Someone died again in the neighborhood

Not so long ago, a man died in our neighborhood much to everyone's surprise. I was on my usual setup– tapping and clicking, and despite the slurring noises outside our home slowly building up like a wildfire, I did not dare to get an eyeful of the situation. However, last Tuesday, around 3 am in the morning, we were awaken by a howling of a man. It was so loud and woeful that I could not breathe the moment I opened my eyes, I felt like I was being strangled to death as I could taste the sorrow in his voice while he was crying out.

Tulong! Tulong! Tulooong!

He kept bawling these words repeatedly and it felt so close to my ears even he was there outside. I did not get up as soon as I came back to my senses, I was too afraid of what I might see once I look over the window.

What if he was being murdered on that spot? And someone saw me watching over with such burning curiosity? What if they shoot me without a skip and I'll be dead?

No, I was not being paranoid just because I woke up in the middle of a good night sleep. This is not something new in our neighborhood– being shot like it is a normal thing to do. I waited and listened to any signs of initiatives from our neighbors, if ever someone would take a bold chance to step foot despite the risk. 

Then, I heard him again, weeping a familiar name. 

Ayong... Tulong---tuloooong. Ayong. Tuloooong. Ayong.

That exact moment, I got up and walked towards the window. It was dark there, almost everywhere, but I knew where his voice was coming from. I could not see anything from where I stood but I saw that more people where starting to take a look of what was happening, all panicky.

Si Ayong, nanigas yung katawan. Nahimatay. 

He was crying still, but we could make out what he was trying to say. She had a heart attack and she needs to be brought to the hospital!

One moment, everyone was just on their sleep, and the next thing happened, we were all became anxious and wakeful.

Just like what happened a month ago, the situation we had witnessed was a shock to everyone. She was Ayong, the owner of the house just across ours. She was a loud woman, she has a blaring voice and  reckless personality that I hated so much. For someone who only wants her day at peace, I did not appreciate even once how she always came off with a lack of consideration to her surroundings. She was offensively impolite and ever tactless.

And the night before she had a heart attack, she sure seemed fine. No one would think nor expect that just a few hours after midnight, a sudden cardiac death would happen, and it was to someone who has never seen lifeless ever since she got out of prison. 

Someone died in the neighborhood

There's someone died in our neighborhood. It was all too sudden. I didn't know him and most likely so was he to me. But not's the story about.

It was supposed to be the usual face in our neighborhood where summer energy was on its peak. Everyone was on their spot fanning away their seasonal outburst of grumpiness towards the heat while kids were at their own phase, absorbed and oblivious to any kind of inconvenience. I was also planted to my seat and doing my actual task of listening to a podcast. I was absorbed too but still grounded to the other noises polluting the surrounding. Then I heard a few people panicking about something, the air seemed like it turned dry and heart stopping, and distant voices were trying to reach out something I couldn't make out. But given the jostling nature of our street, I was made to believe that nothing serious happened at that brief moment, like it was just a loud and confused noise and there's nothing worthy from it that I had to stand up and protrude my neck from our window just to check what was commotion I thought was happening. So I went through the day but still carrying that mystery at the back of my head which I felt really happened. That's when I asked my sister when she went upstairs and joined me in our working/study station. They were slouching in the second floor when that happened so I thought maybe they might have heard a little clearer bits of story from outside.

I almost missed tapping that one letter on my keyboard when she flatly told me that someone died from a heart attack. It was the guy named 'Nestor' who I knew of, he was more known as 'pilay' who rides an old-fashioned bicycle around the street as he couldn't walk because of his left leg. I was shocked. He was literally dead. I didn't know him personally but just by thinking that he was sitting there on the street corner while his bicycle, as I could picture it, resting against the wall, and he felt that throbbing pain against his chest and the last thing that everyone knew about he was already hovering between life and death on the ground while the world is still going on oblivious of that one life already being taking out. This reminds me of Virginia Woolf's Death of the Moth which I enjoyed reading back when I was in college. This short story is about the life of the moth which, from the perspective of the persona, was too small to be cared about by the world. When it was close to dying, the persona threw this question out almost like soliloquizing, in a world that so gigantic what is the death of a small specie in it? And when the persona thought that the moth has already lost any signs of life, she looked around and saw that the afternoon rush of autumn was still untouchable. The sky was still bleeding with colors of the season, birds were at their happy state as always, and the treetops were still whooshing its way along with the wind current. And not even a soul realized that a moth has just lost it life.

