i just came from day 1 of vacation bible school at my church. i volunteered to help out, but ended up being one of the teachers since, hey, i do it for a living. :)
it's a new adventure, to say the least. i feel weird being there being a teacher and all, when i know i have a lot of learning to do when it comes to the bible. but y heart is in the right place. it was a joy to see little ones so enthusiastic to participate as romans, visiting Paul and the underground church.
i have the oldest kids, and because there were only two in my class, it was pretty easy. what caught my heart were the pre-K kids. they are so cute. i want to take one home.
during the drama part where we visited Paul in his prison cell, i felt a tear fall on my face. i remember Sunday school and for a second, i was reminded of my young self, sitting in class, listening to my sunday school teacher, basking in the wonders of Jesus' love for us. I thank my mom's family for instilling the value of worship at an early age. it faded during my smart ass/angsty stage, but when I reunited with Jesus, I felt i had that in me all along.
as i looked at the innocent faces of those children, the yearning to have one of my own became clear. if God sees it fit to bless me with a child, i know where i can raise him/her.
for now, it would be my joy to spend time with the little ones, and hear what they have to say.
Showing posts with label childhood memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood memories. Show all posts
Monday, July 6, 2009
Sunday, October 14, 2007
(love) the skin i'm in
music : bebot by the black eyed peas
okay, so it took me 7 years out of my 31 to finally embrace the skin i'm in. took me long enough huh? i suppose this acceptance of my skin color would not happen if i did not move here in the states.
in los banos, or in the philippines in general, dark-skinned girls are not as appreciated as fair skinned ladies or mestizas. i think the same goes with the filipino men in general. back there, if you are a girl and you are fair skinned, you are by default, pretty already.
i grew up with a complex of being the negra in the family.
"oops, brownout (power outage)! joffin you better smile so we can see you in the dark"
"is that a shadow? oh, it's only joffin"
"joffin, wear white at night so we can see you"
ita, ulikba, balbakwa. you name it. if it's dark or black, it's gotta be me. often i go to my dad, my face tear-stained after being walloped by taunts and jeers from the evil duo. i ask and blame him why i am so dark. he said it's not his fault, his family is fair skinned. it's mom's fault, she's the morena one.
great.
even in school. i was, for a time dubbed by some of x's friends as whoopi as in whoopi goldberg, because that was when sister act 1 and 2 came out. it didn't help that i played soccer for a time, so i was very dark indeed.
i tried to use bleaching lotion in high school when block and white first came out.
i had high hopes, thinking yey, puputi na ako! but then i stopped because who was i kidding?! i'll need industrial strength block and white for my skin. i even wrote a poem about that. about what would happen if i become obssessed with the bleaching lotion, maybe i'll block and white myself to invisibility?
when asked by friends about her son's girlfriend if the girlfriend is pretty or how is she (meaning me of course), my ex MIL would always answer : she's smart. asked if i was pretty? answer : she's smart. or she would remark about the girls in the neighborhood, "so and so is maputi (fair), she's pretty!" well, thank god i'm smart!
it doesn't help that i have several close friends who are very mestizo and mestiza. case in point? edong and fanny. those two look so european, you'd think they are foreigners. anyway, when i first met their mom, i felt so self-conscious because she can not stop talking about my "exotic" color. what? was i batik?! but no offense taken, she genuinely appreciated my dark skin color.
and so great migration.
living here made me appreciate the beauty of being brown skinned. i have a "tan" 24/7. people always think i've been vacationing in the beach somewhere. yeah? try driving around town, that's where i get my tan. moonshine is obsessed with self tanners because she is too fair, she thinks. my colleague suzanne goes to tanning salons in the spring because she doesn't like looking like a tall shapely bottle of "veiny milk" she says. one time on a wicked whim i almost walked in a tanning salon just to see the expression on the receptionist's face. but i was a good girl so i didn't.
i've come to love my skin color, i'm stuck with it anyway. it's not so bad after all, especially since northern NJ is very diverse. we have all shades of skin color here so i fit right in.
i still have issues with the sun and "tan lines" though. i try to stay away from the sun as much as i can, only because it leaves freakish tan lines on my body. if i drive when the sun is out and i wear a wristwatch, i have a tan line in an hour. some find it awesome. i don't.
