Goddess, I Am.

My new job has me helping kids write their college application essays for US universities (yes, no local medical assistant training schools for these fellas!). These are rich kids with hefty trust funds, yes, but they’re also kids who want to make something out of their lives. It’s fun helping them write their essays because their lives are so incredibly colorful and interesting. Most of them are still about to start their senior year in high school, but they’ve already accomplished so many things that most adults will never be able to achieve in their lifetimes. It made me think about myself in high school and what I was up to, which was pretty much no good. Here’s how my college essays would’ve looked like if I had the same opportunities as they do.

Intellectual Interests Essay:

I like to think of myself as a student of the world, not of the classroom. Because of this self-styled belief, learning in school has never been my ‘thing’. I was too busy trying to stay awake to make heads and tails of the Pythagorean Theorem, or how Magellan got his ass kicked in Mactan. But that is not to say that I didn’t learn anything in high school. Au contraire. If anything, I learned things that were far more valuable than mathematical formulas, or the life of Jose Rizal.

Probably the most important lesson I learned was that I didn’t necessarily need to listen in class to pass my exams. Instead, I just needed to read through my textbooks’ table of contents at the very last minute. This technique was so effective, in fact, that I was always the first to submit my test paper for checking. I never got perfect scores, but I never failed either. Sometimes, however, there are isolated cases wherein such a technique is ineffective. In these cases, I found that a teeny-tiny piece of paper and a very fine pencil will come in handy. Of course, it helps to have 20/20 vision.

During my junior year, I went through a phase of enthusiasm for my classes; two, in particular. I loved chemistry class and the incredibly complex experiments that it demanded. These were so complicated, in fact, that me and my friends spent the whole time huddled around a Bunsen burner, having intelligent discussions on the latest news from the Backstreet Boys or Hanson. I also started looking forward to mid-morning Social Studies when the teacher would lock the door and let us do our thing. He had a hernia, you see, and therefore had more important things in his mind than teaching disinterested teenagers the Law of Supply and Demand. That year, I learned the economic differences of having three players in a game of tong-its (a card game) instead of two.

Lastly, I learned that laughing at my English teacher for mispronouncing words was a very good way to get myself sent to the principal’s office, which was almost always empty. I also learned that serving Chinese takeaway in my Home Economics cookfest was likely to give me a reputation of being a very fine cook. Most of all, I learned that I couldn’t reach my toes in Phys.Ed – and I never will.

Describe an experience that shaped you as a person.

During my freshman year, I was chosen to be one of the two representatives of my class for the Miss United Nations ’95 beauty pageant. I won first runner-up – quite a mean feat for someone so young. The Miss UN and I then represented the high school department for the university-wide pageant. I didn’t win. I did, however, catch the audience’s attention after I almost burned another candidate’s traditional Filipino headdress with the traditional Filipino candles that were part of my traditional Filipino ensemble. I was also the youngest contestant to have ever joined that pageant, and I developed a campus queen complex.

A few months later, my class staged a fashion show for our Home Economics class, a very well-attended event. I was the star of the show, appearing in the bridal finale as the bride “marrying” one of my classmates who was transformed from a pimpled adolescent to an over-foundationed groom. I was confident that I would win the “Best Model” award. Much to my surprise and chagrin, however, the award was given to one of my classmates. I had barely left the stage when I started getting hysterical. I was the Miss UN first runner-up and I represented my department in the school-wide pageant, so I should have won Best Model, too!

I was humiliated and inconsolable for days. I only realized later that I humiliated myself even more by reacting that way. I realized that I was a sore loser, and this has shaped me into the person that I am today. I’ve learned that I shouldn’t let my ego get ahead of myself. I’ve learned that I should at least appear to be modest – even when I’m not. Most importantly, I’ve learned never to join a beauty pageant ever again. Of course, it helps that I haven’t grown an inch since.

How can you contribute to the institution’s diversity? Describe a situation where this contribution was applied.

My high school department was tiny; so small, in fact, that we only had one class for each of the four levels. I was my class’ designated songbird. Whenever there was a singing contest, I took center stage. I wasn’t particularly good, but there was no one else courageous enough to volunteer in my stead, so I had to do it.

