First dreams

Rice Fields in the Philippines, Photo Credit: Ken Ilio

Iloilo City, Philippines
May 31, 1987

Today is the last day of May. I turned seven three months ago. I had a big day: I donned my white dress with shallow pockets on both sides, my hair brushed neatly by the checkered pussy cat I got from my mother. I had three colorful chiffon cakes with edible multi-color flowers tied nicely with shiny ribbons. I must’ve been that good last year.

I woke up early this morning in anticipation of a fun-filled day, along with a myriad of things in mind. This morning, I like what I see: hibiscus flowers bloom so gracefully before my eyes, dewy grasses overspread on our lawn, and wild violet flowers spring up along corrugated roads and glisten like sequins on a ruffled dress. I look up the sky and see some birds chase one another on branches of a star apple tree, their tweets blend in the shrill sound of bamboo broom that sweeps fallen santol and mango leaves. (My grandmother who does the sweeping in her usual batik duster, bends with one hand on her waist, the other holds the broom firmly as if not wanting to let go. She takes occasional breaks to puff her newly-rolled tobacco. She looks content.) The loud cry of a neighbor’s radio overshadows the fish vendor’s clanging bell, it miserably faints in the background. By 6 o’ clock, my aunt opens her store and a handful of customers queue to buy a pack of Nescafe, sugar, noodles, sardines, and eggs. Some are early to deliver juicy gossip: did you know that her daughter is pregnant with no husband? Did you know she owes money from our neighbor and she hasn’t paid for months? Did you know he lost his job?

Nong Biling, our neighbor whose small kids oftentimes run naked, does his morning ritual: walk in Foxtrot — his right hand clasp a bottle of Ginebra so tightly not even a seasoned snatcher could grab it away from him. His relationship with alcohol is like a neatly scribbled message on a Hallmark card: We are made for each other.

For my brother and I, it’s time for our field trip. We pack a bag of Nips, one big plastic of Porky Pig, a pocketful of Bazooka, some Bobot candies, and three PeeWees. We won’t forget to bring Mirinda. (Don’t worry uncle, we promise to return the bottles.) And, oh, don’t forget to list them under my mother’s name. She will settle on pay day.

Our trip to that tree by the irrigation road happens every summer. We always go in threes: me, my brother, and my mother’s cousin, Kenneth. All three of us parade towards the morning horizon — in polka dots and striped shorts — in sublime consciousness and half-sleepy eyes. It is a long journey to the big tree right by the irrigation road.

As we saunter on damp grassy walkways, I look at my toenails covered by pink Cutex. They are mantled with mud and I don’t like the feel of it. The ground is still covered by cold, heavy dew falling from leaves of palay. Grasshoppers hop lazily away from us, naturally afraid of their impending demise. We carry our sticks as weapons to protect ourselves from snakes and from that grumpy farmer’s big brown dog. He calls him Blackie.

We balance our thin bodies on narrow paths compressed by watermelon and monggo beds. We pass by farmers in wide-brimmed buri hats and greet them good morning. They recognize us — some work for my grandfather during harvest season — while some wonder why on earth are we out very early in the morning. One farmer asks how my grandfather is. Another talks about the wonderful weather. The crispness of summer air. The beauty of the rising sun.

The coitus of kalabasa flowers.

The sprouting of monggo seeds.

The funny-looking scarecrow.

Some talked about their back-breaking work in the field. They talk to us as if I were a woman and my brother and my cousins were men.

We say goodbye and, as we continue our walk, we suddenly feel their woes. We feel old from all the stories that we heard. We start to walk like old people. Old people in children’s bodies.

Three old people walking like dwarves.

A brown-skinned old dwarf.

A grinning chubby old dwarf.

A dwarf with gaudy toenails.

Finally we reach the big tree by the irrigation road. We rest under the shades and my cousin Kenneth whistles for air to come. My brother whistles, too. I couldn’t whistle so I sit still. I wait. Then, trees start to dance with air. Cool air at last.

Under the big tree by the irrigation road, we share our own jokes and laugh so hard our heads almost burst. Around us are lush vegetation and fresh greenery as far as eyes could see. We talk about what’s beyond that point in the horizon where skies meet the earth. I say matter-of-factly that there’s treasure at the other side of the horizon and we will surely find it if we walk far enough. If we want to, we will get there.

But we know what our uncle meant: there is a place bigger and greener than our most cherished rice fields. There is a tree somewhere that’s bigger than our favorite tree by the irrigation road. We want to be there. We know we’ll get there… don’t know when… don’t know how. But we will get there. We close our eyes and dream of lofty dreams.

My brother’s tummy churns. He takes out and uncover our loot.

Under that big tree by the irrigation road, we joyfully nibble on Porky Pig, munch on PeeWee, and chew on Bazooka bubble gum. Under the big tree we are happy kids. Under the big tree we eat the best junk food of the 80s.

And under the big tree, we dreamed our first dreams.