on my last trip to maryland, in my excitement to see my friends, i forgot to change into a tank top for my drive. i got in bruce, strapped myself and drove in the heat of the afternoon. well whoopee-effing-do. when i got to lubs' place and i showered after my drive, i screamed in horror because i have a freaky tan line where the seatbelt sat across my chest. it was funny yes. funny like i have a beauty pageant sash across my body. yeah, i am miss freaking hawaiian tropic.
but sans mishaps like that, i am cool with my skin now. if i don't embrace it, who will, right?
so when asked where i get my tan, i smile and casually respond "from my beautiful mother."
amen.
okay, so it took me 7 years out of my 31 to finally embrace the skin i'm in. took me long enough huh? i suppose this acceptance of my skin color would not happen if i did not move here in the states.
in los banos, or in the philippines in general, dark-skinned girls are not as appreciated as fair skinned ladies or mestizas. i think the same goes with the filipino men in general. back there, if you are a girl and you are fair skinned, you are by default, pretty already.
i grew up with a complex of being the negra in the family.
"oops, brownout (power outage)! joffin you better smile so we can see you in the dark"
"is that a shadow? oh, it's only joffin"
"joffin, wear white at night so we can see you"
ita, ulikba, balbakwa. you name it. if it's dark or black, it's gotta be me. often i go to my dad, my face tear-stained after being walloped by taunts and jeers from the evil duo. i ask and blame him why i am so dark. he said it's not his fault, his family is fair skinned. it's mom's fault, she's the morena one.
great.
even in school. i was, for a time dubbed by some of x's friends as whoopi as in whoopi goldberg, because that was when sister act 1 and 2 came out. it didn't help that i played soccer for a time, so i was very dark indeed.
i tried to use bleaching lotion in high school when block and white first came out.
i had high hopes, thinking yey, puputi na ako! but then i stopped because who was i kidding?! i'll need industrial strength block and white for my skin. i even wrote a poem about that. about what would happen if i become obssessed with the bleaching lotion, maybe i'll block and white myself to invisibility?
when asked by friends about her son's girlfriend if the girlfriend is pretty or how is she (meaning me of course), my ex MIL would always answer : she's smart. asked if i was pretty? answer : she's smart. or she would remark about the girls in the neighborhood, "so and so is maputi (fair), she's pretty!" well, thank god i'm smart!
it doesn't help that i have several close friends who are very mestizo and mestiza. case in point? edong and fanny. those two look so european, you'd think they are foreigners. anyway, when i first met their mom, i felt so self-conscious because she can not stop talking about my "exotic" color. what? was i batik?! but no offense taken, she genuinely appreciated my dark skin color.
and so great migration.
living here made me appreciate the beauty of being brown skinned. i have a "tan" 24/7. people always think i've been vacationing in the beach somewhere. yeah? try driving around town, that's where i get my tan. moonshine is obsessed with self tanners because she is too fair, she thinks. my colleague suzanne goes to tanning salons in the spring because she doesn't like looking like a tall shapely bottle of "veiny milk" she says. one time on a wicked whim i almost walked in a tanning salon just to see the expression on the receptionist's face. but i was a good girl so i didn't.
i've come to love my skin color, i'm stuck with it anyway. it's not so bad after all, especially since northern NJ is very diverse. we have all shades of skin color here so i fit right in.
i still have issues with the sun and "tan lines" though. i try to stay away from the sun as much as i can, only because it leaves freakish tan lines on my body. if i drive when the sun is out and i wear a wristwatch, i have a tan line in an hour. some find it awesome. i don't.
on my last trip to maryland, in my excitement to see my friends, i forgot to change into a tank top for my drive. i got in bruce, strapped myself and drove in the heat of the afternoon. well whoopee-effing-do. when i got to lubs' place and i showered after my drive, i screamed in horror because i have a freaky tan line where the seatbelt sat across my chest. it was funny yes. funny like i have a beauty pageant sash across my body. yeah, i am miss freaking hawaiian tropic.
but sans mishaps like that, i am cool with my skin now. if i don't embrace it, who will, right?
so when asked where i get my tan, i smile and casually respond "from my beautiful mother."
amen.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Dad
music : landslide by fleetwod mac
My dad celebrated his 53rd birthday three days ago. A pity that I can’t call him because I don’t even know where he is. The last time I spoke to him wasn’t a happy occasion, but then again I’ve never been cheerbear.
