The Line Between Nice and Nasty

SOFT-SPOKEN, that’s me. With many people, I am warmly polite. And with new acquaintances, I am generally friendly but reserved.

So, the impression people have of me is that I am nice and kindly. My daughter would agree to that, except she also sees me as too kind to the point of being a soft touch.

The real me, which most everyone in my family does not see, is that me, too, could be nasty.

I first saw this side of myself with my then husband. We lived in New Zealand; he was working for an airline company; I was working for a university. I was this brown-skinned Asian living away from my home country.

As a newcomer, we were invited by his workmates to have dinner or for barbecue in their place. I was made welcome. It was highly appreciated except in this one instance.

We were retrieving our jackets from the coat rack to leave. It was after dinner at his mate’s house. As we were about to step out the front door, I noticed a rather tall pot plant in the corner. I made a comment on it. How healthy and robust it looked, I said.

No response came from the dinner hosts except for a stilted grunt.

I wondered why the uneasy tone. Did my compliment fall short?

On the drive home, I learned the reason why.

The plant, which I thought was a normal pot plant, was cannabis. Possession of marijuana is illegal in the country, until now.

I was bothered.

To think that the cannabis-cultivating couple had young children, aged nine to four, who could easily pick and play with the plant, even munch on the leaves. For me, responsible parents should be their children’s role models.

My then husband tried to shield his friend, saying that the cannabis was only for the couple’s recreational use. It was still illegal, I said.

So I put my foot down. We would never set foot in that house again, I said with emphasis, and he would distance himself with this “friend”. It was non-negotiable. I wanted nothing to do with those involved in unlawful activities.

My unfriendly insistence turned out to be timely. His mate was later fired from the job as he was caught stealing (tiny) parts of the aircraft, being in the engineering department.

***

A few years later, after accepting a very attractive redundancy package, my then husband decided to migrate in the Philippines. He would put up a business. I agreed. I had siblings in New Zealand, but most of my family were in Manila.

It was the only sensible thing to do, re-unite with my family. Leaving my job at the university was no heartache; I had not stopped writing for Philippine publications, anyway. The sales of local romance novels were on the rise; a change of domicile from Auckland to Manila was more than favorable for my career.

***

But it was toxic for my (first) marriage.

Without my agreement, he and a partner (who was also from down under) put up a business that I disapproved of. It was a girlie bar, the business that I was to learn, much later, was his original plan to invest in.

The bar was located in Angeles City, along the notorious Fields Avenue. This area was frequented by American personnel from nearby Clark Air Base and soldiers on R&R. The city also hosted several expat communities, with residents from Europe and North America.

Angeles was a first-class city with first-class amenities and reputable schools and universities. However, it did not have a good reputation amongst those living outside of it, whether in-county or overseas.

Western men were seen to travel to Angeles only for booze and good-time girls. This unsavory reputation, however undeserved, rested on that short street called Fields.

Which was why I shuddered at the thought of the business. It was no source of pride. For me, for my family. The elder members of my family who learned about it felt shamed.

For me, it was the sort of business that exploited women, a theme and situation which I had previously written a lot about. How then could my other half get involved in an occupation which I strongly believed took advantage of women, especially young women?

Nasty me had to lay the boundaries to my then husband. I was never to see nor set foot in that establishment, I was never to be engaged in any discussion about it; and not one bloody cent from that business would be spent in any way in my household.

Such thoughts tormented me.

Four weeks after the soft opening of that business which gutted my conscience, the second-largest volcanic eruption of the 20th century occurred. The business and our residence were located just 50 miles from the volcano. Its eruption, after 600 years, devastated about two million people.

If I thought I was nasty, Mt Pinatubo’s eruption proved nastiest.

(The mighty American airbase, Clark, situated at only 14 miles from the volcano, had to abandon the base and leave the airbase totally. But that’s another story.)

***

Divorce, death, remarriage

For the longest time, the nasty streak in me did not surface again. With good reasons. I drew the line between being cheated on, being lied to, being forever an easy game and just giving up. I gave up my first marriage and sought divorce. (My ex then died years later.)

I focused on work, friends and family – until my daughter pushed me to try to find love. Again.

Well, I did.

But as I had been dealt a bitter lesson in entering a supposed permanent relationship without fully knowing the other person and his friends, I took my time. I observed. My analytical mind was on overdrive.

Friendly me found my choice to be more conscionable than I am, perhaps due to his and his family’s military background.

But nasty me saw in two of his friends an unconcealed condescension that bordered on insult and rudeness. They saw me through the prism of my brown skin. You see, I did not look like them.

I suffered their crudity many more times. I was patient, observing the other dig their unsophisticated hole much deeper with their inanity. Yes, that was me, nasty.

After I discussed sovereignty with them – politics was the topic at the time as the referendum on the UK leaving EU was about two months away – I decided I had enough niceness in me. For these couple of friends of my fiancé.

I refused to be treated with disdain, and declined to meet again with discourteous people.

My husband-to-be tried to lessen my unfriendliness, but when this one particular friend called me in his face as “his Filipina Thai bride”, he was incensed.

But I actually laughed when he related it to me. I was right in writing off this friend who just proved his denseness and racism.

***

Being nice and kind and friendly is well and worthy.

But there has to be a line drawn between being friendly and chilly.

Life is bliss without the hiss off a kiss from a nasty and fake camaraderie.

You, too, should first seek out possible nasties towards unsullied compatibility.

***

Thank you for reading.

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