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Since I was a child, I never won games or raffles. Unlike my mom and my sibling, who often brought home prizes, I always went home with nothing after parties. That’s why I was so happy yesterday when I won four times at our class reunion raffle. The first, I won in a game, then won again in the raffle—second, third, and fourth prizes. Of course, I was happy. In my whole existence, this was the first time I ever got lucky in these kinds of games. But I didn’t just win prizes; I also got to see my old classmates. It was really heartwarming to see them again after decades.

So much has changed, and our batch has come a long way. Some of them already have children who have graduated, while others have firstborns who are still in kindergarten. Some have given up on having children and instead focused on making money (mentioning our classmate who sponsored an 18,000-peso lechon and reserved the entire resort). It was fun to look back on our foolishness and innocence when we were young.

In a way, the reunion lifted my spirits. I had doubts about going because I didn’t have much money and only contributed 1,000 pesos. Still, I really wanted to see them, so I made sure to be there whatever happens. And seeing them again and seeing what we’ve all become, I felt genuinely happy. I wish everyone the best and more blessings for our batch. Of course, I wish we’ll have another reunion in the future.

Good riddance

 

Is there an age or year of your life you would re-live?

Ever since I turned forty, I find myself reminiscing about the past more often. From time to time, little memories of my childhood would invade my thoughts and make me smile. Maybe it’s a subtle coincidence, because grade school my classmates are planning a reunion this coming December, something I might not be able to attend since I’ll be flying to Malaysia again soon.

But if I could re-live any year of my life, I’d go back to my grade school days, when I was around seven to eleven years old. Those were the years when life felt endlessly full. Full of laughter, little adventures, and the kind of joy that didn’t need a reason. Life was simple. The world was small, yet it felt so big, and every kid like me couldn’t wait to be an adult. Every day seemed to hold something worth remembering.

Back in the 90s, my friends and I would visit each other’s houses after class. We’d hunt for spiders hiding up the ceiling, behind old flowerpots or under tree branches, proudly showing off our “finds” like trophies. We’d keep them in match boxes and bring them to school the next day and letting them fight against each other. Other times we’d play paper games, like Hangaroo-style word games, or even Battleship. Once in a while, we’d have silly “beef” with the other class, accusing them of different things. It was childish of course, but that’s what made it beautiful.

But my favorite memories were always the ones I shared with my siblings. One summer afternoon, we built what we proudly called “the greatest barbecue grill”. Inspired by a barbecue grill we saw on HSN, we made our own out of an old Marie Biscuit tin can stuffed with dried leaves and twigs. Then we snuck into the fridge when no one was looking and stole a slice of meat just to test it out. It never really cooked properly and actually tasted like those dried leaves. But we felt like geniuses. On other days, we’d play basketball until mosquitoes start to bite us or ride the bicycle our father had built from junk parts. It wobbled and squeaked, but to us, it was freedom on two wheels.

Those years were full of innocence and imagination. We didn’t need much to be happy. Just a little sunlight, some space to run around, and each other. Growing up has its own joys, but I often miss how easy it was to live back then. And so if I could re-live that time, I would slow down and pay more attention. I’d savor the smell of textbooks and the laughter of my friends, the taste of those terrible “barbecue” experiments, the feeling of excitement as I rode that rickety bike. I would definitely hold on to those moments longer.

Because somewhere along the way, life got louder and more complicated. And sometimes, I wish I could go back to that time, not to escape the present, but to remember the version of myself who found happiness in the simplest things.

A memory with my Lola (part 1)

I grew up under my grandmother’s care. From the day I was born, it was Lola Flor who slept beside me every night, because both my parents were working. She became my mother in every sense of the word, and our relatives used to joke that I was her youngest child. When I started going to school, it was my Lola Flor who took care of everything for me. Every morning, she would walk me to school, wait for me until dismissal, then we would go home to eat lunch and take a nap together. But one afternoon in kindergarten, we didn’t take our nap, and I ended up doing something terrible.

It must have been around two or three in the afternoon. Lola Flor stayed awake because she was winnowing rice, while I was playing with a marble. I couldn’t remember where I got that marble or who gave it to me. I was squatting on the ground, rolling it back and forth, while behind me, she was busy with her rice. I think that was the first time in my life that I ever had an intrusive thought.

