So as per the University of Waterloo’s Career Development eManual, I am going to make a series of short blurbs about seven pride experiences. It sounds like they’re all about gay pride or something, but no. I wish it were that interesting.

I’ll have to cover instances when I did something with a passion and explain why I enjoyed executing the task so much. And so.

Allons-y…

Pride Experiences

I. “Ivan and I” comics (early youth @ the Fils)

There was a time in my life when the only person that mattered in the world was my best friend and cousin, Ivan, who came over every weekend nearly just to have a lark with me around the neighbourhood. We often had quite interesting adventures (such as stalking his classmate or going to Baguio City on a road trip) and in my comics, aside from illustrating these with chibi anime-style drawings and badly-drawn word bubbles, I also took the opportunity to fashion fantasies. The only one I remember very well is the fantasy that I was–and this is very sad, really–not actually going to leave him and the Philippines behind. I couldn’t tell you what I drew but I can definitely recreate the drawings I did. Very rough grids. Round heads, wavy lines for my hair and a black buzz cut for Ivan; me always wearing a plain dress and Ivan always with a sando and shorts; our hands like lobster claws, out feet always clad with tsinelas; and our eyes like filled-in ovals, under which there was no nose nor ears but a mouth, anyway. I loved making these things then showing them off to my mom, as I usually did for any other creative endeavour of mine. In addition to these visual records of my flights of fancy, I played around with music and animation effects in Microsoft Powerpoint and drew pictures of the Powerpuff Girls, but these comics–so full of sentimental value, not to mention cuteness–take the cake in terms of my passion. I loved the idea of creating a story out of pencil and paper, and the fact that those stories were so, how do I say it, fresh and fun and full of potential was the most exhilirating part. I may make one example of this fresh feeling: once I took it upon myself to come up with and draw what I would create if I were a Willy Wonka character. I came up with gummies as large as gumballs, a spray that makes rain taste like chocolate, and paper made out of cotton candy or chocolate on which you could write, then eat. I’m sorry, but if this isn’t fun to illustrate, what is? I also reiterate the sentimental value of my Ivan and I comics. They weren’t just for fun creativity. They were for recording our in-jokes and fun times. Although they were written and drawn in a childlike hand. But anyway. This was the best time I had in my youth–drawing these comics.

II. Babysitting Beryl (tween years + )

There was one time when I was alone with my newborn baby sister Beryl. We were living in the house on Avonwick, and it was late in the afternoon. I needed to keep the baby appeased. I had that tension that parents always feel when there’s danger of their child being anything but 100% comfortable! I held the baby in my arms, and determined to let her to sleep, but without a crib (I don’t know where it went…), I laid down on my mother’s queen-size bed. I then put the child on my tummy and, with my feet planted on the ground, proceeded to rock up and down like a crib would. It was a really special moment of peace. That I was doing this for this child felt very gratifying, but not in some sort of egoistical way. It just felt good rocking my sister to sleep.

As the years passed, I still took care of Beryl when my mother went off to work early in the morning, sleeping next to her then waking her up to watch early-morning cartoons. At the present moment, I pick her up from school sometimes, and though it is a bother to walk to her school instead of just nap, having her rush to me as soon as she spots me standing at the designated waiting zone makes it all worth the trouble. It’s true that it is not the child that should be thankful for our generosity; we should thank the child for giving us the opportunity to be more generous than we would otherwise be.

I suppose the most important point about this is that I understand the importance of taking care of someone more vulnerable than you. I understand that a lot of the time you have to stop being so egocentric and think about the other. You have to think like a child would, too. And that’s no trouble for me! I often have fun when I babysit my little sister. Sadly, the times that I do so will run down to none, soon as I leave the house.

III. Creating good journals for Religion with Mrs. Tersigni (13 @ SLR)

In grade 8, there were three different classes that my homeroom class shuffled around with. We belonged to Mr. Boland, but for Math we headed to Mrs. Rozen’s room next door, and for Religion, there was the indomitable Mrs. Tersigni. She had eyes crinkled a little as the rest of her face and bright shoulder-length hair, and for some reason I don’t know what, I see her as wearing black all the time as well as a long skirt. She also wore glasses. She was a shrewd woman who probably easily juggled a gr. 7/8 split class and two other classes that dropped by for Religion class. The main reason I say this is that she had this god-awful list of assignments we were to do for the whole year–basically a checklist. It was all very organized. And a lot of work. I respected her for her system.

A lot of the assignments we had to do were to do with questions about religion and about personal beliefs–whether for preparation for Confirmation or in response to a reading from our thin, heavily-illustrated (probably BS-filled) Family Studies book–and seeing as I had recently been inspired by Conversations with God by Neale Donald Walsch, I took the opportunity to write very extensively about my beliefs. I did this the whole year. I still have some examples. I was just as verbose as I am now, I see. There was the one time Mrs. Tersigni was kind enough to write at the bottom in her red curly handwriting: You have a way with words! And I was proud to know I had this innate ability that pleased my teacher so–and granted me good marks.

I enjoyed writing these journals for the exercise of recording my thoughts. Often the hashing out of it was an art in itself. (I believe it’s called rhetoric.) It was an exercise in creativity, and I loved being creative. Plus, I got good marks for it. Now that I look at it, my answers were absurdly long and involved, often going on tangents that took the long way round to get to the point. I got criticized for this in high school when I did the same thing–pah! of course I get this treatment in secondary school–but I think that it distinguished me. But discounting uniqueness and academic achievement, I’m proud of my linguistic skills because I think language is a challenge. It’s something very very complicated, but at the same time so intuitive. I’m very proud of my skills which come so easily.

More to come!