Memoir of a Crybaby

My first childhood memory was not really a memory of an actual event, but more of a sight of the world through hexagon-shaped crystals. Everything was blurred with random dots of colors.

When I told this to my mom, her explanation was simple, “Wala ka kasing ginawa kundi umiyak.”

Wow! Some people see the world through rose-colored glasses. I literally saw the world through a tear-stained veil.

I honestly have no memory of these frequent bouts of crying, although, my parents recount my tales with such great relish whenever the subject of my childhood comes up. I read somewhere that your psychological make-up was formed during your early years, and that your personality and neurosis are affected by your childhood experiences. I have had a hell of a childhood. Hell for them, not for me. I think I got my insomniac from childhood. My parents used to tell me that I was rarely awake during the mornings. My blood was running only at nights. Crying, then, was my favorite past time. I’m not talking about those whiny, snuffle-like whimpering I often heard from cousin of cousin’s babies, or neighbor’s children. It’s more of a full-fledged bowling that could cause an entire neighborhood to wake up. By morning, my mom usually bakes pastries or pastas to dole out to the neighbors with an apology for having been kept up during the night by my wailing. I think that has been a good practice for my mom. I especially love her lasagnas. Practice really does make perfect, huh?

I had also been a pretty demanding child. My sister, born 3 years later, did not receive as much attention as I did as a child. She was an angelic baby. Always asleep, never crying, has a tendency to wreck things, but mostly happy; the opposite of her brat of a sister.

After I conquered language at the age of 6-8 months, I was babbling in burst of short phrases. Yup, no baby-talk for me, and I was a tattle-tale. This was to the eternal consternation of my yaya who often uses me as an excuse to sneak out with her neighborhood boyfriend, who works as a carpenter in a house being constructed in our village. Afterwards, my grandmother (who isn’t really my grandmother but more of the yaya of my dad when he was a kid, who grew old in our household) would ask me where we’ve been. And to which I will promptly answer, “Dun, Mario.“, the name of the carpenter. I don’t really know what happened to my yaya. All I know was that I kept her up all night, told on her whenever we go out, and in exchange she gave me lice which added to my crying nightmares. That yaya had been replaced over the years with others, and none of them gave me lice. The crying decrease to a less significant level. I therefore conclude that the crying was not really my fault but the lice's.

The crying was replaced with the occurrence of fist fights with the neighborhood children. I was not, and never had been, a sociable child. No summer will come to pass, without me getting into a fight with almost all of our neighbors' children. But there was always my totally dependable friend, about 2 years older than I am who puts up with all my tantrums. Looking back, jealousy may have been the primary cause of this anti-social behavior. I have been terribly jealous whenever she has new friends that I would pick a fight with these children at the slightest provocation.

I was a very jealous child, a trait which I was able to tamper down with age.

Then there was the time when we had to live in Mindanao for about 2 years. The language-barrier prevented me from making friends the first few weeks that we stayed there. My first few weeks in school were hell. I usually come home with pencil scribbling on my back and reddish knuckles. My seatmates (mostly guys) used to draw lines at the back of my uniform. And I would retaliate by hitting them with my fist or stepping on their feet. If the attention of the teacher was caught, I would then cry my heart out. I talent, which by then I realized was a useful way of gaining adult sympathy. They were scolded, and I became the teacher’s pet. Yes, I was devious and evil. At such a young age at that!

A wonder a grew up to be such an angel, huh?