel miserable and discontented and unhappy with all that I had done and all that I was doing. Without me really realizing it, I’d been working there for a year now (months longer than I thought and hoped I would) and I had come much, much further than anyone, including myself, believed I would. But, like most good things in this short, tragic life, it had to end. Especially since I was beginning to feel like there wasn’t any room left for me to grow in. And I was beginning to suffocate, cramped and confined in the sad small space that, for the longest time, was the entirety of my world. I was stagnating, not going anywhere, despite all the time that had passed and all the work I had done to get somewhere. I felt like I was a tiny seedling that had grown too large a plant for the small pot of earth I was buried in, and it was time for me to uproot myself from it so I could grow even more. Otherwise the pot would’ve cracked and split in half just trying to hold me in. It was time for me to go elsewhere and find better things to do with myself and my time, a place where the sun would shine warmly on me and breathe new life into my now monotonous existence.
The day after I resigned from my job I came in for my NCLEX review classes, in preparation for the daunting exams I’ll be taking later this year. It had started the day before, but I chose to miss the first day as I wanted to give myself some idle time to at least take in all these sudden changes and realign myself with the realities that I now moved in. I was so surprised at how quickly things changed, and I needed some time to regain the balance I lost in all that spinning around when I shook up my own humble existence.
When you think about it, there really are times when things just settle on their own, when you don’t really plan out everything but then it all seems to fall into place anyway. After abruptly quitting my job I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t have any plans at all. I just wanted to leave, to get away, and that was it. I didn’t know where I was going, or why, or how I was going to get there, but I went anyway. My emotional outbursts, as you can see, constantly put my dear life in grave danger. And yet, despite the directionless wandering about I was preparing myself for, the kind universe plucked me from the mental limbo of ambivalence I was floating in and put me on a path it had already paved for me, my very own yellow brick road. How remarkably thoughtful. I hadn’t even had the time yet to brood and rest and contemplate on things and maybe even regret my decision a bit and already I had something else to do sitting on my lap like a puppy wagging its tail and waiting to be embraced and toyed with. It was there, and I had no choice but to accept what I’d been given.
And so that is what I’ve been doing for the past three days or so, constantly rearranging my mental furniture to try and recover (with little success) lost pieces of the lessons I learned in nursing school years ago. They had been lying there, sleeping in undisturbed peace and stored in dust covered shoeboxes under some big bed in the dark shadows of my mind, while I was busy working for the past year. It is always a struggle looking for memories you aren’t even sure were there in the first place. As we go through answering the many drills and tests to refresh my memory, I feel like convulsing, falling on the floor and just dying. So much has slipped away from my mind, and it will take some time and a lot of work to regain some, if not all, of them. And I don’t even have that much time left. Oh well. I’ll keep trying anyway. It’s not like I have any other choice.
The other day I finished my review classes early, just before lunch, and my friends had their own plans in mind, so I ended up finishing the rest of my day alone. I went around downtown, withdrawing money from the bank, paying the phone and internet bills, window shopping, people watching, and helplessly buying myself a couple of new graphic tee shirts, all the while pulling up the green skinny jeans I was wearing to keep them from falling to the ground and humiliating myself. Apparently, I had lost some weight without me so much as skipping a meal or missing a single grain of rice, even. Stress does have some wonderful side-effects after all. In the end, after all that walking that almost certainly wrought permanent damage on the white and aqua and skull imprinted slip-on sneakers I had on, it was inevitable that I had to eat lunch, no matter how late. I went into a fast food restaurant, ordered a budget meal (I had spent a great deal of money on the clothes so I had to compromise) and sat on a small table for two in the corner.
Since I didn’t have anyone to talk to anyway, I would look around every now and then as I ate my lunch, staring at the people around me and the stories they carried around boldly painted on their faces. It was then that I noticed that right across my table was the restaurant’s kitchen, and every time the door opened and closed I saw a quick glimpse of what it was like on the other side of the counter. It was chaos. Every five minutes or so some poor employee would come rushing in and out with a bucket or a mop or some other cleaning tool, shuffling from one task to the next like little mice scampering and scurrying around to get something done before the precious opportunity disappears. They all seemed so harassed and agitated and panicked and fatigued. I know working and toiling like blessed beasts of burden will always be part of our lives (or most of it), but at that moment I was glad I didn’t have a job anymore. All that torture’s bound to kill you sooner or later.
I’m not entirely jobless, though. Reviewing for exams is like any other fulltime job. But it doesn’t pay. Which isn’t much different from the job that I just left anyway, so I don’t mind. I’m still getting used to learning things again and putting my geriatric brain cells to use after their untimely retirement, but I’m beginning to see all this is a blessing. I thought I’d end up regretting my decision to leave my job but no, I was spared from that terrible fate. There was something waiting for me, and I didn’t even see it coming. I’m glad I didn’t have too much time between leaving my job and starting my review classes. All that unused time gives you a chance to think about everything, and you end up conceiving and giving birth to your own inner demons, monsters that will inevitably awaken ugly insecurities and doubts and all the other things that can discourage your spirit. I’m so glad God blesses even the jobless.
The day after I resigned from my job I came in for my NCLEX review classes, in preparation for the daunting exams I’ll be taking later this year. It had started the day before, but I chose to miss the first day as I wanted to give myself some idle time to at least take in all these sudden changes and realign myself with the realities that I now moved in. I was so surprised at how quickly things changed, and I needed some time to regain the balance I lost in all that spinning around when I shook up my own humble existence.
When you think about it, there really are times when things just settle on their own, when you don’t really plan out everything but then it all seems to fall into place anyway. After abruptly quitting my job I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t have any plans at all. I just wanted to leave, to get away, and that was it. I didn’t know where I was going, or why, or how I was going to get there, but I went anyway. My emotional outbursts, as you can see, constantly put my dear life in grave danger. And yet, despite the directionless wandering about I was preparing myself for, the kind universe plucked me from the mental limbo of ambivalence I was floating in and put me on a path it had already paved for me, my very own yellow brick road. How remarkably thoughtful. I hadn’t even had the time yet to brood and rest and contemplate on things and maybe even regret my decision a bit and already I had something else to do sitting on my lap like a puppy wagging its tail and waiting to be embraced and toyed with. It was there, and I had no choice but to accept what I’d been given.
And so that is what I’ve been doing for the past three days or so, constantly rearranging my mental furniture to try and recover (with little success) lost pieces of the lessons I learned in nursing school years ago. They had been lying there, sleeping in undisturbed peace and stored in dust covered shoeboxes under some big bed in the dark shadows of my mind, while I was busy working for the past year. It is always a struggle looking for memories you aren’t even sure were there in the first place. As we go through answering the many drills and tests to refresh my memory, I feel like convulsing, falling on the floor and just dying. So much has slipped away from my mind, and it will take some time and a lot of work to regain some, if not all, of them. And I don’t even have that much time left. Oh well. I’ll keep trying anyway. It’s not like I have any other choice.
