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.