WE HAD transferred residence several times.
My early memories were from our stay in North and South Baluarte in Molo. My early childhood was all about playing outside, being forced to sleep at noon time, frolicking during heavy rains taking a shower at our neighbors’ rain gutters, and collecting holens, bottle caps, and comic cards as badges of honor.
I watched the same cartoon shows in the same channel. I never was able to finish Voltes V for the episode was always cut short. I would watch it again the next day hoping the fighting scene will continue. But the same thing would happen. I was never bothered by it for I was hoping that by the next day it will eventually play up to the end. But it never did.
When I went to the sari-sari store — being the youngest places you at the end of the command chain — I brought with me a carton (that from a cigarette box) as the listahan. Of course, when the carton was all filled up, a new carton. A new (continuing) list of debts.
During the summer break, I felt this sense of freedom and air of relaxation ever widening as days went by. Everything was light and sunny and fun. My friends and I trekked anywhere we wanted to, looking for new shortcuts and “dangerous” alleyways to explore.
I ate more afternoon snacks (we call it pamahaw). I had halo-halo with coloring, banana cue, roasted sugar-coated banana with star margarine, roasted hotdog with ketchup, and the so-called yellow corn and ulo-lukon. Of course, I also had the usual bingka and kuchinta, as well as bread from the ting-ting.
When I got sick, I took Royal and SkyflaKes.
During the “flores”, as we called it, my aunt would mix Tang orange juice in a large pail and prepare so many sandwiches that got me excited in arranging the slices on a Tupperware platter. People would eventually gather in the ermita — bringing with them their plastic cups — beaming with smile.
In North Baluarte, I attended “Sunday school.” Children would sit and sing “Balay ko sa langit, naga igpat-igpat…” with actions and body movements. The teachers gave us candies and snacks.
They gave us crayons. We would expertly draw stick people under a stick tree with perfect cone mountains, curly clouds, and m-shaped birds as background. Beside the stick figures would be a rectangular bahay-kubo with an inverted v-legs as foundations.
In North and Sout Baluarte, our house was near the seashore. When it’s high tide, we built boats made from scratch papers, silhig-bukog sticks, and a scavenged worn-out slipper. My friends and I were never bothered that along with seawater, trash and filth would also enter our “seaports.”
We lived in a squatter’s area. Accidentally stepping on crap was a collective experience. People shouting early in the morning or late at night was normal.
Then we transferred across the street. The house was actually just beside the street. I slept at night with vehicle engines as my lullaby (that from tricycles were my favorite soothing sound).
Our house was also near the barangay basketball court: natural flooring of fine dusty soil, slanting old electric posts as the poles, self-adjusting backboards upon impact, and rims that appear bigger or smaller depending on where you take the shot.
During fiestas, the court was decorated for the bayle. I slept at night with the plywood walls throbbing due to the Rasputin, Brother Louie, and Fantasy Boy melodies. Exciting lullabies.
During those times, I didn’t know that we were poor. I had no idea that there was such a thing as lack of resources. I didn’t mind that our roof would leak when it rains. Pails and pots had their other uses. I didn’t mind that our breakfast would be fried rice with ketchup or our dinner white rice with fresh eggs and/or mami noodles.
Eventually, we transferred to our current home, in Villa. This time, our house lies within a subdivision. My mother, together with my aunts, decided that to stay longer in Baluarte may not be good for the children. For the entire family.
I was too young — too innocent — to comprehend and connect the dots. Why is it that I enjoy cherishing the past? But to recall is not to relive. Impossible. But I can “re-feel” the experiences as seen from my memories.
Now, I can say that the child-me is no longer the present me. It feels like I am thinking about someone else’s childhood years.
I wonder how will the future-old-me remember the current-me./PN