The other day I finished my review classes early, just before lunch, and my friends had their own plans in mind, so I ended up finishing the rest of my day alone. I went around downtown, withdrawing money from the bank, paying the phone and internet bills, window shopping, people watching, and helplessly buying myself a couple of new graphic tee shirts, all the while pulling up the green skinny jeans I was wearing to keep them from falling to the ground and humiliating myself. Apparently, I had lost some weight without me so much as skipping a meal or missing a single grain of rice, even. Stress does have some wonderful side-effects after all. In the end, after all that walking that almost certainly wrought permanent damage on the white and aqua and skull imprinted slip-on sneakers I had on, it was inevitable that I had to eat lunch, no matter how late. I went into a fast food restaurant, ordered a budget meal (I had spent a great deal of money on the clothes so I had to compromise) and sat on a small table for two in the corner.
Since I didn’t have anyone to talk to anyway, I would look around every now and then as I ate my lunch, staring at the people around me and the stories they carried around boldly painted on their faces. It was then that I noticed that right across my table was the restaurant’s kitchen, and every time the door opened and closed I saw a quick glimpse of what it was like on the other side of the counter. It was chaos. Every five minutes or so some poor employee would come rushing in and out with a bucket or a mop or some other cleaning tool, shuffling from one task to the next like little mice scampering and scurrying around to get something done before the precious opportunity disappears. They all seemed so harassed and agitated and panicked and fatigued. I know working and toiling like blessed beasts of burden will always be part of our lives (or most of it), but at that moment I was glad I didn’t have a job anymore. All that torture’s bound to kill you sooner or later.
I’m not entirely jobless, though. Reviewing for exams is like any other fulltime job. But it doesn’t pay. Which isn’t much different from the job that I just left anyway, so I don’t mind. I’m still getting used to learning things again and putting my geriatric brain cells to use after their untimely retirement, but I’m beginning to see all this is a blessing. I thought I’d end up regretting my decision to leave my job but no, I was spared from that terrible fate. There was something waiting for me, and I didn’t even see it coming. I’m glad I didn’t have too much time between leaving my job and starting my review classes. All that unused time gives you a chance to think about everything, and you end up conceiving and giving birth to your own inner demons, monsters that will inevitably awaken ugly insecurities and doubts and all the other things that can discourage your spirit. I’m so glad God blesses even the jobless.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Clean up the puddles of blood red banana ketchup on the dining room floor if it’s already 1 am and you still can’t sleep
It takes up so much time and energy you’ll be sleeping sweet and sound before you know it. Unless you just quit your job and you have rats raiding your pantry. How did I come to such a random realization, you ask? Why not just count imaginary sheep jumping over white picket fences like any self-respecting insomniac? Well the story goes this way. As I am beginning to write this, it is nine minutes before 1 in the morning and I’m still awake, tossing and turning on my bed, stuck between tomorrow and today. I’ve had a lot in my mind the past few days (and nights) and I have had some trouble sleeping. Perhaps because in the past few weeks I had been working at night and sleeping during the day, and just when my tortured old circadian rhythm was finally beginning to adapt to the sudden change, I surprised it yet again by quitting my job and trying to sleep at night again. I imagine my internal body clock must be so confused and irritated and exhausted right now it might as well just break down into pieces and stop ticking altogether any minute now.
Or maybe I just can’t sleep because of all the noise I keep on hearing. I had to get up just now to get a glass of cold water. Maybe it will help me sleep, I thought. My mother turned off the dispenser so I get to quench my thirst with a glass of wonderfully refreshing lukewarm water instead. I visit the toilet several times to try and dispel and exorcise whatever inner demons I might have curled up inside me that are tormenting and poisoning my system. I stare down at the toilet and I see nothing. Still, I feel bad. But at least now I know for certain it is not my stomach or some precious part of my alimentary canal that is upset.
Then I hear something break and smash. From what little evidence I could see I reckon the turn of events went something like this. Another one of those large, pesky domestic rodents I had been campaigning to protect from my father’s pesticidal tendencies had betrayed me again and tried stealing food from the table. Instead, it ended up bumping into a bottle of banana ketchup and sent it falling into the dining room floor. The culprit disappeared. The mess was like a horrid murder scene. I had to clean up the blood red puddles of banana ketchup, carefully feeling the sticky dressing with my bare fingers for shards of broken glass that might have been buried and might get left behind for an innocent foot to accidentally step upon one of these days. My fingertips are still a bit red with all the ketchup I got them into. I remind myself to buy a new cabinet or something, as my container of clothes is now full to the brim and all the clothes I leave around just lying in my room are in great danger of being viciously attacked and preyed upon by these ungrateful, pillaging rats. If only my old cat were still alive, I thought, these thieves wouldn’t be as brave in intruding our house as they are. Then again my old cat wouldn’t have stood a chance against that gigantic monster anyway. It was almost the same size as her and would have easily killed her if it wanted to. It was so large just seeing it crawling there scared me with morbid thoughts of dying from the bubonic plague.
I go back into my room, still wary of that giant rat. I caught it crawling back up the table but couldn’t bring myself to so much as shoo it away. Anyway, it scampered off into the darkness again, and I’ve no choice but to go back to bed with the hopes of finally getting some sleep. If ever I do get to sleep I hope I don’t get nightmares. It is well past three. As usual, without apparent reason, the dogs are restless outside (like me), breaking out in scandalous barking marathons every other twenty minutes or so. Speaking of dogs, if I were one I’d be dangerous and chances are I would’ve already ended up in a stinky, cramped dog pound somewhere. The problem with me is I seldom bark or growl. I just bite when I’m already pushed too far up against the wall. And after I bite I run off and hide, never to be seen or heard from again. That was exactly what happened when I received my insultingly small paycheck from the office last Thursday. I exploded, and with that, whatever little enthusiasm I had left for the job went flying out the window. It was like discovering a fly happily swimming in my bowl of soup just as I was half through with it and completely losing my appetite to finish the rest of the meal. Hopefully the little scene I made got my message across. And they will be more careful next time.
Already I am beginning to feel bad about having to resign from my job. I had been working there for eleven months now, and over time I’ve come to love what I was doing. But I had to do what I had to do, and there’s simply no turning back now. The trouble when you’ve already established a certain routine is that you don’t think, much less worry, about the near future. Tomorrow does not bother you. You know exactly what time to get up the next day, what to wear, where to go, what to do, who you’ll see, what time you’ll be through with the things you need to do, what time you get home, and so on. There is very little room for pondering on uncertainty and hesitation. And yet, when that routine comes to an end, say, when you graduate from school or, in my case, when you quit a job, you are faced with so many questions you had little time to even think about back when you still had your schedules and itineraries all planned out. Right now I have all these doubts swirling in my head. But I know there is no reason to fear tomorrow. At least I’ll have the time to drop by the grocery store and buy another bottle of banana ketchup. And maybe some rat poison too. Maybe not.