I don’t even have a picture of him to post in this blog. Pathetic, no? I have nothing. I have nothing tangible that he gave me. The heart necklace was snatched from me. The gold bracelet, I’ ve long ago pawned. The notebook he gave me, I broke. The collection of E.A. Poe stories he gave me is somewhere in the UPRHS library, part of my collection that I donated when I moved here. I even lost that one silver Parker ballpoint pen engraved with my name and christian name, I lost it then and it didn’t matter much, I hated my christian name. It sounded so wimpy to my already weird name.
But the intangible lot that my father gave me, it’s all here.
I have his eyes - the same medium brown color. I have his brows - the same angular pair that arch at any given stimulus - pleasant or otherwise.
I have his hair - the same fine dark brown mop of hair that has a mind of its own. It’s straight one day and curly the next.
I have his teeth- straight and strong. So strong they broke my dentist’s tool the last time I had one of my wisdom teeth pulled out. Thanks dad, Ninang said I still have one tooth in there somewhere. And so my visits to the Philippines always include a visit to her clinic, not just for cleaning, but also for some procedure.
I have his walk- the same bowlegged swagger that earned me a reputation in school as a tomboy.It wasn’t on purpose, it’s natural ,like my two feet are angry at each other. This is why it is very uncomfortable for me to wear heels. I am sakang. That’s that.
I have his temper - the same short fuse that just about explodes when I am trapped in the company of ignorant people. The same temper that gets to me when I drive with a bunch of idiots.
And like him, I mostly wear my heart on my sleeve, and this is what bites me back in the ass.
People always say that I am very much my mother’s daughter. Yes, I look very much like her, I sound very much like her, but the things above, she would even tell you, I got from my dad.
Father-daugher relationships are indeed very fragile. Mine is no different. Because I am so much like my mom, my dad and I always butt heads. Thinking about it now, I think it is also because I am in part like him that makes it even explosive when he and I spend time together.
When I was younger, my dad was most preoccupied in making a girl of me. He gave me a pair of Barbie dolls so I can have “normal” girl toys. I was more interested in playing with my brother’s remote control cars and Lego sets. He often lamented that his firstborn is a boy. He tried desperately to make me more feminine. I remember one trip we had to the mall, he outfitted me in pink. I looked like a freaking cotton candy stick. I like pink now. I dyed my hair pink once. I wear pink too, but mostly I wear it with black. ( I have pink shoes, dad. You’re gonna hate it. And I like it like that.)
He wanted me to take up sports in high school, something graceful like swimming, or tennis, or volleyball. Well I took up sports alright. I took Tae Kwon Do, Soccer and Basketball.
He wanted me to have in interest in music. Something soulful like jazz. He’s such a jazz enthusiast. I like music, something soulful too. It’s called rock. He wanted me to learn how to play an instrument so I can be “cultured.” Something divine like piano or the violin even. I played an instrument – my voice, and with it I became part of an alt/ rock band in college, and boy there’s a lot of culture involved in that too. I play the guitar now. It’s not jazz that I play, but I sure can make him cry. ( Maybe one day I’ll play him a Fleetwood Mac song.)
He wanted me to become a doctor. I wanted to become a lawyer so I can sue his ass. He shut me down and told me I can’t be a lawyer because I have too big a heart. Well, I didn’t become a doctor. I didn’t become a lawyer. I am teacher, and that must’ve hurt him too, because my mom’s one kick ass teacher.
Funny how I only spent seven years with him, yet I picked up a couple of things that I still believe in these days.
That a shower before bedtime is imperative. He always told me and made me shower before I got to bed, no matter how tired I am. He told me I have to smell clean and be clean before I sleep so in my dreams I smell clean and fresh too. He said if I go to bed stinky, my dreams would probably stink too. So yes, I take a shower before I go to bed. Even in the winter. Even when my teeth are chattering from the cold, I take a shower before bedtime. I take another shower when I wake up. Don’t ask me why. I just do. In the warm months, I take more then two showers. And always, I make sure I smell good. I do. Ask any of my friends. I do smell good. My dad ingrained that in my being.
