Core Memories: A Girl's First Love Letter

I used to cry when all my classmates left for the day while I was still in my seat trying to copy everything on the board into my notebook in bad cursive. By the time I was eight years old and in fourth grade, my second year in public school, I didn't cry as much anymore. At least not as much as when I stabbed annoying Merick with a red pen in 3rd grade only for me to gaslight him and walk around campus, bawling my eyes out for everyone to see.

"Naunsa ka, Aine?" Ate Chrisel asked, worried when I purposely stopped in front of the 5th grade classroom, crouched down, and buried my face in my arms. What happened to you? 

I rubbed my red eyes and stormed to the canteen without saying a single word—a line of classmates trailing behind me like it was their first time seeing someone cry.

I was definitely a drama queen at a young age, and with a stage mom like mine, my teachers thought it was a great idea to send me to an inter-school pageant: Ginoo at Binibining Agham (Mister and Miss Science).

So every week for a month or so, my partner, yaya, and I would visit another school for rehearsals.

My partner, Micko, was in 5th grade. He was cute but I knew very little about him except that he was ranked second in their class and had been awarded Best in Science.

We barely spoke with each other the entire time, and his presence didn't really mean anything to me. But that changed one rainy afternoon when my yaya shoved the two of us together under one umbrella while we waited for a jeepney. I remember feeling my cheeks grow hot when his stiff shoulder brushed against mine, and I wondered what was taking our ride so long to arrive.

We both won the pageant. Although we probably exchanged a curt smile after the victory, we were still too shy to speak with each other, especially after the host compared us to John Lloyd and Bea, one of the most popular love teams at the time. 

A few weeks later, someone slipped a piece of paper onto my desk. It was half a sheet of an intermediate paper, torn in the middle. I flipped it over and saw it is a letter for me. From him.

I don't remember what the first few paragraphs said, but the last line stuck with me: 

"I like you. Do you like me? Please respond."

Respond.

It was a big word for 8-year-old me, and I mulled over the confession, giddy that I had a crush who liked me back.

I told our yayas about the letter and let my mom read it, who was so excited I just received my first ever love letter.

"Write him back. Tell him you're too young for love," Ate Cherilyn coaxed me when I hung out with her in their room. "Tell him, ang bata pa natin." She was nineteen and obsessed with romcoms, spouting lines in Tagalog like we were in a movie. She'd had a few boyfriends in the past so I never questioned her judgment and thought she probably knew what she was talking about.

I pulled out my new stationery collection and picked out my best one with the teddy bear patterns. 

Gusto din kita, pero ang bata pa natin, I wrote carefully in my best handwriting, barely understanding the words I was writing, not even thinking this was too much effort for a simple response to a letter written on a piece of torn paper.

The following morning, my letter was nowhere to be found and I didn't get the chance to give my letter to Micko. A few years later, I suspected it was my mom or dad who hid it, protecting me from future embarrassment. 

Right before Christmas, Micko's classmates came to our homeroom and leaned against our door, beckoning me to come over. Confused, I approached them as they held out two letters. I looked down and noticed they were no longer pieces of torn paper.

"This one's for you," one girl whispered excitedly, showing me a letter written on a whole sheet of intermediate paper. "And can you give the other one to Sheryn?" It was from Micko's best friend. I wasn't surprised he liked Sheryn. She was the best dancer in school. I nodded coolly. At the corner of my eye, I spotted Micko and his best friend hiding behind a langka tree just a few meters away.

 
Sheryn and I excitedly hid in the tiny restroom to read our letters as soon as they left. It was dark and damp inside, but we were too busy giggling to even care.

Despite feeling flattered, however, I had learned my lesson and didn't write him back. Or at least I don't remember doing so. Unfortunately, a classmate who also had a crush on Micko sent him an anonymous love letter and everyone in his class thought it was from me.

Why would I send him a letter with Mandarin lyrics from a Meteor Garden song? If anything, all I did was check the yes box when he asked me if I liked him too.

