Silungan

It was the eighth month of the Gregorian calendar in the year 2022 when the heat of the sun overpowered the cold air circulating the bus I was riding home from Manila. The curtains were of no use, functioning merely as decorations. But as someone who grew up in Dagupan, the heat was a close friend or rather a close enemy.

Riding a six-hour bus journey has never been this familiar to me. I can still remember the first day I traveled to the country’s capital, a young boy in awe of the gigantic structures with bright lights shimmering in the early morning sky.

It was 2013. My aunt showed me places I’d never been to, even taking pictures with the map of Mall of Asia. They lived near Ninoy Aquino International Airport, which made my stay even more exciting. I was able to hear and see airplanes of different sizes going back and forth to the terminal. The sound was not quite the fun part, but the sight was something to behold.

A sight poles apart from the scene I laid my eyes on when I came home one day in the cold month of December 2013.

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Seven by five

Being raised in a relatively big home, four hundred eighty-nine m² in measure, was an experience. We had nine bedrooms, two living rooms, a small canteen, a space for our rice retail business, and a spacious backyard, where various fruit-bearing and flower-bearing plants can be found.

One of those nine rooms holds a significant place in my heart — one that saw many events in my formative years. A small room that has been with us through small and big wins.

It was the room on the first floor nearest to the backyard that when you open the wide jalousie windows, you’ll immediately see the plants and the rattan hammock my brothers and I used to ride on.

When you enter the room, you’ll immediately face a wall. Look to your left, and a passage will reveal itself, inviting you to walk straight to find a door at the end. A space, nearly square in shape, able to fit a family of five, will greet you as you open the door.

This humble space contained a wooden bed, a television, a plastic table, cabinets, and a plastic bench, among other things my memory couldn’t reach anymore. Thank heavens, there are snippets of fond times I would never forget.

Let me start with a horror story. Our jalousie windows were wide enough to have a perfect view of the backyard. These glass slats were frosted, so when they are closed, nothing but mere abstractions can be viewed. And in the darkness of the night, the panels resemble a huge television not in use.

Knock. Knock. Knock. I was perhaps in elementary school when my mom heard these three consecutive knocks on our window. She was finishing an assignment I wasn’t able to accomplish that day. I can’t remember where my dad was, but my mom’s instincts pushed her to tap on the passageway ceiling where my uncle’s room was directly above. That night, we decided to sleep upstairs.

I also have a superstitious story. My brother, Benny, was only three when this happened. He was on top of our plastic table colored green when suddenly he fell. I can still remember how his arm was wrapped with face towels to ease the pain. Coming from a family that holds many superstitions, it was no question that my parents went to see a faith healer. They said someone pushed my brother.

That table, placed on the far left of our room as you enter, also has joyful memories attached to it. It was the table we used to play bahay-bahayan. Using clothes pin, we clip our blankets with Superman or jungle prints on one side of the table, the other pushed against the wall. It was like a home, within a home, within a home.

Our room also witnessed how I suffered from chicken pox, causing me to miss school for a whole week. The mirror hanging on the wall where the table was pushed against probably reacted with panic when I decided to peel off the dry hard skin on a healing pox wound. The mark is still with me on my left cheek.

I also have a cute, albeit silly, story. The plastic bench in front of the windows acted as a table for me, given it was more comfortable sitting on the floor. Inside a stick-o container was my pet goldfish. As kids, stick-o was our all-time favorite it was no wonder we had a lot of stick-o containers back then. Resourceful mode on, I used it as a substitute for a glass aquarium. As I was writing something on my notebook placed on top of the bench, my goldfish beside it, I accidentally spilled the container. I felt so sorry for my pet fish.

Perhaps, of all the stories attached to our humble room and the objects in it, this hopeful story is a perfect example of what could’ve been. I remember writing in my English textbook while sitting on the bedding spread on the floor, how I wanted to be an engineer, with sketches of tall infrastructures. I wrote that I wanted to build my own establishment. At a young age, I already had a concept of what the future might look like. I am proud of my younger self for having such a dream — one that I wouldn’t be able to achieve for him. Dreams do change, don’t they?

Of course, I have a Christmas story. Pokemon was my favorite anime show. After school, I usually asked my dad to buy me a Pokemon figurine in front of the school’s gate, especially when I scored high on quizzes. On one Christmas Eve, I saw a peculiar box under our not-so-short Christmas tree positioned in the right corner near the door. I wasn’t mistaken — it was a set of Pokemon figurines from my mom. Wishes do come true, don’t they?

As my home was located in the catch basin of floodwaters from neighboring towns and cities, I also have a repeating story. During the rainy season, my parents were always vigilant not to miss the floodwaters seeping through the door. The water usually rises quickly, immediately turning our room into a swimming pool. When Ondoy and Pepeng happened, everything looked like a scene straight from the Titanic film. It was always difficult after every flood — the smell and the mud. It lives in my mind.

Then one night in October 2011, the life I’d been living in comfort would turn 180 degrees.

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Seventy-four

I was sleeping on our wooden bed covered by a woven plastic banig when I heard commotions upstairs. My parents were not around. I slept again. By morning, my dad calmly told me inside our humble room, “Wala na si tatay.”

Not knowing what to say and how to say it, I kept myself silent. Before I knew it, relatives and family friends were visiting, laying their eyes upon my grandfather sound asleep inside a white coffin. Then questions of who would take care of Nanay surfaced.

Nine years old and unable to absorb what was taking place. Everything happened quickly. That year, I didn’t only say goodbye to my Lolo Adong, my maternal grandfather. I also bid farewell to the home that witnessed the twists and turns of my childhood. Year 2011, we left in a rush amid the Christmas rush of December.

My parents, two younger brothers, and I moved to my paternal grandmother’s house in a nearby town. We still visited Nanay and my uncle Frank in our house in Dagupan. But our room would never feel the same. It was vacant and cold. And the silence was deafening. A nearly square has never been this perfectly squared.

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Seven

Like how the divine rested on the seventh day after creating the heavens and the earth, our home in Dagupan also went into a deep slumber.

Coming home one day in the cold month of December 2013 was exciting. I brought with me pictures and stories I would share with my family — things I did in Manila. But the moment I got off the bus with my aunt, a facade unknown to me announced its presence.

Our home was in ruins.

I was hearing talks between my aunts and uncles that our home would be sold. I never really understood what that meant for me. Until my eyes perceived the reality in front of it.

It was the first time ever I cried on New Year’s Eve, for we can only stay there until the year comes to a close. And still, we weren’t able to do that. To stay and welcome the year surrounded by the ruins.

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Seventeen plus three

I already lost count of how many times I set foot in Manila. Back then, we would just shout “para” and get off as our old home was located along the road. Now, I could only imagine that.

Barricaded by galvanized iron sheets, our old home now looks like a forest — bushes and other tall plants owned the place. Really, we don’t possess it anymore.

It was the eighth month of the Gregorian calendar in the year 2022 when everything has completely changed. But the memories remain the same. As I passed by our old home, I recollected them at the back of my mind.

The memories of our old home’s nine bedrooms — of that one room I hold dear in my heart. The room that cradled me while also letting my mom impose discipline using her stick and her hangers. The room that witnessed how my younger self chose to be better every day.

The nearly square space, the plastic table and bench, the wooden bed, the wide jalousie windows, and the stories always connected to these will always have a place in my heart.

No fully-furnished room would compare to our room, a home within a home.

The room we call Silungan.

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