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turning CBPEÑA
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Š All rights reserved 2013 No part of this book may be reproduced, printed or distributed without written consent from the author Photos by the author | http://carlovenson.wix.com/cbphotography Written in East Coast, Singapore
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For everyone who remembered my birthday
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T
urning a year older is hard work. People expect you to be wiser, more well-mannered, and more resilient to the changing tides, while believing you actually become a better version of yourself after you blow off the ember of the last candle on top of the cake. I was swimming two days before my birthday, when I had the idea of writing snippets about myself as a homage to the year-before-the-third-of-a-century birthday that was 2013. Nothing special, just reflections—quirkiness that I never thought I still had, and the proclivities, apprehensions, secrets and frustrations that I’ve always had—foremost as a child, then as a teenager, and now as an adult. Growing up was challenging, especially if you were among the awkwardly tall in class. Add the spectacles and the funny haircut and you instantly become the class clown—even if you did not volunteer to become one. Primary school flashed by as fast as it wanted to, and high school was the worst four years of my life. University life was the only remnant of the education system that I cherished. Everything after that is blurry. I’d like to believe that everything that happened in my life, so far, have all been a learning opportunity. I’ve learnt to fight back, feel anger and disgust, and secretly cast curses on people around me for all the wrong things the did to me; but more than that, as I grew older, these snippets taught me to try to become a better person—better than the bullies in school, better than the jocks who got everyone’s attention, better than the nerds who were way smarter than what I thought I was, better than who I thought I was while I was growing up. Birthdays are always fun. I think it’s time to take it beyond that. CBPeña
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one I HATE THE FIRST DAY OF CLASS.
I’ve always been an insecure child. Many of my friends would contest this, but I never really had it easy when making friends, especially during the first day of class when the teacher asked everyone to stand up in front of the class to introduce himself. I hated doing that. I still do. Nobody notices that I fidget a lot when I come in front and introduce myself; I thank the heavens for that— giving me my voice to save me from all the anxiety. With the booming vocals, it becomes so much easier to convince people that I actually know what I’m doing in front of a crowd. The first day of class is special for me. Not only do I fidget and go into panic mode when the teacher calls my name out to introduce myself, I also have diarrhea on the first day of class—an anxiety reflex that I’ve had since I started schooling. And yes, this went on even until I started teaching, and well through my postgraduate studies. I still visit the toilet before the start of the first class of every school year.
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two I USED TO NIBBLE MY TOENAILS.
There wasn’t really much to do in the house while I was growing up. By two, my mother said I had started reading periodicals, and was well finishing through all the children’s books my aunts bought for me every time they came back from Manila where they took their university degrees, by the time I was four. When I turned five or six, I got hooked on television and started diluting my mind with whatever was on the tube: cartoons, the news, sitcoms, daytime dramas. And because watching TV was so enticingly addictive, I developed yet another habit: nibbling. I started with my fingernails, but eventually I realised that nibbling toenails was much more satisfying, let alone good exercise for someone who was as thin as I was back then. I would nonchalantly bite off my long toenails one at a time while I watched my favourite soap; I did that until I was about 16. one of my aunts noticed my incessant nibbling, and she told me it was a subconscious reaction to my insecurities in life. Fearing to be labeled as a failure, I started cutting my nails as short as possible.
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three I STARTED MASTURBATING WHEN I WAS 11.
I discovered pornography at an early age. Blame that to my father who thought of putting the Betamax tapes on top of the cabinet, which I could reach so easily without standing on my toes. The first pornographic sequence I saw was that of two Arab men screwing a busty blonde. As I grew older, I realised that the men in the movie were not really Arabs, and only played a part; I believed the skit since the men were as lanate as mammoths, regardless of the bad Arabic accent that they used as they fornicated with the overacting woman who wailed at every thrust. After that first encounter, watching porn became a habit. Eventually I started emulating men who masturbated before engaging in coitus with their partners, and that was it: I was hooked. As a pre-teen, I masturbated about twice or thrice a day—or however frequent I bathed in a day. As a teenager and a young adult, I became obsessed with masturbating, doing it on a daily basis—except before exams, since I had a belief that masturbating would jinx your exams. Seriously.
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four SMOKING KEPT ME ALIVE.
