kwentuhan 2008

Childhood can be measured. Really. It’s either pleasant or painful. Pleasant, like Madeline’s. Painful, like that of Pascolito. Mine lies somewhere in between. Most children possess this kind of childhood, whether they like it or not. Somewhere in between, the grey area, neither here nor there, trapped in the ghastly chasm of the purgatory, of the earth. That’s right, somewhere in between.

It was pleasant when I got my first box of Lego. It was pleasant when my drawing was pinned on the classroom’s wall. It was pleasant when I finally got my Playstation. It was pleasant when every one in the family was, at last, included in the family picture. It was pleasant when I completed my first (and last) ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ story. It was pleasant every summer. It was pleasant every Christmas.

It was painful when I lost all of my marbles to my cousin. It was painful when I lost the ‘Most Creative’ award to a friend. It was painful when, for the fifth time, I received a Christmas Card from my father saying, "Sa susunod na taon Jay, uuwi na ako. Promise." It was painful when I woke up one day, I realized that my mother left to work in Korea. It was painful when I suddenly felt small and weak.

I remember one time, during our retreat in Tagaytay, we were all asked to share one moment of our past that had the most impact in our lives. And by asking to share this one moment, our teacher was really asking for a big drama fest. And for a second there, I thought I was invited.

And then the tears started pouring out. Bucket loads, if you ask me. And then it hits me. What am I going to share? I started looking for something dramatic enough. Something painful enough. Something with so much impact that would leave my listeners breathless for minutes.

One classmate started talking about her mother who has cancer. The other, about his broken home where he and his sister were forced to fend for themselves. Another classmate, about her mother and her cruel stepfather. And my friend started talking about his father who died in the Rizal Day bombing.

And then it was my turn. And I told nothing of that sort - because I had nothing. No painful stories. No heart-breaking dialogues to quote from. No shaky-voice-storytelling. Nothing.

So I told a happy tale. A sort of ’something in between’ story of our family (my father included) witnessing the fireworks display back in June 12, 1998 - yes, the Centennial celebration in Luneta. My classmates looked confused. It turned out that I was the only one who broke this unspoken rule. I told a ’somewhere in between’ tale.

And that’s when I realized that something as abstract as childhood can be measured - and it can be categorized.

I am not asking for an overly pleasant event or its grimly vicious counterpart, but I guess this feeling of being stuck in the middle has made me curious. Curious of what’s it like to be on one side of the coin. Curious of what it’s like to look at the other side with even greater curiosity. Experience is, as the cliché goes, one great teacher. And a perfect balance can’t teach anyone anything.

Realizing that my childhood is ’somewhere in between’ sure has affected my way of storytelling. It is said that to genuinely tell a tale about something, one must experience it first, one must unlock the mystery of this something, and one must immerse himself to this something. Such is the way of writing a story, of telling a tale. Empathy.

This is where my short stories come in. Are they all relegated to this ’sympathy status’? Do I even have the right to tell a tale of a life I never lived? Is this an insult to those who have really seen, and heard, and felt, the pleasant and the painful? Should I hold back? Should I stay back?

Maybe I should start asking Madeline.

Maybe I should start asking Pascolito.

Maybe I should start asking myself.

And then what?

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