The ABC of Katherine

Autobiography
I used to think that to write an autobiography was the epitome of conceit. But it would be hypocritical for me to say that now, because here I am writing an autobiography. But I came to realize that it is much more then vain attempts to explain behaviors and actions or even as a way to confess. For me it is about memory. I understand, glancing at my mum and her growing fear of Alzheimer's, that memory is a fragile thing. I want to remember everything. I want to look back and realize that I have lived a full life. Every fragment of memory has a story to tell and a lesson to be learnt, and these fragments should be cherished.

Books
I learn from books. It's not uncommon. But I guess what is strange is that I learn how to live my life based on what I've read or heard from books. My first love of books came after I read "Sadako and the thousand paper cranes" by Elenor Coerr. I was seven and after reading it, this amazing feeling came over me. I had discovered a new world, one full of literature, and it was exciting. I became morally aware from listening to the Bible. I learnt about friendship through reading The Babysitter's Club. I learnt about love by reading Virginia Andrews (although incestuous, tormented love isn't something I focused on) but most of all, I learnt about true literary obsession from reading Harry Potter.

Cook
John climbs the kitchen counter. He begins stirring a bowl with all sorts of goodness; flour, eggs, milk, water, sugar, salt, pepper and a beef sachet from a Maggi noodles packet. I search the kitchen for more ingredients. Opening the cupboard beneath the stove, I see two long-necked bottles. I want to read the label but it's all in Asian characters. I notice one word in English. I spell it out loud 'V-I-N-E-G-A-R'. I turn to John. 'What's vine-garrrr?' He shrugs. I pass it up to him anyway, plus the other bottle that has a brown watery liquid sloshing inside it; I can only make out one word Something Sauce. My face lights up. "I bet that's chocolate" I say to John. I pour a little of the contents into our mixture. It turns brown. I'm so excited; it is my first chocolate cake. I can't wait to give it to my grandfather to taste.

Daughter
It is hard to be perfect. It is even harder trying to be a perfect daughter. My parents only knew what they wanted in a daughter when their friends would boast about what their daughters could do. "Carla cooks for her parents. Why can't you? She's useful."" That sentence stabbed me in the heart. It dawned on me that my parents thought I was useless in comparison to my best friend. So the next day, and then every day from then on, there was always breakfast, lunch and dinner prepared from love for my family. I have done something my mum can be proud of. "My daughter always cooks" she would boast to her friends, "she loves to cook."" And it didn't stop with cooking either; my mum would repeat the same thing for each household task that needed to be done. To her I could never be perfect enough, though I have tried.

Education
I hated Kindergarten at Lidcombe Public School. My English was limited; no-one talked to me but this snotty Filipino girl, and the principal was vindictive, dragging me across the gravel to apologize for something that wasn't my fault. It was heaven sent that I only spent six months in that hell hole. I did learn one thing though; the world is full of mean, snobby bully's. The next school I attended, St Mary's Public School, was amazing beyond compare. I learnt everything in that school. My teachers guided and encouraged me in ALL aspects of education. I didn't want to leave. High school at Jamison High was different. I studied hard and did well but that encouraging factor was gone. It's when I realized that to achieve higher education, I'd have to depend on myself.

Family
It's a normal Sunday night in my Auntie's house. The men are outside, talking triviality around the BBQ. The women are around the table, gossiping. The boys are teasing and taunting the weaker being. The girls are watching TV, braiding hair. Suddenly, my 43 year old aunty enters, followed by her Australian boyfriend. There are bitchy whispers among everyone. My aunty screams at all of them, and tells them that they're snobs. She leaves in a huff. Yes, it's a normal Sunday night in my Auntie's house.

Goals
I've always pressured myself to make goals to get me through life. When I was 8 I pushed myself to handstand against a brick wall for 5 minutes straight. I was so close until the teacher told me to go down and stop the dangerous nonsense. When I was 11, I pushed myself to get a first place position in piano. I did, but Mary Joyce Cotejar, my rival, smirked and told me it would be the last time. It was. I even pressured myself to get into University, I got in but it's the hardest work I've ever had to do. My goals are like a drug. When I achieve, I'm on a high, but there's always something to bring me back down to earth. It's comforting to realize that my goals are realistic.