I started smoking when I was around nine or ten. My family had a small provision store in the community, and we sold cigarettes, among other things. I started with HOPE, MARLBORO and PHILLIP. I’ve tried WINSTON as well, but of all that I’ve tried, CHAMPION has got to be one of the worst. It was summer vacation, and my parents asked me to look after the store, while they had their afternoon siesta. I started lighting one stick of HOPE, and hid behind the fridge that blocked passersby from seeing where the entrance to the store was. I was scared as shit, lighting up the stick, trembling to a point; but the feeling was exhilarating. It wasn’t the act of smoking that excited me though—it was the fact that I dared to smoke. I was a straight-A student who was always being compared to everyone else in the family—a do-gooder who wouldn’t do such a thing. But I did and I felt alive every time I lighted up a stick. I continued to smoke well through my late 30s, and it became so bad at one point I was smoking at least two packs a day. I eventually discovered that I could live without cigarettes; it was just a matter of motivation. Believe me, $12.50 for a pack of smokes is a very effective motivation. 9 | CBPeña | 34
five CALL ME XAVIER.
I was in Primary 5 when I started collecting X-Men trading cards; these were not the expensive ones though. Nonetheless, they were still a prized possession, and I often read the back parts of the card, looking through the profiles of the mutants that had chosen to appear in the packets that I bought for around P10 a piece. I have to admit, I became addicted to the series because I felt I was one of them. As a child I dreamt of having a tiger as a pet, and riding it to school, then asking the beast to devour all the bullies that riddled my younger years. But of course, the tiger never came, but the mutants did. I would stay up late, reading the cards, knowing the X-Men by heart—as well as XCalibur, the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants, Six Pack and everyone else in the Marvel Universe’s menagerie of beings whose lives were lived so extraordinarily that stopped me from dreaming of owning a ferocious feline who could aid in gobbling up my enemies. I took it to the next level by cutting out some of them and playing with them—yes, like paper dolls—crafting my own epic battles as I played with them, confusing the enemy with the plots that befell their storylines, and yes, adding romance among the cutouts that bore through my soul. Okay, fine, I made them have sex. Good times. 10 | CBPeña | 34
six CARTOONS MAKE ME CRY.
When Astrogirl had to be dismantled because she was a living bomb, and Astroboy poured his heart out, wailing why of all beings it had to be her, I was curled up in a fetal position in front of the television set, crying like there was no tomorrow. I hated that episode of Astroboy because in my heart I knew both of them didn’t deserve what they were feeling; good people—err, robots—aren’t supposed to suffer like that. And yet they did. Cartoons are a way of life for me. Now in my early 30s, I still watch cartoons, and I am not afraid to tell people that. The Thundercats, the Mighty Orbots, Silver Hawks, Voltron Lions and Machines, Voltes V, Daimos, and eventually TMNT, X-Men The Animated Series, Batman, Superman and the Justice League. I was lucky to have grown up in an era when animated series were not as brutishly violent as they are now, where almost all of them have one goal: to destroy the enemy. No values, no relationships (except the sexual kind), nothing as a takeaway for the viewer—only vengeance guising as a crusade against evil. You don’t have cartoons like Cedric The Young Prince or Princess Sarah or Tom Sawyer anymore. No. Now, all kids have are a bunch of whackos exhausting themselves silly with tops or flinging cards that shift into dragons and demons. 11 | CBPeña | 34
seven SAMSON AND DELILAH WAS NEVER A FAVOURITE.
It was an English class in Primary 6, and we were reading a passage from Samson and Delilah. My classmates had the audacity to shift seats so that the paragraph that was assigned for me to read was: “I have never cut my hair since birth.” Inasmuch as the statement was innocent, the implication was not as quite, since I had just had my haircut the day before, and my father insistent that I had a crew cut, which left me near to being bald. I could remember every laugh and holler inside the classroom that, to me, felt as if it had transformed itself into a rambunctious flea market. I could also remember how difficult it was for me to hold back the tears as I read the passage. This was why I hated Primary School. I still do. And then there was the incident in Primary Five when, while my friend Moises was in the middle of recitation, I pulled his hair. Yes, for no apparent reason. I was scolded of course, but sadly neither I nor the teacher knew why I did that. I have never bothered to ask my childhood bullies why. Frankly, I don’t care that much anymore.
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eight HIDING UNDER THE TABLE ISN’T AS HALF BAD.
I was eight when I was diagnosed with congenital myopia. My teacher, Mrs Sarmiento, found it odd that every time she did flip cards during Math class, I would disappear. She found me eventually, crouching inconspicuously under the table. As vicious as she was when she taught Primary 2, she would demand that I still participated. And with a voice softer than a murmur, I would watch myself get ridiculed, one classmate after the other, since I could not answer the flip cards that bore the math equations on each of their sides, thereby leaving me no choice but to echo whatever response the teacher received from my opponent. One day, she came knocking at our back door—since her aunt apparently lived behind our house—asking my mother to take me to the doctor and have my eyes checked. A week later, I had prescription glasses on: left eye was 275, and the right eye was 250. One of my former eye doctors say that with the rate my eyes are increasing their degrees, I’ll probably turn truly blind by the time I reach 50, but I’m not scared. All these years I’ve learnt to embrace the dark, and I am looking forward to going blind. It has become a motivation for me to see everything that I can before the world turns dark. After that, I’ll have an excuse to squish people’s faces. LOL. 13 | CBPeña | 34
nine I WAS NOT KEEN ON AIZA SEGUERRA BACK THEN.
