When my neighbor warned me earlier about his being a handful when he's drunk, I paid no heed to his words because I didn't think there'd be a disparity between his inebriated and sober yet talkative self. But, boy, was I wrong. To say that he's loquacious is an understatement. The guy hasn't stopped talking since his second drink.
Under normal circumstances, I'd roll my eyes at him and frown because he speaks pure nonsense half the time. However, to my surprise, much of what he has been saying for the last fifteen minutes actually makes perfect sense.
From our rather discombobulating topic about meeting his parents, he waltzed back to the conversation regarding our neighbors in Tarlac. He asked if there are more reasons why I said that those people make my hackles rise. So, I told him about how they've always made our lives a living competition. I already lost count of the times my siblings and I have been compared to each other, and other people's kids. Since then, it has always been as if there's an imaginary bar that has been set too high that everyone in our neighborhood should be able to reach. If not, that person will end up as the object of ridicule. Adults will, then, start to compare that person with others and speak about how they are doing so much better, so why can't he keep up?
I remember a time when one of the kids in our neighborhood was told, "Mabuti pa 'yung mga anak ni Carol matatalino. Ikaw napakahina ng utak mo. Pare-parehas lang naman kayo ng pinag-aaralan pero bakit parang walang pumapasok sa utak mo? Paano ka makaka-angat sa buhay kung ganiyan ka?"
He was only eight during that time. At a very young age, the poor boy had already experienced what it feels like to be humiliated in front of many people because of his parents' ridiculous expectations of him. It must have been so undignifying and traumatizing for him.
I haven't seen him since that day and I no longer remember his face or name. But I vividly remember that moment and those harsh words spoken to him. However, it wasn't the worst part of that day. It's gotten more disgusting when we came home and the first thing our mother told us was, "Huwag kayong gagaya sa batang 'yun nang hindi kayo mapulaan ng iba."
I abhorred her so much that day.
My siblings grew up to be overbearing and I honestly blame my parents for that. They've made them feel like they are the standards. That they are better than other people. That they are superior and invincible.
No wonder why they couldn't get off their high horses now.
What's the point of being intelligent if you're such a douchebag, anyway?
After sharing with him the tale of my deeply rooted abhorrence toward our neighbors, Guian candidly said, "I don't understand why imperfect parents expect their children to be perfect. It's just . . . wrong."
My mouth slightly gaped upon hearing those words from him. And I know it wasn't just the alcohol inside him speaking when he said that.
He said so many meaningful things before this, but those words hit differently. That's why they resonated with me the most. It's as though he took the words out of my mouth because I have the same sentiment.
And from his candid remark blossomed our deeper conversation regarding that matter. I sat across from him and listened the entire time. His words spoke to me and it's as though he was coming from the same place as I was, despite knowing that he grew up in a rather warmhearted and supportive family. The kind that didn't burden him and his brother to be anyone but themselves. The kind that didn't oppress their dreams. The kind where the difference in aspirations and talents was celebrated rather than derided or mocked.
He didn't sound like he was patronizing me, at all. If anything, I felt like he communed with me and tried to meet me at my level of pain.
I have got to say, empathy is a language he speaks so fluently.