Or maybe I just can’t sleep because of all the noise I keep on hearing. I had to get up just now to get a glass of cold water. Maybe it will help me sleep, I thought. My mother turned off the dispenser so I get to quench my thirst with a glass of wonderfully refreshing lukewarm water instead. I visit the toilet several times to try and dispel and exorcise whatever inner demons I might have curled up inside me that are tormenting and poisoning my system. I stare down at the toilet and I see nothing. Still, I feel bad. But at least now I know for certain it is not my stomach or some precious part of my alimentary canal that is upset.
Then I hear something break and smash. From what little evidence I could see I reckon the turn of events went something like this. Another one of those large, pesky domestic rodents I had been campaigning to protect from my father’s pesticidal tendencies had betrayed me again and tried stealing food from the table. Instead, it ended up bumping into a bottle of banana ketchup and sent it falling into the dining room floor. The culprit disappeared. The mess was like a horrid murder scene. I had to clean up the blood red puddles of banana ketchup, carefully feeling the sticky dressing with my bare fingers for shards of broken glass that might have been buried and might get left behind for an innocent foot to accidentally step upon one of these days. My fingertips are still a bit red with all the ketchup I got them into. I remind myself to buy a new cabinet or something, as my container of clothes is now full to the brim and all the clothes I leave around just lying in my room are in great danger of being viciously attacked and preyed upon by these ungrateful, pillaging rats. If only my old cat were still alive, I thought, these thieves wouldn’t be as brave in intruding our house as they are. Then again my old cat wouldn’t have stood a chance against that gigantic monster anyway. It was almost the same size as her and would have easily killed her if it wanted to. It was so large just seeing it crawling there scared me with morbid thoughts of dying from the bubonic plague.
I go back into my room, still wary of that giant rat. I caught it crawling back up the table but couldn’t bring myself to so much as shoo it away. Anyway, it scampered off into the darkness again, and I’ve no choice but to go back to bed with the hopes of finally getting some sleep. If ever I do get to sleep I hope I don’t get nightmares. It is well past three. As usual, without apparent reason, the dogs are restless outside (like me), breaking out in scandalous barking marathons every other twenty minutes or so. Speaking of dogs, if I were one I’d be dangerous and chances are I would’ve already ended up in a stinky, cramped dog pound somewhere. The problem with me is I seldom bark or growl. I just bite when I’m already pushed too far up against the wall. And after I bite I run off and hide, never to be seen or heard from again. That was exactly what happened when I received my insultingly small paycheck from the office last Thursday. I exploded, and with that, whatever little enthusiasm I had left for the job went flying out the window. It was like discovering a fly happily swimming in my bowl of soup just as I was half through with it and completely losing my appetite to finish the rest of the meal. Hopefully the little scene I made got my message across. And they will be more careful next time.
Already I am beginning to feel bad about having to resign from my job. I had been working there for eleven months now, and over time I’ve come to love what I was doing. But I had to do what I had to do, and there’s simply no turning back now. The trouble when you’ve already established a certain routine is that you don’t think, much less worry, about the near future. Tomorrow does not bother you. You know exactly what time to get up the next day, what to wear, where to go, what to do, who you’ll see, what time you’ll be through with the things you need to do, what time you get home, and so on. There is very little room for pondering on uncertainty and hesitation. And yet, when that routine comes to an end, say, when you graduate from school or, in my case, when you quit a job, you are faced with so many questions you had little time to even think about back when you still had your schedules and itineraries all planned out. Right now I have all these doubts swirling in my head. But I know there is no reason to fear tomorrow. At least I’ll have the time to drop by the grocery store and buy another bottle of banana ketchup. And maybe some rat poison too. Maybe not.
Disappearing act: the art of letting go, walking away, not looking back, and moving on
I’m hopelessly passive aggressive. I have this habit of letting annoying things pass, just taking a deep, deep breath and ignoring all these little irritations, until such a time all the pent up emotions just completely overwhelm me like some evil spirit and erupt, sometimes even at the slightest provocation, and I snap in a very telenovela way, exploding like a furious, over-dramatic volcano that just woke up from centuries of cold dormancy. Imagine the very timid Dr. Bruce Banner losing his temper, tearing his clothes off, and transforming into a very mad, very green Incredible Hulk. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t lose my temper that easily. I’m very patient and non-confrontational, sometimes even to the point of selfless sacrifice and martyrdom. Pardon the histrionics. It takes a long, long time before something gets to me and irks me so bad I end up throwing and smashing things.
But if and when that happens, there is simply no turning back. Some bridges are burned, some bonds and ties (and I sometimes imagine body parts too) are cut off, and some feelings (mostly mine) are hurt. Apologies are not made. Not by me, at least. I see no reason in apologizing for something you intentionally do. I do not know how to explain it. Anger is a strong wind that blows out the lamp of the mind, a short period of utter lunacy where one simply loses control. I think British poet Francis Quarles describes it very well, my passive aggressiveness. He says to “beware of him that is slow to anger; for when it is long coming, it is the stronger when it comes, and the longer kept. Abused patience turns to fury.” That is exactly how I feel.
You see, after a bad (and quite possibly my last) day at work last week, I just had to get away. I have not reported to work in two days, and probably will not ever again. I have avoided contact with anything remotely related to my work. I just had to disappear. In the past three weeks or so I had been working on graveyard shifts, something that is already a challenge in itself. The company had decided that the dayshift we had been on for the past year was not working, and the best way to keep operations reasonably affordable was to have everyone working all together on one shift. And yet that did not bother me as much as I thought it would. I did not allow it to. I was even willing to explore the positive side of working at night, no matter how difficult it is to find that side with the sleepiness messing around with my senses. I stayed at the office after the shift that day, sleeping on a seldom cleaned couch. It was payday and I, together with the three other senior agents I worked with, was waiting for the salaries to be released. I didn’t mind having to miss a few precious hours of sleeping in the comforts of my own damp bed just to have my salary as soon as I could. There were clothes waiting to be bought.
And then they woke me up, telling me the paychecks had arrived. Finally, I thought to myself, and I happily walked into the HR office even before waking up completely. I was surprised at how small my salary was. Maybe it was just because I had just woken up, but I lost my temper. After receiving a paycheck so small I just felt so feverishly frustrated. I was so insulted and appalled. To me, the company made it clear I was no longer of value to them, giving me that check. It was half of what I was expecting to get that day, and I was just so offended receiving a salary that had been reduced to close to nothing by surprising deductions I didn’t even care to know about anymore. I may have been top agent several times, but I still have my two feet firmly planted on the ground. I wasn’t asking for too much, I just wanted what I worked for and what I deserved. Nothing more, nothing less. And yet they did not give that to me. Being the promising theatrical actor that I am, I slammed my fists on the table, I slammed the door, I cried, I laughed, I walked out, I walked back in to get my check, and I walked out again. I just lost it.