I do not walk when I smoke. My dad said that girls who walk while they smoke look like streetwalkers. These days I wish I just learned not to smoke. I walk more, so that’s a good thing. But in college, I never walked and smoked at the same time. Ask me where the logic is. There is none.
My dad can figure me out like an open book. And I hate it when he’s right. He is the only person who can tell when I am upset. He knows because my lips are upturned unnaturally.
Despite our differences, my dad cares a lot about me. This is sore topic for my mom because my dad does not treat my brothers equally. If anything happens to me, my dad will find a way to get to me. A terrible thing happened 7 years ago when I came face to face with a gun. It was a nightmare. The night after the incident, my dad showed up at my grandparent’s house all panicked at what happened to me. I was more or less composed at that time. He wasn’t. He was so upset, he told me he’s going to get a gun for me so I can protect myself. He said he will hunt down the bastard who pointed a gun at me. As usual, I sighed a deep sigh and told him how stupid he sounded. Why the fuck would I want to carry a gun when a gun was just pointed at me? Logic please. I told him I know he’s trying to be sweet, but he’s more retarded than sweet. I walked out on him and let him deal with my mom.
When X messed up and I was left to deal with his shit, I wanted to talk to my dad and just cry. It’s really ironic considering he should be the last person I should talk to, but that little girl in me just wanted to tell her dad that she’s been hurt. My dad called me up so I can call him back. I don’t know who was sadder, him or me. He told me that even though I “hated” him most of my life, when I get hurt, he will always get more hurt. If I get hurt, he will always cry for me. And you know what, it felt good telling him what happened. At that moment, I wasn’t 31 years old, I felt like I was 5 with a big ass scrape on my knee crying my eyes out, and there was his 27 year old self, blowing the pain away.
That was several months ago. I am still here, still standing. Standing strong and hopeful that everything will work out just fine. I hope and pray that as my dad starts another year, he can find his way back to peace and yes, maybe finally happiness. I told him happiness is overrated.
But, we all deserve a little bit of happiness.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
From your feisty firstborn,
Joffin-Mari (Therese)
My dad celebrated his 53rd birthday three days ago. A pity that I can’t call him because I don’t even know where he is. The last time I spoke to him wasn’t a happy occasion, but then again I’ve never been cheerbear.
I don’t even have a picture of him to post in this blog. Pathetic, no? I have nothing. I have nothing tangible that he gave me. The heart necklace was snatched from me. The gold bracelet, I’ ve long ago pawned. The notebook he gave me, I broke. The collection of E.A. Poe stories he gave me is somewhere in the UPRHS library, part of my collection that I donated when I moved here. I even lost that one silver Parker ballpoint pen engraved with my name and christian name, I lost it then and it didn’t matter much, I hated my christian name. It sounded so wimpy to my already weird name.
But the intangible lot that my father gave me, it’s all here.
I have his eyes - the same medium brown color. I have his brows - the same angular pair that arch at any given stimulus - pleasant or otherwise.
I have his hair - the same fine dark brown mop of hair that has a mind of its own. It’s straight one day and curly the next.
I have his teeth- straight and strong. So strong they broke my dentist’s tool the last time I had one of my wisdom teeth pulled out. Thanks dad, Ninang said I still have one tooth in there somewhere. And so my visits to the Philippines always include a visit to her clinic, not just for cleaning, but also for some procedure.
I have his walk- the same bowlegged swagger that earned me a reputation in school as a tomboy.It wasn’t on purpose, it’s natural ,like my two feet are angry at each other. This is why it is very uncomfortable for me to wear heels. I am sakang. That’s that.
I have his temper - the same short fuse that just about explodes when I am trapped in the company of ignorant people. The same temper that gets to me when I drive with a bunch of idiots.
And like him, I mostly wear my heart on my sleeve, and this is what bites me back in the ass.
People always say that I am very much my mother’s daughter. Yes, I look very much like her, I sound very much like her, but the things above, she would even tell you, I got from my dad.
Father-daugher relationships are indeed very fragile. Mine is no different. Because I am so much like my mom, my dad and I always butt heads. Thinking about it now, I think it is also because I am in part like him that makes it even explosive when he and I spend time together.