Without fail, I always placed third out of four contestants – which pretty much meant that I was the second worst singer of the bunch. That was fine, though, because at least I wasn’t the absolute worst. Besides, they gave prizes until third place, so in my four years of high school, I accumulated a healthy collection of staplers and Stabilo Boss highlighters.

My singing days ended soon after when my voice broke for no apparent reason. I now sing in screeches and wails. I could still very much carry a tune, however, and with rather shocking accuracy. Suffice to say, I am one of the best bad singers I know, and I could definitely contribute to the university’s diversity this way. After all, there can only be too many good singers, and even more bad ones. By being a good bad singer, I’m offering your good institution the best of both worlds.

Ahhh, yes. Definitely Harvard or at least Princeton material…if I do say so myself.

I remember my last year of high school. While everyone else talked nonstop about the courses they were going to take and the universities they were going to attend, I did nothing. Oh, it wasn’t because I was a lazy slacker who couldn’t care less if I ended up selling my body on the streets. It was mostly because, short of becoming a porn star (seriously), I didn’t know what I wanted to be.

So I ended up heeding my mum’s advice and taking up accountancy, the same degree that she has. I lasted a full year before I conceded that I didn’t have a head for numbers. Because I needed a good excuse to transfer to my best friend’s university, I chose a course that was offered there but not in my then-university – journalism. I transferred too late, however, so I ended up taking a few unimportant minor subjects that first semester.

By the time the second semester rolled in, my family had already convinced me that I couldn’t possibly have a future in journalism. The future was in computers, they told me; hence, why I ended up taking up IT. Three very long and very excruciating years later, I finished the course and couldn’t be bothered to turn up for my graduation. I was just relieved to be rid of school forever.

Off to the job market I went, and because I spoke English with a passable American accent, I ended up working for a call center. This was the start of my love/hate affair with call centers. For 3 years, I ended up working for 2 of the big centers in my city and one “publishing” company that refused to be dubbed as such – a call center, that is. I also worked in a bank, at some point. The pay was crap and the work bored me to tears, so I eventually ended up taking calls again. I dabbled in technical support, sales, and customer service. Eventually, I worked myself up to quality assurance.

Somewhere along the way, I got it into my head that I wanted to be a teacher. I applied for various training jobs, but always got turned down. I even went back to school for a spell to get a teaching degree, but ended up quitting in the middle of the term because juggling work and school was too exhausting for me. I eventually ended up in Thailand in some obscure coordinator job, and eventually to teach English where I was unceremoniously fired after my first week.

So where does writing fit in all this? I would say it was when I started blogging, but looking back, I think it was far longer than that. I kept diaries as a teenager. Eventually, the diaries became blogs. Back in high school, my best friends and I started an underground newspaper that everyone loved – everyone except our English teacher, that is, who promptly outlawed it. We also wrote a bunch of silly ‘novels’ to rival the Sweet Valley series in grubby, old notebooks that are now gathering dust under my best friend’s bed.

For the longest time, I’ve been having my love affair with words, and I just didn’t know about it because, to me, it was always just a hobby, something that came as naturally as breathing, and it was never really nurtured or encouraged. I didn’t even think that I was actually a good writer until a blogger friend of mine, who I was (and am) a huge fan of and who I respect most, told me that she enjoyed my writing. It was only then that I even considered writing freelance for a living. And even then, I could only do it part-time because I, like all and sundry, didn’t think it was a real job.

If I never left the security of the call centers, if I never had delusions of being a teacher, if I never got fired from a job that I hated every single day that I was doing it, I wouldn’t have had the courage to pursue what I love most. I wouldn’t be writing for a living, and I probably wouldn’t be happy. Indeed, I probably wouldn’t know who – and what – I really am.

Somewhere along the way I took a wrong turn that kept me from my ultimate destiny. But I found my way back, and I’m here now. I’m now where I’m supposed to be, something that a lot of people can’t say about themselves. And really, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to stay.

Last Saturday saw me and my man at the cinema in Central World Plaza to watch The Incredible Hulk. It wasn’t a particularly exceptional film, but it wasn’t bad either. I enjoyed it anyway because of two words: Edward Norton.