This is exactly what happened with my first job at an inbound call center years ago. I stretched my patience and tried to tolerate everything, every little mistake and evidence of neglect, for as long as I could. But there really comes a time when you know have had enough. I know it will probably be another decision that I will come to regret. But right now, no matter how I try, I can’t bring myself to decide otherwise. It may sound petty, but it was just one of the many things the company had done to show me how little I was appreciated, how much they had taken me for granted. And it was the last. It was the last straw. I may have allowed things like that to happen before, but I have had enough. And when I’ve had enough of something, I let it go, walk away, don’t look back, and move on. Every moment spent looking back into the past is a wasted opportunity to step forward and move on into the future. So I’m not looking back. The future is waiting for me.
I felt like a battered wife divorcing herself out of an abusive marriage. It hurts, but it had to end. It was my emancipation from cruelty. It doesn’t even matter if my estranged husband already finds himself another wife by now. I’m sure the company has found a qualified substitute. They might not admit it, but we all know I am irreplaceable. They will never find another me. Someone like me, maybe, but never another me. They might even get someone better. But not another me. If only they had not neglected me and pushed me too far. Sadly there really are times in life where you have to get abandoned by an employee for you to realize how valuable that person was. We realize to change for the better just when things get worse. We realize to correct our mistakes just when those mistakes have already done irreversible damage. And we finally decide to prove ourselves worthy just when the person to whom we want to prove our worth has already decided that we are not worth it at all, walks away, doesn’t look back, and moves on.
Oh well. I’m sure the company has learned its lesson now that I’ve given them a much-needed wake-up call. And I’m sure all the other employees will reap the benefits of what I have just sown. As for me, I’ll be moving on. Happily.
But if and when that happens, there is simply no turning back. Some bridges are burned, some bonds and ties (and I sometimes imagine body parts too) are cut off, and some feelings (mostly mine) are hurt. Apologies are not made. Not by me, at least. I see no reason in apologizing for something you intentionally do. I do not know how to explain it. Anger is a strong wind that blows out the lamp of the mind, a short period of utter lunacy where one simply loses control. I think British poet Francis Quarles describes it very well, my passive aggressiveness. He says to “beware of him that is slow to anger; for when it is long coming, it is the stronger when it comes, and the longer kept. Abused patience turns to fury.” That is exactly how I feel.
You see, after a bad (and quite possibly my last) day at work last week, I just had to get away. I have not reported to work in two days, and probably will not ever again. I have avoided contact with anything remotely related to my work. I just had to disappear. In the past three weeks or so I had been working on graveyard shifts, something that is already a challenge in itself. The company had decided that the dayshift we had been on for the past year was not working, and the best way to keep operations reasonably affordable was to have everyone working all together on one shift. And yet that did not bother me as much as I thought it would. I did not allow it to. I was even willing to explore the positive side of working at night, no matter how difficult it is to find that side with the sleepiness messing around with my senses. I stayed at the office after the shift that day, sleeping on a seldom cleaned couch. It was payday and I, together with the three other senior agents I worked with, was waiting for the salaries to be released. I didn’t mind having to miss a few precious hours of sleeping in the comforts of my own damp bed just to have my salary as soon as I could. There were clothes waiting to be bought.
And then they woke me up, telling me the paychecks had arrived. Finally, I thought to myself, and I happily walked into the HR office even before waking up completely. I was surprised at how small my salary was. Maybe it was just because I had just woken up, but I lost my temper. After receiving a paycheck so small I just felt so feverishly frustrated. I was so insulted and appalled. To me, the company made it clear I was no longer of value to them, giving me that check. It was half of what I was expecting to get that day, and I was just so offended receiving a salary that had been reduced to close to nothing by surprising deductions I didn’t even care to know about anymore. I may have been top agent several times, but I still have my two feet firmly planted on the ground. I wasn’t asking for too much, I just wanted what I worked for and what I deserved. Nothing more, nothing less. And yet they did not give that to me. Being the promising theatrical actor that I am, I slammed my fists on the table, I slammed the door, I cried, I laughed, I walked out, I walked back in to get my check, and I walked out again. I just lost it.
This is exactly what happened with my first job at an inbound call center years ago. I stretched my patience and tried to tolerate everything, every little mistake and evidence of neglect, for as long as I could. But there really comes a time when you know have had enough. I know it will probably be another decision that I will come to regret. But right now, no matter how I try, I can’t bring myself to decide otherwise. It may sound petty, but it was just one of the many things the company had done to show me how little I was appreciated, how much they had taken me for granted. And it was the last. It was the last straw. I may have allowed things like that to happen before, but I have had enough. And when I’ve had enough of something, I let it go, walk away, don’t look back, and move on. Every moment spent looking back into the past is a wasted opportunity to step forward and move on into the future. So I’m not looking back. The future is waiting for me.
I felt like a battered wife divorcing herself out of an abusive marriage. It hurts, but it had to end. It was my emancipation from cruelty. It doesn’t even matter if my estranged husband already finds himself another wife by now. I’m sure the company has found a qualified substitute. They might not admit it, but we all know I am irreplaceable. They will never find another me. Someone like me, maybe, but never another me. They might even get someone better. But not another me. If only they had not neglected me and pushed me too far. Sadly there really are times in life where you have to get abandoned by an employee for you to realize how valuable that person was. We realize to change for the better just when things get worse. We realize to correct our mistakes just when those mistakes have already done irreversible damage. And we finally decide to prove ourselves worthy just when the person to whom we want to prove our worth has already decided that we are not worth it at all, walks away, doesn’t look back, and moves on.
Oh well. I’m sure the company has learned its lesson now that I’ve given them a much-needed wake-up call. And I’m sure all the other employees will reap the benefits of what I have just sown. As for me, I’ll be moving on. Happily.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Fashion victim
It’s a Monday night and as I am writing this, it is presently a few minutes just before half past nine in the evening. It’s another one of those drizzly July nights, and hours before my midnight shift begins I am already sitting alone inside a gasoline station’s convenience store. I don’t mind. Unlike the Carpenters, rainy days and Mondays seldom get me down. They have a nice little café here, this gas station, although I’m happily drinking chilled apple flavored green tea instead of the warm coffee they serve while sitting on one of their empty tables. I like coffee, too, don’t get me wrong. Especially now that it’s all cold and drenched outside. The strong aroma that fills the air-conditioned store every now and then reminds me it is a pleasure to the senses that’s difficult to resist. It’s just that commercialized bottled tea is so much cheaper than the coffee brewing fragrantly in the café’s kitchenette. I can’t say it’s much more delicious, but yes, it’s cheaper.
