I Hate Tabasco

           5:30am. My eyes open. Or at least I think they’re open. I float towards my bathroom barely even touching the floor. Give me a break, it’s a Monday. I then step into the shower and let the warm water go through my skin and my soul. Showers were made for this feeling, I swear. I start washing my face and make sure I’m squeaky clean (wouldn’t want a breakout to happen).

            The hardest part of my mornings is dressing up. I mean, whatever outfit I choose will be on myunsightly body the entire day (well, until I get home, of course). I head on over to my closet and take a look: culottes, white tops, high-neck sleeveless tops, black shirts, black pants, denim jacket, a 150-peso dress, more culottes…Would I want to look “conservative” today? I take the culottes and my button down polo. Too conservative. I throw those away and take my dress. I put it on and—oh no the fabric’s too thin—take it off. I put on a black top and jeans—too casual! Another black top, then a white top, another type of black top…until my entire bathroom is covered in all the contents of my closet. Unable to choose at least one single piece of clothing that would fit my mood, my thoughts and plans for the day, I throw my cares out the closet and grab a grey dress.

             6:05am: Ilanguidly take in my first (and favorite) meal of the day. Flocons D’Avoine Aux Baies (Verry Berry Oatmeal). A tablespoon of honey. Nice and heartwarming, the way I like it. I pick up my almost dog-eared copy of my favorite Hemingway.  Une Génération Perdue: “I thought of Miss Stein and Sherwood Anderson and egotism and mental laziness versus discipline and I thought who is calling who a lost generation? Then as I was getting up to the Closerie des Lilas with the light on my old friend, the statue of Marshal Ney with his sword out and the shadows of the trees on the bronze, and he alone there and nobody behind him and what a fiasco he’d made of Waterloo, I thought that all generations…” A thought suddenly enters my mind. Chew. Swallow. Chew. “…were lost by something and always had been and always would be and I stopped at the Lilas to keep the statue company and drank a cold beer before going home to the flat over the sawmill…” Wait what was that? Chew. Swallow. Chew. Somehow, for some reason, I wasn’t able to grasp the fleeting words of my dizzy morning mind; for although the oatmeal was warm, the thought had slipped into the cold breeze entering through the window. 

              ADMU. CTC 406. It’s chilly in the classroom; so chilly that the coldseeps through my skin but I have grown used to it. It doesn’t bother me anyway. There I am in the last row, at the very back of the classroom nearest the exit. My block mates, other freshmen, and the sophomores have all got their ears on our professor, Sir Arvin. Meanwhile, I hold my pen and copy notes…What did Martine Cajucom say on Scout magazine again? Oh right: if you feel like you need to leave, then leave. If it will help you grow as a person, then by all means leave. Independence sounds so thrilling; it’s as if you plunge yourself head first into this unchartered expanse, just going, going, going until you know where you are and you know where you’re headed. Am I sure about this whole JTA plan? She (my first cousin who is currently in Netherlands, I miss her) did say that academics here in Ateneo is so much harder, but Dayan (my Chem classmate) said that when some people get back they end up catching up on units. And after all this is done, what am I supposed to do then? What internships can I pursue that would fit the bill? Hmm, Sunnies? Preview, maybe? Where would those things take me? Publishing, retail, publishing, retail…Remember, the world now is smaller compared to my time. You have a lot of opportunities, you just have to look. Nothing will be given to you; you have to earn it yourself. Always think big, okay? And if you have any ideas, just tell me, and we can work something out—a partial derivative is a derivative of a function of two or more variables with respect to one variable, the other(s) being treated as constant. I write it down, but something slips away from my paper-thin mind. 

       
           After all my classes, I decided I deserved a drink. Non-alcoholic, of course—it’s a Wednesday for crying out loud. Milk tea from Coco would quench my irreparably parched soul. “Bye I’ll see you soon!” my classmate says. “Yup, I’ll miss you guys.” We were about to part ways when he said, “Where are you going?”

Oh, I’m going to Regis.

Alone?

Yup.