Hypochondriac
There's a funny feeling in my stomach. It clenches and squeezes my chest. My heart hurts. I clutch at it dramatically and gasp out loud. My mum sees me and rushes right over. "I'think'I'm'having'a'heart'ATTACK!"" I strain out. My mum, insensitively, rolls her eyes. "It's heart burn. You ate your food too fast" "Are you sure?" I ask wearily "I should go to the hospital, I might have heart cancer or something" "Don't be stupid. 16 year olds don't get heart cancer" The episode passes. My hand tingles, then my face and then my thighs. My whole body is on pins and needles. I debate whether to tell mum. I let it pass; she'll be insensitive about it anyway. She'll say I'm a hypochondriac. For three years the pins and needles happens on and off. Then one night, my body freezes. I can't move. There's a cold numbness that flows through my blood. I tell my mum the problem. She worries and we go to see a doctor who does tests on me. The diagnosis? "Anxiety disorder" He says "You should talk about your health problems to your mum"

Internet
The internet was raved about for years but it wasn't till February of 2000 did I realize what the hype was all about. There was so much information on the cyber highway, so many things to learn and so many people to meet. The World Wide Web became a means of escape for me. I entered a world full of people who had similar interests and I loved it. For the first time in my life, I found a place where I didn't have to wear a fa'ade. I loved the feeling of belongingness; it was strangely familiar yet excitingly new.

John
John, my two year old brother, sits, bawling his eyes out on the brown tiled floor of my uncles' house. I stare at him, feeling a little scared. I look for my uncle. He's busy typing something on the typewriter. I tug on his shirt and look up at him with huge, brown eyes. "Where's mama?"" I ask him in Tagalog. "Church" He answers back. I dawdle back to my brother who's screaming for mum. I feel tears pricking in my eyes. I know where mum is and I could easily walk there myself, but the problem was I wasn't allowed, I am only 3 years old. But I had to rebel. I walk outside onto the street, towards the church. I'm crying as well, because I know I will be in trouble, but my brother wanted something and I was determined to get it for him. No matter what the cost.

Katherine
Ronald, a mere fourteen years old, peers at his newly born cousin. She is pink and screaming her little lungs out. Ronald tickles his little cousin and she gurgles. She is the cutest thing he has ever seen. She has wide eyes which were looking at him cautiously. Ronald looks up at his aunty. "Tita Carmen, what's her name?"" Tita Carmen looks at her husband, weary eyed. "Keith" he said. "What?!"" Ronald exclaimed "Keith is a boy's name" Tita Carmen looks at him "Well we thought we would have a boy. I don't know what else" Ronald thought for a moment. He did not want his baby cousin to go through life with a boy's name. He then thought of a girl he had a crush on in school. He looks up and smiles at his aunt and uncle. "What about the name'Katherine?"

Liar
Mama calls me into the bedroom; Papa is lying comfortably on the bed. Mama holds my Dollarmite passport book thingy up and opens a page. "Where is the $5 I gave you to put in this?"" I look away. I can't tell her that I gave it to Daniel, the older boy that lived up the street because he asked for some lunch money. But I have to look at her if she was going to believe me, well my lie anyway. I look into her accusing eyes. I tell her I lost it and don't know where it is, I probably dropped it. It's plausible because I'm always dropping things. But she doesn't believe me. "Did you give it to Daniel?"" How did she know? I look at her and the tears come. "No" I tell her. "I lost it."

