If I were still in first grade and you asked me which fruit was my favorite, I would likely answer without much conscious thought: Star Apple.
I used to have a small voice when I was in first grade. (Not that I don’t have it anymore, but it has improved over the years through practice.) I can still recall how my homeroom teacher scolded me for being so bashful whenever she asked me to read something for the class.
They couldn’t hear me.
But I could hear myself—my thoughts—and feel my heart skipping beats whenever I sensed their eyes on me.
They tried to stifle their giggles under their breath as our homeroom teacher patiently asked me if I could even hear my own voice.
They had no idea. That’s what I thought.
If only they knew that in those moments, I felt like I was hovering between life and death. I was trying my very best to calm my throat so I could gather my escaping voice and let it out. But there was almost nothing.
I can still picture myself, stretching my arms to hold onto my desk. I was looking down, and I could feel my knees wobbling with embarrassment. Then I heard our homeroom teacher slipped these words to me:
"Yung pwet mo na lang ata ang nakakarinig ng boses mo." (Maybe only your butt can hear your voice)
And everyone in the room burst into laughter.
It wasn’t traumatic. But for some reason, that moment remains vivid... and their laughter—if I were to recall how it sounded—was resounding.
I went home that day feeling so down. Having such a small voice was one of my first dilemmas as a kid. It wasn’t cool—it was humiliating. And I didn’t know what to do to make my voice loud enough to be heard. I was determined to overcome it. I hated being looked down upon, yet instead of staying away from the spotlight, I kept being drawn closer to it... and I hated myself for it.
Why did I have that voice?
Why couldn’t I make it louder?
And that embarrassment continued for a long time until that night. I saw my mother in her usual spot in the kitchen. She was preparing our dinner, and I went straight to her—maybe because I wanted to watch her. Then, I noticed an orange plastic bag lying on the tiles. Inside were some unfamiliar fruits I had never seen before. They looked rough, but their violet skin had an oily touch.
I asked my mother what they were called while examining one closely. She glanced my way and told me the fruit I was holding was called a "star apple."
The moment I heard the name, a strange force seemed to brush away my worries.
It wasn’t an exaggeration.
It wasn’t my imagination.
When the fruit’s name echoed in my ears, I felt something weird but comforting.
Star apple…
Is there really a fruit like that?
It has such a cool name. Back then, the only fruits I was familiar with were oranges, mangoes, santol, and apples. But this was a different kind of apple—it was called a star apple.
That night, I ate it. And it tasted soooo good! It was sweet, and its white, juicy sap made it even better. While eating it, a thought crossed my mind:
"Baka ito na yung magpapalakas ng boses ko." (Maybe this is what will make my voice stronger.)
After all, it was a star of its kind. And it did not disappoint me.
The next day, I was called on again. Before I opened my mouth to speak, I remembered the taste of the star apple and convinced myself it would help make my voice louder. To my surprise, it actually did.
With a confidence that had once been strange to me, I gathered my breath in one place and calmed my heart. I felt my throat and began reading the visual aids in class. I kept reading and reading, dismissing any distractions around me. It felt like I was standing in a different world, and I was the only one there. It was magical.
When I finished reading aloud, a burst of applause filled my ears. I returned to reality.
I looked around, and all my classmates were happily clapping in my direction. I was moved. I felt proud of myself.
"I could actually do it."
All that time, I thought I would have a small voice forever and would always be laughed at and scolded by my teacher. What I really needed was the "Star Apple." It was my miracle as a kid.
That day, after class, I went home, finally deciding that I now had a favorite fruit. And it was star apple.
Last week, I ate a star apple. After many years, this fruit still has the power to bring something vivid from the past. While writing this, I’ve been wondering whether the star apple truly has a "star" power that could make your voice louder, or if it was just my imagination as a child. Perhaps star apple is just as ordinary as other fruits, and it was only my mind that made me believe it had that kind of power.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that the star apple was a significant part of my childhood. Whether it had power or not, I’m already thankful that it came in disguise, making me believe I could do something I once thought I couldn’t. And it’s so cool that I have such a rich memory, one I can recall every time I eat an extraordinary fruit called… star apple.
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