I made my way from Berchmans to MVP, and trudged to Leong with my backpack and jug in tow. The sky grew darker and the clouds hovered above us and cast a thin blanket of the unknown that was yet to come. Did I forget anything? I check my bag again: wallet, phone, lipstick, my Math stuff (finals coming up!), calculator. Do I even have cash on me? I can’t walk in there empty-handed. Luckily, I did have some money—300 pesos would do. I walk and walk, my right hand holding my bag, my left holding my jug. Walking and walking, I pass by different people. They’re mostly in groups—barkadas, couples, old-time friends, new friends, friends with a future that they aren’t even aware of, boys and girls laughing, girls talking about girl things, and I walk through them, through them. And there it was again: the thought. I reached the footbridge to Regis and on it, I looked straight ahead not looking left and right, not looking at anyone, although I was aware that there I was suspended above all of Katipunan, feeling smaller and smaller with every step I take. I couldn’t shake the fleeting words in my mind away, I couldn’t, I couldn’t. Left, right, left, right. I reached Coco and sat at the table by the wall, alone.

          I dropped my bag on the chair and got my wallet. ­No, maybe I’ll go to the restroom first. I dropped my wallet in my bag and opened the door. Or I’ll order first and then go to the restroom. Yeah. I got my wallet again and headed for the counter. “Nicole!” I see my block mate bestie whom I haven’t seen in a while because of all the school work overwhelming us and consequently killing every ounce of life left in us. I hug her tightly. She was standing right in front of the large menu plastered on the wall. I was listening to her, but my eyes would dart from her to the menu: Coco Milk Tea, Winter Melon Mountain Tea, 2 Ladies, 3 Buddies (milk tea with pearl, pudding, and grass jelly). “Yeah Lit’s been so hard, we have another paper due this week.” Matcha Slush with Salty Cream. Lemon Yakult (what?). Black Tea Latte. “That’s why I can’t go with the block later to study for Math,” she says. Hmmm maybe I’ll get the usual Wintermelon. No, no, I think I’m craving for some milk tea. But I don’t want pearls so… "Okay, I gotta go now. Bye Nicole!”

I walked back to school with my drink now in my hand. Milk tea with no pearls.

6:00pm: Cousin’s birthday dinner. At home, I greeted my grandparents, my titas and titos, and all the other relatives and friends with a kiss and they would smile and usually say in return, “Wow you’re so big na!” I’m polite throughout the party. I always am. I listen to conversations, chime in if I have to, and smile, smile, smile. I look around me, and there I am in the middle of everyone, set apart, apart—their words and laughter buzzing through my ears and dissolving into thin air. “You’re cousin, he has a girlfriend na! I see his posts on Facebook, haha.” The usual tita talk occurs. “Yes well, he’s old enough. He’s turning 20 this year just like Nicole,” my mother points out. “Nicole, you’re turning 20 na ba? Akala ko 18 ka lang!” my lola exclaims. And with those words, my smile slowly faded but I was trying, I was really trying to maintain it, trying to laugh along—I had to. It faded and faded, and suddenly there was this rising feeling inside me, tugging at every corner of my soul, at the corners of my smile, the corners of my eyes, the corners of my polished outfit. Rising and rising, it was a push and pull—a game of tug of war—and I was losing.

Thankfully, my smile was intact.

10:30pm. I walk back to our house. It’s late and I was extremely tired from the long day. Unconsciously, I open the refrigerator and look for something to eat. Something sweet, maybe. I grab a Twinkie and wolf it down in a minute. I think I want more. A pack of Oreos with peanut butter. I hate it dry, I like it with milk. Something salty. Something savory. Crackers with blue cheese. And then gouda cheese. I grab cold leftover pepperoni pizza and leave it half-eaten. I drink water. I come back for the half-eaten pizza and pop it in the toaster oven. I realize that I hate cold pizza and I hate it bland without any type of sauce. And so, I look in the pantry, find some Tabasco and drizzle that all over this half pepperoni pizza. I then realize that I hate Tabasco—it lacks the kick that hot sauce should have, it’s boring and it just plainly sucks. Where is the freaking Habanero sauce? I want more.