Music
The stage is alight. A solitary grand piano stands in the middle, a taunting spotlight beaming down on it. The audience sits quietly in darkness, waiting for the next performer, which happens to be me. I breathe deeply and step forward towards the piano. As I move closer my fuchsia dress swishes against my small 7 year old body, creating a deafening sound in all the silence. I take my place besides the piano staring into darkness. My heart beats rapidly as I situate myself on the piano stool and face the menacing beast. My hands quiver slightly as I place my hands on the ebony and ivory. I begin to play the soft staccatos of my piece, it is my first recital and as I continue to play the music burned in my mind, my body relaxes. I feel the piano strings tremor through me, a vibrato that sends shivers down my spine till I play the final note. When I finish and daintily lift my hands and place them calmly on my lap, there is massive applause. I smile proudly as I get up to face the audience. I take a bow. My first bow to congratulatory applause, and certainly, I know, not my last.

Nationality
It may be weird but I can honestly say I've never experienced racism. My mother and father have, but I haven't. Even when I was in a school heavily populated by whites, I was not cast out of the social sphere. Being a Filipino, it's not a respected culture. Even I have my problems with being identified with The Philippines, but what can I do? I'm not ashamed of it, nor do I wear it as a badge. But, if there was one place I'd call home, it'd be Australia. I always tell people that I'm Filo by blood but Aussie at heart. I stand by this, and I won't let anyone tell me otherwise. I won't forget my Filipino blood, I do cherish it, but Australia is the only home I've ever known, and it's my nationality.

Obsessive
Be warned. Speaking to me may cause strife. If there was an award for droning, I'd probably get second place. I have a mild case of Obsessiveness. Ok maybe more then mild. Once I'm hooked, it's very hard to tear me away. I know what it means to be obsessed; to TV shows, to celebrities; to musicians. It's ugly and it's dirty. Obsession is devotion. I can happily spend hours on end chatting away on one thing, granted I'm chatting to someone who can do the same (and most of the time, even if they don't, I force them to). It's not a pretty sight if you see me obsessing over something. It involves massive swooning and even hyperventilation. It's an illness'but one I am not prepared to get treated for.

Procrastination
The first time I ever procrastinated, it stung like hell. It is a cold August day in the year 1990. I am playing "Mum's and Daughter's" joyfully in the playground with my new best friend, Anh-Thu. I look down and see a bee stuck on my blue stocking. I am not afraid of the bee, it didn't hurt and I am na've to believe that it is an ordinary insect like an ant and that it is harmless. Plus I know that if it did hurt I would have to tell the teacher and I can't be bothered, I want to keep playing. So I don't bother with it until my teacher points it out to me. He takes a pair of tweezers to remove it and tells me to take my stocking off. As I do, I gasp. There, in the middle of a HUGE red lump is a bee stinger. He removes the stinger and that's when the pain comes, and there it stays for many days. I learn a lesson from this. Avoid doing important things now; prepare to suffer for longer later.

Quit
I'm fidgeting in the back of Dean's car. We've just passed Kensington and heading towards Parramatta. My heart is palpitating, my hands numb, my head woozy. It's the end of my first day at a new job and I'm mentally preparing myself to quit. It was a fairly ok job to do, sales, which was basically involved walking round to small businesses selling Christmas goods. I did ok as well, selling $100 worth of useless ornaments and ugly snow globes. But being in a car alone with a guy I just met is dangerous, even if he was my supervisor. Later I'm sitting in the boss's office being praised for my efforts, he tells me it is a great achievement and that I should keep it up. Dean beams proudly at me. I force myself to return the favor and I smile back. I get up and head towards the door, going home. Dean and the boss are talking to each other and I take that opportunity to turn around and mumble "I'm sorry, I won't be here again. I quit!"

Religion
I recently asked my mum if there was anything at all that she admired in me. It took her awhile to think of something. But what she said warmed my heart and a glowing feeling flowed through my veins. "What I admire about you, is your dedication to the church" she begun, "remember when it was your year 10 formal night, but there was a choir practice and so you didn't go to your formal, I was proud of you". I smiled warmly, but there was more to come, "and when I asked you to stop playing organ for the choir because you were sick, and you said no", and she lists a few more. It's nothing new to me. My religion defines who I am. I know it isn't cool or even a popular identity, but none of that bothers me. I live for God and for my church. It's the one thing in my life that is stable; it is my solace, my consolation and my peace.

