Another Earth, Another Me

I imagine what the “me” would be like if there was another Planet Earth. A me that has the same looks, the same familial background, the same set of skills, inclinations, encounters, maybe even opportunities. Basically the same everything, only leading a different life because at some distinct point in our parallel lives, she made a different decision.

I think about all the turning points in my life, all the forks in the road that I faced, all the paths that I chose over the other based on sheer instinct. I think about these and I wonder which paths did she not take, and if the decisions she made led her to a different outcome. I wonder if her life is better or worse.

“Another Earth” is a story about a bright and ambitious teenage girl living at a time a duplicate planet Earth was discovered. On the night she got accepted at MIT for college, in her euphoria and drunkenness, she crashed into another’s car, killing a man’s pregnant wife and their son. Four years after she got out of jail, without much of a plan and with very little options available for convicted felons, she pretended to work for a housecleaning service company “Maid in Haven” and offered to give free house cleaning services to the man she injured, whose life had rapidly deteriorated after he lost his wife and kid. Just when she felt love and retribution from the man whose life she nearly destroyed, she won a highly coveted ticket to Planet Earth 2.

If you’re looking for answers, you won’t find one in this movie. (And no, you won’t see any cool intergalactic computer graphics.) On one side, the movie seems to be about regret, about wondering what life would have been if at one point in your life, you made the right decision. But more than regret, the story is about second chances, what it takes to get it and what would you not give to get it. It’s about forgiveness, whether it’s worth asking for even if you know you won’t get it. It’s a story about salvation, whether it’s here, in another life, or perhaps, if possible, in another planet.

Of Fathers and Daughters

No matter how hard little girls wish upon a star, they won’t always end up with a prince as worthy and noble as their fathers. Sometimes, if lady luck winks upon her, she would end up with somebody better. Other times, probably more often than not, she wouldn’t.

My dad is one hard nut to crack. Growing up, it has always been hard being my father’s daughter. Unlike other dads, he never wants us to be like him; he wants us to surpass him. Anything less than that equals failure.

If you knew my dad’s life story, you’d know what he asks of us is not only a herculean task, it’s also impossible. For one, he did a very good job sterilizing our lives and keeping us away from anything that could harm us: sharp edges, pointed corners, mosquito bites, violent TV shows, the wrong crowd, and stupid high school boys lurking around like starving piranhas. He child-proofed our paths for as long as he could that there was hardly any opportunity to rise up to the occasion, until it was time to get out of his nurturing embrace and face the real world. It was only then that we realized how cruel the world can be to unsuspecting and naive little girls. We realized that monsters are real and they’re not always bad-looking. Fairy godmothers don’t always come to the rescue when you’re down, desperate, and trapped in the dungeon. Evil witches can take the form of friends and feed you with a golden apple. And prince charming can turn into a toad after your first kiss.

Luckily, we’ve learned that we don’t need fairy tales to know about true love. Luckily, we first learned about love from someone who’s actually capable of such kind—unconditional, pure, and without judgment; love that will accept you for who you are who you’re going to be, who you can be, and who you can’t. It’s the kind of love that gives me strength, keeps my values intact, and sustains me in a world full of monsters and witches and toads.

Our family is great because my dad made a lot of personal sacrifices. With his wisdom and heart, he could have been someone far greater than anyone could ever imagine, but he chose to protect his family and keep his daughters happy. And for that I’m forever thankful.

I know all dads are great, and I do hope everyone who’s a dad felt special this father’s day because they all deserve it.

 

 

Push

Every time I hear the word push, I can only think of one person.

I don’t necessarily hate my library teacher, but I used to laugh just as hard as those who actually did. Her looks are typical of high school teachers: a big lady with a boy-cut hairstyle. Her smile, though genuine (if you look beyond the red lipstick stain on her teeth), is the kind that reminds you of an annoying relative who loves to talk at the top of her lungs about things no one is interested about. Her voice commanded attention but not respect. I remember how she talked on and on about Tigris and Euphrates, how the earliest civilization began on these two rivers, which is an interesting story through and through except that nobody wanted to listen, which made me feel kind of bad. She was one of the nicest ladies I’ve ever met, always helpful when you need reference materials for your thesis. She loved her books, and she loved hanging out in the library even if it meant being alone.

Mondays usually meant library class for freshmen students. I love reading, but not the kind of reading that she made us do. She used to ask us to bring newspapers to class, find the longest article in that issue, and make us read as much as we can for one minute. It was the longest minute of my life, because in the background you could hear nothing but her booming voice shouting “left-right-left-right-left-right-push” over and over until the words stick in your head and you realize that you’ve been stuck reading the exact same word over and over for the last 20 seconds. The more she said “push,” the slower I trudged on. Funny how I could still hear her in my head as I write this entry; and I could still sense her eyes on my back, watching me closely, making sure that my head is transfixed on my newspaper and my pointing finger is tracing the lines of what I’m reading.

As soon as her imaginary stopwatch stopped, she would make us count how many words we’ve read and tally it against our score the previous week. Speed reading, she would say, is what makes smart people smart. In fear of public humiliation, we would always try to squeeze in as much words as we can in our little brains (there were a good number of us who didn’t resort to cheating), regardless of whether we understood the article or not. I hated that activity, and pretty soon I started hating the subject. It didn’t just make me feel bad about my reading skills, which I thought all along was superb, it made me feel that I could never be as smart as those whose reading speed I could not outpace. It was a terrible feeling. It’s one of the many reasons why I dread Mondays up to now.

Some people are challenged by competition. If you insult their mental prowess or social standing or self-imposed authority, they would bare their claws and sink their teeth onto your weakest points like a tiger trying to win back its territory. On the contrary, the same trick that motivates the tiger would make other people shrink back, whimper, and slither back to its hole. I belong to that species.

Not that I subsist on positive reinforcement, but yes, I do prefer that, thank you very much. I know, we don’t always encounter people who will caress our ego and give us inspirational pep talks every time the world is hating on us, but not all people are powered by artificial heat. Unlike other people, I don’t need to be threatened to work extra hard. That’s already in my default setting. Nobody has to push me to make me do anything. Pushing will just make me angry, and it will just make me stop cooperating. I’m really easy to get along with, and I don’t play hard to get. If you want something from me, all you need to do is say “please.”

This Watch is Me

It’s casual, durable, unpretentious, artistic, adventurous, feminine, comfortable, and unique. It’s not made of anything expensive, but it fits my tiny wrist just right. Its strap is independent from its face, but they work perfectly as a team. As a whole, it doesn’t match just any outfit, nor does it try to.