Before writing this, I browsed through my 15-year-old blog entries on this little online journal of mine. Argh, *cringe. All of it, *cringe. And now let’s drag that cringe to 2026. Haha.
I’m almost mid-40s now. If you are, too, you know how much different the world was when we were growing up, especially if you were born and raised in the far unknown rural parts of the Philippines. I found amusement even in my little unremarkable life. I must say my childhood and puberty years were the best years of my life. Reminiscing, they roll like Aki Kaurismäk films in my head, or do you remember that film, “Ida?” Not as stoic and unexpressive, but the same working class-centered injustices, seen through deeply optimistic root of community, kindness, and quiet love. Not as hopeless melancholy, but with sincere appreciation of basic-ness of everyday realities, the kind of solace I yearn for in the midst of this bewildering times.
I had nothing, yet I had everything.
I was born in the middle of a rice field in early 1980s Ong Yiu (Butuan) by a mananabang in her tiny bamboo shack. My late mum would never have described it as the happiest day of her life, given the sadly complicated circumstances surrounding having me. Had things been ideal, I probably would not have been delivered and born in such sheep stable situation. I had accepted it for what it was, and not a bit of it mortifies me to discomfort or regret. In fact, I thought, ah, what an interesting way to get through this tumultuously wild (and poor) corner of the Earth. Haha. Yeah, even I find it amusing, and sometimes it feeds the romantic in my tiny heart. But I do not mean to soften the reality of our poverty by wrapping it in nostalgia. I knew poverty, honestly and intimately. Which I will talk about more next time.
I had nothing, yet I had everything.
As a kid, I never got bored. There was always something exciting to do. Maybe some old men would be line fishing at the seaport, and I could see what they had caught. So I would go happily skipping to the seaport, and ask each fisher what he had, what they are called (fish name), like I was running an investigation. They would always gladly show me the carps (and some tiny fishes, I couldn’t remember the names), and even the earthworm baits wriggling inside the empty Young’s Town Sardines cans. Satisfied that they had caught something, and that no one’s afternoon went by for nothing, I’d skip back home with content, like I had ticked everyone-had-a-good-fishing-afternoon box. Next? Maybe I could water Granny’s plants. Maybe I could go to the market with her. Maybe I could already start chopping the vegetables for the next day’s menu in our carinderia. Or maybe I could, again, pester my Grandpa while he reads the local newspaper (his afternoon ritual), and then volunteer to add up all the numbers in the rows, and in the columns, of the crossword puzzle table – manually, by hand, before double checking the answer on our old trusty calculator. I would press the numbers as fast as I could, without looking the keys, imitating the cashiers at the grocery stores in the market. I would repeat the exercise at least three times, trying to beat my best time with every try. I would demand for my Grandpa’s full attention to witness my swift calculating skills. Haha. What do we add the numbers for? Jai Alai! Last 2! Lottery bets! You would understand, if you know it. Haha.
Or maybe I would go for another fruit tree heist with the gang.
One afternoon, the raga crew (of kids between 5 to 8 years old neighbors) decided we would steal some native guavas from our neighbor’s tree. I was never the one to climb as I was the (guava) spotter, and the (owner) spotter. Haha. I carried a dipper half-filled with water, to soak the guavas as soon as I catch them from the climber raga, a way to clean them before taking a bite when our heist is done. My OCD was already evident as a kid. Just like any heist, the outcome was not always the same. On good days, we would squat by the neighbor’s side of the wooden house, subtly hiding, delightfully munching stolen guavas. But munching mindfully that none of the pesky guava seeds find our tooth cavities. Haha. Oh god, the guavas tasted like no other, sprinkled with salt from my shabby shorts’ pocket. On bad days, Apo Tina (The Owner) would catch us and come at us with her broomstick beating our sorry asses. Sometimes, sorry naked asses. It’s not even funny, if you think about it, one of us dangling from a branch, unable to decide whether to let go or hold on, as the old, loose garter of her shorts surrendered so it slipped off her waist, while Apo Tina was whacking her ass with the stick. Yet, nobody cried. We laughed at our failed crime. On worse days, she would splash an arinola-full of two-day old urine on us from her room just above the guava tree. It is true. We would trudge home soaked in pungent, biting pee laughing. Some other day, we thought, we would be luckier. I would wash myself up, and face my Granny’s scolding after Apo Tina had reported my thieving misadventure to her.
We also stole papaya, and aratilis. Umh, the aratilis tree was right at the back of our pig pens, so I wasn’t sure who owned it. One day we had too much aratilis, our tummies went bleh, we were confined to bouts of diarrhea for a day or two.
Oh, those pigs in the pens. I loved those pigs. While helping out at our carinderia cleaning the tables after customers and washing dishes, I made sure that the leftovers and food scraps were tossed into the pail of lamaw/bahug for the pigs. Some afternoons, I would carry the pail of lamaw to the pens and feed the pigs, who paid for my expensive Catholic school education with their lives. I loved those pigs. My Granny loved those pigs. It still makes me sad remembering those times when we had to sell them to be slaughtered for their meat.
I had nothing, yet I had everything.
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