When I was younger, my dad was most preoccupied in making a girl of me. He gave me a pair of Barbie dolls so I can have “normal” girl toys. I was more interested in playing with my brother’s remote control cars and Lego sets. He often lamented that his firstborn is a boy. He tried desperately to make me more feminine. I remember one trip we had to the mall, he outfitted me in pink. I looked like a freaking cotton candy stick. I like pink now. I dyed my hair pink once. I wear pink too, but mostly I wear it with black. ( I have pink shoes, dad. You’re gonna hate it. And I like it like that.)
He wanted me to take up sports in high school, something graceful like swimming, or tennis, or volleyball. Well I took up sports alright. I took Tae Kwon Do, Soccer and Basketball.
He wanted me to have in interest in music. Something soulful like jazz. He’s such a jazz enthusiast. I like music, something soulful too. It’s called rock. He wanted me to learn how to play an instrument so I can be “cultured.” Something divine like piano or the violin even. I played an instrument – my voice, and with it I became part of an alt/ rock band in college, and boy there’s a lot of culture involved in that too. I play the guitar now. It’s not jazz that I play, but I sure can make him cry. ( Maybe one day I’ll play him a Fleetwood Mac song.)
He wanted me to become a doctor. I wanted to become a lawyer so I can sue his ass. He shut me down and told me I can’t be a lawyer because I have too big a heart. Well, I didn’t become a doctor. I didn’t become a lawyer. I am teacher, and that must’ve hurt him too, because my mom’s one kick ass teacher.
Funny how I only spent seven years with him, yet I picked up a couple of things that I still believe in these days.
That a shower before bedtime is imperative. He always told me and made me shower before I got to bed, no matter how tired I am. He told me I have to smell clean and be clean before I sleep so in my dreams I smell clean and fresh too. He said if I go to bed stinky, my dreams would probably stink too. So yes, I take a shower before I go to bed. Even in the winter. Even when my teeth are chattering from the cold, I take a shower before bedtime. I take another shower when I wake up. Don’t ask me why. I just do. In the warm months, I take more then two showers. And always, I make sure I smell good. I do. Ask any of my friends. I do smell good. My dad ingrained that in my being.
I do not walk when I smoke. My dad said that girls who walk while they smoke look like streetwalkers. These days I wish I just learned not to smoke. I walk more, so that’s a good thing. But in college, I never walked and smoked at the same time. Ask me where the logic is. There is none.
My dad can figure me out like an open book. And I hate it when he’s right. He is the only person who can tell when I am upset. He knows because my lips are upturned unnaturally.
Despite our differences, my dad cares a lot about me. This is sore topic for my mom because my dad does not treat my brothers equally. If anything happens to me, my dad will find a way to get to me. A terrible thing happened 7 years ago when I came face to face with a gun. It was a nightmare. The night after the incident, my dad showed up at my grandparent’s house all panicked at what happened to me. I was more or less composed at that time. He wasn’t. He was so upset, he told me he’s going to get a gun for me so I can protect myself. He said he will hunt down the bastard who pointed a gun at me. As usual, I sighed a deep sigh and told him how stupid he sounded. Why the fuck would I want to carry a gun when a gun was just pointed at me? Logic please. I told him I know he’s trying to be sweet, but he’s more retarded than sweet. I walked out on him and let him deal with my mom.
When X messed up and I was left to deal with his shit, I wanted to talk to my dad and just cry. It’s really ironic considering he should be the last person I should talk to, but that little girl in me just wanted to tell her dad that she’s been hurt. My dad called me up so I can call him back. I don’t know who was sadder, him or me. He told me that even though I “hated” him most of my life, when I get hurt, he will always get more hurt. If I get hurt, he will always cry for me. And you know what, it felt good telling him what happened. At that moment, I wasn’t 31 years old, I felt like I was 5 with a big ass scrape on my knee crying my eyes out, and there was his 27 year old self, blowing the pain away.
That was several months ago. I am still here, still standing. Standing strong and hopeful that everything will work out just fine. I hope and pray that as my dad starts another year, he can find his way back to peace and yes, maybe finally happiness. I told him happiness is overrated.