Straightforwardness
"You and Heidi (the school nerd) are getting cozy" Lauren teases me. "Jealous?" I taunt back. "Of what?"" She replies, smirking. "Personality, sense of humor, intelligence, in other words, everything you're missing?"" Lauren glares at me. "What's your problem with me? You've been bitching behind my back for days, what did I do? Tell me the truth." She spits out. I roll my eyes, bored senseless but I wasn't going to ignore her. "You want to know? You're a two-faced bitch Lauren. You think you're pretty, when you're really one of the ugliest people I've met. You think you're smart, but that's only because you copy my work. You're not funny, you're not nice, oh and you're fat as well."" Lauren's eyes pop out and she walks off in a huff. I shrug. She asked a question; I gave her a straight forward answer.

Teacher
For as long as I can remember I have always wanted to be a teacher. As a kid I would use my mums' medical books and pretend the patients in them were students and I'd mark them from A to F depending on how sick they looked. I'd try to recruit my younger brother to play schools with me but he usually refused, telling me I was a strict teacher and hardly gave out any A's. My first job was actually teaching piano to a few kids when I was only a kid myself. And I loved it. I was so glad to get into University to do a teaching course, I cherish every moment of it and I can't wait for the day when I get to be a licensed teacher.

Ugly Duckling
I stare at myself in the mirror. Tears well in my eyes till one lonely tear break the barriers and trickles down my puffy cheeks. I sniffle, trying not to make a sound, afraid my brother will hear me in the next room. I look at my wild, tangled hair, my pore-populated nose, my unshaped eyebrows and more tears come. My fat cheeks dance up and down as I try to suppress the sobs from erupting from my crooked mouth. "You're so ugly" I tell my reflection. I hated myself, not because of the fact that I was ugly, but because I was being down on myself. '"No-one will love you" I break down.

Vanity
I am vain. I will admit it. I take excessive pride in myself. Not in appearance but in my achievements, in my gifts, in my lifestyle. I do think I am better then most people because I come from a loving family, I have a career path to follow, and more importantly, I have God in my life. But I keep this to myself. I don't have an air of conceit floating around me. I am still down to earth. I don't inform everyone of my better life. I may be vain, but I am not a snob.

Writer
I have written many stories in my lifetime. Unfortunately, I don't have a collection of them. But there's one story that I would want back. It is the first story I'd written that resembled a mini-novel. I wrote it in 1994. My teacher, Ms Gadd, was sick and our class was separated to other classrooms. I was lucky to be placed with my best friend, Anh-Thu, in Mrs. Blackburn's Grade 3 wet room. I was slightly claustrophobic, so to take my mind off the situation, I wrote a story. It took 10 pages of big, hardly legible writing. It told the story of two kids trapped in a wet room for the weekend. They used the cubby holes for beds, there was a tap with plenty of water and the paint said non-toxic, so I wrote down that was what they would eat once their Nutella sandwiches ran out. There was no climax or even a proper ending. But it took my mind away from the smothering situation. I see now writing is an escape, to forget everything and focus on what's in front of me.

X-rays
*crack* I try to stand up as I tumble down the hill and hear a crack on my left foot. It was the first day of camp. The teacher takes me to the doctors for an x-ray only to find out it was just a sprain. *cough* My chest hurts and I'm having trouble breathing. My mum makes me take an x-ray of my chest, but I don't really need an x-ray just for having the flu. *snap* I trip on a hole and land on my right hand hard, I'm afraid that if my hand was broken, I'd have to stop piano. The pain subsides quickly but I should get an X-ray. Better safe then sorry.

Yardley
I've never had a sister, and thinking about it, I wouldn't want one. But I do have someone who is close. Yardley Anne Mitra, the most boyish, obnoxious, shallow gossip I know, and I love her. Yardley and I don't have many things in common, hardly anything to be honest. But our friendship is based on two things; gossip and Neighbours. We can stop communication for months and get together over some juicy gossip as if no time has passed. It's comforting to have her constant in my hectic life. She's my confidante, my forever friend, my sister.

Zzzzz
To quote my favourite movie: The sun has gone to bed and so must I. So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye

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