Flashback #318

In many ways, he was my best friend at that time. I never actually admitted this to him, but he was the one I got along with most in elementary. Stefan, the magician. He was your veritable nerd complete with spectacles and ski-pants that everybody oh-so-loved to make fun of because he was different from everybody else. And at times, to my eternal shame, I joined in on the name-calling. During recess, we had formed an imaginary news crew called the "Dream Team" wherein we would approach other kids and ask them what they had dreamed last night. Normally it was about ponies, or ice cream. Every once in a while we'd get "I was president of Canada", or "I threw up pickles on my sister." I loved the irregular ones. It was the norm for "cool kids" in other classes to pick on Stef during recess. This one particular recess in grade 3, I was feeling awfully brave, and felt like picking a fight with one of Stefan's bullies as they were picking on him. I lost. My first and only schoolyard fight in my whole academic career, and I lost to a guy who was a foot taller than me. I lasted pretty long though, but a knee to the gut did me in. It was horrible and most memorable because the winner started to cry as the T.A.'s unleashed their fury on him. Even though I had proven my friendship with Stefan at that point, I still feel remorse to this day about all the times I had made fun of him along with the others, or the times I was embarrassed to be his friend. School is a jungle, what can I say?

In grade 3, he had won the most prestigious award of best magician of his age group in Canada (I didn't even know that there were championships). It was great, because nobody believed him except for me. Later that week, CBC wanted to do a news special on him and even record him doing a magic show in front of the whole class. Finally, some payoff to being his friend (selfish, I know).

In grade 4, his parents had divorced, and so at the beginning of summer, he had to move. It was a pretty sad time for me, but only as sad as a kid in grade 4 would lose a toy or forget where he buried his secret stash. After all, whom was I going to listen to Weird Al albums and go biking with now? I remember the day before he moved away, it was late afternoon. We biked together as the sun was setting. He promised to call me for special events like birthday parties and sleepovers. He didn't.

Filipinos have a strange culture. It's based very much on image. You can see it in today's youth as they drive their noisy ricemobiles whilst talking on their cellphone and seat reclined to the laying down position. The older generation care very much about their image as well, however, they show it in a different, and yet, very understandable fashion - through their children. The tradition of the debut started during the early spanish occupation of the Philippines and has been carried out among Filipino families ever since. So much in fact, that there was a movie made about it a few years ago. I loved it. I thought it was so funny, seeing as how the main character was a coconut, like me. ANYWAY, a debut is simply a celebration of a coming-of-age of a daughter in a Filipino family. I'm not sure if there are other cultures that celebrate this, but if there is, please let me know. =)

I'm sure you've been wondering ever since ricemobiles why I'm mentioning all this, and I will tell you. A bit more than a year ago, I met Stefan for the first time since he moved away at a debut. My neighbour's daughter had turned 18 that year. They also had a son, who had passed away at the age of six due to cancer. Stefan and I were friends with him during his short life, and yet neither of us knew about it until just before he had to move away. Apparently he had kept in touch with them and not me (FOR SHAME! Just kidding, I'm cool with it). So, as it turned out we were seated at the same table, his family and mine. His mom with her new husband, and his dad with his new wife, his twin sisters, who reminded me of the olsen twins, and his girlfriend, a pretty thing. My family came out strong with myself, Mom, and Dad. He looked a little different, hairier. And yet, he still held the same demeanor and mannerisms that were so familiar to me.

As we caught up, I learned that he had become a vegan, an athiest, and anarchist. He keeps a blog of his own. Now, I have no objections to his choice of worldview or lifestyle, I'm only saddened by how much we have grown apart. And though we both left that party on good terms, it seemed that we no longer had anything in common except for our childhood memories. I visit his blog every once in a while, and it's mostly about what he thinks of Bush, politics and ideals. Politics bore me, really, but I keep reading to see what I've been missing all these years. To see what his perspective on life is. I don't consider us friends anymore, but politics and opinions aside, I think that we could have still been friends had we kept in touch. In many respects, we are the same, him and I; we're both idealists. And even though this world isn't perfect, I believe that people can still get along regardless of race, religion, or beliefs. And I think this is as close to perfection as you can get. I certainly won't forget him.

I guess amidst all this rambling, what I'm trying to say is that experience has taught me that most people are in my life for a finite amount of time. It's kind of sad, but it's an ugly fact of life. On the flip side, my heart tells me that it doesn't have to be this way. That maybe, if both parties really wanted to make something happen, it would. I think I think too much.

Sidenote: A couple years after my first and only schoolyard fight, I beat the crap out of Michael Pinette, the biggest kid in our class because he started making fun of my last name. Ever since then, and throughout high school, he treated me like his best friend. Heh, Michael Peanut.