this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on August 3, 1999.
The colors of my childhood were green and blue, with more than just a sprinkling of yellow, red, orange and pink. But this has never occurred to me-until recently, when my 2-year-old daughter, Tonic, was scrambling to get on the escalator while we were in the mall. The profusion of multicolored neon-lit signs notwithstanding, I couldn’t help but worry that my daughter was growing up in a gray world, a world of air-conditioned buildings and concrete highways and killer smog, a far cry from my rainbow-colored childhood.
I am not a child of the barrio. Although I grew up in a small town at the foot of Mayon Volcano, it was only 10 minutes from the city. We had electricity, a telephone and running water. But it was rural enough to allow me to grow up amid trees and flowers and birds, and an occasional cow or carabao passing by our front gate. My siblings and I also had the chance to have pets such as goats, ducks, pigs, chickens and even turkeys, aside from the usual dogs and cats.
Our house is nestled on a hill, overlooking the town of Daraga, facing Mayon Volcano. During the day and without the threat of an eruption, Mayon’s shade ranges from deep blue at six in the morning to aquamarine most of the day. At night, she blends with the darkness, with just a silhouette of her magnificent shape assuring us that she’s still there. In her active and volatile phase, Mayon shields her fury in a thick white blanket of smoke that reaches halfway to the sky, sometimes even hiding the sun. And the nights give the spectator a glimpse of hell, with bright orange lava cascading down her slopes.
When I was 10, we were awakened shortly before dawn by a blast so loud it rattled our windows. We rushed out of the house just in time to see half of the volcano ablaze, with the burning lava almost reaching her base. It was a spine-tingling sight that I will never forget: enchanting yet frightening, darkness and fire. With Mayon as a background to all my escapades, childhood was an endless summer for me. Looking back, I remember a sky so blue, a blue of such shade that I have yet to see here in Metro Manila. With trees and plants surrounding our house, the breeze was always cool, even at one in the afternoon. In fact, it was usually around this time that we took our siesta, hanging the hammock under the terrace, and letting the cool breeze lull us to sleep.
Some days were spent cultivating little parcels of land in our backyard, small plots that served as a garden for my siblings and me, at least until school started, after which the plants simply withered and died from neglect. Other days were spent pursuing normal childhood activities: climbing trees-mango, guava and the frail aratiles that drove my mom crazy with worry (she was so afraid we would break our necks trying to climb it she eventually had it cut down)-making mud pies with mud cleaner than what is commonly found along the banks of esteros and canals these days, playing house and lutu-lutuan with my mom’s plants serving as make-believe food (another one of our activities which drove her crazy), chasing and catching dragonflies and butterflies. And though I was born long after the generation who witnessed a clean Pasig River, I was lucky enough to experience swimming in a river (more like a creek actually) that was still sparklingly clean.
My dad would also bring us along as he hunted for native birds that would eventually find their way to our dinner table, masked as exotic dishes. I also remember walking in the middle of a golden rice field during the annual harvest, when my cousins and I went there with our grandparents. The old folks supervised the harvest, while we kids frolicked in the field. In all our games, the environment was an ally, a favorite toy always at our disposal to do with as we please. And like most childhood toys, it was something I took for granted. Until now, when I see my daughter climbing escalators instead of trees, when she plays lutu-lutuan with her plastic food instead of leaves and flowers, when her pies are made of playdough instead of mud. I find something very wrong here. I have never been into this green thing; in fact, I tend to be apathetic toward socially relevant issues, including the environment. I recycle papers simply because I hate wasting good quality paper, and not because I pity the trees they came from. I recycle cans, not because I don’t want to contribute to our trash problem, but because I love creating things and there are a million and one uses for an old Promil can. I don’t go around gathering signatures for clean air legislation. I haven’t adopted a whale or a tortoise.
But I know I couldn’t remain apathetic for long when I hear my daughter exclaim “Wow!” every time she sees the trees at the University of the Philippines in Diliman. Or when she would rather walk on the pavement than feel the grass on her feet. Or when she passes by a creek and says with a grimace, “Dirty water!” Or when she gets so frightened by even the most harmless of animals. This is sad because Tonic really loves animals if only in print. She swoons over the dogs and cats and butterflies and rabbits and turtles and chickens and birds in her books, but give her a live one and she’ll scream in fright. Nobody taught her to be afraid of these creatures; she simply is. I couldn’t think of a better explanation for this, except her lack of familiarity with them.
Pets are not allowed in our compound. She has yet to see a real firefly. Where will I take her so she’ll learn to love them for real, as much as she loves the illustrations in her books? I could try the zoo or even just a pet shop, but a day of looking at those animals in their gray cages will only reinforce her fear of them. After all, if animals are harmless, why are they being held in cages? I don’t want her to grow up like my husband did. Jay, as a boy, was also trapped in the urban jungle, having been born and raised in Metro Manila. Deprived of the luxuries that only a rural lifestyle could offer, he cannot relate to my childhood memories. He doesn’t know the excitement of riding on a palapa (the base of a coconut frond) being dragged around by a playmate. and neither does he know the thrill of catching a tadpole in murky green water.
I don’t want an antiseptic world for Tonic, but neither do I want an unhealthy world for her. A child deserves to frolic in the mud and not get cholera, to feel the rain on her face without getting pneumonia. It’s been so frustrating, searching for a “colored” world for my daughter. I’m not even looking for a permanent “colored” residence, just some place to where we can escape when we get tired of the malls and need some refreshingly green panorama, a place where we can literally smell the flowers and feel the breeze, where the air is still fresh enough so Tonic doesn’t have to cover her nose and exclaim “Amoy!” (her version of “Baho!”). But so far, except for the UP Diliman campus and even then only some parts of it, we have yet to find one. When Tonic was born, I promised to give her the world, as long as I could afford it. But so far, the world that I can offer her is so dismal I’m almost ashamed that it is all I can give her. I would like her to have the rainbow-colored world of my childhood, but unless we pack up and move back to the province, she will have to make do with the gray world of Metro Manila. Won’t she feel cheated kaya?
Young Blood appears in the Opinion section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. To contribute, you must be a Filipino below 30 years old. Send an essay in English between 4,300 to 5,500 characters with spaces in doc or docx format to youngblood@inquirer.com.ph. Include a three-sentence bio at the end mentioning your age.
