Metamorphosis

Most adults retain their clearest memories from the ages of thirteen and fourteen. This was a revelation for me. Upon reflection, I realized that I, in fact, do not have many memories from before that age.

It was 2004, in a slum in the Philippines, where most of my childhood memories took place. We moved into this area on the riverbank two years prior. I wasn’t always in school; I had to skip a couple of years because my parents were either short on money or expecting a new baby. At a young age, I helped our family through those hard times, lending them my youthful energy and helping with chores–often, taking care of my newborn siblings.

Tough times. But also golden.

It finally came time for my parents to get me to school. There was an elementary school nearby. I went there for a good three years until I graduated–the final year being the most eventful of all.

I found relief from this new institution. The teachers were much kinder compared to those at my previous school, where the teachers were sadistic. They took pleasure in humiliating and extorting poverty-stricken students like me. They’d charge for workbooks– 350 pesos each for Science, Math and English. This was something a public school should not have been doing, and something my family could not afford. For that reason, I had to leave mid-semester.

The new school had better policies and did not charge for materials. Because of that, I was able to graduate–something I never thought I would do given our financial restrictions. I fulfilled everything required of me. My activities ranged from going to the wet market with my team and competing in quiz bees to traveling away from home for a journalism contest, sawing logs for projects and practicing for the graduation ceremony. I have been deeply grateful for the education I was given there.

One vivid memory I have is sitting at the back of the room, my eyes constantly scanning the crowd. The room was packed with over fifty students, and the noise was overwhelming. The boys to my right were talking about their genitals, while the girls to the left were flirting. I remember being surrounded by people yet, feeling entirely alone–a profound disconnection between me and my surroundings.

I attribute this disconnection to two things. First, I have been severely bullied at my previous school that I lost trust in other kids. The students at my new school never once bullied me but, they were bullies by nature; I did not want to give them a chance. The other reason was that I was older and more mature than them; I preferred to study instead of fooling around. Studying became my comfort and my hobby, which my husband often points out is a better thing to have rather than sitting idle in front of a television.

We all have regrets. Mine was not learning how to socialize. It brought so much grief going through puberty, adolescence and early adulthood; these were the times I needed friends yet no one was around. I had a few, but they were self-assigned–meaning, they designated themselves as my friends, even though I did not confirm not deny it–and they lived far away. Others weren’t really friends; they were just classmates. There were no proactive attempts to connect, though I wish I had tried.

It’s funny how I felt a connection with those kids even though we rarely talked. I still remember some of them to this day. I guess I can say that they are a part of me because we were together at some point. That point was crucial because it was the time when our bodies started to change, our voices modulated and our world widened. To us, this was puberty, like the pupa stage of metamorphosis where a caterpillar starts forming its own cocoon to prepare its body for adulthood.

It was the beginning of many firsts; it was frightening. And we were enduring it together at the same time and in the same place.

High school was a different beast. I went to a school in a different town, which was a 45-minute walk from home. Yes, I walked my way through high school in the middle of the summer heat or rainy days for four long years. I didn’t walk alone, though; someone walked with me. I will never forget her name–Jenicquel, the girl living on the next block whose family was in a better economic situation than mine. They had their own rooms (I even rented hers in my mid-twenties), had big TV, and kitchen appliances–things my humble family could never afford.

Jenicquel was a kindred soul. She shared whatever she had with whomever she was with; she was kind to everyone, no matter their status or appearance. Because of that, she had many friends.

There’s another girl who was just like her: a transferee named Nicole who became my classmate in my second and third year. I came to know her from one of our journalism training sessions. She called me “rela”–short for relative–because her middle name was the same as my last name. I even asked her mom once to be a proxy so I could receive my medal during one of our student appreciation ceremonies. She had an innate talent for creative writing. I kept her winning piece from a journalism competition we both participated in and re-read it many times. She was brilliant.

People like these two are gems. They gave me the strength to traverse an agonizing part of my life–one I never expected to survive and one that caused chronic stress I carried until a couple of years ago, when I finally decided it was time to drop it.

Things moved quickly in high school. I was marching across the podium, receiving my diploma at a graduation before I even got to process everything that happened. Students cheered with their parents standing beside them, celebrating. The air was thick with strong emotions, yet not a single tear fell from my eyes. I stood in the corner–empty, disconnected from my surroundings. At that moment, I made peace with loneliness and emptiness, for I knew they were going to be my new companions from then onwards.

It has been seventeen years since then and over six years since I moved to the US. A lot of things have happened–traumas, wins, defeats, letting-downs and new relationships. I have been out of that cocoon for many years now; my wings have spread, taking me from place to place. I have given and received what life has brought my way. I have suffered a great deal–so much that caused my eyes to open up to the truth of who I was meant to be.

I was meant to endure, to learn from my hardships and use that knowledge to be a light for others. Many times I looked away when reality presented me with its spiritual mirror. Not this time. Not anymore. I now say it with a smile: “I was a moth; I was never a butterfly”.