The First Fist Fight.

We fought over empty Irish Spring soap boxes – does this sounds lame? Well, these soaps came from the Balikbayan box shipped last Christmas. Theoretically, when used on Asian skin, it would give you red spots like little birthmarks. As the brand names it Irish, so definitely it’s not for Asians. I swore myself not to use it again.

–

This was our first major fight ever, like rookies on a boxing match who didn’t even know how to punch each other. Foul reasons were explained, and we end up shouting at each other like what happened years ago with my ditse and my kuya. Though a warfreak son, I hate word fights. I’d rather taste blood dripping from my bleeding nose, or feel the weight of someone’s fist in my face. Words are for cowards. (That is an opinion. With girls, words are their only weapons – other than the bitch-slapping and the sabunutan.)

So I sound like Tyler Durden from Fight Club.

Debates, word wars, or muscle-to-muscle fights uses the same law of ethics: to fight for goodness and rationality. Don’t even care if he’s Bill Gates or some sick old puppy, or a fifty-year old father. Even if you’re just a kid, if you know the right thing – you should fight for it. Prove them wrong if you think you’re right. There goes my battling philosophy.

In this situation, Dad questioned my Economics project – which took me six hours to finish. The project is about using indigenous materials to create something new, to promote recycling and waste management: turning useless shits into something useful. I made a mini-cabinet from cartons. And I’ve used Irish Spring soap boxes for my three drawers.

Where are the soaps? Simple. I stacked them at the bathroom cabinet for future use. Ziplocked.

He suddenly shouted at me like some furious demon from the underworld, nose steaming with anger. I don’t know why my father forbid me to use soap boxes for a project, unless they contain some gold from its embossed cover. Or maybe the soaps are sentimental for my Dad since it was shipped by Mom. Either way, being my father, I obediently removed the drawers of my mini-cabinet. I am pissed off. (I even whispered loud for him to hear: Sayang naman. Anim na oras kong pinaghirapan tapos ipapatanggal lang.)

So I called our maid and asked her to buy four soaps at the nearby sari-sari store. Overhearing our conversation, my Dad went mad once again. This time, I fought back. My tongue’s getting irritated from his blabbermouth.

Ba’t magpapabili ka pa? Sayang lang pera mo!

Ano ba talaga gusto mo?

Huwag ka nang magpabili!

Eh anong gagamitin ko para sa drawers?

For the first time, my father and I fought. It felt odd at first, since we got along well – despite 40 years of age gap. Oh well, there’s a first time for everything.

I went straight to my room and delivered all the anger from my fists at my punching bag: my cabinet. For years, it served me as an honest friend, a weight-receiver, and an imaginary face to pour anger. (I even shouted p.i while pounding my fists on it)

–

Before he goes to work, he went to my room and apologized. I happened to be sleeping at my laptop, fists swelling, tired of my father’s irrationality over my six-hour work. The funny thing is, he toppled me with my four drawers and my allowance. By the time I woke up, I installed the drawers.

It happened last Thursday and until today, we haven’t spoken yet. (January 6 – 4:14 AM)

~ by utakgago on January 5, 2007.