Prospects of a middle-class seventeen-year-old growing at the pangs of a falling country that has forgotten what its children look like.
Like a crash course on reversal, this is my story. A year has changed me in so many ways, and the years ahead of me (whatever may be left) become figures to ponder. I wonder what has kept me going, but a better wonder is to seek how I have begun this trailblazing journey that seeks infinity. Slowly, I get left behind and come in once again, on a rapid blizzard, a perverse blind game to becoming names on paper. This is a summer reflection on the person that I had become, and the person that I will be. Divulging everything out in little blog posts that no one reads but me in the dead of server malfunctions and better-forgotten nights. And god, indeed — have I changed, have I become so many new people and learned that the world is kind of my plaything. And god, what a living ghost will I rise from as I transcend so ethereal that you won’t know how real everything I will become dares to be. So to …
On May 9th, the Philippines continued its march towards democracy. Fingers were stained with lasting ink, the ground was littered with name-plastered paper and shredded coercion; I rested in the throes of my home, travelling and watching the empty highways fading against the skies like they never had before. A bystander to the events that mold the experience of my generation. In two years, I join their ranks and get to have my fingers stained with the blood of freedom — but for now, all I can do is discuss, learn, and speak. Never have I been so maddened, never have I sworn upon my inability to make a name for myself. Never have I scorned this nation for the lack of education, the ignorance and blasphemy that cycles over and over – the disgust that I feel at all the death threats thrown at me. This is a child’s cry; this is the beginning of a wish, this is the start of the fear she holds in her own country.
Borrowing from French: bête noire (literally “black beast”). When I tread on the age-old cement running down the mountains; my mind brings up stern warnings left on the trembles of my mother’s lips. “Do not trust strangers,” looking for the affirmation in my gaze, nods done over and over — I understood, I understand, etcetera. “Do not follow anyone you don’t know,” like reading off an old book, proverbs told time after time from her mother, and then the mothers before her, “only trust your family.” Yet in those brokenly repeated words, I felt the fear clinging onto the teeth marks left on the edges of her lips. So was a mother’s bible, written to protect and nurture, from the very own birthplace she raised you in.