Sometimes even I surprise myself. I’m not usually this prudent. I’d rather buy myself that tempting cup of coffee and go home with an empty wallet than start feeling sorry for myself. But lately I’ve become more conscious of my expenses. Especially those that aren’t very necessary. You see, my savings are in big trouble right now. I can imagine my bank account must feel like a poor pig in a slaughterhouse right now, wary of the imminent death that looms ominously in the hands of the butcher nearby. The frequent bank deposits I eagerly made earlier this year to feed my account have stopped. I didn’t really have a goal in mind back then. I was just saving for the rainy days, I guess. But now it seems those rainy days have come. The global economic crisis is felt by everyone around the world, yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about, really. I haven’t bothered to burden myself with dismal issues like that in a while. I simply cannot be burdened any more than I already am.
Old habits, as action star Bruce Willis would fondly say, die hard. Lately I’ve had to withdraw some money from my savings account just to finance my compulsive shopping episodes every other week or so, the same savings account I quietly vowed not to touch months ago. I’ve had a hard time controlling my urges to buy, own and wear the latest styles. Perhaps because I haven’t even really tried controlling them in the first place. It has even reached a point where I have had to disturb my shopping minions in the bigger cities with my quest for possessing the universe’s most eccentric wardrobe when the stores in my beloved province run out of the clothes I want. Still, if there were some form of rehab for this kind of addiction, I’d have willingly volunteered and submitted myself to have the sinful vice purged from my system, to have some sobriety, and to save myself some money. I’m not rich. That’s the problem. I’ve been living beyond my means. I’ve been buying clothes. Too many clothes. And now all my spending has come back to haunt me. Fashion does come at a high price, and I am paying it right now. With my hard-earned savings.
It’s not like I’m desperately out of control. I could stop if I really wanted to. I think. The problem is I don’t want to stop. And I still have the money to spend. In fact I am starting to feel I have come to terms with and have accepted my addiction, giving up completely on trying to resist and curb it. It may sound pathetic, but for me it’s just another way of expressing myself, of finding myself, of creating myself. Instead of spending my money on other destructive diversions, I’d rather spend them on clothes, clothes that help me define who I am and how I want the world to see me, how I feel about things and where I want to place myself in the society. It is in these material things that I now find my own share of happiness in this small earth that we live in, material things that give new meaning to my short, so far insignificant life. All my life I’ve known I wasn’t pretty. People would stare at me and wish they could pry out their own two eyes. Ugly people cannot afford to wear ugly clothes. Otherwise, they’d be the ugliest things this world has ever seen. And that’s really ugly. I’m sure no one wants to be that ugly. I’m sure I don’t. That’s why I resort to covering myself up with all these clothes that I buy, with the hopes of disguising my appalling imperfections and finally belong like the rest. I know I have everything that it takes to stand out, and that fitting in with the homogenous crowd isn’t something to aspire to, but instead something to get away from. But there really are times when standing out isn’t what you want, and you just wish you could also fit in.
See, this ridiculous fascination with clothes isn’t just something I neurotically developed out of sheer vanity and blasphemous worldliness and debauchery. It has a deeper meaning to it, a psychological aspect that most people fail to realize. All forms of addiction spring from some childhood deprivation and feeling of scarcity. Those who didn’t have shoes when they were young buy themselves hundreds of pairs once they’re old enough and rich enough to. Those who didn’t get to read comic books when they were young buy themselves all the issues they missed when they’re old enough and rich enough to. Those who didn’t live in a decent house when they were young build themselves flamboyant mansions when they’re old enough and rich enough to. In my case, I did have clothes when I was younger, in fairness. It’s just that as a child I’ve always felt like I didn’t have my own identity. Now that I’m old enough to stand up for all that I believe in, I buy myself all these clothes to create an identity for myself, perhaps a way of filling the emptiness inside and seeking to complete myself in all these material things that I surround myself with.
Not to worry though. I am not a victim. This addiction isn’t something that’s going to strip me of all my money. Or at least without me wanting it. I know money doesn’t grow on trees. You can’t just bury a coin in a pot of garden soil, water it, leave it under the sun and happily wait for it to grow and bloom and bear fruit to more coins. Too bad. That’s why I’m trying not to spend too much money now. So that I’d have some to spare to buy me some more clothes.
Sometimes even I surprise myself. I’m not usually this prudent. I’d rather buy myself that tempting cup of coffee and go home with an empty wallet than start feeling sorry for myself. But lately I’ve become more conscious of my expenses. Especially those that aren’t very necessary. You see, my savings are in big trouble right now. I can imagine my bank account must feel like a poor pig in a slaughterhouse right now, wary of the imminent death that looms ominously in the hands of the butcher nearby. The frequent bank deposits I eagerly made earlier this year to feed my account have stopped. I didn’t really have a goal in mind back then. I was just saving for the rainy days, I guess. But now it seems those rainy days have come. The global economic crisis is felt by everyone around the world, yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about, really. I haven’t bothered to burden myself with dismal issues like that in a while. I simply cannot be burdened any more than I already am.
Old habits, as action star Bruce Willis would fondly say, die hard. Lately I’ve had to withdraw some money from my savings account just to finance my compulsive shopping episodes every other week or so, the same savings account I quietly vowed not to touch months ago. I’ve had a hard time controlling my urges to buy, own and wear the latest styles. Perhaps because I haven’t even really tried controlling them in the first place. It has even reached a point where I have had to disturb my shopping minions in the bigger cities with my quest for possessing the universe’s most eccentric wardrobe when the stores in my beloved province run out of the clothes I want. Still, if there were some form of rehab for this kind of addiction, I’d have willingly volunteered and submitted myself to have the sinful vice purged from my system, to have some sobriety, and to save myself some money. I’m not rich. That’s the problem. I’ve been living beyond my means. I’ve been buying clothes. Too many clothes. And now all my spending has come back to haunt me. Fashion does come at a high price, and I am paying it right now. With my hard-earned savings.
It’s not like I’m desperately out of control. I could stop if I really wanted to. I think. The problem is I don’t want to stop. And I still have the money to spend. In fact I am starting to feel I have come to terms with and have accepted my addiction, giving up completely on trying to resist and curb it. It may sound pathetic, but for me it’s just another way of expressing myself, of finding myself, of creating myself. Instead of spending my money on other destructive diversions, I’d rather spend them on clothes, clothes that help me define who I am and how I want the world to see me, how I feel about things and where I want to place myself in the society. It is in these material things that I now find my own share of happiness in this small earth that we live in, material things that give new meaning to my short, so far insignificant life. All my life I’ve known I wasn’t pretty. People would stare at me and wish they could pry out their own two eyes. Ugly people cannot afford to wear ugly clothes. Otherwise, they’d be the ugliest things this world has ever seen. And that’s really ugly. I’m sure no one wants to be that ugly. I’m sure I don’t. That’s why I resort to covering myself up with all these clothes that I buy, with the hopes of disguising my appalling imperfections and finally belong like the rest. I know I have everything that it takes to stand out, and that fitting in with the homogenous crowd isn’t something to aspire to, but instead something to get away from. But there really are times when standing out isn’t what you want, and you just wish you could also fit in.