Thinking about what happened last Friday, how does it feel when you are just only about on your last few breaths before your death? And you are just doing your usual thing, like hanging by in the streetcorner, probably sitting and taking your time to tame any form of growing uncomfortability due to cruel summer, then after just a few blinks when you feel like you will just take another heartbeat, you're gone. Is this how life also looks like when you still have a long stretch of thread but suddenly something cut it off?

I remember the last part of my reading in Woolf's The Death of Moth when I said that life might be mysterious but at least we have an access on it. Unlike death, words we usually associate with it are just empty adjectives to materialize it but the truth is we don't know what death really is. Just as much as we have no idea when, where, and how does the death would knock us off. The thought might not yet be as scary as living and suffering in life, but can you imagine that you are just doing your normal day and the next that the people around you knows is you aren't breathing anymore?

How about your dreams? Those little whispers of what ifs and when that happens?

How about your secret manifestations in life?

How about your goals in every ten years of life? When you reach 30, 40, 50, and so on. 

How about the life you haven't envisioned yet but still you want to experience once you get there? 

How about the supposed many chances in life when you can't still figure out yet what you heart truly wants?

How about the many uncertainties you hated at first when you're starting but you know in time you'll realize that these are the things worthy of heart-pounding moments?

How about your dream for yourself? I know, you are still not closing the idea of having your own family, when you can build the home you have been longing for ever since you have already realized that you aren't really at home when growing up. When you can translate your love without judgements and when you can start your life anew with those people who you will entrust your worries and happiness to.

Even as much as we want to die at times, we know that deep in our hearts, we are still hoping for the world to just be gentle with us. We still want this life because of those people who chose us despite the reasons not to. We still want this life because we are not letting of go of that hope that maybe we just have to wait a little longer before we reach that contentment. We still want this life because it is still fun. At the end of the day, we only want nothing but to love and beloved. 

I Dreamt About a Double Rainbow

I know I just had a good sleep, when I wake up right in the morning with my dream still perching in my groggy consciousness.

Today, I dreamt about a double rainbow. I was looking at it from the inside of our home with my sister and nephew. At first, I was the only one who noticed the multicolored arch but right after a few blinks, there it was, another arch of wonderment– a double rainbow! I won their attention with my gasp at the view. Then, I woke up.

While working earlier in the morning, I was thinking about it on and off. I was tempted to take a quick break just so I can google it up which  I actually did, but I was only able to do it before I started writing on this. Since I was trying to buy time so I could not binge watch Normal People (I am on its 7th episode, btw) I decided to read the interpretation of my dream about the double rainbow. 

According to what I've read, which actually a lot, having a rainbow in your dreams generally symbolizes a turning point in your life or a new beginning. Since seeing a rainbow in real life is always unpredictable, they say it can mean something unexpected is about to happen. In short, something in your life is about to shift course. How I wish it is a pot of gold where they say that can be found at the end of its arch! I just want to be rich, please! 

Anyway, how about if it's a double rainbow? 

It says that seeing a double rainbow in your dreams means harmony and peace, and finding your life's purpose. And how ironic it is because I am right in the stage of my life where I am deeply confused about what I want and what should I do. Is this dream a sign that I just have to go through this, not basically putting up, but since I am still in the early steps of my new profession then maybe I have to give this uncertainty a chance to grow in me. If this is something that I could not embrace despite trying then maybe I can give myself a chance to be free from this confusion. 