But, we all deserve a little bit of happiness.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
From your feisty firstborn,
Joffin-Mari (Therese)
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
child's play
background music : back on the chain gang by the pretenders
My mom never let me took siestas as a child because I would be up all night and screw up everybody’s sleep. On the very rare occasions that I did doze off, everybody pretty much left me alone. But not my evil aunt and cousin – the evil twins, Charry and Jocel. They used to sneak into my other aunt’s room and wake me up with the sole intention of pissing me off.
You know what they say about how it is better to play jokes on a drunk, but never on a person who just woke up? That is so true with me. You never, EVER wake me up in the afternoon – I turn to little hulk and destroy everything in my path. The evil twins know this all too well and they wake me up for the exact purpose of watching me destroy whatever toys I have. After the carnage, I would go back to my little negrita mode and cry myself silly for wrecking my toys, much to their delight. They would then run off and tell on me. I would get punished for destroying my toys and I will be told I will not be given any more. Only my dad would take my side and soothe my little broken heart with a wink and a promise that he will buy me a new toy when he can.
Those two really sucked. Thank goodness I’m pretty well-adjusted now, otherwise I’d probably be this nervous cowering and stuttering wreck. You would if you had to spend your formative years with these two. Here’s a menu of the games we used to play :
1) Hide and Seek - For some reason, I am always it. And for some reason, I had to count 1 to 67 when we play this game. Of course I never find these two because they would be well out of the hiding perimeters and I would usually find them back inside my grandma’s room watching cartoons like nothing happened.
2) The Office game - We set up under the big round table. We have old phones and paper and pens and postcards and pretend that we work in an ultra important office. Of course the twins are the big bosses and I’m the secretary. Not much fun since they always order me around.
3) The Playhouse game - My grandma had a bahay kubo built for us. It was pretty neat actually. It was a good sized nipa hut furnished with a bunk bed, a kitchenette for our clay pots and stove, a working sink – the works. We even had a sign nailed to the post “La Casita 123" for us three senoritas. So we would play house – another genius game for the evil twins for Jocel would be the dad, Charry would be the mom. You’d think I’ll be the kid right? Nope. I’m the maid. I’m Inday, thank you. I had to wash the dishes, gather leaves for our pretend food and clean the house! I sometimes wonder if it would be a more fun game if I was the dog, Bantay. They’d probably treat me better those two buggers!
4) Road runners - As my parents were still both struggling with money, I did not have a bike for myself. There was a bike in my grandma’s, but the evil duo naturally hogged it. It was a three-wheeler, a nifty little blue bike where one can stand at the back while the other rides it. Of course there was no room for a third person. Everyday I hope would be my lucky day when they would let me ride with them. I usually have to wait for them to go have their daily siesta so I can ride the bike, but that wasn’t much fun. So one day, the ever resourceful little Joffin asked Tubal, the gardener if she can use the wheelbarrow so she can go “ride” with the evil twins. You can probably guess what happened. I ended up playing rickshaw-wallah to these two. Grrr.
Not a lot of fun either.
and last but not the least ...
5) The Superfriends Game - I hate hate hate this game. I’ve always wanted to be Wonderwoman . I would use my magic lasso and tie up the evil twins,lock them up in my invisible jet and drop them off to Tawi-tawi or some distant uninhabited island. But no. The evil twins have to be the Wondertwins and of course yours truly can only be... Gleek! – the frigging monkey. Sigh.
Good times.
So yeah, pretty much that was my preschool childhood with the evil twins. When I started school I loved it. I was very active in school and I had a lot of nice playmates. I usually played with the boys because their games were so much fun. The girls usually played with their Barbie dolls and mine were all decapitated, so I didn’t really play those until I was in second grade when my dad bought me two replacement Barbie dolls for the two that I had mutilated one frenzied afternoon after being woken up by the twins.
Time space warp......
I got my day of justice one summer day in 1999 when Jocel visited us after 18 years of living in the states. I cornered both Charry and Jocel and gave them a mouthful of my pent-up anger. They got a bit scared of me because I barely gave them any space to butt in. They vehemently denied being mean to me of course. I told them to shut up and listen to me, for once. I said I should actually thank them for those things that they did because somehow it helped me toughen up and become a well-adjusted young adult, I just warned them that what they did may come back and bite them in the ass one day, when somebody else would decide to bully their future children.
I walked away feeling good that they had a lot to think about.
Noo-ni-noo-ni-noo.
