The value of nothing

How much are you worth? Do you need to check your savings account balance to answer that question? Do you have to recall how many digits made up the price of your most recently purchased shirt to determine your value? Or, you might bring up your go-to venti-sized coffee order at Starbucks, customized in a bajillion ways to push that sky-high cost even higher.

But, again, how much are you worth? After you have drained your savings account to pay off your debts, after the old washing machine has frayed the shirt which you loved so much to flaunt around, and after you have sipped the final drop of coffee from the cup that will end up in nowhere but the trash can, how much are you worth really?

“Why me? Do I even deserve this?” This has become more and more common to hear from accomplished individuals that have every right to the accolades and recognition directed their way. But how “much” one is worth is not even about achievements or outdoing anyone. It is a matter of an individual’s value after they are left with nothing but their flawed and torn skin.

“Why me?” I had managed to receive this question, a doubtful reciprocation of a lover to my sincere endearment one night. My mind roared in distress to get an answer enough to put into words all feelings and commitment I had—and still have—for this person. I could’ve just listed all his obvious bragworthy and “Instagram-worthy” characteristics. He is conventionally attractive. He is tall (a 6-footer at that). He is a model. He knows how to mix and match pieces of garments and look dapper in the final ensemble. He has traveled to multiple countries while snapping photos and filming frisky videos. He is the whole package. It was, however, far more difficult and complicated than that.

That night, no one besides us could hear what we were mumbling. No crowd was present before a stage to applaud his ravishing physicalities. No Instagram follower had access to our exchange which they could approve or disapprove with a simple double tap or a scroll. There was just us in the dead of night. There was no need to brag, to put up a front.

At the end of the day, what do I love about this man? How much worth do I see in him? When no one and nothing else is there for cover or comparison, what makesmesay, “This is the manI choose”?

I told him how I love that he is simple and practical. He is financially capable. He has traveled to many places at just 24 years old. And yet, when I asked him what he wanted to do on his birthday, he told me that he wanted to eat at Mang Inasal. There I was reminiscing about the first time I had seen this man’s photo and felt intimidated, only to find out later that chicken inasal and unlimited rice was enough to honor his existence.

I also told him how I love that he had laughingly responded with “3-in-1” when I had asked him how he likes his coffee. I could not even help but laugh along with him, too.

These, of course, can easily be discredited. There is for sure at least one other person who would be happy to eat a meal from Mang Inasal for their birthday. Any on-a-budget Filipino would be satisfied with a hot 3-in-1 coffee in the morning. Besides, he is not the only tall, handsome, and stylish model who travels the world.

I never really felt the need to prove the credibility of my reasons. However, the universe had perhaps been planning all along to make me do so. Through a friend, this man I had put on a pedestal would reveal to me the deceptive foundation of his affection, that he was scared of confrontation and the consequence of mebecoming pained.

In no sense am I religious, but I had seemingly taken on the role of the forgiving father from “The Parable of The Prodigal Son” at that moment. After the transient feelings of pain and injury, I felt nothing but the desire to understand this man’s motivations to tell lies, to help him get better. I felt no anger, even though he had lost face—all the beauty formerly at full display.

That’s when it dawned on me. At the end of the day, what do I love about this man? How much worth do I see in him? It was not that he is this tall, handsome, and stylish model who travels the world. It was not even that he is simple and practical and a “3-in-1coffee” type of guy. It is that through his ostensibly perfect facade, he is with dignity and deserving of respect and for such reasons is worth more than the fattest bank account, the most expensive shirt, or the most exotic coffee concoction.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and beauty, in this case, is a person’s worth—their value. Howmuch value is there when all fronts someone has deliberately put up come crashing down? The answer is deceivingly simple: It depends on how one sees it. One might drop a ceramic pottery bowl, but what that person does next determines the value of those broken pieces that were once whole. They might be thrown away, but they can be mended like the Japanese art kintsugi.

A person’s value is never grand in an ostentatiously tangible sense. Rather, it is loudly silent and immaterial. Our worth—our value—is always dictated by how we and the select people who care about us account for who we are at our core, the blemished yet valid nothing after everything else is taken away.

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Angela Santos, 23, is studying creative writing at the University of the Philippines Diliman. She writes mostly creative nonfiction and poetry. Instagram: @angelas.writes