I also found this article (yes I read a few articles because I like to find something more to validate and justify this feeling I have right now) online where it says that seeing two or more rainbows at once in a dream means that you will make peace with yourself. And it sounds beautiful and comforting to me. I feel like ever since I resigned, I am living with a push-and-pull mindset like what if, by chance, I did not leave my first job, were things have been much different compared to what it is today? Maybe I should have been at ease, working more freely, and enjoying the great working culture of the company together with my favorite people in the team. But what if I push through that then possibly I would be stagnant, working probably but not growing, maybe I will not be able to feel a daily heart attack because I don't know how to do this and that and I am too lame to ask people around so I will just beat myself up until I get drained of my thoughts, maybe I will not also experience another shot of reality that there's no way to go around your fear but just to get through it, and maybe if I had settled there in my first job then I wouldn't be able to write again like this and dream about a double rainbow (lol) 

The same article also tells that my dream is about people like me who's currently going through a difficult period in life because of identity crisis and the regret of missed opportunities. That burden is said to be pulling me down and stunting my progress. However, this double rainbow is an indication that I will get past to it soon and it will bring me into realization that I can do something today that will mark my future ahead. If I will just be persistent, it will not be impossible for the better days to arrive at me.  This time, this sounds hope to me.

This strange dream I had today was something unexpected Iike a rainbow suddenly appearing at our view. I don't usually do these kind of things because it as sounds as superstitious. However, my lack of stability in everything at the moment brings me to believe in this at the very least. Maybe this small thing is what I need. Just a little breather, a reminder that out of nowhere the universe will offer you something vague in disguise of what you truly looking for: a sign, validation, or justification. Just to calm your heart and lull your mind away from constant worries that the world is not trying to overwhelm you but you just too wary of your decisions that it kills your excitement instead. 

I hope I'll look back into this entry few months from now and I hope by that time I have finally adjusted in this new chapter of life. There is really no way to deal with it but just to deal with it. 

Goodluck, friend! 

SEE IT AS IT IS. NAME IT. STOP IT.

There's a reason why, for the first time in a very long while, I have to post something here on my account. Doing this so, I expect that this would reach that particular person whom this post is for. Perhaps people would consider the thought of me confronting the person involved through a personal message instead of making him like a blind item like this, however, he has gone extreme already– beyond what I could imagine, and not naming him is my way of dismissing his existence because a person like him doesn't deserve to be called by his name, but with names like HYPOCRITE, COWARD, AND TRASH.

Yesterday, I was greeted by Mama's puffy eyes as she went home from her duty in barangay. I thought it was a usual day for her, but when she went to me fighting off that weep of tears in her eyes... I almost cried. She told me about this person who, for more than a year already, has been targeting her with sexist and rude remarks. I tried to brush it off as I thought "What can I expect from a scumbag?" but as she told me more, my heart got heavier with anger and hatred to that person. Ah why I was surprised that a scumbag can stoop even lower than his level?

Mama was brave enough to denounce it in barangay as she's had enough already of his bullshit, however, his defense was it wasn't his bullshit it was just ONLY A JOKE. BIRO LANG DAW. What a joke, indeed!

"Hindi ka naman kagandahan..."

"Ginapang mo lang siguro ang asawa mo"

"Hindi ka nakapagtapos ng pag-aaral..."

"Nakikita pa kitang naka-panty nung bata ka pa"

So, these were supposed to be taken as a JOKE? Ito yung dinedepensa niya na biro lang, however, kahit anong banda ko tignan walang nakakatawa. And jokes are not intended to be used that way: to discrimate. This is not funny to begin with. How this is supposed to be funny, trash? What is funnier than these bullshits is he knows LITERALLY what's going on with our lives– past and present. Who is his source? I don't care that much. What bothers more than anything is the fact that he uses all the information he found out about kay Mama and turned it against her in the form of pathetic rumors.

He even scowled at Mama for not liking his FB posts and has been *joking* around kung bakit hindi raw nanlilibre si Mama?

What I could not understand is how he could make such jokes to Mama when they are not even close and has been doing it for more than a year already? And if even they are close (and thank god they're not), he's old enough to weigh those remarks if it's amusing or not . And he was even angry na pinabarangay siya ni Mama then let me tell you this I was beyond proud na ginawa yun ni Mama sa kanya. I was beyond proud that Mama knows when to stop something unacceptable, and beyond proud for standing up for herself.

While I am on my proudest moment as a daughter, I am also beyond shameful after knowing that he doesn't need my mother's vote since tatakbo siya sa barangay. How can someone as trashy as him runs for a spot sa barangay? The way he treats my mother speaks volume, if he can do that to a person especially a woman how can we be sure that every woman is safe from someone like him? He doesn't even know what is a joke and what is not.

