this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on May 29, 2001.
Early in the summer of 1999, a cousin who was living in Albay told me he was getting married. He asked me to be one of his groom’s men-a not-so-very-good excuse for seeking a weeklong vacation leave. Fortunately my understanding manager immediately granted my request.
The 12-hour trip from Cubao to Legazpi was very exhausting. But since I got to see our old hometown as well as relatives and friends, I felt it was worth it.
I also had the chance to visit our old house. It was the house that once provided our family with shelter and comfort but it was clear that it could hardly protect itself now. All I found was what remained of it after a powerful typhoon struck. Looking at the ruins, I could feel the memories rising in me like sap. I didn’t see any reason to suppress it. Perhaps I just couldn’t, even if I tried.
When I was a 3-year-old kid, I would stand against our door as soon as I woke up and mark my height on it. I’d be very upset upon seeing there was no change from my previous markings. Then I would turn to my mother and demand to know why I was still so small.
My mother would stare at me for a while and then ask, “Why do you want to grow tall so soon?”
“I want to be like you and Papa,” I would explain to her.
Then she would patiently tell me, “Noy, we don’t grow overnight. It takes time-years.”
“But I ate my breakfast yesterday, and you said I would grow if I eat my breakfast!” I would insist.
My mother would look at me with a look of annoyance and say, “Wag ka nang makulit.”
And then I knew I had better keep my mouth shut at least for the rest of the day.
Even at that early age, I watched with both fascination and envy as people older than me did things I couldn’t do. I felt so helpless. I wanted to go to school, I wanted to work, I wanted to travel, but what could I do? I was simply too young to do those things, as my mother explained.
I liked to play with other children at that age, but nothing excited me more than the thought of being an adult. “Yang anak mo parang matanda kung magsalita,” I often overheard our neighbors telling my parents. Remarks like this boosted my childish ego.
For a child, who worried about nothing and did nothing but eat, sleep and play, a year seemed like an eternity. Despite my endless waiting and watching, the markings on our wooden door didn’t show any significant changes at all. (I guess Progress, Enfagro, Promil, and the like were not yet in the market at the time, and I suppose that helps explain why when the rice in the pot started boiling, I knew it was feeding time for me.) But still I tried to keep track of my height, innocently thinking that height was the surest indicator of a person’s maturity.
As the years passed, I could clearly see the difference in the markings inch by inch. I knew I was starting to realize my childhood dream. Further confirmation of this came when my mother enrolled me in our barrio’s elementary school for the next school year.
As time progressed, so did my “maturity.” I began to understand life better and deeper than the markings on the door.
I was in second grade when super typhoon Sisang wrecked our house. Left with no other choice, we moved to another house. We grew up without a house we could consider our own. It was sad because I could no longer make any markings on the door (our landlord would have killed me if I did that).
After Sisang, everything changed drastically. I learned more about life. With our family living close to the poverty line, my brothers and I experienced the worst life had to offer. We were so poor that all I had for a toy was a toy gun I myself fashioned from clay. Ever since that typhoon, our lives were continuously buffeted by strong winds of bad luck threatening to ruin not only our house, but also our home, our family and our future.
I didn’t feel bitter about this at all, because I knew everyone had his share of misfortune at one time or another. Besides, there were also peaceful and quiet moments, which I treasured although the worries never ended.
Twenty years have passed since then, and I thought the memories of my childhood had been buried and destroyed together with the old house. But staring at the markings on the rotting door which time failed to erase, I guess that memory was dear to me after all, making it worth recalling sometimes.
Now, I’m completely grown up and trying to make a living in today’s fast-paced society. I continue to struggle to find my place in a world where natural selection (as Darwin calls it) seems to be the basis for survival. With endless responsibilities to fulfill, challenges to overcome, deadlines to meet, bills to pay and other problems to face, I’m not so sure if I am happy, now that I’m tall as the door itself. (I am not really that tall, but the door was really that low.)
Standing before the old house, I let go of my “strong and tough personality” (kuno) and allowed my childlike heart to speak for me (for a moment at least). That very moment, I wished I had only seen one mark on our old door. Afraid of what the future would offer, I wished I had remained a 3-year-old kid: too young to worry about life’s problems, without any hang-ups or insecurities, no moments of uncertainties and always eager and curious to see another day (without being afraid of it).
Someday that door will completely vanish, but I will carry its mark until my last breath. Like the old door, I will lie helpless in the sun, decay in the rain and then be forgotten. But that may take some time (I hope). In the meantime, I still have some marks to make.
The people who have been there for me through all these years are still around. Despite my shortcomings and insecurities, they have loved me unconditionally. By giving back the love they gave me, I wish to be able to show I have really grown up and matured. That’s the mark I want to leave in their hearts, not just on a piece of wood.
But wait. Have I told you we are moving to our 11th residence, and it still doesn’t belong to us?
