That was me, in school, most of the time, ever since kindergarten. I was a soundless student. The endless noise from the other students drowned my ears. It was annoying. But somewhere inside me, I wanted to be a part of the noise. It wasn’t their looks. It wasn’t their status. It was their… speech. “How could people speak so much?” I wondered. How come when it was me, I struggled to say anything? Especially when it came to things that concerned going in front of the class. The mere thought of it scared me. How come they could all raise their hands anytime when they wanted to answer? Others even just spoke without raising their hand. It made me nervous just raising my hand. What if what I was going to say were wrong? That’s gotta sting. They would all laugh at me. I better not raise it. I want to change. I’ll do it. I’ll raise my hand now… Okay, maybe next time.

“Paul, ba’t ang tahimik mo?” My classmates would ask me. I’d always say “nahihiya ako.” And then that was it. I had friends, good friends, like any other student. No one was a loner in our school, everyone was friendly. Despite that, though, I was still quiet. Very quiet. It wouldn’t be until 3rd grade that I would actually talk to my friends like a normal person would. But by then, I was still a shy person, not wanting to be in front of the class or anything.

Then came 4th grade. There was a Japanese-looking guy, he looked cool, at least when I was young. His name was also Japanese-sounding. This guy… this guy changed everything. We became friends. Then we became best friends. Then we had this other guy, Julius, our other best friend. We were a trio of best friends. We called ourselves “FPJ” (Fumiki-Paul-Julius). This would eventually lead me to, for the first time in my life, talking and speaking like them. Natural, like a normal human being would talk, not some shy guy sitting in the corner. For that, I was grateful. However, just like before, I was still apprehensive about going in front of class or even the small act of raising my hand to answer a question.

It wouldn’t be for another 4 years, in 2nd year high school that I had changed again. Moving into a new school with no one but strangers was tough. So I had that to deal with. But in my 2nd year, my classmates, my adviser, they were the best people I’ve met in my school life. We were a happy homeroom. I had become even more expressive talking to people. Noisier. 

3rd year, how time flew. I had a best friend to whom I could tell everything. That made things easier. But you wouldn’t have known that it was me, during that time. I was noisy. I talked a lot. I had a lot of friends. I played songs on my guitar and had everyone singing. Funny how someone can change so much... I raised my hand. 

The last year of high school was truly the proof that showed how different I was. I started wanting to be called. I wanted to be in front of the class. I wanted to show everyone how good I was. Was it me? Have I really become like them? Like them? I thought so. I started from someone who hummed words with his mouth because he didn’t like to speak to someone who wanted to speak in front of a lot of people. The person who hid from the teacher to the person who wanted to be called the teacher. 

The person who raised his hand, went up in front of everyone, and talked. I did it. 

High school was the time when I saw a lot of my friends undergo great changes in their personalities. In the beginning of high school, I was happy that I managed to preserve my friendship with my two best friends, Yssa and Nicole, whom I had both known since grade school. Now even though we weren’t classmates, we had lunch together at my aunt’s place, which was a walking distance from school. We talked during our vacant periods, sharing new experiences, talking about our classmates and teachers and eating snacks under the shade of the old mango tree outside our building. We also helped each other in our studies as each of us excelled in our own favorite subjects, hoping that by the next school year, we would end up in the same section and be classmates. Sadly, first year swiftly passed by and we did not end up in the same section. However, I knew inside that that dream will soon come true before the end of high school. 

            High school is a pool of different types of people, most of them being outgoing and talkative. Me and Yssa did not fall into those categories, but Nicole did. She was easily swayed by the bad crowd and attempted to please the popular group, hoping that she would belong to them. During this time, Yssa was secretly in love with a man whom she met through texting and shared this secret with us. She told us about how they text each other using Nicole’s phone, since Yssa didn’t have her own phone then, although she used her own sim card. Unbeknownst to us, some of the texts messages of Yssa’s crush remained in Nicole’s phone, and Nicole leaked the texts to some of our classmates. Yssa’s secret was found out—especially by that girl who spreads gossip like fire.

            When that secret has reached the ears of many students, Yssa came crying to me. I listened to her and knew that we had been betrayed by our friend. It was painful for the both of us to be backstabbed like that. All the years we spent together probably meant nothing for that traitor who yearned for attention and membership to the popular crowd. Before I made my decision, I waited for Nicole to tell me her side as I had hoped for a proper reconciliation. The next day, I found her hanging out with the people she traded us for. She did not make an attempt to approach me despite of my invitation to do so. She merely casted cold glances at me and at the end of the day, I decided that we would be better off without her company. She was no longer the kind and self-sacrificing person I knew back then. She changed and our friendship had been the price. 

            Yssa and I stopped talking to her and inviting her to lunch. The bad blood between Yssa and Nicole died out before our final year in high school, though I secretly held a longer grudge. Yssa’s crying lingered on my memories whenever I saw the person behind those tears and I knew that I could never bring myself yet to forgive her. It was probably during our last year when I forgave her. This experience is probably why I expect the worst from people and found it hard to place great trust in others. I always told myself that someday these people will take advantage of you, hurt you--or someone you love and leave you for someone else.

           Know your true friends.