I stared at the marble for a long time and wondered what would happen if I threw it at her. So I stood up, faced her while she was still focused on cleaning the grains, and then I threw it. The marble hit the left lens of her glasses. It cracked.

I just stood there, frozen, while she hurriedly took off her glasses. It was only then that it sank in. What if a shard of glass got into her eye? What if my Lola went blind because of me? I didn’t cry, but fear spread through me. Lola didn’t get angry, and thank God, her eyes were safe. Although she had to use her spare pair of glasses tucked away somewhere.

I can’t remember what happened after that. I don’t recall being scolded. I don’t know what became of that marble. We still ate dinner that night as if nothing had happened. I still spent the evening cutting bits of paper for my crafts. And when I fell asleep on the sofa, Lola Flor still carried me to bed.

We had joy, we had fun

Back in high school, I was one of the few students in our batch who had a cellphone, but I couldn’t really relate to the others. They all had Nokia 5110, while I owned a Trium Astral. I used to watch them gather around, composing ringtones together. Still, I was considered one of the “cool kids” simply because I had a phone. Sometimes I’d bring my yellow Gameboy Color to school so me and my classmates could play Zelda or Furby. That made me look even cooler in my class, even if I didn’t have a Nokia.

During our third-year summer break, I joined the CAT training. Every day for a month, we’d go to school early for exercises and drills. By senior year, I had become a platoon leader with the rank of Captain. It felt amazing to be seen by other students everyday commanding and leading drill sessions, looking sharp during rifle practice. That was another “cool kid” point for me.

One time, during our Speech class, our teacher told us to prepare an English song to sing in the next session. The following day, one of my classmates brought a guitar, and when it was my turn, I borrowed it and sang “What’s Forever For?” My female classmates were amazed. There were only two of us who sang with instruments: me and the guitar owner.

That earned me another “cool kid” point.

Now, I’m no longer that “cool kid.” I’m forty years old, struggling and surviving day by day. But whenever I look back, I can’t help but smile. I remember those moments when my friends and I would sneak out during Intramurals to rent BMX bikes at the PICC and roam around the grounds for as long as we wanted. I remember the time I went to a classmate’s house to watch the first Resident Evil movie on a pirated VCD. And my very first taste of gin… High school really was the best phase for most students, wasn’t it? Truly core memory-worthy.

And even though I’ve long outgrown being a “cool kid,” these days I aspire to be a cool auntie to my niblings.

What would you talk about if someone were actually listening to you?

Honestly, I grew up not telling or sharing stories about my life with others. That’s because I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I was raised well; my grandmother and parents took good care of me. But I didn’t grow up in an environment where I was encouraged to share or open up about my feelings. So, I’ve carried this with me until now.

I didn’t have any real friends in elementary or high school. Sure, I had people to hang out with, but I saw them as just ordinary friends or acquaintances. There was no deep understanding between us that would allow us to share our thoughts and feelings with each other. Even now, when I have what I can consider my circle of friends, I still find it hard to open up to them. I don’t even know why. I guess I’m just not used to it.

If someone were truly listening to me right now, I would tell them that I am sad. I’m sad because I feel like i have no direction in life. That I’m almost forty years old and still have nothing to be proud of. That I’m sad because even though I want to break free from this situation, it feels like I’m stuck here. That I’m sad because I still don’t know what I really want in life.

My family and friends think I’m okay. They think that I have a decent job, that I’m happy even though I’m single, that I’m content even if I don’t go out of the house often… but that’s not true. When I’m alone, I’m always worried. I stay up until the early hours of the morning because I don’t want to feel the anxiety hit me once I lie down and start thinking about my personal issues. I spend my time watching random videos to distract myself from my worries. I let my imagination wander until I get tired and fall asleep. At least, that way, I don’t have to think anymore.

Sometimes I think about just disappearing. That I wish I hadn’t been born, so there would be one less person feeling this way.

So, if there’s someone who genuinely wants to listen to me, I hope they won’t get tired of it. I hope they won’t judge me and say, “You’re just sad” or “You’re just lazy.” I hope they won’t interrupt me while I’m sharing. I’m not asking them for advice or anything. I just really want someone to listen.

Note: I wrote this a year ago. I am now forty, and everything is still the same. The only difference is now, I don’t think about disappearing. I try to live every day, find things to be happy and stay positive. That’s a good thing, right?

