Black Saturday Reminiscences
You'll wonder why you are who you are. There will be times you won't give a shit. You're too tired. Too dysfunctional to even care, and one or two little careless comments will suddenly take you deep in thought as if you're 16 again, not as angry but perenially curious.
You'll wonder why you're different. And even before Angelina Jolie said it, even before that Alice in Wonderland film (which the proper title escapes me now) have said it, you know “different” means destined for greatness.
Being born in a family of no religion, no education-- just pure Kapampangan grit, I stood out. I was willful, stubborn and accused as smart. And though my mom will likely deny when asked, both my parents believed I will be someone great. I started reading way earlier than my older brothers did, or even kids my age. I wrote in complete coherent sentences before I even went to prep school, and I know that wouldn't have impressed this generation but back then, and to the demographic I belonged (and still belong), that instantly put me on an above-average status. Most of the people around me believed I was meant to do great things, and the frequency with which I was openly gawked and admired eventually led me to believe this was fact.
I stopped getting embarrassed for not going to church right in the cusp of puberty. As my subscription to Super Book ended, so did my propensity to act as if I belonged to the norm. Most of my classmates, if not all, regularly went to church. I remember them raising their little hands up in the air after the teacher asked on Mondays whose family went to church last Sunday. I always looked down immediately after. Determined to ignore that dulling ache I feel while my teacher celebrates the confirmation that most of her pupils will go to heaven, where I should apparently get going on working on it before it’s too late. She would play this little game where she’d ask the entire class, “Who wants to go to heaven? Raise your hands!” And every right hand in the room would shoot up. Then she’d laugh and ask next, “Now who wants to go to hell?” and she’d pretend to frown. I swear I was so tempted to raise my hand just to enjoy her fake frown turn into genuine shock. But I never once did.
At 11, I decided to be an Atheist. I didn't know what to call it then. We didn't have books to describe what that conviction meant (or at least those books weren't available to us). I wasn't afraid to share this with my classmates, though. I tell them it's all fake. It didn't make sense. My questions did not start with whys. I was more concerned with the hows. "How is the sky blue? How is the grass green? How is the earth round? Did God make them to be like that? How? Can you tell me?" I was told it didn't matter. It just happened and no one can explain it to me sufficiently. I was told I was going to hell for not believing. It didn't hit a nerve. I guess I had nerves of steel; so young and yet so brave. In a world of mediocrity filled with peasant-folk chatter at home and mindless conversations at school, I began to find comfort in reading. But I had limited reading material: I only had textbooks. We had a small library, but I remember just seeing atlases and coffee table books and magazines and more textbooks. Nothing that my strange 11-year old mind will take interest in. tbc