He has said  a lot of hurtful words to Mama. Hearing it while I was on my shift, made me lost my focus. His "jokes" are not funny, they are never gonna be funny, they are all infuriating. And never blame a person for not taking your jokes with your own standard of joke, we have our own level of sensitivity and if your joke is not funny to them then that's an enough sign to stop and apologize. If you keep going, thinking that it isn't your fault that they don't know how to handle such extreme jokes, you're problematic.

Paulit-ulit na nirerecall ko lahat ng mga pinagsasabi niya kay Mama and I couldn't even imagine how she managed to keep her cool. Just hearing it from her made me already crumpled with so much anger, what more sa kanya? It breaks my heart that it has been happening for a long time and it was only yesterday that I found out about this mistreatment. It breaks my heart that she has been withstanding all of these alone. And I wouldn't budge whatever would happen next, I am posting here on FB hoping to spread awareness on such important issues. Rape remarks, sexist humors and jokes that demean women and other minority groups in whatever form will never be funny from whatever angle one tries to see it.

SEE IT AS IT IS. NAME IT. STOP IT. 

Nosi Nosi Balasi: A Tadbalik Chorus

There’s a familiar noise that has been a significant part of my everyday routine while working from home. Sitting in my spot by the window, with my eyes fixated on the screen, I can almost imagine the afternoon atmosphere of our neighborhood just by consciously tuning into its cacophonies: kids shrieking, their sounds echoing as they chase each other; engines puffing their breaths roughly on the road; the heavy sound of trains; and scattered voices—some fading into the background, while others resonate across our street, subconsciously trying to outdo one another.

With all this commotion, it seems there’s one noise that has bothered me more than it comforts me. Just before daylight patiently fades away, there’s loud music played pretentiously almost every day—its beats pounding against the speakers, almost unbearable to listen to. At those times, I wish they would play music that lulls the soft seduction of the gloaming twilight, soothing the atmosphere. But instead, they play songs that bang awkwardly in the middle of our bustling neighborhood. I’d be fine if they didn’t turn up the volume to such extremes, but they do it every time, without considering how their music affects others.

Just like last Friday.

I had to listen to another queue of songs that made me sigh with frustration. How could they not resist their impatience and just let each song play until its last melody? I could still feel how exhausting it was just by listening, and I wanted to lift myself up and vent my annoyance. All I wanted at those moments was for something to help push away my sleepy thoughts so I could focus on my work.

But, luckily and oddly enough, I wasn’t in my usual stormy mood that day. I felt slightly at ease since I was already taking my time until my last shift. That’s why, I guess, I found myself singing along with their playlist in my head.

Until, suddenly, a loud Nosi Balasi blared through my ears.

Nosi Balasi was the song from my childhood that I often sang at our karaoke. This song actually made me feel ambitious, falsely convincing me that I was angsty just by singing its chorus with such conviction. When I finally had to pause to catch my breath, preparing to belt out a strong "Nosi Nosi Balasi," I felt so powerful for my age. That’s the effect this song had on me as I was growing up. Perhaps that’s why I never really paid much attention to its lyrics; all that mattered in those moments was how the song made me feel. With Nosi Balasi, I could still feel how strangely tasteful it was to articulate each syllable, as if it were some foreign incantation.

For most of my life, I almost thought that line was a Latin phrase because of its bewitching pronunciation—until sometime in high school when I finally paid close attention to its meaning. That’s when I realized that the lyrics were simply inverted, and it dawned on me randomly.

Nosi = Sino / Balasi = Ba Sila

So, it was that simple. I had the same thought occupying my mind yesterday. While I was on my last work quota, I found myself wondering what could possibly be the reason behind reversing the line Sino Ba Sila. This led my thoughts to expand as I crazily tapped my keyboard, my eyes glued to the screen.

Why are Filipinos so actively invested in slang like this?

Nosi Balasi is just one of many examples of what we call Tadbalik, which is the reverse form of the Tagalog word baliktad. This kind of Pinoy slang apparently started long before the song was even released. The habit of reversing words had actually been used by Filipino revolutionaries to hide their real identities. This can be traced back to the use of pseudonyms by Filipino writers and poets. One easy example is Marcelo H. Del Pilar, who used Plaridel as his pseudonym—a jumbled-up version of his surname.