I climb into bed with a stomach so full that I don’t think I’ll be eating for the next few weeks. I close my eyes and shut myself out. The day’s events started rushing into me: The studying, the rough morning, having to choose what to wear, choosing that grey dress, only having 300 pesos, walking alone to Regis, talking to my friend whom I love dearly, walking back and studying for hours on end for a test that I doubt I’ll remember in the future, talking to grown-ups, trying to be one, trying to smile, listening to everyone around me getting girlfriends and boyfriends. I close my eyes even tighter. It’s rising now, making me feel uneasy as I try, I try to fall asleep. The school year’s ending and I’m turning 20 soon. Yes, in about six months, my teen years will have ended. And what have I done? What have I done with my life so far? I close my eyes, I close them. But I couldn’t anymore. And it all came rushing out.

I cried.

What if I am part of this génération perdue? What if I choose the black top that I love instead? What if I talk to my seatmates during Math class? What if I walk to Regis with someone and maybe get to hold their hand? What if I say what I want to say during parties? What if there’s actually Habanero sauce in the pantry but it’s just that I don’t look hard enough?

I breathe in and breathe out, not knowing what to do. Maybe it’ll be like this until I’m twenty, or maybe not. But I guess I’ll just have to wait for tomorrow, the next day, the day after that, when chances are either grasped or missed again.

Main photo: DigitalVision Colormos and Moment Mobile, Kevin Schafer

Growing Up a Fashion Girl

      

      This is an essay I’ve written about a year ago. Forgot all about it so I decided to put it up here on ze blog! Although I’d love to revise this (this really needs a lot of work haha), I want to preserve my thoughts and feelings at that time. Cheers to fashion!

      Like all teens, I had my friends come over all the time. We would follow the routine—watch a movie, take some photos, have pizza, and maybe even bake. One time, two of my friends were laughing about something, but I just couldn’t catch their drift. Oh well. A little while later after a hearty viewing of Lizzie McGuire The Movie, they were laughing about something they stumbled upon on the internet. I couldn’t relate, and so I just smiled and brushed it off. After a couple more of the same instances wherein I would just nod along to their references, my friend commented:

      “You’ve been living under a rock!” 

      I must confess: I got hurt. I got over it quickly and just let it slide. She’s just kidding, I told myself. Moments after, while we were probably laughing at something on Tumblr or YouTube, my friend found my collection of photos on my desktop. She browsed through them, and her face lit up as if seeing something for the first time. She looked up at me, and said: “You have your own world.”

      This world of mine was sprawling with runway shows with different species of women such as the Balenciaga babe, the Lanvin lady, the D&G ditz, and even a Jean-Paul Gaultier gal. (insert something all continents blah blah) They were all clad in the finest of fabrics and the most glittering of jewels (they had a change of wardrobe of course when Fall/Winter came around). Aside from the bam bam sound of their mighty heels, one could hear the faint laughs of models backstage, and afterwards, the sound of Monsieur Lagerfeld explaining how “Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life so you bought some sweatpants.” Brimming the halls of these catwalks were the curious street creatures who were just as interesting as the collections themselves. Their colourful layers were quirky and witty, sweet yet snappy. As they pounced the streets, their capes and Celine bags moved boldly, and so did the world we all lived in. It was an overwhelming spectacle. And I’m glad that it was all just a click away. (Thank you, STYLE.com.)

      On the other side of the universe lied a very chill but sometimes crazy, Chatime-fueled planet wherein girls such as my friends banged their heads to The Jonas Brothers. They would snap photos with digicams---side swept bangs hung loose, tongue out, and were all wearing the uniform of choice: denim shorts and tank tops. The glorious voice of Hannah Montana can be heard everywhere because nobody’s perfect and you gotta work it. The Biebs and Breezy were also battling over who could steal more hearts. And curating Facebook albums was a full-time job.

      When my friend took a glimpse into my world, she lifted a screen that revealed a shocking new place for me: reality. It was a reality to be different from everyone else because it just so happened that I was in their world.

      Different. I was different.    

      I was a young fashion girl (just in case you haven’t grasped that yet) caught in between swarming peer pressure and freeing passion. I chose to play it safe and achingly chose to lock up that precious part of me away from everyone to see. And so I wore denim shorts for a while whenever I went out with friends. I also listened to Jason Derulo and to every other artist that told the DJ to drop the beat. My attempts at “blending in” became a routine: go on Tumblr, watch viral YouTube videos, stay updated on the latest #hashtags and slang words, and keep your fashion mouth shut. That was my stream of consciousness, the daily grind in this world. However, the silence maddened me and I caved in.

