The Nice Girl

Sometimes I dream of a revolution, a bloody coup d'etat by the second rank - troupes of actors slaughtered by their understudies, magicians sawn in half by indefatigably smiling glamour girls, cricket teams wiped out by marauding bands of twelfth men – I dream of champions chopped down by rabbit-punching sparring partners while eternal bridesmaids turn and rape the bridegrooms over the sausage rolls and parliamentary private secretaries plant bombs in the Minister's Humber – comedians die on provincial stages, robbed of their feeds by mutely triumphant stooges – and – march – an army of assistants and deputies, the seconds-in-command, the runners-up, the right-hand men - storming the palace gates wherein the second son has already mounted the throne having committed regicide with a croquet-mallet – stand-ins of the world, stand up! - Tom Stoppard, The Real Inspector Hound

I remember sport days in the sixth grade. They were my second worst day of the week, closely followed by those Wednesdays where we had to complete thirty random times tables in three minutes. It was the scariest one hundred and eighty seconds of every week.

Where was I? Oh yes, sport days. I was to the sporting field like a sportsperson is to the dance floor. My co ordination was so bad you could say I had two left feet, two left arms and two left eyes. By the time I got the hang of anything it was time to move on to another sport.

After a few weeks, baseball season was over, with soccer next on the agenda. I was the last person picked for a team, and my classmate's attempts of comforting me with the remark "Yeah! We've got The Brain on our team!" provided little compensation. It turned out that I was pretty good, and the following week I was picked first. Not because I was The Brain, but because I could actually kick.

I remember every year of junior high school. I thought I could continue my legacy as class prefect. I didn't realise how much of a popularity contest it was.

Instead, I was the girl the class captain copied her homework off. In a stream of second thoughts, I was the girl who people realised they should have voted for instead, a few months after the election.

Such confessions revealed to me in confidence were enough to keep me warm at night.

I remember when friendships were tested in senior high school. Large groups broke off into little, sometimes secret alliances. Throughout a time I'd like to call The Great Divide, I managed to keep the trust of each faction. Each side would openly bitch about the other to me because I was The Brains turned The Nice Girl.

I realised that regardless of how many fights a group has, no matter how many hours you spent listening to their grievances – by the time the dust has settled and friendships are reunited stronger than ever, this very neutrality keeps you tied to a string back at square one. You're still the girl who floats in between groups, whilst never really belonging to either one.

In remembrances I'd rather not indulge, I've been second to one boyfriend's social and work life. I've been second to another boyfriend's ex girlfriend. I've been second priority to my father ever since he started another family. I'm second to my best friend whenever he falls in love. I was second on my 18th birthday, when friends traded me for a party that served alcohol – friends I spent the best part of two years talking to, laughing with.

Some of you reading this might not relate at all, I hope I've increased awareness of someone you know, or will meet. Some of you reading this might relate all too well, I hope you know you're not the only one. Maybe our glory shines in a parallel universe; for this world is not kind to The Nice Girl and Guys. But we get by. That's what we're good at.

There are some things a girl should never try once

Tazos, tamagochis, digimons, pokemon cards, crazy bones. We lapped them up like a baby to its mother's teet (sorry for the image!): without thought and driven by a primordial need for sustenance.

By the time I was in high school, my needs got a little more complicated. I was one of only a few girls who came from my primary school, and for the first time I wasn't the only Filipino girl in the grade. I went from playing net ball and hand ball with friends of Australian and European descent, to bonding with people of the same cultural background.

Some people brag about their multicultural group of friends – but this was a new and exciting experience for me.

What people don't understand is that this part of my life was not about fitting in with the majority – but a journey towards finding myself. Questions like, 'Why is my skin darker than theirs?', 'How come they don't eat rice everyday, like me?' and 'Why am I the only one with jet black hair?' were embarrassingly moved from the 'honest concerns' pile to the 'silly questions' pile.

What the new girl in the group didn't expect, especially from attending a catholic school, was the exclusion felt by not being part of a particular youth group. It was like a super exclusive club where its members regularly gathered to talk about their awesome weekend camp, how funny it was when this happened, how sad it was when that happened and how cute their camp crush was – but sorry we're not allowed to tell you because it's either a secret or it's 'too complicated' or 'you wouldn't understand anyway'.

I think what hurt the most was when you were in a group of ten people, then a camp leader would walk past, then greet and give everyone a kiss on the cheek except you, act like you weren't there at all – which is sad.

Then one day a friend of mine was in dire need of a 'participant' (someone to initiate into the youth group). After much persuasion I succumbed.

What disgusts me today is the trouble I put my family through just so I could join (I only lasted one camp and two meetings). Among other things, I cried and fought with my mother for money we simply did not have to pay for the fees, and I forced her to take a night off work just so she could drop me off at a venue in a suburb she felt uncomfortable driving to.

Only now can I swallow my pride and shamefully admit that no matter what the youth group claimed to promote: God, prayer and peace – was a complete and utter contradiction to what I was causing my family. I realised that I was no longer trying to find myself, I was stupidly trying to fit in – and pushing my family away in the process. Consequently, I spent the weekend camp feeling guilty, guilty, guilty.

Tazos, tamagochis, digimons, pokemon cards and crazy bones were innocent craze-phases. For others it may have been something as simple as taking up hip hop lessons, basketball or forcing themselves to break dance just because everyone else was. And then there are phases that last longer than they should – illegal drug intake, excessive drinking and smoking. There are some things a girl should never try once; and I should have known better than to involve God. Such youth groups have no doubt positively impacted the lives of its members – it just wasn't for me. So if by next week everyone's signing up for "How To Make Free Money" workshops, I'll have learnt my lesson and gladly give this one a pass.