I was in Primary Five, and yet again, the awful flip cards struck anew. I lost a match and the teacher asked the class to assign a punishment for the loser—me. And which suggestion won? Nothing special—just doing the duck walk that Aiza Seguerra was famous for that time, from the back end of the classroom to the platform upfront and back to my seat. Needless to say, it was one of the most embarrassing moments of my young life. Sadly, there were just too many of them in primary school. I was the laughing stock of my classes for many apparent reasons, and I guess being among the tallest in class did not excuse you from being bullied by everyone else. Heck I was a junior in high school and Primary Five kids bullied me. In Primary Five, I finally had the guts to confront my bully. I held him by the collar and slammed him on the wall. I said, “No more!” and he did stop bullying me, and the rest of the class. But like what my friends say, bullies never remember bullying people as they grow older. He currently works in Singapore, just like me, earning more money than anyone else I know here, and goes back home at least once a month. So I guess life is unfair.
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ten I AM A BAD BROTHER.
On the night that my brother Ian died, we actually had an argument earlier in the day. He was asking for some coins to buy a few sticks of cigarettes, and I being the stingy loud-mouthed brother, said no and brandished him with a litany longer than the Seven Last Words during Lent. At around nine in the evening, I felt a sudden chill enter the house, and I looked outside the jalousie windows, searching for my brother who often left at night to meet up with friends, and come back by dawn, ready to head for bed. But he wasn’t in the front yard where he usually smoked, although I could swear I heard the main gate close. I shrugged and went to bed. By eleven, my mother was frantically knocking on the door, asking my wife and I to accompany her to the district hospital, after a woman called up the house, saying my brother had died in an accident. Trying to calm her, I told her that maybe the lady was exaggerating, and that my brother was fine, like the time my father got hit by a car and tumbled down the side of the road, still drunk and knew little of what happened to him. When we arrived at the district hospital, my brother laid lifeless on a metal slab, blood oozing from his head, face deformed and bruised. I have never forgiven myself ever since. 15 | CBPeùa | 34
eleven PORN IS EVERYWHERE.
As a teenager with raging hormones, I collected not just Betamax and VHS tapes of porn. I also collected magazines and comics that were sexual in nature. In the public market, hidden under heaps of dailies and tabloids were periodical stands that sold remnants of publications that ran in the late 70s and slowly diminished by the end of the 80s. They had centrefold posters that showed people engaged in coital affairs, and I was thrilled every time I grabbed hold of them. Eventually, it became a habit to check the local newsstand every weekend when I did the groceries. After agreeing with the vendor on a considerable price for the publication, I would tuck the comic or magazine behind my shirt, walk back home, and casually go straight to my room after I set down the plastic bags of fish, pork, vegetables and eggs on the kitchen table. Inside my room, I would get lost in the narratives that paraded people who had explicit sex. I would read the narratives for hours, or at least until I would cum. Of course, eventually I had to dispose of them because my father discovered the stash, and confronted me about it. I was so frantic I decided to throw them away at the nearby dumpsite (I lived near the public market; and yes, it had it’s own dumpsite.). 16 | CBPeùa | 34
twelve I HAD UNPROTECTED SEX.
When I found out that despite my atrocious looks, people were still drawn to me—sexually—I started going for the kill. I was in the later years of my teens and moving towards my early twenties when I started jumping from one bed to another, having unprotected sex. And yes, I contracted Chlamydia at one point but I had shots for that. It was ironic because my most effective campaign for a major subject was a condom drive that asked teens to protect themselves whenever they had onenight stands and casual sex with strangers. I’ve had quite a few encounters that were memorable, not because of the people—since I’m very bad with names—but because of how interesting they were. A hookup at 7-11, a meet-up at a food bar, a chanced meeting in the mall. I have friends who had just as much fun as I did: a close friend who enjoys getting groped in jam-packed commuter buses; an old friend who jacked off using Barbie doll figures; a friend with chronic masturbation issues, and so on. I considered myself ‘normal’ to a certain extent—if you considered collecting porn videos and selecting specific sequences in the films and setting them on cue, as normal.