Even I couldn’t believe that Tadbalik had been in use as early as the 19th century. And if we dig deeper into the deliberate usage of this slang in Nosi Balasi, perhaps it’s not just for its phonetic impact. Whether consciously or not, there could be a subconscious reason behind reversing the words in the chorus.

Nosi Balasi

By SAMPAGUITA

'Wag mong pansinin ang naninira sa 'yo

Basta't alam mo lang tama ang ginagawa mo

'Wag mong isipin 'wag mong dibdibin

Kung papatulan mo'y lalo ka lang aasarin

Nosi, nosi ba lasi

Sino, sino ba sila

Nosi, nosi ba lasi

Sino, sino ba sila

Ituloy mo lang gawin ang gusto mo

Walang mangyayari kung sila'y papansinin mo

Talagang ganyan 'wag mo lang patulan

Wala lang magawa kaya sila'y nagkakaganyan

Nosi, nosi ba lasi

Sino, sino ba sila

Nosi, nosi ba lasi

Sino, sino ba sila

This song was released in 1989, yet it still stands the test of time. Its long-standing presence in every Filipino household is enough validation that it remains one of the best songs, continuing to thrive despite the rise of new generations. I tried researching and looking for any supporting information about the background of this song, but unfortunately, I couldn’t find anything online.

The first verse goes like this:

'Wag mong pansinin ang naninira sa 'yo

Basta't alam mo lang tama ang ginagawa mo

'Wag mong isipin 'wag mong dibdibin

Kung papatulan mo'y lalo ka lang aasarin

To translate, this part means that you shouldn’t mind people who are trying to tear you down as long as you know you're doing the right thing. Don’t think about it or brood over it. If you retaliate, you'll just be picked on more.

This leads to the awaited chorus, where the Tagalog slang Sino Ba Sila is repeated twice, alternating with its original form. Since this word reversal is used as a disguise for someone’s identity, in this song, it serves a different effect.

To disguise means to alter one's appearance in order to conceal their identity. This could also suggest a desire for anonymity, as it seems there’s an effort to remove anything outstanding or familiar in order to remain unknown. In this generation, anonymity is widely used on many social media platforms, especially by those who want to voice their opinions but are afraid of being canceled. However, this has unfortunately gone beyond its original purpose and is often overused and misused by people targeting others. Since it is difficult to uncover someone’s true identity, many feel emboldened to attack others through their posts, which is ironically cowardly. But if we look at it from a different perspective, these anonymous individuals don’t have an identity in that space, and therefore, they are not important. Meanwhile, those who follow you and whom you follow have their names and pictures displayed, reminding you that there are still people you know who are not afraid to show their true selves. While they may seem unimportant, they actually are.

So, I guess "Nosi Nosi Balasi" is reversed to imply that those people whom we question with Sino Ba Sila (Who are they?) are not important. The act of asking who they are is enough to show that we don't know them, probably because they are hiding their true identity. The fact that this act of disguise is used to attack one's reputation, rather than for a creative or revolutionary purpose like our heroes did, is so disrespectful to them. Our history is fascinating, and so is our language. Using it with purpose means carrying it with responsibility. Our language is continuously evolving, which means we must keep up with and adapt to its changes.

There's no harm in change. Just like the song says, as long as you know you are right, then forget their existence, because nothing will happen if you keep focusing your attention in their direction. And whenever you want to fight back, just think backward, and perhaps you might want to consider asking them this in slang: Nosi Nosi Balasi?

Eyes Eyes Eyes Eyes

People believe that I am a studious person.

But, actually, I am not—at least not consistently.

Even I could not quite grasp the reason why I am viewed this way. Not that I am ungrateful for that perspective, but somehow, as I grew up, I learned to accept others' compliments where they are due. If they’re not, I usually shrug it off, because I cannot burden myself with that misapprehension.

Of course, everyone wants at least some soft words from someone.

However, in my case, people, especially in our neighborhood, have loosely seen me throughout my growing years as a bespectacled, studious kid, which I thought was weird. Admittedly, I was that kid whose normal eyesight was lost somewhere in her sophomore year for an I-don't-know reason. But I was definitely not the kid (who might have been living in her head) who had to wear glasses because her vision couldn’t handle the immense intelligence people believed she had.

