Speak to us of giving

The lady janitor who has made this job her career of 20 years hands me an old brass lamp. "It is old and needs a new bulb, but otherwise it still works," she says to me, with a thoughtful smile.

When you are at a time in your life the plague of pessimism starts to spread around your universe, you are at this place, sinking in a bottomless pit. You continue falling while you wait for your ultimate death as you crash on the hard, callous surface of the earth.

Then out of the dark blue hole, arms reach out grabbing and catching you. Hearts reveal themselves, alive with so much beat, as you find yourself following the rhythms. You are amazed that you seek solace and welcome the generosity of these unexpected visitors.

The dawn of optimism breaks the day and however malignant the disease of negativity had earlier infected your soul during your fall, you begin to rise; you look up to see the light peeking out of the well and smile as you climb out of your dark blurry grave.

Where I live the population numbers to 2,000. As you do your daily chores around this small community of simple folk, you come across familiar faces. Sometimes you forget names, and even faces. But the smile or the courteous greeting is always recognizable. This humble fishing locale surprisingly hosts a full line of resources to assist, volunteer, and offer charity. This is a collective lending hand. Classes are defined but not prejudiced. This small band of towsnfolk have formed volunteer help groups to assist the elderly, the youth, the impoverished and indigents, those with handicaps and disability - whether physical or mental, the social-underclass, the victims of varied abuses, children, wives, tagless dogs and lost cats, injured crows and seagulls, and most recently, me.

All of a sudden I find myself a victim of unconditional generosity. I am besieged by offers of the many forms of help - whether they be material or emotional. I am overwhelmed by people's atypical desire to donate their personal (and once valuable) effects as soon as the note on the memo board says I am in need. I am brought to tears not because of pity for myself, but of humanity's ability for compassion. And as uncomfortable I have been at first, I must remember and understand that I shall accept with open-arms the goodness of humankind, and to show acceptance of their gift with a simple, uncomplicated gratitude, and an uncompromising smile.

Even though I've always given mankind the benefit of doubt, many a bad experience gave way to cynicism and cold-heartedness. Once more I find myself believing the purity of the human entity. Another path comes my way. As I begin this new passage my heart is once again fed and my body is energized. I trudge my transitional road once more, bearing a smile at the meeting eyes of the unblemished, naked, and unmitigated giver-being.

There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward...
There are those who give and know not pain in giving...
Nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue.
And you receivers... assume no weight of gratitude,
lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings.
- Kahlil Gibran

Eve's curse

Sometimes I blame my parents for making me a girl instead of a boy. When I was growing up I loved playing with boys. I even fistfought with some of the shitheads whenever they told me I was a slow runner, or chanted "you are ugly" repeatedly. My mother was warned by one teacher about my behavior because she worried I was a tomboy. "She's too pretty to be a boy," this teacher commented.

Tomboy was regarded as lesbian in our society. Sure I was a tomboy. I ran with the boys, played ball, immitated their walk, kicked their asses, and once, even spat at an antagonizer. This empowerment over my gender and the other class lasted until I graduated from elementary school. My male comrades were both sad and happy to bid farewell as we went our separate ways into higher schools.

Then my body started to surprise me. Two lumps started appearing on my chest. I knew what they were but I didn't want them. I tried to hide (them); I couldn't, though. Day by day they grew. I was disgusted at the transformation, and cursed out loud everytime they get bumped on doors, walls, things that stood upright, including careless stupid people. I became aware, and then I realized that these booby traps were damn sensitive.

As puberty slapped my tomboyish persona, my mother decided to buy me a bra. The constriction this piece of garment cum armor made me gasp for air. I constantly tugged and itched. Although it protected the fragility of my growing hills, I was disappointed about how the 'constrictor' made them even more prominent, after all I thought the bra was to obscure the breasts.

Boys started growing, too. Along with the change in voice and appearance of hair on their face and body, their personality seemed to be converting. Some of them even paid me attention, and I could have sworn one of the bastards even touched my tits under pretense that it was an accidental bump.

Thirteen years after my parents introduced me to the world, I became a woman.

Forty years later, I am still the feisty tomboy who wouldn't let a boy overstep me. My temperament has caused me mistakes and failures, but at the same time gave me successes. Men came and went. We played, we fought, we confided, and we separated. Growing up a tomboy while emulating boys' actions has made me accessible as a peer to them. I could relate with men and understand their needs and desires of women, especially, but once I am the woman they want to divulge those wants and needs, I no longer could carry on the fellowship. My relationships with men beyond friendship seem to be a pattern of meltdowns.

Mimicking the childhood game of tag, I continue to run and avoid being tagged, only to be caught eventually and run some more. Only this time I chase to tag, corner him, and finally make him 'it'.