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thirteen I FLATULATE IN PUBLIC.
I have a very bad habit of farting while walking. I look around if anyone is around before I pass gas, and then I let it rip. Sometimes I make sure I pass by a busy street with many cars zooming past. I would time the fart with the passing car’s roar. Precision at its finest. ‘Nuff said.
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fourteen I HATE CHOOSING.
When my best friend Dan decided to confront my then-girlfriend-now-wife about asking me to get married earlier than planned, my wife asked me to choose between her and him. It was hard. Dan and I had been pals since we were in senior high, and we even wrote letters to each other at least once a month, even though we lived in the same city. He would sleep over every now and then, and we would talk about his exploits as managing editor of the school paper and so on. It was ironic, because he and my wife went to the same university. I was hurt when I was made to choose between him and my wife. I loved both of them, at different levels, and I felt it was unfair that I’d be asked to choose. Eventually, Dan’s partner and I had a misunderstanding, and we parted ways. One decade later, I was married, and Dan was a fashion designer for the Manila Fashion Week, creating designer clutch bags and jewellery. Life is such; I’m just glad he and I are in talking terms again. I guess I’ve always been afraid of choosing between what I know is right and what I believe is right. For me, knowledge doesn’t equate to belief or need. For me, choosing what I know is right is what I need to do, because I was raised that way, not because I am compelled by conscience or heart. 19 | CBPeña | 34
fifteen I’M AFRAID OF THE DARK. REALLY.
My mother says that because I was born at around 10 in the morning, it is natural for me to be afraid of the dark. Trust me, my mom is right. I am a tad scared of the dark. Sadly, that does not stop me from being curious about the dark either. Without my contact lenses or my glasses, I am literally in the dark since I see only blots of colours—not even outlines. Turn off the lights and I’d literally be blind. There was this one time, when my parents were out (Mom had work and Dad was with friends), I heard flapping wings on our roof. Making matters worse, there was a rumour about a manananggal (a ghoul who separated her torso from her lower body and had bat wings) looming in the city. I turned on the lights, took the crucifix from the altar, pointed it to the window and shouted, “In the name of Jesus Christ, stay away from our house!” Then the flapping sound stopped. I’ve heard stories from older relatives saying our family once had ’powers’ to capture ghouls, and heal the sick, but that’s a different story. I’ve learnt to go about in the dark; it’s like my senses heighten when you leave me alone inside a dark room. Join me in the dark and you’d know how comfortable I can get.
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sixteen SLEEPING IS NOT MY CUP OF TEA.
It takes me around an hour before I fall asleep. That’s a lot of time rolling around in bed, imagining monsters are lurking underneath the bed, and visualising a thousand and one ways that things will go wrong. I was born a pessimist and with my own brand of paranoia, and so you can’t blame me if I resort to masturbating just so I would loose strength and finally fall asleep. Usually, I would watch movies or cartoons until around one in the morning—too tired to even do anything, afterwards. I only have a six hour sleep cycle, and sadly my body clock is always awake by 7:30 the following day, regardless whether I’ve had my full six hour-sleep or not. I’ve always envied people who could sleep so easily, dozing off after a few minutes, and able to sleep well through the night, regardless of the environmental and accommodation conditions. I, on the other hand, can sense the tiniest grain of dust on the bed sheets, and am very particular about sleeping positions. I can only sleep with my head facing the right side of the bed, my body upright, and my right hand underneath my pillow. When I ’sense’ there are other ’things’ in the room, I maintain an upright position, and imagine myself covering my entire body with a protective seamless cocoon. Yes, I’m loony. 21 | CBPeña | 34
seventeen I AM ACCIDENT-PRONE.
I was around ten when I decided to walk through a posy of angry dogs along the back alley of our street. Call me stupid—and I probably was—but I felt the urge to walk through the squabbling dogs and emerge unscathed. Of course I did not get through unharmed; I had a nasty bruise on my left leg. I ran to my grandparents house, because I was scared my father would scold me for doing something even a simpleton wouldn’t do. My grandfather pounded some garlic and spread it on the gash. He then sipped the blood from the wound and spat it out. I never really remembered whether I had shots afterwards. I was also in fourth grade when I decided to jump off a tricycle, to see whether I could run as fast as the motorcycle could. In high school, during freshman year, my left hand almost got chopped off by a jungle knife which a classmate brought in for gardening; in sophomore year, I fell off the school’s stage, leaning on both hands, and breaking my wrist bones in the process. In my senior year, I jumped off the ledge of the second floor to know what it was like to have air rush through your face (no, I had no social life.). In college, I jumped on and off buses and jeepneys while they were moving. Yes, I predicted parkour would be a big thing eventually. 22 | CBPeña | 34
eighteen I BLAMED MY WIFE.
