Closets Of Backlogged Dreams

KABANATA 1

I know all the bad things I've done to myself even when I don't deserve them.

"I didn't do anything bad to Iso. Ask her yourself, Ms. Morwen!" was a frantic attempt by one of my elementary school classmates. It was just the three of us in the classroom that day. She was trying to explain to our teacher what had happened to my hair.

"Isolde, is it true?" Ms. Morwen inquired, staring at me.

I looked down at my hands and played with them. It was not true. I remembered her putting the gum on my hair and how her friends laughed because the green-colored chewing gum tangled my long black hair strands together.   

"It was an accident, Ms. Morwen." I nearly sighed after saying that.

Despite knowing the truth, I picked not to make a fuss about it, as I had before. It was a never-ending loop, but I feel it is a simple way to be kind to others. That they were just going through some difficult periods in their lives and like to blame it on others.

"See, it was just an accident, Ms." my classmate explained. She nearly smiled but stopped herself before exiting the room. And I saw it.

"You cut your hair, Iso."

"It's okay, po, Ms. Morwen. It'll grow back. It's just a hair," I informed her, smiling. There is no sign of sadness.

The day finished with me crying about my uneven haircut and later getting lectured by my mother for my actions.

"What did you do to your hair, anak?" She is also on the edge of tears since we both adore my hair.

"It's fine, Mama; it'll grow back," I told her.

"But why did you cut it in the first place? Anak naman."

"Mama, look. I can still comb it, you can still do your routine of combing my hair." I reassured her.

I smiled. Because I never regretted not telling Ms. Morwen and my Mom the truth. I told myself that it was only a simple act of kindness that I could do for a classmate who I had seen receiving slaps by her mother after school. 

Or when one of my male classmates touched my brassiere in front of the class and everyone laughed, I didn't say anything and brushed it up to an accident after seeing him get hit and yelled at by his father for being too feminine.

The reality is that everyone will go forward. No matter where you are or what stage of life you are in. Everyone does. They will forget when they hurt someone or were hurt. People will forgive, and they will forget. 

As for me, I am still convinced that my grandmother wanted to tell me to be kind. To be kind to others. She wanted me to be the light, enlightening people in darkness. Or perhaps I'm still getting it wrong.

Because as I grew older, I began to question this. Is being kind the same as allowing yourself to be a doormat? Is letting others walk all over you truly kindness? I often wonder if my grandmother ever faced such dilemmas, or if her unwavering faith in goodness shielded her from the harsh realities I encounter.

I recall another incident, a few years later, in high school. A group of girls, the popular clique, decided to target me one week. It started with snide remarks about my clothes, my hair, and the way I spoke. I overheard them mocking me in the hallways, their laughter ringing in my ears long after the school bell had rung.

One day, they cornered me in the bathroom. "Why do you dress like that, Iso?" one of them sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. "Don't you know it's not the 80s anymore?" Iwanted to tell her that this is one of my favorite clothes given by my Mamita. Although it wasn't old style, I just don't prefer wearing crop tops or ripped jeans just like them. 

I wanted to tell them that, but I stood there, clutching my books to my chest, trying to summon the courage to respond. But all I could think about was my grandmother's advice. So, I smiled and said,

 "I like these clothes. They make me happy."

They rolled their eyes and walked away, leaving me trembling but somewhat proud. I had stood my ground, albeit in a passive way. I told myself it was another act of kindness, to not lash out or fight back, to let their words slide off me like water off a duck's back.

But was it really kindness? Or was it just cowardice? I still don't know. I still question myself, even now, years later.

Life has a way of testing our beliefs and pushing us to our limits. Each incident, each act of passive acceptance, chips away at my resolve. Sometimes, I feel like a statue slowly eroding in the wind and rain, my edges becoming smoother, less defined.

Yet, amidst all the doubts and self-recrimination, there's a small, stubborn part of me that clings to my grandmother's unfinished words,

" Tell Isolde to be-" maybe to be kind just like her.

Because maybe, just maybe, kindness isn't about grand gestures or heroic acts. Maybe it's in the small things, the everyday decisions to choose understanding over anger, patience over frustration, love over hate.

In a world that often seems cruel and unforgiving, perhaps the greatest act of kindness is simply to keep believing in it. To keep trying to be the light, even when it feels like you're surrounded by darkness. And maybe, that's enough.