See, this ridiculous fascination with clothes isn’t just something I neurotically developed out of sheer vanity and blasphemous worldliness and debauchery. It has a deeper meaning to it, a psychological aspect that most people fail to realize. All forms of addiction spring from some childhood deprivation and feeling of scarcity. Those who didn’t have shoes when they were young buy themselves hundreds of pairs once they’re old enough and rich enough to. Those who didn’t get to read comic books when they were young buy themselves all the issues they missed when they’re old enough and rich enough to. Those who didn’t live in a decent house when they were young build themselves flamboyant mansions when they’re old enough and rich enough to. In my case, I did have clothes when I was younger, in fairness. It’s just that as a child I’ve always felt like I didn’t have my own identity. Now that I’m old enough to stand up for all that I believe in, I buy myself all these clothes to create an identity for myself, perhaps a way of filling the emptiness inside and seeking to complete myself in all these material things that I surround myself with.
Not to worry though. I am not a victim. This addiction isn’t something that’s going to strip me of all my money. Or at least without me wanting it. I know money doesn’t grow on trees. You can’t just bury a coin in a pot of garden soil, water it, leave it under the sun and happily wait for it to grow and bloom and bear fruit to more coins. Too bad. That’s why I’m trying not to spend too much money now. So that I’d have some to spare to buy me some more clothes.
Night life
In the past, after briefly trying out how it was like to work in an inbound call center (out of boredom, confusion and curiosity), I’ve sworn on my own sweet, pathetic life that I’d never work on night shifts ever again. Never again. I gave it a good try back then, but I guess it just wasn’t for me. I was good at it, it was fun while it lasted, I learned a lot, too, but it almost killed me. After only a few months, I was fatigued, emotionally unstable, and burnt out. So no, never again, I told myself with finality, resolute conviction and self-righteous, obstinate pride, would I allow myself to go through such needless anguish, corporal punishment and torture just so I’d have some money to call my own salary. It’s just a terrible, terrible way of living, scavenging for money and trying to earn a decent living while slowly dying in the excruciating, exhausting process as well. That was it. I didn’t want to die young or live the rest of my life in a depressing mental institution. So I decided to put my corporate night life on permanent retirement from then on.
Well I guess as long as you're alive you can never really say never, because now I find myself eating (and choking on) my own fierce words.
Since last week, the daytime work schedule I’ve been comfortably on for the past year has been changed, and I’m suddenly back to working nights again. Of course if I really wanted to I could have just made a big, explosive, award-winning dramatic scene, resigned and stopped working altogether. Working in an outbound call center is a different, more profound kind of suffering compared to working for one that takes inbound calls. Instead of fighting off sleepiness at dawn, sitting on a swivel chair in a cold air-conditioned office, chit-chatting with seatmates while waiting for calls to be routed to your computer and then resolving irate clients’ issues while smiling quietly at their hurtful insults, you are tasked to make calls and promote a certain product or, say, a company and its services. It is always a struggle, a constant battle to meet expectations and consistently produce output like sad and sick old hens in an egg factory that reeks of noxious ammonia. It’s very tiring. Not to mention now that I’m working nights, where my frail body is forced to realign itself with new, nocturnal concepts of time and space, and my clock has to turn the other way around, unlearning all that it has now mastered over the years. Despite the redundant statements I continuously make about how difficult the job is, especially now, for some reason, I’ve found the courage to just stick around, wait and see how things turn out.
When I started working in a call center years ago I discovered there was so much about the job that I wasn't prepared for just yet, and some things I didn't even expect I’d find myself face to face with. No amount of preparation would have prepared me for what I was going to go through. And I didn’t make any, anyway. I still feel the same way. However, since life has taken me down this path again, despite my efforts to the contrary, I see no wisdom in putting up resistance. And I’m tired of making such a big deal about it, either. Instead of complaining about how horrible working at night is, I’m instead trying my best to see the good in the night life, my newly revived night life. I’m learning to appreciate things the way they are now. And I find there are some good things in this after all. A lot of good things, actually, that I somehow missed the first time around. I guess the gift of hindsight becomes better and better over time.
I find it wonderful how, instead of leaving home as the rest of the world begins a day, you see how the world ends a day as you wake up to begin yours. It is an entirely new experience when you begin to live your life upside down. You begin to see things differently, like turning a detailed portrait on a different angle and seeing another perspective of the beautiful picture. Despite the initial strain of adjusting to the drastic change in the hours when I’m awake, I find that working nights gives me a fresh way of looking at things, a view that I possibly could not even get while I’m up in the day. For all I know it could all just be something brought about by my altered mental chemistry. I don’t know. Still, I find it quite a revelation.
In the morning, just as I go home even before the rainclouds wake up to wring themselves dry and flood the earth with their cold tears, the warm dawn begins to peak from the horizon, bringing with it a bright promise of new beginnings. It’s always great to be reminded that yesterday belongs in the past and with it all the things that happened then are now but memories. Everyday is always a chance to forget and start anew. As I go on the solemn journey home inside an old, rusty and rickety jeepney, I see the clarity of the things around us when they’re not yet blurred and obscured by the hurried traffic of everyday life. I am graced with the serenity of a mind not yet confronted by worry and mundane puzzlements and the lightness of a spirit not yet burdened with the rigorous demands of modern day survival. I feel the freedom from the misleading chaos and confusion we live with everyday, from the unimportant preoccupations that throw themselves at us as the day goes wearily on.
As I look outside, feeling the breeze kindly caress my face, I notice how the path that leads me home seems pleasantly strange, like a foreign insect of sorts that strays into our backyard one summer afternoon, even when I’ve passed the same roads for years. I see how differently things look in the dim light of daybreak, how peaceful this world could be if we all stayed indoors and slept all day. I realize then how there is so much to be happy about, how very little we truly appreciate all the good around us. The gentle early morning sunshine seems to give me a good dose of happiness that lasts quite a while. Even the midday traffic and the noontime heat seem unable to drain or irritate me.
The night life isn’t so bad after all. Especially the morning after.
Well I guess as long as you're alive you can never really say never, because now I find myself eating (and choking on) my own fierce words.
Since last week, the daytime work schedule I’ve been comfortably on for the past year has been changed, and I’m suddenly back to working nights again. Of course if I really wanted to I could have just made a big, explosive, award-winning dramatic scene, resigned and stopped working altogether. Working in an outbound call center is a different, more profound kind of suffering compared to working for one that takes inbound calls. Instead of fighting off sleepiness at dawn, sitting on a swivel chair in a cold air-conditioned office, chit-chatting with seatmates while waiting for calls to be routed to your computer and then resolving irate clients’ issues while smiling quietly at their hurtful insults, you are tasked to make calls and promote a certain product or, say, a company and its services. It is always a struggle, a constant battle to meet expectations and consistently produce output like sad and sick old hens in an egg factory that reeks of noxious ammonia. It’s very tiring. Not to mention now that I’m working nights, where my frail body is forced to realign itself with new, nocturnal concepts of time and space, and my clock has to turn the other way around, unlearning all that it has now mastered over the years. Despite the redundant statements I continuously make about how difficult the job is, especially now, for some reason, I’ve found the courage to just stick around, wait and see how things turn out.