To set the record straight: I am not academically intelligent. However, I have been almost consistently aware of my tendency to be somewhat passionate about things that I find challenging. Therefore, people I know may have interpreted those instances in the past as proof of my intellectual capacity. If only they knew that I didn’t learn how to divide with remainders until I was already in sixth grade. And it was the shameful truth, as a grade schooler, that I had to keep it hidden from anyone throughout my elementary days.

Having to wear eyeglasses was something I thought I would like. I still remember whispering to the heavens, asking if they could slightly adjust my eyesight just enough for me to need spectacles. And that's when I learned to be careful with my unconscious wishful thinking, because sometime during my second year in high school, I started to see the world through a blurry lens.

I remember the anxiety I felt the first time I realized that I couldn’t clearly see what was written on the blackboard. It was strange, like I had to figure out some words because I wasn’t sure if I was seeing them the right way. There were times when I mistakenly thought that one word was another, but when I read the sentence in my head, it just didn’t make sense. And for the first time in my life, I felt a surge of uncertainty because I couldn’t see the world the way I used to.

And it was frightening.

But more than anything else, what I realized was that I had to live with guilt at that time because purchasing eyeglasses was something I thought my parents could afford. I remember the hesitation when my mother and I found out how much we had to spend on my first pair of eyeglasses. It was so pricey!

I only thought of myself, without considering the consequences that might arise from my selfishness. After that, I decided to apply for scholarships, which I had consistently dismissed despite my mother's insistence that I was qualified. I was confident in my academic abilities, but I knew there were students who deserved my spot more than I did. But thinking about how my parents had to stretch our monthly budget because of the cost of my eyeglasses made me feel deeply sorry for my negligence.

I guess that’s the reason I grew up not being flattered by how people saw me as smart just because I wore spectacles, because it reminded me more of how I gave up my eyesight just to experience what it felt like to wear them. I was really immature back then.

I thought I was the only one who felt this way. When I met people who later became my friends, they shared the same sentiments and how they weren’t happy when people assumed they were intelligent just because they wore eyeglasses. They felt pressured because people had already formed a big impression of who they were based on that simple pair of lenses. Instead of being seen as normal, we were viewed as people who were devoted to solitude and boredom. Sometimes, we were even poked fun at for having “two sets of eyes.”

But then, even if I still had my normal vision, I feel like people would still see me the same way. Growing up, I noticed how my eyebrows caught people’s attention for being hairless. It was once my insecurity for a short time, but it never became a major issue during my adolescence. I was cool with how they looked on me. But I guess, since it looked strange to someone who had thicker eyebrows, they couldn’t help but pay attention to it to the point where it was unnecessary for them to acknowledge it with a condescending sneer. It was exhausting to listen to their constant insistence that I should apply something to my eyebrows. Like, does it bother them that much? Does it disturb their inner peace? Does it look so disgusting that they can’t even bear it? Or are they simply concerned about their own comfort, which is why they don’t care that I’m perfectly cool with it as it is?

Then it takes me back to my high school days. I could not exactly remember the whole thing, but there’s someone in my circle who reassured me about my eyebrows. She finished her sentence randomly by saying innocently that I might have liked burning the midnight oil every night, and that’s why my eyebrows are so thin.

Instead of getting offended by her remark, I was kind of wonderstruck by how she connected my thin eyebrows to me—burning the midnight oil. In our language, the latter is translated as nagsusunog ng kilay, or literally in English, it says "burning the eyebrows." I was in awe of how she thought about it out of nowhere without realizing that she was making sense.

"Burning the midnight oil" is an idiomatic expression used to describe someone who laboriously studies or works late at night, using the light of an oil lamp or candle for illumination. This is similar to "nagsusunog ng kilay" (burning the eyebrows). However, with the mention of eyebrows, the explanation is that since the light from the lamp or candle could not reach far, the person has to lean closer to it to get a steady and much more defined glow. So, their silhouette probably looks like someone who is burning their eyebrows because of their posture. Weirdly enough, I was comforted by this friend's odd association.

