5432: Scenes from childhood

Six years old, a decidedly simpler time: my mother always working, my father forever disappearing, my brothers mere blobs. No lectures yet on preferring Barbies over GI Joes, no reminders to stay off trees and leave them worms alone. I climbed over stacks of gravel in empty lots, skirting raisin-shit of goats, chasing after dragonflies. Later, when all their wings have been torn off, I would be on my knees, cupping my hands through puddles, in search of tadpoles. Later, I'd throw rocks at boys and call them names I've overheard from shirtless men in kantos, holding lapad in one hand, with a sleeping baby balanced on their pot bellies. My knees are primed to bend that I could duck; those days, boys threw stones back. Later, I'd be running from Aling P's projectile slipper and/or Mang T's askal pets, a melon ice candy burning my grubby hands, sineguelas lumping my shorts pockets.

I would come home at six to catch Ghost Fighter. My brother Joshua on top of the table, covered in chicken grease and baby powder. My brother John in the middle of the bed, barricaded by pillows. My mother's spare pearls inside a box on the dresser, change from my father's pabilin money beside that.

And then the maid would screech, "Putangina kang bata ka, saan ka na naman nagsususuot?"

I would have loved to say, "Defying stereotypes, getting lost", but the words are as yet unknown to me, not to mention too long -- she'd whack me on the side of the head anyway (conveniently where the mud has not caked on my curls) because I dared show off my English skills.


*


The weekend after my first few days in kindergarten (the career girl at four years old). My father is cutting my hair.

We are in the front porch of our bungalow-type apartment. His red motorcycle is to my right, the green wire cages housing chickens are to my left. Behind me, my father is singing a Bon Jovi song in an operatic voice. Every once in a while, he will tell me not to laugh so much, lest my fidgeting make him tear a bald spot through my hair. Obediently, I'll quiet down. Sometimes, a hiccup comes out. Snip-snip go the scissors, the roosters would crow. I wanna lay you down on a bed of roses, my father will sing again. He is so close, I can feel his chest rumbling before he bellows, not an unpleasant pressure on my back. For tonight, I sleep on a bed of nails. I giggle. He will tug my shortened hair gently. Huwag ka malikot, ineng.

Snip-snip go the scissors. Cock-a-doodle-do crow the roosters. On and on, my father sings and in a moment, he will not be able to keep me still.

My father goes on singing. Two inches of my hair pattern themselves into intricate curlicues on the asphalt floor.


*


My parents are sitting in our wicker sofa, side by side. Behind them, on the wall, print-outs on scratch paper from mother's office, proclaiming Ba-Be-Bi-Bo-Bu.

My father is wearing slacks, my mother's hair riots in curls to her waist. Both of them cradle a bundle of blue and white blankets.

I inch closer and closer to them. I am holding out a glass teacup I'd kept inside the freezer the entire day. I have drawn flowers all over its crystallized surface using my finger, not yet three years old, as is the rest of me.

"Look what we have for you," says mother, her perfect English drawing me closer.

And so I look. Nestled in the bundle is a tiny, wrinkled face half-hidden by a mop of curly hair.

"His name is Gabriel Joshua," my mother tells me.

"Abeng," my father names his first son.

Disinterested, I shrug and make a face. I hold out the teacup farther that it hovers above the bundle-thing. "Look what I got for you," I tell them.


*


This could be a false memory: I am cowering in a corner of my parents' bedroom, flush against the cabinets. My father has chased me from the kitchen. He is holding a butcher's knife roughly a foot from my face. I know I am giggling. I know no he must be fooling around. But then?

My mother's voice, disembodied, exasperated, from the kitchen: Jeff.

I am two years old.