I was on my way home from work, standing inside a bus and thinking whether I needed to take a leak before I rode the jeepney towards home. I was about to get off at the bus stop when my phone rang and my wife was frantically crying out my daughter’s name over the line. Apparently, while she was carrying a bowl of noodles she prepared for my dinner, Carla ran to her, clasping her by the thighs, and my wife accidentally poured the hot noodles all over our first-borne. She was around one year old then, and my daughter suffered from second degree burns on her chest down to her waist, and first-degree burns on her face. When I arrived, I saw my father’s grim countenance over my wife who was just as stunned as I was. My daughter, who was now in the emergency room amidst a herd of nurses and doctors, wailed even louder when she saw me. She kept shouting ‘Daddy’ as the doctors did what they needed to do. The minute the bandages were all done, I picked her up and calmed her down. I wouldn’t lie to you; for the next year, I blamed my wife for what happened to my daughter— and I didn’t like it. Not one bit. But it was tougher for my wife. The entire time Carla was in the hospital, she never let her mother touch her; I knew how much that hurt for my wife. 23 | CBPeña | 34
nineteen I GET THE BEST IDEAS IN THE SHOWER.
I don’t know about you, but I get my best ideas while I bathe. I bathe twice a day, morning and night—sometimes a third time during the midday if it’s summer—and yes, almost all my epiphanies happen when the water starts gushing out of the faucet. I guess I’ve always found the sound of water stress-relieving. Well, who doesn’t? I like quiet strolls in the beach, yes, but nothing beats bathing in the shower to knock some sense to myself when compounded with a dilemma or a writer’s block (no, coffee doesn’t work on me anymore since I’m now hypertensive). I also find myself doing a little introspection while in the shower; intrapersonal communication has always been a favourite, since yes, I talk to myself when faced with tough decisions, and yes I serenade myself when I feel blue. I’ve also found myself lecturing myself before taking exams—I learn texts faster when I hear my own voice lecturing me about my notes. Narcissistic maybe, but at least I’ve passed through my degrees that way. I also play with the water, like I was some kind of Eternal who could control water with his mind. Sometimes, I also enact death scenes, where I get shot and blood—err, water—gushes out of my mouth, trying to mouth something dramatic before I die. 24 | CBPeña | 34
twenty ALL HAIL THE PORN KING!
It was senior year in high school, and it was the height of my addiction to pornography. I started stealing from the local video shop; quite a cunning feat actually. I would start off by befriending the unwitting staff who looked after the shop, and from there, find out if there were new ‘arrivals’. I would then borrow one or two tapes, making sure I returned them on time, to win their trust. After I did, I would start the stealing. You see, during those days, the VHS tapes only had a small index card with names written and struck off to keep track of borrowings. I would borrow one pornographic VHS, and keep it for a few weeks. In between, I would borrow wholesome movies, while stoically denying that I had yet to return the pornographic VHS. Eventually the staff would forget, and I would have yet another movie to add to the mounds of pornographic Betamax and VHS tapes that I stored among the books in my room’s shelves. I accumulated quite a number of pornographic tapes this way, and by the time I reached senior year, I was supplying porn tapes to my classmates. I remember they even played this practical joke, stealing a tape from my bag. I was so disturbed; I was panicky because I lost porn in school! WARM PINK. I know Conrado still remembers the title; he and his gang does. 25 | CBPeña | 34
twenty-one I LOVE GETTING LOST.
When I first boarded the plane to Singapore, I was dead-scared. It was my first international flight, and had little knowledge about the country I was going to. All I had was $400 in my pocket and a lot of well-wishes. When I reached Singapore, I was thankful that the city was riddled with signs; I didn’t get lost. I followed my brother’s instructions (since he couldn’t pick me up at the airport because he had work; I saw him only later in the day) and found my way to the house he stayed at. After he showed me where the nearest MRT station was (Eunos was the nearest because we stayed at Changi Road), the fun started. For the next two weeks, while I was still looking for work, I got lost almost every day—walking towards Paya Lebar, and discovering the sights in between, and towards Kembangan and the shophouses that lined the streets. I eventually moved to Pasir Ris, to Geylang, back to Pasir Ris, to Still Road, and now in East Coast, and still enjoy getting lost during the weekends. When I find myself lost in an alley or an unfamiliar street, I smile; I know I am lucky enough to experience getting lost in Singapore. Not everyone can get lost in the First World.
