this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on August 7, 1999.
Hardly a day goes by when this question doesn’t nag me: How could my parents have gotten along long enough to actually produce me? With just a quick glance at Mom and Papa, no one would believe they were once a couple, much less married for three years. Mom goes for ethnic-inspired outfits and has free-spirited ways and an artistic bent. My father prefers to wear Lacoste shirts, well-pressed slacks and expensive leather shoes. They were the original “Dharma and Greg” long before the show was conceived. If opposites really attract, sparks must have been flying all over the place at the beginning of their relationship. But the novelty apparently wore off after my third birthday. It was then that they separated. And that was when I started living in a suitcase and leading a double life.
My childhood was characterized by a rootless, almost nomadic existence. By the time I reached puberty, I had already moved to eight different homes, sang “Hare Krishna” while prancing along dirt roads and chasing after dragonflies, and spent hours in the forests of Kalaw Place in Puerto Galera communing with wood nymphs. I grew up believing that fireflies were actually fairies in disguise, that butterflies sprinkled stardust when they hovered over you, and that chapati was the standard merienda fare in most Filipino households. That was how I spent the first 13 years of my life with my Mom. She was deeply immersed in the whole pseudo-hippie new age, practicing yoga and an enlightened Buddhist. She eschewed city life and the disco culture of the time and would rather hole up on an island than be caught dead wearing polyester.
I was the picture of a crunchy granola child who grew up without television and was brainwashed into believing that eating hamburgers, hotdogs, canned goods and pasteurized meat was tantamount to dumping garbage down my throat. My Mom still brags to her friends that raw bitter melon was my favorite vegetable as a child. But I remember forcing myself to eat it for fear of ending up smelling like a pigsty as a result of having secretly feasted on Spam and hotdogs every chance I got. Those simple days spent with my Mom ended at the beginning of my adolescent years. I was given a choice between living on an island with Mom or being a Manila girl with my father. The thought of going to an exclusive coed school in the heart of Makati excited me. I wanted to live in the city, and not in the boondocks!
And just like your typical teenager, I wanted to fit in and to be just like everybody else. I was beginning to realize that my childhood was unconventional, and living with my father was the perfect way to end all that. I had a shot at finally leading a mainstream life, and I was not about to pass it up. I was not disappointed. I finally had a taste of a straight, normal life, with brothers and sisters to boot. I enjoyed eating fast food during family outings. I liked being an honorary member of the church choir because my aunt led the chorus during Mass. I was surrounded by straight, conventional people and cousins who listened to Spandau Ballet and Tears for Fears, a refreshing change from the Bob Marley albums and Coco Jam tapes I usually heard growing up with my Mom.
Even little rules like being obliged to take a siesta after lunch was exciting, because I thought that it was what went on in normal households. But I quickly got tired of being ordinary. I started to miss creating hand-painted shirts with my Mom while listening intently to her gay friend recounting his (her?) sex-change operation. I also started to be irritated by people my age who wore the same Giordano shirts or who bought outfits just because it was uso. But most of all, I missed having my own room. My father could not understand why I would want a space I could call my own. He insisted that sharing space with my sisters would help draw us closer to each other. But it was achieving the opposite effect, because I became even more determined to protect my territory and what little space I had to myself.
As I grew older, the differences between my parents came even more apparent. Anything my Mom approved of, my father rejected. To him, I was too skinny; to Mom, I was never skinny enough. He wanted to have my outrageously curly hair straightened; Mom wanted me to stay natural and be content with what I had. I also started craving for yogurt, but I was forbidden to eat it at my father’s house because they said it would make me thinner. Mom, the sun worshipper, thought I was too pale whenever I paid her a visit; Papa, the typical Pinoy, insisted that maputi was the standard of beauty. But after a while, I learned to cope with these differences.
I developed an instinct for knowing what was acceptable with Mom and Papa. It was okay to talk about my interest in singing and theater with Mom, but with Papa I had to take my academics seriously. I could watch movies like “Friday the 13th” at Mom’s house, but at Papa’s, Disney movies were the only tapes to be inserted into the VHS player. A friend of mine is amazed how relatively normal I turned out to be, considering the conflicting sets of values I was exposed to as a kid. I did not grow up to be a drug addict or a raving lunatic, although I have been accused of being too quiet. I guess I’ve just become more sensitive to the ironies and contradictions of life. I became an observer, always figuring out what lay behind the masks people wear every day to conceal their true identities.
Lately I’ve noticed a pretty disturbing but very interesting phenomenon: my parents are actually beginning to embrace each other’s lifestyles. Papa has just recently converted to Buddhism. I also learned recently that my father’s dream as a kid was to become a rock star, and that my Mom almost became a grade school teacher in our province when she was younger. A couple of years ago Papa had his “macrobiotic diet” stage, which is basically a fancy term for becoming vegetarian. I have also found a couple of Bob Marley CDs in my father’s record collection. Meanwhile, Mom has taken up golf and is beginning to wear suits and high heels. She has also started to wear makeup and has been attending PTA meetings at my brother’s school. I guess I could stop wondering about how Mom and Papa managed to stay together long enough to produce me. After all, they’re practically like two, albeit different, peas in a pod.
