We were a family of four daughters and you could say I was the only son. You see, my parents were unable to produce a boy so that boy became me. Pie, the eldest, was a frou-frou kind of girl and though she could play rough most times, she was simply too girly to be a boy. Odie, the third, was the tomboy—playing in the street, climbing trees, getting herself muddy. But underneath the boy cut and the dirty face was a softie; she never had it her heart to be a boy. Gert, the youngest, was too young at the time to take on any role other than the bully's victim. I was the bully.
I had always been a tough kid, I played guns and gangs with my male cousins and some basketball too. No boy could ever make me cry. I grew tougher as a teenager. With my super cropped hair and don't-fuck-with-me-air, I assumed the role of brother and son with the utmost dedication and pride. At church when most pews were taken, my mother and the girls would take the remaining seats while my father and I stood by the wall. All our New Years, I was in charge of the firecrakers, setting them off while my sisters looked on, sparklers in hand. When there were loads of bags to be carried, I got the heaviest ones. When we took trikes, I rode next to the driver to give way to the girls.
My sisters were very pretty and I was extremely protective of them. When Odie went to college, I took it upon myself to bodyguard her every enrollment day to keep her safe with her tuition money. When walking together, I would stay behind the girls as if to protect them from some sort of danger, imaginary or otherwise. On two separate occasions, two strange men tried to grab my sisters by the hand. Without any hesitation, I came to their rescue. I was like their hero and I fell in love with the idea.
Once I was walking all by myself from school to my cousins' townhouse when along came a pickup full of fratmen, whistling and hooting. I faced them and gave them the dirty finger. They left me alone. I was totally unafraid of what disaster my toughie stance could bring me. I got in trouble with the bus driver, the waiter, the man crossing the street, a whole lot of bothersome males I didn't even know. My middle finger was my weapon; my teenage angst, my source of courage.
Yes, I was a bad boy—I cussed way too loud, lifted my middle finger way too often. I was always looking for a fight, with anyone, about anything. It was like I was waiting for someone to kill me.
Thank God, nobody did. I'm no bad boy anymore. No longer a son. Not even a brother. For somewhere between then and now, I became a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother.
It was a good time for Indie to go around the UP academic oval in her motorized bike. Sun was setting. The summer heat was just dissipating.
Another sighting was right after I gave birth to Indie in the room where I was confined at St. Luke's. You see my old maid aunt, whom we fondly called Ate, passed away just 20 days before. She was like a second mother to me and my sisters. And I was sure she would have wanted to see her new apo and take care of me after labor. I saw her at the door smiling a happy smile. She asked if she could visit me and I readily said yes. So she glided (yes glided, as if she were on roller blades!) to the foot of the bed and stayed there, forever smiling, until I fell into a deep sleep.
The last was Christmas of 2007. It was our second without my father and I just thought I missed him. I remember saying it aloud, not for anything. But maybe somehow he heard me. Because as I was sitting somewhere in the dining room in our Batangas home, I saw him walking from my mother's bedroom to the living room and then poof! he was gone. He was my father so I wasn't the least bit scared. What struck me was the clarity of the vision, not hazy at all. He was wearing his favorite Christmas outfit of red shirt and white shorts. He did not move nor act in a ghostly kind of way. It was like he was alive, so alive that for a moment I forgot he was already dead.
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