Try and Try
I wrote this short story-type thing as a way of ushering my twentieth birthday in quarantine, since I have none but the company of words by my side as I reach this new milestone. But, as always, it managed to Margot Roth Spiegelman its way in my drafts (please get this reference) and I’ve only had the nerve to finish it, if not uninspringly, today. I hope you’re a little bit more gentle with this, as it’s not really a big post; it’s just to celebrate my own day. Thanks and have fun reading!
“I like your boots.”
I looked at him no longer than a second before looking down at my own feet, at the pair of black leather boots I was wearing. I didn’t know if there was something to them that made him like them, since they weren’t particularly new, with their peeling tips, worn-out soles and lackluster surfaces due to months of not bothering to shine them, nor whether or not he was bluffing, since I wasn’t so sure if seven year-olds already had motives to bluff, but the gleam in his eyes as he was staring at them like they were the fanciest thing he’d seen in a catalog was enough to prove me significantly wrong, and it made me smile.
“Thanks,” I replied, looking at him again. “I like yours, too.”
He turned his wide-eyed gaze at the pair of brown, faux-suede boots at his own two feet, which had alternating black and yellow shoelaces too perfectly tied – Mom could have very well tied them for his own sake – and decorated with small tiger patches sewn at the back. He made the same smile, only goofier, and looked at me, his eyes twinkling.
“Thanks!” And I could not bring myself not to smile back.
He was sitting beside me as the sun was setting at the playground we were in, warming the bright pastel hues of the play area to a saturated orange, muting them to a perfect tinge of monochrome, making me look around in awe and open my eyes wider than they actually went, but I figured, at that moment, there was nothing more of a spectacle than the small boy beside me, just a few inches away. He was barely past my stomach, wearing a plaid button down neatly tucked in his bright blue denim jeans, with his boots, and a Power Ranger watch slapped against his tiny left wrist. He looked so much better than me, I figured, with my plain white shirt and not-so-skinny jeans (which were what I liked to think my staple for a day at the university) looking like I had all the color in me sucked out, leaving myself gray and defeated.
I heard an “Are you okay?” before I turned to him and nodded again, even though I was entirely unsure of that answer, this time taking the time to look at him properly for the first time since we saw each other.
His smile had melted, replaced with a look I couldn’t easily read, prompting me to look back at him, and it felt so much like what it actually was: a mirror through time, like I was looking back into the reflection I forgot I had thirteen years ago. I saw him clearly for the first time: he had the same scruffy eyebrows that pointed at the end, and the same thick, dark hair, sticking out in different directions, with a bit in the center stuck together (which, I knew, was an adorable attempt at a fake Mohawk with gel bought from the corner store), had the same dark, chocolate skin and the same dark eyes that shimmered brown in the sunlight, but brooded dark and black as he closed them to blink. The expression on his face was almost neutral, as opposed to the wide smile he had merely moments ago, like he didn’t know what to feel about this strange adult in front of him, but it was almost curious, as if he wanted to know why he was there – and I knew for sure that he was curious, because I was him, thirteen years ago.
We sat there, in complete silence, as he turned away to look at down at his boots once more, swinging his feet back and forth, nothing but the whispering gentle breeze brushing through the tips of our hair, just staring at each other, not knowing what to say. I never was one to start a conversation with anyone, but to start a conversation with my seven year old self is something I never imagined I would even be doing, and I sure as hell did not know how to deal with that.
But given the circumstances I never knew would bring me here, I wouldn’t know if I’ll ever get to a chance to meet him again, or see him again. This wasn’t just something that happens to a person at some point in their lives – if anything, this may be the only chance I could get to spend time with him, and the only way time I had to utter a word to him that will last in this lifetime. I knew in myself – my current self – that I had to make this count.
“So,” I said, dragging it in probably the most hushed voice I didn’t know I had, in an attempt to pierce the deafening silence, “how’s everything at home?”
He turned to me doe-eyed before answering, “Home’s okay.” His voice lingered in my head like a mirage, the silent tapping of the tips of his feet on the pavement making up for the distinct hush of our surroundings. “Home is still...home.”