When I started working in a call center years ago I discovered there was so much about the job that I wasn't prepared for just yet, and some things I didn't even expect I’d find myself face to face with. No amount of preparation would have prepared me for what I was going to go through. And I didn’t make any, anyway. I still feel the same way. However, since life has taken me down this path again, despite my efforts to the contrary, I see no wisdom in putting up resistance. And I’m tired of making such a big deal about it, either. Instead of complaining about how horrible working at night is, I’m instead trying my best to see the good in the night life, my newly revived night life. I’m learning to appreciate things the way they are now. And I find there are some good things in this after all. A lot of good things, actually, that I somehow missed the first time around. I guess the gift of hindsight becomes better and better over time.
I find it wonderful how, instead of leaving home as the rest of the world begins a day, you see how the world ends a day as you wake up to begin yours. It is an entirely new experience when you begin to live your life upside down. You begin to see things differently, like turning a detailed portrait on a different angle and seeing another perspective of the beautiful picture. Despite the initial strain of adjusting to the drastic change in the hours when I’m awake, I find that working nights gives me a fresh way of looking at things, a view that I possibly could not even get while I’m up in the day. For all I know it could all just be something brought about by my altered mental chemistry. I don’t know. Still, I find it quite a revelation.
In the morning, just as I go home even before the rainclouds wake up to wring themselves dry and flood the earth with their cold tears, the warm dawn begins to peak from the horizon, bringing with it a bright promise of new beginnings. It’s always great to be reminded that yesterday belongs in the past and with it all the things that happened then are now but memories. Everyday is always a chance to forget and start anew. As I go on the solemn journey home inside an old, rusty and rickety jeepney, I see the clarity of the things around us when they’re not yet blurred and obscured by the hurried traffic of everyday life. I am graced with the serenity of a mind not yet confronted by worry and mundane puzzlements and the lightness of a spirit not yet burdened with the rigorous demands of modern day survival. I feel the freedom from the misleading chaos and confusion we live with everyday, from the unimportant preoccupations that throw themselves at us as the day goes wearily on.
As I look outside, feeling the breeze kindly caress my face, I notice how the path that leads me home seems pleasantly strange, like a foreign insect of sorts that strays into our backyard one summer afternoon, even when I’ve passed the same roads for years. I see how differently things look in the dim light of daybreak, how peaceful this world could be if we all stayed indoors and slept all day. I realize then how there is so much to be happy about, how very little we truly appreciate all the good around us. The gentle early morning sunshine seems to give me a good dose of happiness that lasts quite a while. Even the midday traffic and the noontime heat seem unable to drain or irritate me.
The night life isn’t so bad after all. Especially the morning after.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Uncanny heroes
Last week I was talking to a newfound friend and at one rather dreary point of the conversation (perhaps because I had surprisingly run out of interesting things to say, which isn’t very often, trust me) I asked him if he was into comic books as well. I had not yet read the latest issues released this month (or last month!) so I thought of asking him, just in case he knew what had happened to my favorite team of outlaw mutants, the Uncanny X-Men. He did not. Apparently, like many people I know who used to like them too back in the day, he thought the story of these comic book heroes had become increasingly complicated over the years, and he had lost whatever little interest he had in them then and the complex imaginary universe they now moved in. I might have even freaked him out a bit asking such a silly question. And so the subject died a sad, quiet, natural death and the topic was quickly changed, like an old pen unceremoniously replaced with a new one the moment it runs out of ink and becomes useless.
Later, when all other more important matters had been thought of and worried about, and my mind had loosened up enough to entertain the usual throng of trivial musings that regularly come to visit, the little incident had me thinking about why I continue to read and obsessively collect comic books (among other things) to this day. It’s a very geeky hobby, really. I don’t know. There has always been something uncanny about the X-Men that greatly appealed to me, even as a neurotic little child. Ever since the animated cartoon series premiered on weekend primetime TV back in the 90’s, I have tried my best to follow their adventures, fighting to protect a world that hates and fears them. But whereas all my classmates and childhood friends (who, at that time, became my playmates as we each pretended to be one of the superheroes) had now all but forgotten about them, I still pretty much live in the comic book world we all used to play in. Reading the comic books is, like sleeping with the blanket over my head, one of the early childhood habits I have had little success growing out of, an addiction I am yet to fully overcome.
When I was younger, it was nothing more than just an entertaining pastime, like all the others children often find themselves so preoccupied with. The images were vivid, bright and colorful, a source of both admiration and inspiration for my young artistic inclinations. It was in comic books that I saw things I could never see in real life, strange, almost mythical creatures and monsters, villains corrupted by the darkness of greed and hunger for supremacy, and of course, extraordinary people in carnivalesque costumes using their unique abilities and powers to save the world from all evil. Every child enjoys that kind of visual stimulation. I was amazed at all the wonderful things I saw on the pages of the comic books. There were all these interesting characters, people who were different from the rest yet somehow the same as everyone else. There was this bald paraplegic who could read minds, a man who could fire blasts from his eyes, a man with angel wings, a woman who could move objects around with her mind, a man who was all blue and furry but was very smart, a man with claws whose wounds healed quicker than anyone else’s, a woman who could control the weather, a girl who could walk through walls, and so many others. They each possessed a power that set them far apart from the rest of humanity, abilities they either regarded as gifts or curses, talents they either used for good or for evil.
But there was always something different about the X -Men. They weren’t just normal superheroes who saved the world every single day and were worshipped and adored by the people they protected, paraded down the city streets on flowery floats and showered with colorful confetti with people screaming and clapping as they went by. Despite constantly fighting to defend the world from evil, they remained outcasts, outlaws who were feared and loathed because they were different, heroes who remained unsung and unrecognized because some of them looked more like villains. They hid behind underground headquarters, codenames and masks to keep their identities and lives secret, safe from the knowledge of those who were disgusted by their genetic “disease” and those who found it hard to accept that they were of good use to society despite their deviations.
As time passed the comic books began to appeal not only to my childish imagination and hungry mind, but started becoming more and more intellectually meaningful to me as well. I started realizing they not only entertained me and helped me pass idle time, but also left me many lessons about life and how we should live it. Each one of us, in our own odd way, is an outcast, a misfit who constantly struggles to belong. I’m sure at one point in our lives or another we have all known what it felt like to be treated unfairly simply because we were different. Just because you are fat, or poor, or ugly, or uneducated, or black, or blind, or gay, or hunchbacked, the way the world treats you changes. It pains me that the first reaction of most people (who themselves are far from perfect) is to shun and reject something they don’t understand rather than seeking, at least trying, to understand it. They are quick to judge and condemn those who are foreign, those who are unusual, those who are different, those who are unlike them. Many of us often forget that there is something about each one of us, little idiosyncrasies, which certainly set us apart from the rest and makes us different in one way or another. The comic books that I read constantly remind me of the value of unquestioning respect, love, kindness, understanding, and acceptance.
