Today is a black Saturday, April 2, 1994, and while all the boarders went home to their families in the provinces to spend the long holiday or shall I say, holy days, I am all alone here in the boarding house. However, I feel like I have to do something to cover up my loneliness. I therefore have to spend this moment trying to squeeze out some memories of the past from the corners of my mind. I'm now 25 years old, and those early days seem so far away. But there’s no harm in trying to remember. Sometimes, we find beauty in reflection. Maybe this is just my way of turning memories into art, a personal form of storytelling. Well, to begin with:
Growing up...
I grew up in a place where childhood dreams and desires were never out of reach. My neighborhood offered an atmosphere perfect for adventure, a rural setting that seemed to bring every childhood fantasy to life. The open fields, the natural surroundings, and the quiet simplicity of provincial life gave me a kind of freedom that children today rarely experience. These memories still visit me, like misty flashbacks in my quiet reflections or dreams, pulling me back to a time when my imagination roamed wild and free.
Back then, our nights were filled with stories told by the older people, mostly under the dim glow of a kerosene lamp or the soft flicker of candles during brownouts. These weren’t just bedtime stories from children's books, they ranged from chilling scary ghost encounters to myths of enchanted beings. There were also accounts of war, battles fought, sacrifices made, by our parents and elders. Each tale carried with it a lesson, a warning, or a glimpse into the unseen world that we, as children, believed in so fully.
My childhood existed in a time when people still held strong beliefs in folklores, superstitions, and tales passed down through generations. Modern thinking was just beginning to spread.
Back then, everyone knew everyone. There were no locked gates, no “No Trespassing” signs. Every open space was a playground.
We had a favorite spot, a private property, technically, but we treated it like our own. It was surrounded by coconut trees, banana plants, and lush greenery. The soft, sandy soil was perfect for our games. We played everything: siatong, dakup-dakop, tigso, bagol, takyan, bitok-bitok, kasing, sabong kaka, basketball, tubig-tubig, luthang, jolen, litiklitik, hantak, taksi, tansan, sagudsud, you name it.
Basketball was my passion. I started with a small rubber ball, and as I grew older, so did the size of my ball and my skill. I remember being the ball captain of our mini-player basketball team for an inter-barangay tournament. We won every game. In the finals, I hit the winning shot in the last few seconds. Our team erupted in cheers. I was also excited to play basketball. But that was the last tournament that I participated though in that baranggay. Because few months later, we moved to a place far, to the mountainside.
We lived through Martial Law under President Marcos. I still remember the siren, announcing curfew each night. Once it sounded, we rushed home as soldiers patrolled. As kids, we didn’t fully understand, only that we had to be safe inside. The joy wasn’t completely lost. We chased fireflies, played under the moon, and laughed at little things. Looking back, those fragile moments became powerful escapes, proof that even in fearful times, children could still find some delight.
On Christmas Eve, we always celebrated with a joyful Noche Buena, a tradition where the whole family stayed awake until midnight to share a special meal together. I always filled with excitement long before the clock struck twelve. Our dining table would be packed with delicious dishes. Mama Asyon cooked the best food, her hands never tiring from making sure everything tasted just right. And as a special touch, we often ordered puto and biko "soft, sweet rice cakes" from Mama Tancing, my father’s sister, who had a skill for traditional cooking.
A week later, we did it all over again for Media Noche on New Year’s Eve. The celebration was quite similar, but this time, the focus was on fruits, especially round ones. As part of a long-standing Filipino belief, round fruits were thought to attract prosperity, symbolizing coins and wealth for the year ahead. Some people even wore polka-dotted clothes, hoping the round patterns would invite good fortune.
As the clock neared midnight on New Year’s Eve, the air would begin to throb with sound. The sharp, explosive cracks of firecrackers echoed in every direction, accompanied by the metallic banging of pots and pans. We even had our own lantaka, a homemade bamboo cannon that let out a thunderous boom. Kids, including me, would run around blowing plastic trumpets, adding to the festive chaos. On the streets, tartanillas (horse-drawn carriages) clattered by, dragging tin cans that rattled as they rolled. We then jumped as high as we could, it would make us grow taller in the years to come.
It was noisy, exciting, and full of energy, but most of all, it was magical. These traditions, loud and lively as they were, marked the happiest moments of my childhood days.