“Home is home,” I agreed, nodding along. “It’s the best place in the world, isn’t it?” He nodded again, this time in a more rapid pace, making me smile again as I stifled a small, genuine laugh.
I blinked and noticed how I never cut my gaze from him, seemingly fixated on the way he sat and swung his legs endlessly, the tips of his boots brushing against the pavement. “How about Mama? How is she doing? And Papa?” He looked at me doe-eyed, his attention seemingly caught, as he locked his eyes in mine. "They're still picking you up from school, right?"
"Mama picks me up from school," he replied. "She always comes late after we finish, but it's okay, I have time to play."
“You guys still take the commute home?”
He nodded again. “Papa needs the motorcycle so we can’t ride in it. He comes home at night.” He kept staring at his two feet, as if he were willing them to sway with his mind. “He comes home much later than we do.” And I vividly remember it, because it was a sound I had become accustomed to, I sound I grew to learn and be familiar with: the gates opening, the motorcycle engine dying, the sound of keys jingling and the door closing from behind.
“Is he doing okay?”
“He’s always tired, he just scratches my head when he gets home and tells me good night,” he replied. “But Papa is okay.”
I don’t know how my parents did it – both working regular eight hour days, my mom being a full-time caretaker for two children just beginning to grasp the concept of school, my dad taking classes immediately as he leaves his job in the morning in order to pursue a law degree, coming home just as tired as the moon was. But somehow, they did it, and they did a magnificent job at it, and I couldn’t help but remember what must have gone through my mind at that time, because it was probably all there was to it: Mama and Papa are very busy. And they’re tired, so they need to rest.
“How about Lolo? And Lola? ” I felt my voice tremble at the question I barely had the strength to speak out; it felt like it’d been a while since I’ve said those words, and it felt so distant, so alienated, even though they had once been so familiar, that I never thought I would have brought myself to say it again. “They’re doing good too?”
And I saw the same unprecedented shimmer in his eyes, the way a child usually does when they are prompted to talk about something that they love. And for moment, I envied him; I’ve never felt like that for so long. “They’re doing okay, too.” He started nodding to himself again, probably because he knew for a fact that they were. I did too, even though I also knew how much had changed.
“What have they been up to?”
“Lolo’s still walking a lot, he wakes up when it’s still dark and walk and walk until the sun comes up.” The image became so strikingly clear in my mind – a built 60 year-old in a red sweatshirt and blue sweatpants, walking in strong strides in the cold morning breeze, cane in one hand and a a clenched fist in the other. “He always brings us bread to eat for breakfast when we wake up.” So he did, until the day he couldn’t bring himself to walk anymore.
“And Lola still comes over a lot. But she likes to talk to the neighbors and water her plants.” That’s right – the barren, moss-green walls of the terrace used to be filled with striking purples and pinks, orchids hanging from above and tons of hibiscus blooming from below. My Lola saw life like she saw her flowers: ethereal, majestic, and worth the work. But they stopped blooming the moment her heart stopped beating.
“Does she still borrow your books?” I asked, in an attempt to mask the sadness in my expression, although ultimately proclaiming it through my voice. “And make you meryenda every single afternoon?”
“Yeah, she always comes to borrow my books so I can’t read much anymore,” he replied. The way he attempted to make it look like he was annoyed but was really happy, I knew, that she would come over to visit, even if it were just for the books, made me smile yet again. “And she always makes me sandwiches. I love her sandwiches.”
I heard another “Are you okay?” before noticing that he was looking at me again with his big doe eyes. I didn’t even realize the tears had already begun falling down the sides of my face, for I was too immersed in the images that had already been playing in my head, all of them feeling like distant memories unlocked unwillingly, but so much more real and concrete because of the little boy in front of me, yet here they were – warm and unstoppable, painful with every blink of the eye like daggers through the heart.