We often choose to separate ourselves from each other for a variety of rather ridiculous reasons, reasons which to me, shouldn’t even be there to be considered in the first place. Religion, sex, race, physical appearance, and all other discriminatory labels we have successfully managed to create for ourselves have all become excuses for forgetting fairness and equality and throwing these values out the door. We all seem to struggle to fit in that we forget we have all that it takes it stand out. Rather than molding ourselves to become our own unique creation, we instead mold ourselves into becoming what everyone else already is. And then those who are unfortunately unable to fit in, despite their hope to the contrary, are left outside the circle, abandoned, scorned, feared, hated, ridiculed, humiliated, and sometimes even stoned to death, fed to the lions and burned at the stakes. Well, it’s been a while since I last heard anyone being stoned to death, fed to the lions or burned at the stakes, but yes, it does happen every now and then.
I don’t think God, in His wisdom and unconditional love, would even judge us the way we do ourselves. It seems to me we are the ones who condemn each other as sinners and criminals, forgetting that at the very end of it all only God can truly tell us who has been good and who has been bad, who deserves His love and who does not. I even think that to Him we all deserve His love. Even those of us who choose to believe otherwise. I pray, for all our sakes, that I’m correct.
These comic books remind me that there is wealth in diversity, that there is nothing wrong with being different. They remind me that in this life, in this world, there should not be a place for hate and prejudice, only compassion and empathy. When you come to think about it, we all have what it takes to be our own heroes. Uncanny, but heroes nonetheless. So go on, read a comic book or two. You might learn a few good lessons, too. And maybe the world will be a better place to live in
Later, when all other more important matters had been thought of and worried about, and my mind had loosened up enough to entertain the usual throng of trivial musings that regularly come to visit, the little incident had me thinking about why I continue to read and obsessively collect comic books (among other things) to this day. It’s a very geeky hobby, really. I don’t know. There has always been something uncanny about the X-Men that greatly appealed to me, even as a neurotic little child. Ever since the animated cartoon series premiered on weekend primetime TV back in the 90’s, I have tried my best to follow their adventures, fighting to protect a world that hates and fears them. But whereas all my classmates and childhood friends (who, at that time, became my playmates as we each pretended to be one of the superheroes) had now all but forgotten about them, I still pretty much live in the comic book world we all used to play in. Reading the comic books is, like sleeping with the blanket over my head, one of the early childhood habits I have had little success growing out of, an addiction I am yet to fully overcome.
When I was younger, it was nothing more than just an entertaining pastime, like all the others children often find themselves so preoccupied with. The images were vivid, bright and colorful, a source of both admiration and inspiration for my young artistic inclinations. It was in comic books that I saw things I could never see in real life, strange, almost mythical creatures and monsters, villains corrupted by the darkness of greed and hunger for supremacy, and of course, extraordinary people in carnivalesque costumes using their unique abilities and powers to save the world from all evil. Every child enjoys that kind of visual stimulation. I was amazed at all the wonderful things I saw on the pages of the comic books. There were all these interesting characters, people who were different from the rest yet somehow the same as everyone else. There was this bald paraplegic who could read minds, a man who could fire blasts from his eyes, a man with angel wings, a woman who could move objects around with her mind, a man who was all blue and furry but was very smart, a man with claws whose wounds healed quicker than anyone else’s, a woman who could control the weather, a girl who could walk through walls, and so many others. They each possessed a power that set them far apart from the rest of humanity, abilities they either regarded as gifts or curses, talents they either used for good or for evil.
But there was always something different about the X -Men. They weren’t just normal superheroes who saved the world every single day and were worshipped and adored by the people they protected, paraded down the city streets on flowery floats and showered with colorful confetti with people screaming and clapping as they went by. Despite constantly fighting to defend the world from evil, they remained outcasts, outlaws who were feared and loathed because they were different, heroes who remained unsung and unrecognized because some of them looked more like villains. They hid behind underground headquarters, codenames and masks to keep their identities and lives secret, safe from the knowledge of those who were disgusted by their genetic “disease” and those who found it hard to accept that they were of good use to society despite their deviations.
As time passed the comic books began to appeal not only to my childish imagination and hungry mind, but started becoming more and more intellectually meaningful to me as well. I started realizing they not only entertained me and helped me pass idle time, but also left me many lessons about life and how we should live it. Each one of us, in our own odd way, is an outcast, a misfit who constantly struggles to belong. I’m sure at one point in our lives or another we have all known what it felt like to be treated unfairly simply because we were different. Just because you are fat, or poor, or ugly, or uneducated, or black, or blind, or gay, or hunchbacked, the way the world treats you changes. It pains me that the first reaction of most people (who themselves are far from perfect) is to shun and reject something they don’t understand rather than seeking, at least trying, to understand it. They are quick to judge and condemn those who are foreign, those who are unusual, those who are different, those who are unlike them. Many of us often forget that there is something about each one of us, little idiosyncrasies, which certainly set us apart from the rest and makes us different in one way or another. The comic books that I read constantly remind me of the value of unquestioning respect, love, kindness, understanding, and acceptance.
We often choose to separate ourselves from each other for a variety of rather ridiculous reasons, reasons which to me, shouldn’t even be there to be considered in the first place. Religion, sex, race, physical appearance, and all other discriminatory labels we have successfully managed to create for ourselves have all become excuses for forgetting fairness and equality and throwing these values out the door. We all seem to struggle to fit in that we forget we have all that it takes it stand out. Rather than molding ourselves to become our own unique creation, we instead mold ourselves into becoming what everyone else already is. And then those who are unfortunately unable to fit in, despite their hope to the contrary, are left outside the circle, abandoned, scorned, feared, hated, ridiculed, humiliated, and sometimes even stoned to death, fed to the lions and burned at the stakes. Well, it’s been a while since I last heard anyone being stoned to death, fed to the lions or burned at the stakes, but yes, it does happen every now and then.
I don’t think God, in His wisdom and unconditional love, would even judge us the way we do ourselves. It seems to me we are the ones who condemn each other as sinners and criminals, forgetting that at the very end of it all only God can truly tell us who has been good and who has been bad, who deserves His love and who does not. I even think that to Him we all deserve His love. Even those of us who choose to believe otherwise. I pray, for all our sakes, that I’m correct.
These comic books remind me that there is wealth in diversity, that there is nothing wrong with being different. They remind me that in this life, in this world, there should not be a place for hate and prejudice, only compassion and empathy. When you come to think about it, we all have what it takes to be our own heroes. Uncanny, but heroes nonetheless. So go on, read a comic book or two. You might learn a few good lessons, too. And maybe the world will be a better place to live in
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