Crying game

So one of my multiply contacts posted a threatening blog about not messing with him, and the violent consequences anyone who dares to will potentially face. I will not claim to know much about what's going on in his life but I think I know what triggered his most recent outburst which, in everyone else's opinion, is kind of petty, leading him to admit that he can blow his fuse over the smallest of things. I got his side and I understand that people value things differently, so I'll sympathize. Patience is not one of his virtues he says, and never will be. I just hope he also knows that many people, especially those around him, feel the same because you see, he can really try yours big time. But I love him, so I'll try to understand (haha) ;-)

It got me thinking about my own threshold and it made me realize how unbelievably patient I am that even I surprise myself. For someone who wears a constant scowl and takes things more seriously than he should, I have an incredible tolerance of people and their behavior. Of course, the easy explanation to this (and how may times have people told me this) is that I am "plastic", that I am good at hiding what I really feel about people. I take no offense with this label, for to some extent I myself admit that indeed I am and that so far, if I am being one, all that being "plastic" ever did to me is make my relationship with people a lot smoother than if I, say, let my usual suplado and antipatiko self all out. I don't know if that passes for tolerance, but if we are talking about the ability to smile and have a meaningful chat with people that others would rather butcher with a rusty, tetano-carrying bolo, then I'm probably a good campaign mascot for the civil rights agenda. I can't keep grudges (even if I want to) so I easily forgive and forget, which makes my limit pretty hard to reach. But I also admit that there's a huge difference between what I really feel and what I say. I may not like someone as much as I claim to do, and I can say with matching snooty eyeroll that I hate someone even if that person is the only reason I wake up every morning and go to work.

I haven't figured in a real fight as well. I have experienced something resembling it, but it has something to do with my being the top officer in my high school CAT and that poor cadet wasn't even fighting back. I was "punishing" him for commiting a grave misdemeanor against a fellow student, so it was more like a parent teaching his son that he did something very bad. And I always feared seeing my parents in school as if the only reason my teachers would want to see them is if I did something bad. So I admit I did everything I could to be (and I was) a very, very nice kid. It was also a blessing that no one dared offend me when I was still in school (none that I can remember, at least) so the possibility of getting into fights was remote. Heck, I was so nice that I think I must have inspired peace wherever I went, that other kids would stop fighting and feel ashamed of themselves as I pass them by. I was Mother Theresa, high school reincarnate. If me now would see me then, I'd probably bully him. I walked around with an unmistakable "Bully me, please" demeanor but somehow I got along well with everyone and now that I think about it, I don't know where all that goodness went.
***
Some grade school stories.

First to fourth grade. I was so afraid of disobeying my teachers that when they instructed us to fall in line at the school yard while waiting for the janitors to finish cleaning up the rooms, I followed as if St. Peter is waiting at the other end. While my classmates acted like normal kids that they are, I proudly acted like a sturdy lamp post, even as the hot sun shone and scorched me to exhaustion. I was so afraid of leaving "the line" and be accused of being makulit, so I refused to be the taya and run around playing langit-lupa just so I can stay even if that line that we have formed has become nothing more than a queue of bags, not kids. Oh I was such a loser. A lamp post for four years.

Fourth grade. The first time I cried in school. She was my first puppy love but everyone in class is pairing her to other boys except me. I became so afraid of losing her to the brainless, class heartthob so I told her I liked her as we walked back to our second floor classroom from the school canteen. Instead of a gentle hug, what I got instead was the most painful slap in the face I ever felt up to this day. It would have been okay with me but she slapped me so hard that I fell a few steps down the stairs. As if the pain of rejection was not enough, I just had to fall down the stairs as she broke it to me with such violence. I cracked my shin. So I cried.

Sixth grade. The second and the last time I cried in school. One of my classmates loved pinching my cheeks, my arms, my tummy, practically every part of me she can get her hands on and she just can't enough of it. Another one knew where my funny bones are, so she tickled me in the most appropriate of places. Then one day, they came at me together. I didn't know what to do and I had no idea what was happening so I thought they were bullying me, they were molesting me. I asked for help but the whole class just laughed at the spectacle of me rolling on the floor, trying my very best to keep two pairs of hands off me. They were both girls so I didn't dare hit them to make them stop. I felt helpless and alone. So I cried.

The following day, the other girls from their clique approached me to say sorry. They did not expect me to cry, they explained, what they wanted was to make me laugh. They thought I was too stiff and too serious for my own good, so it became a competition between the two as to who can make me laugh the hardest. Despite their good intentions, I told them to just stay away from me.