“I’m okay,” I replied, without nodding, wiping my wet cheeks with the palms of my hands, then with the collar of my shirt, looking worse than I ought to have let myself seem. I’ve always been sensitive at the thought of my grandparents coming over to skip in my mind, but I never felt anything more intense than what I was feeling at that moment. I couldn’t fully describe what it was, but I knew what I was feeling; I wanted to be him so badly. I wanted to be a child again, to have nothing else to worry about but the day ending and smiling again when another one begins, to run around freely into the arms of my Lolo and my Lola, kiss them like it was the last time I would ever do so, and keep them closer in my heart and lock them there forever, where they won’t be able to leave me again.
“Are you sure?” He asked, turning his body to me, focused at the small droplets landing on the front of my shirt, forming beads of emotion on the surface. “Did I say something bad?” My head snapped in his direction at those words. Something in me never wanted to hear a child say that out loud.
A faint “No” was all I could muster, followed by a “I just wish I could stay like you forever. Or, you know, maybe even just for a little while longer.”
“Why?”
“Dreams are free when you’re still a child,” I said. “It’s so much easier than when you’re an adult like me.”
His face scrunched up as he tilted his head towards his shoulder in a confused expression. “Well, I want to be like you,” he said in a matter-of-fact-ly manner after a split moment of silence, dropping his gaze to his feet once more. I turned to him as he replied, feeling the heavy spheres of teardrops covering my eyelashes as I blinked at him. “I want to grow up.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“I don’t like being a kid,” he said, pouting his lips as he talked. “I don’t really like myself.”
“And why’s that?”
“I’m not like the other kids,” he replied, tilting his head to the side. “I’m short, dark, and they all think I’m weird because I speak like the cartoons on TV.” He grimaced at himself, and I understood why; the neighborhood kids had always found it strange that one could have more knowledge of English than Filipino, and I couldn’t change that completely about myself, even if I wanted to. The voice inside my head was in English.
“I don’t like playing sports, and I don’t like to fight the other kids. And they all get mad at me when I point out that something’s wrong with what we’re playing,” he added, a thin texture of sadness engulfing his voice. “I’m just, different.”
“I see.” And I did; somehow, blending in, being part of a group or adhering to something has always been kind of a struggle for me. In a way, I’ve always known that I was different, that I looked different, and that I liked different things. I was more content with a book in my hands than riding a bike outside and more content with telling stories rather than catching bugs or climbing trees. But what was difficult was accepting that I was the yellow pea in the pod, that fitting in was always going to be an issue for me. And in a way, the feeling never really went away.
“I wish I was like you,” he managed to blurt out as I fixated my gaze on him once more, more surprised at his words than anything else. “You’re smarter, you do more awesome things than me, and you’re stronger than me.” Except I wish I was. “The kids here would love you.” I’m not so sure about that, either.
“What? Really?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “You’re a scientist, studying in a university now, right? You’re studying animals and plants and why the chemicals change color when they are mixed together. You’re making great discoveries everyday!” He didn’t even pause to look at the confused expression on my face. “And you’re a writer! You write stories and people around the world have read them, right? Books with tons of words and magic like Harry Potter and the Hardy Boys?”
A few more words shot out of his mouth before I could even open my lips to respond, “And you’re doing work to help the people around you! You’re helping the farmers and making big decisions that will help the kids at the schools who need books, just like Mama tells me.” He looked at me again with his big, doe eyes in small crescents, smiling. “You’re a hero. They’d love you.”
It never really dawned to me that tomorrow was such a big thing for me; I have so many things I want to achieve, so many things I want to come my way that I’ve built up the highest expectations for myself because I saw no other option but to see myself cross those goals out. That’s why I always felt like my time was running out – I have so many things in my life that I want to pursue that sitting down is such a luxury in my head.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I replied, without a single bit of hesitation in my voice. No point in lying to myself, I figured.
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m not really any of those things just yet,” I confessed, trying to usher in a smile to make it look like I wasn’t any more sad than I actually was. “I’m just a regular university student.” I wasn't a brilliant student-scientist, I was dragging myself in between classes bullying myself over topics I have yet to study. I wasn't a well-known writer, I was a hobby artist forcing myself to write despite the lack of inspiration. And I couldn’t stand up for my people – I could barely stand up for myself. “I try so hard, but I’m not any of those things. I’m not a hero.”