Perhaps there’s no harm when people make assumptions about you based on what they see on the outside. Since outward features are the starting point for characterization, it’s natural for them to base their assumptions on what they can see through their eyes first. With my eyeglasses and eyebrows—and through their eyes—it’s interesting how everything is initially decided through vision. I just realized how I disliked it when people thought I was smart because of my eyeglasses, yet I was in awe when my friend associated my thin eyebrows with being diligent.

I guess I like it more when people see me as diligent rather than intelligent.

Star Apple : An Extraordinary Apple

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.

Brownout

Widespread electric power outages—comfortably called "brownouts" rather than "blackouts" here in Manila (and perhaps in other places as well)—were never, not even once, an inconvenience to the eyes of a small child.

For me, it was freedom. One of the peaks, if not the peak, of our childhood memories.

Brownout— with a lavish stress on the B and R while the rest of the letters were delivered in an almost easy, negligible manner—was, to me, a cherished occurrence and an invitingly comfortable interruption. Whenever I picture our experiences during brownouts in retrospect, I always recall our world shutting off, leaving nothing but a spooky sight of jet-black emptiness, mottled with flashes of white flashlights. Then, our street would materialize into a candle-lit pavement, instinctively filled with passionate breaths. Through my eyes, I saw the familiar twinkle of candles dancing among the absences of light. Mosquitoes would rise and clamor, playfully leaping in the air. Our eyes seemed to reach into the mysteries of the darkness, lost in fascination. It was mesmerizing. And in those moments, I wished we could gather like that in the shade… not forever, but at least much longer than usual, just to feel that thrill once more, so alive when we were still absorbed and oblivious to the world. 

I also remember how it was always so hot and airless. However, as young and lively as we were, we welcomed this kind of "inconvenience" with nonchalance. Rather than being irritated, we saw it as a chance to play even more. Brownouts were our closest ally when we wanted to stretch out our time hanging out with neighborhood friends.

I suppose the reason why kids have a soft spot for this kind of disruption is that brownouts usually happen at night. And by nighttime, as soon as it got dark, we were no longer allowed to play as we pleased. "Siesta na," my grandmother would say strictly as soon as we got home, looking sour-faced, while we were grimy and stinky from playing. I later learned that "siesta" usually refers to a rest after the midday meal, so I’m not sure why my grandmother used it in the late afternoon. But it was only during brownouts that we could have an exception to play outside. Since it was stuffy indoors, we were allowed to step out for some fresh air, which we often took as an opportunity to extend our childhood just a bit longer, now under the thrill of a dim, shadowed night.

And then there was the "Glow Stick Bracelet" (which I only recently discovered is actually called that). It was popular among the kids on our block, and we used it every time there was a brownout. It cost around five pesos back then, which felt expensive to me at that age. Essentially, it was a glowing stick in pretty colors of our choice that we wore as a bracelet. It was such a sight to behold.

After my last memory of it, I never saw it again, not even until now.

The years rolled on without much notice, and my memories of brownouts slipped away. I suppose that’s because brownouts are now rare where we live. And when they do happen, I find myself getting annoyed by them. In the Philippines, it is consistently hot even when it supposedly shouldn’t be, and the inconvenience of a brownout in this unbelievable heat frustrates me, interrupting my focus on work.

The experience just isn’t the same anymore.

I suppose that’s what happens as you grow up. You lose the warmth that once welcomed this inconvenience, and you no longer have the same energy to find beauty in the darkness. You see it for what it is, without the wide-eyed wonder of a child.

Last year, I discovered podcasts.

They were one of the things I found during the pandemic and have since kept me from sinking into my thoughts or dozing off while working. Currently, I’m listening to a few podcasts—all local ones, if I recall correctly. The last podcast I listened to in February was Ang Walang Kwentang Podcast by Juan Miguel Severo and Antoinette Jadaone, which I think also began during the pandemic.

I think everyone at that time, and even now, was trying to preserve each other’s sanity.

Ang Walang Kwentang Podcast isn’t actually a nonsensical podcast. I enjoy listening to others' personal experiences, whether it's their late realizations, reflections on their past selves, or their views on life’s complexities. In this podcast, I like how humor emerges naturally because of the relatable content. But there’s one episode I haven’t forgotten. I can’t recall which episode it was, but I remember how astounded I felt when they talked about the frequent power outages during a certain period.