Hinggil sa taho

Taho ang pambansang agahan namin ng mga kaibigan ko nung nagko-call center pa kami. Pagpatak ng alas singko ng umaga, diretso agad kami sa labas ng gate sa may Jupiter St. at nakaabang na dun si kuyang magtataho. Madalas nakakadalawang malaking baso ako ng taho, at minsan kahit pag-uwi ko at nakakasalubong ako ng magtataho ay nakakabili’t nakakakain pa. Awa naman ni Lord ay di naman sumasakit ang tiyan ko.

Hindi ko talaga gusto ang taho. Naalala ko nung highschool kahit anong pilit ng tropa kong pakainin ng taho ay sinusuka to talaga siya. Kahit tokwa ayaw na ayaw ko, kasi parang ngumunguya ako ng basang papel. Pero noong lumuwas ako para magtrabaho kinailangan ko siyang kainin. Dahil may mga panahong wala akong pera. At taho, at tokwa ang mura.

Ngayon, gustong-gusto ko na sila. Paborito ko na sila.

Pero sa ngayon ay madalang na lang akong makakain ng taho. Dahil dito sa aming lugar sa probinsiya hindi araw-araw ay may maririnig kang “tahoooooo!” sa kalsada. Kaya naman kaninang may dumaang magtataho, dali-dali akong lumalabas para bumili. Kahit bente pesos ang isang baso niya ay ayos na rin. Choosy pa ba ako.

When your blog goes on retirement

When I started blogging, I only had the goal of pouring my grief over my dead cat. Blogging used to be a way to explore interests, a personal online journal of some sorts (unlike today, blogging is either dead or used for marketing business). Over time, I begin to like blogging- writing and sharing thoughts that comes to my mind, even my own hobbies and interests.

Blogger used to be the best platform for beginners like me because it’s easy to navigate. And during peak blogging years I have opened and read so many blogs that offer their insights and their hobbies. You can just log in to your account, write, publish, and that’s it. But of course, a blogger also gets busy with life, with new ventures, family and other personal matters. So, what happens when bloggers decide to stop writing and the updates stop coming?

In my case, I deleted my first blog. Nowadays I still see some archived screenshots of it. Others decide to archive their works by letting it live online until whenever (or until Google decides to shut down Blogger). Just like Susan Scott and Loretta Chase’s Two Nerdy History Girls blog. It’s one of the blogs I’ve been checking out and reading since it opened late 2000s. Through their posts, I discovered and read some of the novels they’ve recommended.

Rhonda Hetzel’s Down To Earth blog also went into retirement a few months ago. I used to read her posts about her home and garden, and her insights to simple and frugal living. Another blog I used to follow, How About Orange decided to archive the blog 11 years ago. I first discovered this blog when I was searching online for patterned wallpapers. The owner, Jessica Jones is a designer shares her works, and I was drawn to it (also because orange is my favorite color). She offers tutorials and lovely printables which are still online.

With today’s era of business-centric and AI generated articles and posts, it’s still nice to see bloggers genuinely writing and sharing what they love online. And I’m even more thankful to these bloggers I mentioned, because unlike me, they decide to keep their blogs online for people to read and become sources. Well, to be fair, my old blog isn’t really ‘educational’, so best to have it off the internet.

I feel like I don’t belong to anyone’s memories (a.k.a Geloy Concepcion’s words that resonate with me as the ‘background friend’)

I feel like I don’t belong in anyone’s memories.

I’m such a bland person. So generic, just someone on the sides during get-togethers. A filler when someone’s needed. The last option when there’s really no one else. I don’t even know why I see myself this way.

I feel like I don’t contribute anything to the things happening around me. When I’m at gatherings with people whom I consider friends, I try to join in, start conversations, laugh with them. But eventually, I end up in the background again, just smiling and nodding along to their stories. And even though I remember a lot of memories with my friends during those moments, sometimes I wonder… do they remember anything about me? Do I matter to them at all?

Sometimes I blame myself, because I’ve always been like this. I wish that even just once; I could’ve stood out a bit. Maybe then they’d remember me. But maybe they will, in a way. “Oh, that one who’s always smiling, the one who just nods, always in the back, that person…” At least they’ll remember me, right? Better than nothing. Hahaha, what an annoying thought.

Anyway, I don’t want to self-pity. Sometimes I just wonder what I really am in the eyes of the people around me.