Some Varieties of Volleyball and Childhood Violence
(1:19 PM)
"Why do you have a chipped tooth?"
Someone asked my friend, out of nowhere.
"I got it when I was in Grade One," my friend explained, "because my classmate pushed me to the ground and my face hit a rock."
I had an instant image of injustice, the universal cruelty of kids against other kids.
"We were roughhousing," my friend added, trying to contextualize the violence.
For a moment, my sympathies were with him. Because of that, he had to endure a lifetime burdened with a chipped tooth. He was about 27 years old now, an office worker, and he always wore a tie to work.
Then, he added, "So I got back at him and punched his face until it was bloody. I was dragged to the Principal's office after that. I had to explain why I beat up our classmate who had polio."
There was about five of us listening to his story and we couldn't believe what he just said. We started asking questions, clarifying the new image in our minds: a small, helpless seven-year old in a wheelchair, with a bloody face.
He continued.
"He had a wheelchair, but he didn't like using it. He was a rich kid and he loved playing volleyball. He had pants with a triple layer of cloth because he usually walked around in school on all fours. On his hands and knees."
I suddenly knew what "black comedy" was.
"He still lives on our street and he's now a Guidance Counselor at our old school." Then he smiled and said, "I still see him sometimes."
That seems right, somehow.
"But we don't greet each other."
Later, that night, my father-in-law told me that our local variety of watermelon (the round, dark green one) has a tendency of exploding when rain comes after a hot day.
It happened to a friend of his who had a watermelon farm in Bulacan. A drop of rain would hit a watermelon and instantly crack it open. The whole harvest was lost in a few minutes of afternoon rain.
Red flesh everywhere.
Someone asked my friend, out of nowhere.
"I got it when I was in Grade One," my friend explained, "because my classmate pushed me to the ground and my face hit a rock."
I had an instant image of injustice, the universal cruelty of kids against other kids.
"We were roughhousing," my friend added, trying to contextualize the violence.
For a moment, my sympathies were with him. Because of that, he had to endure a lifetime burdened with a chipped tooth. He was about 27 years old now, an office worker, and he always wore a tie to work.
Then, he added, "So I got back at him and punched his face until it was bloody. I was dragged to the Principal's office after that. I had to explain why I beat up our classmate who had polio."
There was about five of us listening to his story and we couldn't believe what he just said. We started asking questions, clarifying the new image in our minds: a small, helpless seven-year old in a wheelchair, with a bloody face.
He continued.
"He had a wheelchair, but he didn't like using it. He was a rich kid and he loved playing volleyball. He had pants with a triple layer of cloth because he usually walked around in school on all fours. On his hands and knees."
I suddenly knew what "black comedy" was.
"He still lives on our street and he's now a Guidance Counselor at our old school." Then he smiled and said, "I still see him sometimes."
That seems right, somehow.
"But we don't greet each other."
Later, that night, my father-in-law told me that our local variety of watermelon (the round, dark green one) has a tendency of exploding when rain comes after a hot day.
It happened to a friend of his who had a watermelon farm in Bulacan. A drop of rain would hit a watermelon and instantly crack it open. The whole harvest was lost in a few minutes of afternoon rain.
Red flesh everywhere.