I Make People Cry

Age 5. I threatened a playmate that if she doesn't stop pestering i'll really hit her. Of course, she dared me to hit her. We were both Arians i think and somehow the Rams in me sent a kid furious looking for a stick. I went back and she saw that i had something in my hand. Dared me again to hit her as if she knew my 5 years of existence. So i did. Hit her smooth. Hit her hard. Smack on the face. With a stick. With my own hands. With my own 5 year old might. I was a very silent girl. I was easy to talk to. Dare me and I will. She cried a lot. Her cries then would be tantamount to child abuse now. 

Age 15. Puberty stage festered with acne. Bangs over my face. Teenage angst, highschool crush plus feeling ugly and oily all over. I co-exist among the chairs and i was the C-crowd. I loved Math though it does not reciprocate my feelings towards the subject. I walked in the middle aisle to answer a math problem while our teacher goes out. Then this shithole classmate of mine (where is he now?) burst out Putok! Putok! Putok! Putok! in the guise of a hen looking for some food. I didn't mind. I came back to my seat, looked at my answer on the board. I realized i had the wrong answer and came back to correct it before the teacher comes in. Then the shithole does it again while i write on the board. He turned up the volume this time. I knew it was aimed at me. I know my body, honey. I don't have putok. I have pus on my pimples, i eat my nails dirty from libag and my fart sounds like a ship boarding passengers but i don't emit gases from my armpits. I am not in denial. Carry on honey. Look at the board and have fun with Math. Then he goes at it again as if upping the ante to unleash my Rams. Then it was unleashed. From  the chalkboard flew an eraser smack to his nose. He had asthma.  This time no talk ensued. I could see how his eyes glisten from coughing up the dust particles i rammed to his trachea. Moodrahbel was summoned. Gave me a sermon on proper hygiene. Thanks a lot. Moodrahbel issues is another topic to be blogged about.

Age twentysomething. Looking 4 years more than my actual age. Offer to pay food and drinks. Notebook in hand and sometimes tape recorder. I ask questions. Very personal questions. How did your mother die? Did anyone find out that you aborted your baby? Did your mother found out about your stepdad's harrasment? How many of your family members were buried in the pile of garbage?  What made you enter prostitution? What was your greatest struggle during your sickness? Before your father died of aneurysm, what is your last memory of him? I fold my notebook. Prepare my bag. Shake the hand of the person and comfort him/her a bit. Look at him/her in a way that would tell him/her that all is well. And yes, all is really well. Thank you for sharing that cut of tear. I made you cry.