                          My father died from cardiac arrest at the age of 57 on August 15, 2007 after surviving a painful bypass surgery in the heart center. At that time, I was 11 and was still trying to figure why such things like this happen in an early age. I admit I always got jealous whenever I see children same as my age getting a normal life – a life lived with both parents. The magnitude of the event intensified as my mother always wept at times she remembered littlest of things about my papa. As a child, seeing your mother deeply being drenched in sorrow is one of the most heartbreaking scenes a mama’s boy can see. 

                          Five years after, I was surprised being called by our guidance counselor at the height of examinations in high school. Little did I know that, I was to be fetched by my brother only to tell me that our mama died from a shooting incident.  Before the unexpected scene, I used to take a glance of my mom sleeping before I go to school. It was as if she was sleeping in heavens, eyes gently closed, soft lips slightly opened for air passage, and body wrapped within the embrace of arms. As we traverse the rocky roads on the way home, I realize that, that was the last scene I am going to see her sleep soundly, as she always struggled sleeping at nights because of the painful memories of the past. I used to get defensive when people assumed I couldn’t possibly have understood the magnitude of what happened. They’d tell me I was “lucky” because “at least it happened when you were little” and I’d insist that I knew and remembered everything in a vain attempt to validate my own experience.

                       It took me a long time to accept the magnitude of my loss, as I barely “mourned” for the death of my parents. It was as if my body is refusing to obtain emotional grief that I witnessed from the mourning faces of my siblings. Enya’s music has been my defense mechanism to counter all the sad pigments of emotions that attempted to enter my spirited young soul. Or, I used to seclude myself from the wake proper to be away from the people of telling me, “Okay lang ‘yan”, “Nandyan naman mga kapatid mo, ‘di ka papabayaan”, “May dahilan naman siguro ang Diyos kung bakit nangyayari ang mga ganyan”, and the common comforting words I get tired of hearing. 

                            As time went by, the weight of my grief came to me in small doses as I reach different stages of life. I then realized that time heals all wounds. Moving on doesn’t come overnight, not like a fever that could be eased through appropriate doses of paracetamol. Life taught me that you don’t only learn to live without parents, you eventually learn what it means to live independently, alone. 

Like most kids, I have encountered people, who, for some reason, took delight in making my life difficult. Yet, I made sure that they didn’t succeed in doing so. I remember having these twins named Christian and Allan as my classmates when I was in pre-school. They got along fine with my other classmates but they hated me. They tried everything they could to make my cry but I just didn’t. Then one time, I got so irked with their antics that I challenged them to a fist-fight. A tiny, six-year old girl, challenging two tall boys to a fist-fight was definitely unusual. They were so shocked that they walked away and decided to leave me alone for good. I told my parents about this incident and I was surprised when my dad laughed out loud, patted my head and said “That’s my daughter.” I was expecting them to reprimand me because it was so “unlady-like” to challenge kids to fist-fight but they explained to me that it was just right because the world is a cruel place and no one else would help me but myself. I didn’t fully understand what they meant but I kept it in mind anyway.

Another instance of what I fondly call as the “don’t-let-the-bullies-bully-you” was when I was in fifth grade. My parents had to go somewhere and th3ey couldn’t fetch me from school so I volunteered to ride a tricycle. They vetoed the idea at first because it would be my first time commuting but I was able to convince them anyway. Prior to that, my mom reminded me a couple of times about the fare because some drivers would demand a higher fare. True to her words, this driver didn’t give my change back. Being the assertive kid that I was, I chided him and even threatened to have his franchise removed.  

 I am proud to say that my parents taught me well because until now, I still make sure to fight back every time someone wants to make things difficult for me. Be it an FX driver, a teacher, or even a stranger on the street. I also encourage people to do th3e same and at least speak up because idiots won’t stop until they encounter someone who would put them to their places.

3ELS1

 

Being a young girl who does not know what is right or wrong, I let myself believe in the idea that I have a problem with myself. You see, I have a morena complexion and long curly hair. 

Often times, kids bullied me for having these kind of physical features; they would call me names which I found hurtful. It was in Grade 5 when “rebonding”or having a salon treatment for straightening hair was prevalent. I was determined; I decided to go to a salon and let the experts turn my hair in its straightest form possible. The next day, kids, even the bullies, started praising me for doing this. They flattered me with flowery words saying straight hair made me pretty.  I was happy. And as if it was not enough, I started buying lotions, soaps, and other beauty products that will help lighten my complexion. Though, I only used it for a while because of some matters. But as time passes, unfortunately, the bullying did not stop.

This is when I was determined to fight; I learned martial arts, which is taekwondo. And even though my coach or my master forbids us, I sometimes use my skills to shoo away bullies.

As I was growing up, little by little, I realized that I do not have to follow the standards of beauty society has given me. I learned how to love my skin regardless of what they say. I let my “rebonded” or salon straightened hair to grow, causing my natural hair flow and see the world. I let my morena complexion out and about. I was and am still proud and contented with myself and in what I succeeded. Now, I do not let anyone’s negative words linger in my mind. For one, I now know that it is not my fault for having this beautiful complexion and this natural curly hair. And secondly, I realized that nothing is wrong with me but there is surely something wrong with the people who cannot accept the beauty the Man above has given me.

Through this, I became much happier than before and much more comfortable in my own skin. And I am continually hoping others would be as well.