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twenty-two I LOSE MYSELF WHEN I WRITE.
I love the fact that I completely lose myself when I write. I remember writing the first book of Ezuthyl, the story I made for the school publication at the second college I was HOD for. It was a story of four tribes that lived in an alternate Earth; each tribe had powers anchored on the four elements— the Aureans, the air-winged beings; the Pyreans, the lava-blooded fire tribe; the Aquians, the watermanipulating royals; and the Tectonicans, the technology-savvy tree dwellers. I had so much writing the story I think I stopped typing at four in the morning. Writing is fun for me; I started journaling at the age of ten, wrote my first compilation of erotique stories at 16, and made compilations of poetry and prose until I was already teaching in the university. In all a total of around 20 books, some still with me, others stashed away with friends. My earlier books were typewritten, with alignment painstakingly justified on both sides (I had pretty good typing skills as a teen).
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twenty-three I CRIED WHEN I FIRST HIT MY DAUGHTER WITH A SLIPPER.
I am not a big fan of corporal punishment. I grew up getting whipped by the leather belt or punched on the thigh—although my father denies all these, saying I am delusional. When Carla turned two and had completely gone haywire over a toy, I did the unimaginable and spanked her buttocks with a slipper. After that, I sat outside the house and started crying. When I became a father, I told myself that I would raise my daughter differently; that I would make sure I could exact discipline without raising a slipper, a belt, a rolled-up newspaper, harsh words, not even raise my voice. I was raised by a family that believed adamantly in the saying that if you spare the rod, you spoil the child. I did not want my daughter to grow up having the same pangs as I did towards my father. I knew better. I remember an old friend who told me that when they were younger, whenever they did something wrong, their father asked them to spank him with a metal ruler until his hands bled. He would take his children’s hands, let them hold the ruler, and let the children hit their father. I’ve tried using guilt with my own kid earlier on, but I’ve discovered that talking to them sensibly or using reverse psychology works much better. Of course, it helps if your kid has equally high EQ, like Carla. 28 | CBPeña | 34
twenty-four I COOK WHEN I’M HOMESICK.
Now that I’ve worked overseas, I’ve realised that pigging out is not an option for me anymore, whenever I feel homesick. I have found myself cooking and baking in amounts more than two or three people could have their hearts’ fill. I would go to the nearby grocers or wet market and just buy stuff to cook, only to find that I’ve cooked too much and then would spend the rest of the week trying to finish everything I’ve cooked. Becoming an overseas worker is hard. More than the workload— which pretty much is manageable (I am one of the luckier ones)—it is the loneliness and the homesickness that drives people nuts. Every time my wife and kid visits Singapore, watching them go through immigration on their way back to the Philippines is always the hardest time for me. I cry every time, regardless of whoever sees me crying at the gates. Cooking releases all the anxiety that I carry, the stress that work gives, and the homesickness of working overseas.
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twenty-five I SUCK AT WRITING FOREWORDS.
Sadly, I have a throve of books and compilations whose forewords start with ‘It’s been a while.’ The sad truth it, the immense workload I have right now leaves me very little time to actually sit down and write my books. I miss writing—not that I don’t get to write for the magazine and the modules I create for work. It’s just that writing something for myself and a particular readership is something that I miss doing every now and then. Writing the anthology The Girl Who Was Afraid of Waves is contemplative for me, while at the same time, satiates my hunger to find that missing story that would complete the compilation. Sometimes, when I have the opportunity to write, I get so engrossed that I forget the time, until I realise it’s four in the morning and I have work at nine. Writing frees me from what I am and shows me who I am, as a writer, as an individual, as a flawed person. When I finish writing something, I like back-reading the manuscript over and over again—because I have a tendency to edit everything I say at the spur of the moment—and forget that I wrote what I write. I separate myself from what I write. This way, I get to enjoy reading and give myself the much needed criticism, since I believe that my writing, like everything else, always has room for improvement. 30 | CBPeña | 34
twenty-six I CRY DURING MASSES.
When I started working overseas, I saw myself visiting the church more often. This was quite weird for me since I wasn’t really a big fan of anything charismatic, let alone religious. You see when I was 15, I was part of a youth group that held office for a week in the city hall (that’s where I met my friends of 18 years). We attended a youth encounter one night, and in the midst of the litany, the monsignor goes, “Mga demonyo kayo! Nagsasalita ako dito tapos nagsisipagtayuan kayo dyan sa likod! (You demons! I am talking here in front and you have the audacity to walk around there at the back!)” I was shocked; I’ve never heard priests swear like that, and this was inside the cathedral for crying out loud, so I stopped attending mass from then on. Attending my first mass in Singapore was life-changing for me. I realised I wasn’t in the mass because of the structure and the rituals; I was there because I needed someone to listen to me pray, and for something to hold on to, which in this case were the readings of the week. I started building a personal relationship with my God, because quite honestly, I don’t have anyone to hold on to here. Being away from home does change you. I guess hearing mass on Sundays is my coping mechanism, as cheesy as that sounds. 31 | CBPeña | 34
twenty-seven I HAVE BRAND LOYALTY.
