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.

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Once in a Summer

Last night, I watched Once in a Summer.

I had no expectations when I started watching it. I hadn't heard about this film before from anyone I know, which is why I might have been just right in a comfortable spot.  Since the preview of this film wasn't available on Netflix and I was too lazy to search for it on YouTube, I just jumped into it right away. In the first few minutes, I was still trying to find my way into it. Admittedly, I was reluctant to continue watching it, wondering if I should push through, as there was a possibility I wouldn't like it once I was halfway through. 

Once in a Summer started with a slow and somewhat enigmatic buildup. The characters who opened the film disappeared as the story progressed. They had their fair share of moments, especially with Byung-Hun, but I don’t think they had any meaningful exchanges. I was hoping for more of his perspective, possibly a closer look at himself in his later years. I can’t recall if there’s a scene in the film that shows significant details about him in his prime, which I wish had been included. Even small moments of retrospection while he shared his past with Su-Jin were absent. Perhaps I badly wanted to witness his process of recalling those memories—to see the joy and remorse of his past etched into his wrinkled face. Those little details, I felt, were overlooked.

Was it because he was a professor at the time, and there was a deliberate effort to create an air of mystery around him? Or was it a conscious decision to provide minimal details about his older self to place greater emphasis on his youth in the flashback?

The reason I say this is that I noticed how he was portrayed with such care—offering only a few glimpses of his identity, which built a sense of mystery for the audience. During Su-Jin's next visit, he asked her to sing for him. The request felt so random that I immediately thought there must be a deeper meaning behind it. Su-Jin sang hesitantly—she looked awkward, yet displayed a small measure of confidence despite her lack of singing skill. Then, a smile flickered across the professor's face, and it was a moment of discovery. He even jokingly told her not to sing again, which revealed another layer of his character. I had assumed he was a stern and solemn man—his voice had given me that impression. I also thought he might dismiss her again despite her persistence. But when she asked if he wanted them to locate someone he had been longing to meet, he paused, and in that moment, I felt something significant was about to unfold.

A long flashback of events appeared abruptly.

I was slightly taken aback by the sudden shift to the past. I immediately thought about the way it was delivered— it wasn't that smooth, and, in a way, it felt like the first part of the flashback was forced. There was just no "solid" premise for it, in my opinion. Anyway, the flashback started with him sitting with other students, raising their fist in the air. They were shouting, and he looked so reluctant. By the look of it, the film started strong in that scene—it almost excited me.

Almost.

However, I was left there in that spot. 

Hanging. 

I was expecting there to be at least enough protest scenes to significantly set this film apart from others of its kind in a similar genre. Or perhaps, I was hoping to be enlightened on why they started that scene with "that" and what it was meant to convey. I also thought the story’s plot would revolve around that theme, and while it technically did, it was only emphasized as lightly as possible. As soon as the flashback transitioned to their arrival in the village, the focus drastically shifted to his encounters with the lovely Jung-In, which dominated most of the film.

Apparently, they drove out there to help the villagers in their rural tasks. I was not sure though if that was an act of initiative for the sense of service or they were asked to go there in the course of their protest. Whatever it was, as soon as they got there, I saw their genuine assistance to the people and how eventually they grew fond to the warmth of the countryside ablaze with the colors of summer. There's a simple touch of once life in every spectacular views of rural sceneries which effectively accentuated by the use of different shades of orange—a color of nostalgia. 

Throughout the film, the story revolved around Byung-hun's mischievous attempts to catch Jung-In.  He was impish and easy to the eyes especially for the older women in the village. However, he was drawn more to Jung-In when he saw her being scolded by the head of the village and was being whispered about by some people there. So, when he saw her walking along the fields without her usual bright face, he pestered her. Then the sky rained over the place, making both of them run and they stopped over that deserted house to wait for the raindrops to calm. I guess, that moment was the first serious one they had. I remember that I did not understand Jung-In's tale to Byung-Hun about the fish and the stone. But I remember when Byung-Hun gave her a stone with a fish-like carve that night when they missed the last bus and they had no choice but to walk for miles. 

Basically, it would be a simple simple film if it weren't for the light touch of the heightened student protest at their time. I just wish it was elaborately laid down more to add depth to the film and to the relationship between Byung-Hun and Jung-In. But it was actually evident that they wanted to set the focus more on the heartwarming romance of the two, with other concepts being in the peripheral of it all. 

I would like to take note of how their moments in the countryside took up the majority of the film while the one they had as soon as they set their foot in the bustling city of Seoul was so brief. As if it was mimicking the slow and gentle life in the rural by the use of the duration, and the more or less thirty minutes was rendered to their scenes in the city which mimics the fast-paced life people have there. 

The title was also trying to imply a sense of longing. The production could have just called it That Summer or something like that but there's the word "once" which we used when we mean that 'at a time in the past but not now or not anymore". It was like saying that that particular summer just passed by, and unfortunately it was only one summer experience which did not happen again or would not happen anymore because it was already gone— the people, the moment, the chance... 

More than anything else, Once in a Summer is a good film to watch at your leisure. It was not heavy but it could move you to reflect on things especially how its cinematography evoked a sense of nostalgia. It will also give you an idea of how's the life in South Korea was in the year of 1920 especially the tension between the country's regime and the prevailing political demonstration led by the students. 

This film will take you back to simple and old good times that was once so gentle but is almost now improbable to reach. 

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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 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, especialwaly 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.

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