My mom never let me took siestas as a child because I would be up all night and screw up everybody’s sleep. On the very rare occasions that I did doze off, everybody pretty much left me alone. But not my evil aunt and cousin – the evil twins, Charry and Jocel. They used to sneak into my other aunt’s room and wake me up with the sole intention of pissing me off.
You know what they say about how it is better to play jokes on a drunk, but never on a person who just woke up? That is so true with me. You never, EVER wake me up in the afternoon – I turn to little hulk and destroy everything in my path. The evil twins know this all too well and they wake me up for the exact purpose of watching me destroy whatever toys I have. After the carnage, I would go back to my little negrita mode and cry myself silly for wrecking my toys, much to their delight. They would then run off and tell on me. I would get punished for destroying my toys and I will be told I will not be given any more. Only my dad would take my side and soothe my little broken heart with a wink and a promise that he will buy me a new toy when he can.
Those two really sucked. Thank goodness I’m pretty well-adjusted now, otherwise I’d probably be this nervous cowering and stuttering wreck. You would if you had to spend your formative years with these two. Here’s a menu of the games we used to play :
1) Hide and Seek - For some reason, I am always it. And for some reason, I had to count 1 to 67 when we play this game. Of course I never find these two because they would be well out of the hiding perimeters and I would usually find them back inside my grandma’s room watching cartoons like nothing happened.
2) The Office game - We set up under the big round table. We have old phones and paper and pens and postcards and pretend that we work in an ultra important office. Of course the twins are the big bosses and I’m the secretary. Not much fun since they always order me around.
3) The Playhouse game - My grandma had a bahay kubo built for us. It was pretty neat actually. It was a good sized nipa hut furnished with a bunk bed, a kitchenette for our clay pots and stove, a working sink – the works. We even had a sign nailed to the post “La Casita 123" for us three senoritas. So we would play house – another genius game for the evil twins for Jocel would be the dad, Charry would be the mom. You’d think I’ll be the kid right? Nope. I’m the maid. I’m Inday, thank you. I had to wash the dishes, gather leaves for our pretend food and clean the house! I sometimes wonder if it would be a more fun game if I was the dog, Bantay. They’d probably treat me better those two buggers!
4) Road runners - As my parents were still both struggling with money, I did not have a bike for myself. There was a bike in my grandma’s, but the evil duo naturally hogged it. It was a three-wheeler, a nifty little blue bike where one can stand at the back while the other rides it. Of course there was no room for a third person. Everyday I hope would be my lucky day when they would let me ride with them. I usually have to wait for them to go have their daily siesta so I can ride the bike, but that wasn’t much fun. So one day, the ever resourceful little Joffin asked Tubal, the gardener if she can use the wheelbarrow so she can go “ride” with the evil twins. You can probably guess what happened. I ended up playing rickshaw-wallah to these two. Grrr.
Not a lot of fun either.
and last but not the least ...
5) The Superfriends Game - I hate hate hate this game. I’ve always wanted to be Wonderwoman . I would use my magic lasso and tie up the evil twins,lock them up in my invisible jet and drop them off to Tawi-tawi or some distant uninhabited island. But no. The evil twins have to be the Wondertwins and of course yours truly can only be... Gleek! – the frigging monkey. Sigh.
Good times.
So yeah, pretty much that was my preschool childhood with the evil twins. When I started school I loved it. I was very active in school and I had a lot of nice playmates. I usually played with the boys because their games were so much fun. The girls usually played with their Barbie dolls and mine were all decapitated, so I didn’t really play those until I was in second grade when my dad bought me two replacement Barbie dolls for the two that I had mutilated one frenzied afternoon after being woken up by the twins.
Time space warp......
I got my day of justice one summer day in 1999 when Jocel visited us after 18 years of living in the states. I cornered both Charry and Jocel and gave them a mouthful of my pent-up anger. They got a bit scared of me because I barely gave them any space to butt in. They vehemently denied being mean to me of course. I told them to shut up and listen to me, for once. I said I should actually thank them for those things that they did because somehow it helped me toughen up and become a well-adjusted young adult, I just warned them that what they did may come back and bite them in the ass one day, when somebody else would decide to bully their future children.
I walked away feeling good that they had a lot to think about.
Noo-ni-noo-ni-noo.
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