One Way Ticket

The Early Years

You'd probably think I was delusional if I told you that at age five I was transported to a different planet where my happy little world fell apart after aliens disturbed my childhood, where everything around me moved forward in time but I was stuck in the same old loop, with the same old thoughts, and the same old memories dancing like Peter Pan in my Neverland of a mind. But would you still think I'm delusional if I were to give you the context and backstory to that at least? Well probably, but I'll try anyway so here goes nothin'. Might as well start from the veeeerrrry beginning...

Tears seeped from her eye sockets as she clenched the mattress with eager force. As they gushed down her face, you could hardly decide whether they were produced through joy or agony, or rather, a concoction of both. Two screams, two cries and then the clock struck its fifth hour. The thing that came out of her, smothered with a crimson substance and still screaming, was immediately handled by two other women, whose hands were protected by off-white gloves. As it took its first breath and saw its first light, the wrinkles on its nose huddled tighter, and its mother cried again, this time with apparent jubilance.

And yes. You've guessed it. That lil' devil was me. And I caused that lil' shenanigan (or as it's more commonly called, "birth") about 14 years, 6 months and 23 days ago as of writing this. So probably longer depending on when you happen to be reading this. But you've probably stopped reading anyway because I've bored you already. In fact I've probably bored you so much that you're beginning to fall asleep and are starting to see double to see double. WELL WAKE UP!! Or not. I mean hey, I didn't force you to read this. Whatever floats your boat, eh? And now you're probably thinking I'm just wasting your time so you're gonna leave. Well I mean it's what I would do. WAIT DON'T. Stay here! Don't leave me! Or do. (This is definitely not reverse psychology. Definitely.)

Annnywayyyyy. Back to me. And my life. And my opinions. And ME ME ME. Yup - definitely not an egotist. Where were we? Oh right. The day I was born. The golden sun outstretched its rays, penetrating the clear glass window of a hospital in the busy city of Manila, the capital of my home country: the Philippines. ( Well actually I don't know if it was sunny - as an average human being, I don't have the mental capacity to remember and recall the exact details of the day of my birth, but I'm just going to keep that there anyway for literary purposes. )

That was the beginning of the best five years of my life so far. When my parents brought me home, we slept on a mat on the floor of the living room for about a year, until we mustered up the funds to get an extra space built for us upstairs. Downstairs lived Tito A (the second oldest out of my mom's four other siblings), his wife, Tita O and (at the time) their three sons (Kuya D, Kuya J and Kuya P) and my grandparents (Lola E and Lolo J). With me so far? Another uncle (the eldest of the five, Tito W) lived in a separate little house/structure/thingy just in front of ours with his wife, Tita R, and daughter, S, who was born two years after me. A larger house right next to us was where my mom's cousin, Tito G, lived with his wife, Tita J. These houses are part of one enclosure, so often, we would all eat together in the main house (the one I lived in). My other cousins (at the time, I had three others; one of which, was N (born 9 months after me), the daughter of my mom's younger brother, Tito C, who was the youngest of the five. The other two, Kuya R and Kuya JM, were sons of my mom's older brother, Tito N, the middle kid) who lived in other houses a little further away, would also come almost everyday. From my description so far, you must be thinking my house was some sort of stately mansion situated in a happy, rich province somewhere. But no. Quite the opposite actually. We lived in Tondo, Manila - a place that often had mad axmen running on the rooves chasing each other over some dispute between their families, as recalled by my mother. The wood that held up our house was rotting and it was a miracle how it still stood up despite the huge hole at the front that spanned the width of the house. We were sheltered by roofs of corrugated sheets of iron, like all the other houses around us (although apparently, before my time, they used palm leaves, since it was the best of what they had. You see, that's one thing I love about this family: we make the best of whatever we have, then make it even better). We were lucky to even have more than one room compared to some of our other neighbours, whose kitchens were outside and were comprised of a lightbulb, a pan and a gas burner (much like ours, except without walls) so often the tendrils of smoke emanating from the fried rice and the fish and the Adobo and what not, would crawl into your nostrils, and you'd be left hungry and drooling.