Wednesday, November 30, 2005
The Wrong Impression
First days of school irk me for the very fact that no matter how I turn the table, I always end up with the wrong side. I'm not sure if it's because of the impenetrable silence I indulge myself in while I observe new colleagues or because of my haphazard brows that usually send people wrong signals about why they arc that way but for some absurd reason, I always become that antagonistic bruhaha that stabs people when their backs are turned.
In the middle of the year, however, when my insanity gets the best of me, and when my records in the National Center for Mental Health begin to scatter, they honestly tell me, during open-up sessions, that they had the wrong impression about me after all. Almost everyone---no, everyone---confessed this year, just like those old years of adjustment, that I my name made them brew a snob-nerd-overly intellectual me in mind (which was funny, considering that I really don't know WHY the heck they think of me that way) before. But after actually dismissing superficiality, I'm not the person they loved to hate.
My RLE(or in layman's term..."duty") group were some of those who had the guts to tell me of the past perception and the now perception of me. All I did was laugh at how wierd I was to them before, momentarily setting aside that big, nagging "WHY?" It was only until now that I had the chance to ponder on the impression, considering I had been much of a couch potato these past "no class" days.
Maybe, just like what Mae said, I had strong, "mataray" features that repels a lot of people. Add to that obscurity are my brows that had probably loved to grow upwards than down. Of course, to validate the finding, I spent lots of time in the mirror, criticizing each zit I'd like to zap away and silently cursing my gene pool for giving me a Filipino nose, opposing my mom's Spanish, and my brows that are a carbon copy of my dad's. To my dismay, I end up hating me that knowing me.
The question remained until one time when Sarah talked to me in the library and told me how amazing I was to have talents that are subjects of envy. She affirmed me too much I had forgotten of the self-hate altogether. As the conversation burned on, part of me analyzed "me."
Hell, yeah, I was one blessed girl. I had affinities for art, music, literature, sciences, math... too much that I feel like an overflowing cup of mushroom soup.
Honestly, until now, I still can't fully conclude why people get the wrong impression. I still have much to learn about myself---what I need to improve, what I need to change, what I need to enhance. The road goes ever on yet there's this one fact, though some may dismiss as theoretical that makes me feel good about myself sans the negative looks from others and the standards of beauty people set against me: I am special, one heck of a girl, one loud child of God.
Not even Belo or Calayan, with their surgical skills that can transform a duck, can change that.
2:11 PM
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I don't care what the world
throws at me now.
It's gonna be alright.
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