I always buy the same brand of food, the same kind of shirts and shoes, and the same kind of accessories. My friends question why I like buying Uniqlo, Cotton On, Aeropostale and H&M, instead of the more popular A&F, Gap and Fred Perry. Two things: one, the latter brands are way too pricey. I am so not buying a thin shirt for $58 a piece; I feel it is a waste of money and I refuse to be a victim of over-commercialism, not to mention contribute to the wealth of that over-zealous, facially disfigured man who owns Abercrombie. Two, I feel comfortable with my brands, because they literally fit me. Let’s face it, I have a 40-inch waistline and a bulging tummy that are not going anywhere anytime soon. Why on Earth would I buy something that was originally designed for skinny people? That is not logical. I have always felt comfortable with my body; I’m overweight by 20 pounds, but I don’t really mind. I look at myself in the mirror and see a sexy shirtless man who can gyrate to the tune of Psy’s Gentleman (apparently, the brain deceives us to think that we are five times sexier than we really are, in front of a mirror, but who cares right?), and not be ashamed to do so. I do feel the need to improve my pectorals and chest though. 32 | CBPeña | 34
twenty-eight I DO NOT FORGET.
A former colleague here in Singapore had recently raised her voice at me over the phone. She misunderstood a string of texts I sent her, and so she came back to me with a backlash of words that she flung wantonly over the receiver. She was late for a class by 40 minutes, and I being her cotrainer for that day—not to mention the person-in-charge of anything related to the programmes we offer—was worried that the class would be neglected. Almost an hour later, she arrived and apologised to me, since I greeted her with a smile instead of a tongue-lashing. I told her that I accepted her apology but that I felt offended by her words. I told her not to talk to me again. My tolerance for such behaviour is quite short; I forgive easily, yes, but sadly I never forget. Ever. I still hate my classmates who made fun of me in primary and secondary school. I remember all their names, and everything that they did to me. This angst I carry with me, although I have found ways to separate them from my work and relationships with people who value me as a professional, as a person and as an individual. She, together with everyone else who had mocked and done me wrong in the past, will never be forgotten. By doing so, I learn how to deal with people like her. 33 | CBPeùa | 34
twenty-nine I AM SICK.
During my most recent trip back home, I’ve discovered that the apple flush I did had not worked at all. Not only did my gallstones remain intact, they also increased their size to around 1.3cm in diameter. This is disturbing to an extent because that means I might have to consider surgery in the next few years. Couple this with my high blood cholesterol and my high blood sugar and you’ve got a ticking time bomb. I also have hypertension, allergies, and recently, obesity. I’ve never really liked being sick; neither do I like being confined in the hospital. Quite fun though is entertaining the idea that I die dramatically on a sick bay with friends and family surrounding me, trying ever so hard to hear every single word I mutter as I try to catch my last breath. Dying dramatically is a dreamcome-true for me. I don’t want to die while sleeping, or have a heart attack or be struck by a raging 18 -wheeler cargo truck. No, my idea of dying is either lying on a deathbed, getting shot and dramatically spewing blood as I mouth my last words, or slowly drown as my hands reach up to the sky trying to catch the light that seeps through the water. Yup, I am one sick bastard.
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thirty PEOPLE WITH STUPID IDEAS USED TO ANNOY ME. USED TO.
Growing up, I developed an inferiority complex because I rarely had any interaction with any children. I also made a fool of myself a few times in school and in the community, and so my selfesteem wasn’t really that high during my growing-up years; couple that with the bullying in school and I was actually close to being a recluse as a child. I had TV to thank for, especially the show The Growing Up Years, which gave me to trust that things would go for the better eventually. After high school, I found myself suddenly growing more confident about myself, almost too confident at a point, to the brink of arrogance. Placed in a class where I seemed to have excelled, I started to become more sure of what I could do, and so started the cycle of arrogance that culminated with me losing my Magna cum Laude title because of being such a braggadocio, during my senior year in university. Through the years though, I’ve learnt to become more tolerant of people, although I do comment inside my head every so often, when I feel that someone’s idea of a great idea isn’t really what it seems to be. Becoming part of a multiracial, multi-schema community has broadened my tolerance and understanding of how diverse people act upon situations. 35 | CBPeña | 34
thirty-one I AM GLEEK.