And we sat there in still silence, letting the slight breeze whip across us gently once again. I had so many things running through my mind that I couldn’t bring myself to look at him even if I wanted to, because it would only kill me to see the disappointed look on his small face the moment I did. I wasn’t anywhere near anything I wanted myself to be when I was young, nowhere near grasping any of the achievements I used to dream I would have at this point in my life. I wasn’t doing great things like I told myself I would. And it wasn’t because I was too short of chances to do those great things, either, because I’ve spent so much time looking for myself, figuring things out even if they didn’t need figuring out, and neglecting what I thought was best, that I didn’t have much attention for the things that truly mattered in the end. I’ve wasted so much time being someone I wasn’t, and I wasn’t proving myself any more capable of doing all those things either, because in all honesty, I wasn’t all that great. I was just regular, old me, and I was too afraid of what he’d think of me now.
I felt him shift across the bench to just a few inches beside me, too shy to look at me directly but sensitive enough, I felt, to want to make sure that I still felt him around me. “That’s okay,” he managed, swinging his legs again, this time looking at the playground in front of us.
“It is?” I croaked, looking at him in dumb disbelief.
He nodded. “Sometimes, we don’t really get the best of what we want. You know, like you don’t get to ride the nicer swings most of the time or play with the toys you want since the bigger kids always get them first. And sometimes, you’re too afraid to climb up the slide and go down because you’ll fall on your knees, and your knees will hurt.” He looked up at me, and looked at my eyes for the first time since he first spoke. “But that is not important, because the hurting will stop. What matters is you try your best to get there, no matter how many times you scrape your knees.”
I smiled genuinely, the mixed feeling of relief, happiness, and content washing over me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t expect him to say something else, or ignore me completely. “I guess so.”
“You’re still studying to become a great scientist, right?” I nodded. “And you’re still writing stories and saving them for everyone to read?” I nodded again. “And you’re still working to help others?” I nodded once more, and he smiled at me. “Then you are a hero. Heroes try and try until they succeed. And if they fall on their butts, they keep fighting, don’t they?”
I smiled at him. I didn’t ever think that I’d be proud of myself for lacking so much, but then again, it turns out someone was proud of me. I couldn’t help but chuckle at him as I ruffled his hair and put an arm around his shoulders. “You know, the thing about us is we weren’t made to be heroes. We’re not built like them, and we don’t want to act like them.” He nodded at me, agreeing completely. “But we try and try until we get what we want, because we don’t like seeing our dreams remain dreams.” I looked at the playground, with the burning hues intensified by the sun, and smiled at the sight. “And that’s probably more than what the Spidey Senses can offer.”
He smiled as he swung his legs again, wrapping an arm around my waist, shifting even closer than he had a few moments ago.”
“Heroes don’t tell themselves they’re heroes, because we don’t do what truly matters because we want to be recognized by them. We do things that matter because they matter, regardless of how great it will make us.” I looked down at him as he looked up to me, both of us smiling until the end of our ears. “And that makes us even greater than we could ever imagine, won’t it?”
“It sure will!” he replied enthusiastically, making me laugh as another single tear dripped down the side of my cheek. I’ve never felt any happier than with any other living human being in this planet; I didn’t want this to end any time soon.
“Tell you what,” I said, releasing him from our semi-embrace, looking at him with a soft gaze, “You keep reading, and writing, and doing the things that make you happy. Do them all and don’t think of what others will look at you or even laugh at you for. I keep trying if you keep trying. No stopping, and no giving up. Crying is allowed, but we keep strong after that.” I smiled. “What do you say?”
He smiled again at me, and this time, I knew he was even more happy than he was before. “Deal.”
He took my hand and shook it vigorously, which felt like nothing more than a jiggly wave in my arm as he turned towards the playground, before looking at me with that same mischievous smile.
“Race you to the slide?”
“I’m going to win.”
“Try and catch up, old man.”