      Why did I need to repress myself? Why should I hide who I really was? These questions may sound like a coming-of-age film, but that was the truth. Conformity, in all its communal spirit and assurance, was not as comforting as it should have been. If Coco Chanel withdrew from society’s standards of dressing, created a nouveau look, and clearly got away with it, then why can’t I do the same? Why can’t I wear layers of bangles? Why can’t I put a turban atop my head? Printed pants…a little jewelry, perhaps? Throw on a cool jacket in crazy colors, and I’ve gotten myself a revolution.

      Revealing my passion was a careful process, just as a caterpillar undergoes metamorphosis. My cocoon cracked open, bit by bit, and the wing excitedly peeped out from underneath. The first step was to allow my clothing to truly represent me. Goodbye, tank tops! And as I cultivated the art and practice of dressing up, something blossomed out of it: style. Having style just doesn’t involve putting on a little black dress and calling it a day. It’s something innate that runs through the veins, and to be fully aware of such DNA only means that one truly knows one’s self. Next, I became vocal about fashion. (True story: I once tried to hide the fact that I was taking sewing workshops from my friends.) My favourite designer, my favourite collection, and even my favourite models began to be topics of conversation with my peers. I could have been the next Tim Blanks! Through my newfound confidence, I finally shared my passion to the public, posted photos on Instagram of my latest sewing projects and even started a blog to share my thoughts and ideas. Word’s out: I AM A FASHION GIRL.

      The warm rush of happiness, however, was accompanied by a sort of loneliness because I was still living in their world, lest I forget that. I was still different. There they were, and here was I. Bieber and them. Fashion and I. Thus, certain difficulties and challenges came in tow. In the mall, I would feel the stares of people as I pass by them in my moody long skirt and equally androgynous top. Why was she wearing a hat? One person asked my friend. Wooow, dark lipstick! Looking funky today, huh? Aside from the comments, there was also the invisible riff between my friends and me. Now, of course, there was an established mutual respect between us, but they didn’t know who Nicolas Ghesquiere and Raf Simons were. They couldn’t share with me their thoughts on the latest it shoe or bag. Was I the only one who didn’t like Prada’s sandals? No answer.

      Amidst the struggles that came with loving normcore (and watching too many fashion documentaries), one question arose and demanded an answer: Why? Why bother with trends and shows when others don’t appreciate them too? Why wear weirdly proportioned outfits only to be mistaken as a manghuhula? The sneering and the eyes, the judgement and the frowns… I had to make sense of it all. And upon reflection, with my hand on my boxy tee-bearing chest, I realized that this was all out of love. It was as simple as that. I was (and still am) in love with fashion---and not for the reasons people may imply. The glamour and the luxury never held any true power for me. The real power came from the stories behind the clothing. A Dior couture dress, though seemingly simple, is actually designed by Raf Simons after a rigorous process of studying the house’s archives. The artisans then interpret the design, create and shape it with fabric as a sculptor breathes life into clay. There is something magical in transforming inspiration as banal as oil spills or corals, into something wearable and comprehensible by a woman. And I liked that idea---the philosophy, that cracks on the street, the waves of the ocean, and the stitches of a dress can hold a lot of wisdom. I guess I wanted to be a part of that. I wanted to view the world in a different light, and wearing the fashion of the times gave me the spectacles to do so.

      Now, I still believe in the power of fashion. And I don’t think that will ever change. My peers greatly respect my passion and direction, and always encourage me to be as fasyon as I could be. However, there will always be people who judge you based on your outfit in the mall. I don’t have the gizmo to zap everyone’s brains to make them all appreciate the art of clothing. What I do have is the respect for anyone’s opinion, because I won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. It’s also safe to say that I’ve reached the optimal level of sartorial confidence, and I have social media to thank for the democratization of fashion (woohoo bloggers!).  In this journey of living up to who I am, I’ve met a lot of fellow fashion folk along the way whom I proudly call my friends. The Philippine fashion scene, I believe, has found its niche in modern society, and I could only hope to contribute to its growth in the future. But right now, I am simply me, still living under that same old “rock”. The only difference is that I wear my heart on my sleeve…and it’s looking brighter than a Balmain blazer.

(Main image: Photo by Dimitrios Kambouris, Getty Images)