Worst in tensions

MANILA, Philippines - The closest I’ve been to a real fight happened two years ago when my friend got punched in the face. After we played our set, we were hanging out at the parking lot when a guy approached him and asked him if they could “talk” inside. The guy left a minute later and soon enough, our friend stumbles towards the parking lot with blood running down his face. He swiftly points his finger to the guy who was now running far, far away from us and screamed, “Get him!”

Being such a ball of lard, I stood there frozen, holding a nearly burned-out cigarette. Why the frak should I follow a guy who made your face bleed? Luckily, a bunch of kids who were selling sampaguita decided to aid us. “Kuya, kami na hahabol,” they said. And I was, like, “Go ahead.” Tired from the fiasco, we retreated back into our booth, and settled on watching Techy Romantics gyrate on stage. My friend threatened to sue the bar for their apparent lack of security, and we ended up getting banned from playing there. A few months later, that bar closed down.

During a recent conversation, he assumed that the altercation had something to do with him making amends with a former flame that night at the bar. Apparently, the girl’s current boyfriend was inside the bar and saw his girl talking to a pink-haired freak. My friend thought that this paved the way for him getting punched in the face, but he later admitted that it was merely a case of robbery (which may or may not have been ordered by the boyfriend). After he got punched, his phone was stolen.

I asked him about what he learned from that night. “Nothing against you guys, but that’s when I learned not to trust people to help me,” he said. For him, that night was a sign to start fighting his own battles, whereas for me, it was merely a testament that I can never truly fight.

Raised in the suburbs and educated by nuns, I was pretty much your average sheltered child. The only battles I fought were found in Battletoads. I transferred to a prestigious high school that was populated by nerds, burnouts, and girls with strong principles. In college, I was a recluse who shifted between hippie speedballs and trolling kids on Tumblr. Outside, hordes of fratmen would emerge from their classes and beat each other with metal pipes. I couldn’t care less, really. It was apathy that got me through those six years.

I weigh about 250 pounds all of which is enclosed within my 5’7’’ stature. Medically speaking, I’m beyond overweight and possibly morbidly obese. In an evolutionary psychology perspective (a field that borrows findings from animals and applies them to humans), the bigger and stronger creatures within the same species are always the ones who start the fights. Meaning: me.

At the core, the feeling of superiority is what drives men to fight. Evolutionary psychology made a valid point, but it missed the fact that humans have the capacity to make themselves big in a myriad of ways. This is why Hitler, a man who stood at 5’8” inches, preferred to be guarded by men who are at least six feet tall, and gave medals to those who reached 6’6’’. This is why Harris and Klebold brought double-barreled shotguns when they went to class, one day in Columbine. This is why Leopold, a 19-year-old child prodigy with an IQ of 210, and Loeb, the youngest graduate in the history of the University of Michigan at 18, decided to murder a 14-year-old boy. One doesn’t need to be tall in order to be big.

Just because I’m big, it doesn’t mean that I’m a fighter. For me, it all comes down to how one is raised. It just so happens that I was raised to be the gentle guy: someone who pays for dates and knows when to shut up. For now, I prefer channeling my anger through playing the tambourine for my band. So far, I’m unscathed.

Here’s to another 23 years of nonviolence.