But I digress. The film ended about 10 PM, and we left Central World shortly thereafter. We walked about a couple of blocks towards the Pratunam area to catch our bus home. Right in front of Platinum Mall is a rather narrow walkway, so we had to walk single file. I went first, my man brought up the rear. Walking towards us from the opposite direction were 3 Thai men. I didn’t think much of it.

When I was level with the first guy, he sort of leered at me, but I ignored him. I’m used to dirty leers and jeers from men, and I’ve found that it’s way better to simply ignore them and not give them the satisfaction of my attention. From what I gathered later, he made a gesture which led the boyfriend to think that he grabbed me. Naturally, my man reacted and gave him a nasty look. The next thing I knew, all 3 men have jumped him from behind, so he didn’t really get a chance to defend himself. They were all fists and elbows and knees, muay thai style, while my man fought to stay on his feet as he tried to get them off him.

At this point, I was screaming for help at the top of my lungs. It was surreal, like something out of a movie. I wasn’t really thinking at all at that point, so I acted on instinct. I hit and poked the men randomly with my trusty umbrella (one of those pointy-tip ones). I must have hurt one of them because he moved as if to strike me across the face. I sort of cowered and waited for the blow to come, but it didn’t. I think he still had some decency left not to strike a woman.

At this point, my man already managed to break free from their clutches, so I took his arm and dragged him away towards the crowd gathering. The men started walking away in the opposite direction. My man tried to tell a security guard who was in the crowd to call the cops. The man just sort of gaped at us with his mouth open like an idiot. Upon hearing the word ‘police’, one of the 3 men came back (the guy who was walking first) and threatened my man with something from his pocket. I imagine he had a knife in there or something.

There was a cab parked at the curb and the driver was gesturing at us frantically to get in, so I dragged the boyfriend into the cab. At this point, the adreline had worn out. I was shaking like a leaf and quite hysterical. My man had about 5 nasty bumps on his head. I wanted to go to the hospital, but he and the cab driver had other plans.

We drove around for about 5 minutes looking for a police outpost. We found one just past a BTS station (I think it was Ratchethewi). There were about 5 policemen milling around at the sidewalk. The cab stopped, and the boyfriend told me to stay inside while he and the driver dealt with them. The moment they saw the driver and my boyfriend with his torn shirt and head bumps, they literally scattered and disappeared faster than non-existent electronic cigarette ashes.

There were 2 policemen left who didn’t want to help at all. They kept shaking their heads and putting up their hands. But the cab driver was adamant that they help us and my boyfriend told them he was working in Bangkok as a teacher, so after about 5 minutes of talking, they finally decided to do something about it. We gave the cab driver some money for his trouble and got into the back of the police cruiser. We then drove back towards the scene of the crime.

Of course, our attackers were nowhere to be found by then. My man, heroic as he is, jumped out of the cruiser and ran out towards the direction they were headed. The cops didn’t move at all. I had all sorts of scenarios in my head, that the men were lying in wait to stab him and stuff like that (shoot me, I’m female), so I started to get hysterical again. I practically screamed at one of the cops to go with him, so he did, probably to get away from the shrieking banshee that I was turning into.

Needless to say, they didn’t find those men, just as I expected. The police dropped us off and waited for us to get into a cab safely – probably the only thing that they actually did right that night. I’m just thankful that we got out of the harrowing situation with nothing more than a few bumps, one missing umbrella (my boyfriend’s), and a bent one.

That was by far the scariest thing that has ever happened to me, including getting mugged at knife point back in university. Almost a week after the incident, I still find myself shuddering at the memory of those men pummeling my boyfriend’s head. It hurt me so much that they hurt him for almost no reason at all.

A friend asked me how I could’ve had the presence of mind to hit them with my umbrella (Mary Poppins style, as it had come to be known). She said she would’ve either run away, or fainted. I personally don’t think so. When someone you love is under attack like that, you just can’t run away. Instead, you’ll do everything you can to stop it, as futile as it may seem, regardless if you’ll end up putting your own life in jeopardy in the process.

Some people would probably call that stupid. I call it love.