They shared childhood memories, especially about being told not to do this or that because of various reasons. Then they discussed how brownouts were so frequent in their time that they happened more often than not, and how parents used these power outages to keep their kids home. I’m not sure if they also mentioned the "Kulto" stories and other urban legends that once effectively kept people indoors.

They delved into this topic and considered different angles, even wondering if these interruptions were meant to keep people from the truth.

What if frequent brownouts were just a way for those in power to lurk in the shadows and control something we had no idea about?

After listening to that episode, it struck me how things that seemed simple to me back then could now be seen in such a deep light… now that I’m an adult.

Because, really, it made sense.

I like how the gentle magic of brownouts when I was a kid could also be viewed as something almost bewitching, like black magic.

Saying Goodbye to My Most Favorite Eyeglasses Yet

[WARNING: A LONG AND DRAMATIC POST]

A pretty reasonable estimate seems to me that if you have seen me strolling in a public place wearing this eyeglasses, there's at least a higher chance I am in the mood of not seeing the world in a blurry perspective.

That is why, I guess, I was sentimental last Thursday. It was a typical day, the likes when I am in my usual tendency of not looking forward to anything any longer because life for awhile has become steadily somber to me. That day, I was doing my usual click and tap routine in my work, but due to that unwelcome phenomenon which is called "poor connection", my stormy temperament accidentally broke the frame of my eyeglasses when I took it off. I mumbled out a barely conscious DAMMIT WHY IT HAS TO BE TODAY? as I was trying not to let the horror overcome me at another ghastly view of the lens that has just popped out on its frame.

I can still feel the tears sitting on the corner of my eyes. This eyeglasses has seen me off to more vivid and bleak moments of my life for the last two to three years, has accompanied me to that blast concert of iKON, fleeting last moments of my university days, even to my nerve-wracking job interviews. It's been a loyal companion through my drastic shift from being an excited student to an officially lost and out-of-breath adult.

The moment has simply passed and it's time to say goodbye.

On the grey-colored afternoon clouds, I bought a new eyeglasses. After all, we all need a new perspective, not through a rose-colored spectacle but through as it is.

Rest assured, it will be missed. Gone but not forgotten.

Half Empty or Half Full?

I bet that everybody has probably mastered the art of faking happiness. The world, as people perceive it, only admits fleeting moments of happiness and nothing else beyond. We keep chasing an illusion we’ve been made to believe is truly out there: happiness.

Happiness has never been a strange idea to anyone. When we are asked about our understanding of happiness, we tend to overplay it with little triumphs of rhetoric. We cling to the idea that happiness is the embodiment of perfection within the complexities of human emotion.

The passage of three years hasn’t cost me much in losing track of what happened on one ordinary day in high school. It was my English teacher, who had a lavish obsession with her own wit. But a brief snippet of her tale that day was enough to grab the attention of a student sitting in the last seat of the last row—me. It felt as if she had launched an arrow straight at my spot, turning my repressed yawns into a suppressed smile. She then pointed to the water bottle sitting on her desk and asked the class whether it was half empty or half full. I was sure I would answer the former, but she exclaimed in her rich English voice that our answers reflected our worldview. An optimist sees a half-full glass, while a pessimist sees it as half-empty.

I realized that the purpose of her question wasn’t to focus on the fact that the bottle was fifty percent filled with water, but to highlight the different frameworks through which individuals perceive the same reality.

Perhaps we don’t need to limit our natural emotions to just happiness. Some people are optimists who see the glass as half full, but not everyone can be like them. True happiness lies in embracing reality. And the reality is that you can be a pessimist at times, seeing the glass as half empty. We don’t have to set aside other normal emotions just to chase happiness. If we do, I fear we may lose the ability to truly cope with the world as it is. If you’re sad, let your personal rain clouds pour down over your head. If you’re riddled with anxiety, let your heart skip a beat from nervousness. If you’re not in the mood, sulk and be mad at the world temporarily. When you feel negative, embrace it. Don’t consume yourself with the idea that if you fake it, you’ll make it. Accepting the full spectrum of emotions is far more honest and liberating.

If someone says, "We just gotta look on the bright side,"

You can channel Hayley from Paramore and reply, "Well, only if you wanna go blind."