When I first saw Glee, I cried. The show reminded me of my own glee club back in university, where I met my friends and sang songs that made me confident enough to say that I can sing. Singing is something that I do on a regular basis, much to the dismay of people around me. I mouth the songs I listen to when I have my earphones on while riding the train; I sing songs while I walk towards the office, in the office pantry, and on my way out of the building when it’s time to go home; I sing when my students are doing class work, just for the sake of disturbing them; I sing in the bathroom while I shower; and I sing tunes in my head when I forget my earphones and cannot listen to any song while in transit. I would admit I don’t have a fabulous singing voice like Jed Madela or Christian Bautista, but at least I have a voice that likes hogging the karaoke microphone when I have time to do so. One of the very few things I do whenever I go back on holiday is visit the local mall and belt out a few songs; it’s either that or a hog the mic at some random relative’s birthday party just to dishearten anyone else who thinks they can sing Ewan McGregor’s version of the Elton John classic Your Song the way that I do. I am such a badass. 36 | CBPeña | 34
thirty-two MY KIDS. I HAVE TONS.
A few weeks ago, a former student of mine, who is now H.O.D. for a Mass Communications programme in one of the universities in Manila, sent me a private message over Facebook. Apparently he was invited to attend a convention at his Alma Mater, as a special guest. He told me that the convention didn’t feel quite the same, partly because I wasn’t part of it. Then he thanked me for giving him the opportunity to talk behind the mic, on the school’s radio, when he was still a student. He was a student assistant in one of the university’s offices, and was in my broadcasting class. The kid had potential, and I told him I did what any decent mentor would do when you discover such talent in a mentee. I felt so proud I posted a picture of his message on FB. Now, I feel like I shouldn’t have; I feel like it’s bragging. And if you know me, I know bragging always gets me into trouble. But a part of me was happy I did. Over the years, I’ve trained almost 1,000 kids, most of whom still call me Tatay—a term of endearment that I hold close to my heart. I may have done a lot of stupid things in my life, but at least I know, somewhere out there is someone who learnt something useful from me.
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thirty-three BEE HOON HELPS ME REMEMBER.
It was my first year in teaching in the university when I experienced my first summer without any teaching load. No teaching load meant that I had no pay for the next two months. In an instant, I found myself left with only P10 (around 9 cents in Singapore dollars) in my wallet. Fast forward, when I first came to Singapore, I had only around $400 to spend for the first two months of my stay. Jobless, it was the first time I asked for financial help from my wife’s cousin, who graciously lent me $200. Frankly, it was the most embarrassing point of my adult life. In my first two months in Singapore, I almost literally just ate bee hoon every day, since it just cost $1.50 at the local hawker centre. It was the only kind of food that I could afford with such a tight budget. Now, every time I eat bee hoon, it reminds me of those first two months, and everything that has transpired afterwards. Bee hoon gives me strength to move forward and think more positively about life. I never went to Singapore to become well-off; I came to Singapore to find myself, and uproot myself from the audacity that I carried along while I was still in the Philippines. Being overseas gave me wider perspective about life, career and professionalism. Bee hoon is my saviour. 38 | CBPeùa | 34
thirty-four I AM SCARED TO REACH 40.
Six years from now, I will have to begin life. Sadly, I have the biggest dilemma ever about turning 40: I do not know what to wear. Would society impose that I wore more slacks and khakis on weekdays and Sunday shorts on weekends? Or would it allow me to still wear t-shirts and jeans, matched with sneakers? By then, Carla would’ve turned 10, and I would start panicking since three years after that she would be a teenager. I have a lot things I am uncertain of, as I add years to my age. I admit, I’ve never been the perfect parent nor the perfect husband. But I am happy that life was kind enough to give me the chance to try becoming one. Thirty-four years of being Carlo Venson, Carlos Benzon, Carlo Jenson, Carol Benson, Carlos Benson and every other name that my friends, colleagues and acquaintances have given me, has been a riot of a ride. I have done a lot of bad things in my life, and I’m sure, I’ll be a lot worse as I get older, but at least I try my best to stop myself from being such a jackass once in a while. Turning 34 is big. Although not as big as my thighs or my ass. Thank you for sharing part of those 34 years with me.
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Carlo Venson Peña © All rights reserved 2013 No part of this book may be reproduced, printed or distributed without written consent from the author. http://carlovenson.wix.com/cbphotography Written in East Coast, Singapore 40 | CBPeña | 34