After years of silent glances and childish teasing, he finally graduated from elementary school and moved on to the biggest high school in the city. For the first few months, he'd still visit his old alma mater with his former classmates and ask about me, but the visits eventually stopped, and we simply went on with our lives.

Ten years later, on Valentine's Day, I crossed paths with him again right outside the college where I was teaching. Our eyes met, a flicker of recognition passing between us as we walked toward each other. Quickly, I smiled in response to his friendly nod.

The walk back to the faculty room felt like a trip down memory lane, with moments from our childhood slowly finding their way back to me.

'Does he ever remember everything we said and did when we were kids?' I wondered, chuckling to myself at the thought of those silly times.

There was no more giddiness. No more flutters. But it was fun revisiting a chapter from my past I hadn't realized I still remembered so fondly.

A/N: Only took me three years to make an update, but here's another core memory! If you're new here, I'm trying to write down my core memories before I forget them. Thankfully, a random TikTok video reminded me to get back to blogging so here I am, dusting off these forgotten pages.

Core Memories: Esep-esep ring

Me (center), wearing a red malong. To my left is Poyen, wearing a pink and red baro't saya.

I am four years old and in kindergarten (ABCs level). Ma'am Lilibeth, our supervisor, is ending our class at 12 noon, so she gathers and calls for us to close the day with a prayer. I don't remember who is leading the prayer, but I remember folding my hands, glancing at Johan, a little boy I have a huge crush on. You know what they say: girls tend to mature a little faster than boys. He once peed in class while we were saying our closing prayer, but I didn't mind.

"I raise my hands," Ma'am Lilibeth begins.

"And close like this," we all chime in, "and bow our heads and close our eyes and pray."

We all squeeze our eyes shut but I feel my large plastic ring slip from my finger. It's a magenta plastic frog ring that came from a one-peso Esep-esep snack, a flavorless corn puff snack that I only buy for the little trinkets inside. I hear the light plastic hit the floor. I keep my eyes shut, hearing only the excited shuffling of feet beside me, and the rest of the class mumbling Ma'am Lilibeth's prayer.

"Amen," we all say together, and I pry my eyes open, starting to look around the floor for signs of my ring. Johan gives me a nudge, holding out my ring—like a proposal, I think. 

I replay that moment in my head over and over again, like hard candy in my mouth, as my dad and I walk home from school. Tomorrow, we can walk to school together, I excitedly think, knowing my dad and I usually pass by their apartment in the morning. I give the ring a little twist on my finger, sealing my daydream, like it were a plan.

Johan's dad and my dad would chat, walking their bikes through the narrow creekside, as Johan and I lead the way, passing through the creek bridges, and counting the pink snail eggs sticking to the sides of the creek walls.

At school, Johan usually treats me like a stranger, running around, playing shark with the rest of the boys, climbing up the slide, and roaring as if sharks make a sound underwater. Why boys do that, I do not know.

"Who do you like more," I hear a classmate tease Johan inside the empty church hall where we usually gather when we don't have classes. "Poyen or Aine?"

I hear my name and shoot them a look, half-expecting Johan to say my name. Didn't he pick up my ring from the floor? It must be me, I think.

"Poyen," he says, shaking his head as if the question is ridiculous.

The bell rings, and I blink back hot tears, watching the rest of our classmates exit the hall.

Of course he'd pick Poyen, my best friend with long, shiny, jet black hair that falls down to her waist. My short and wavy hair bouncing on my shoulders could never compare. I look down at my plastic ring and pull it from my finger. I feel a lump in my throat as I admire the ring, wondering why he picked it up from the floor when he didn't like me anyway.

Of course he'd choose Poyen.

Once, when Johan was annoyed with us, he told me to leave him alone or he'd turn me into a frog. When Poyen came, he said he was going to turn her into a princess.

I watch the last student leave before I throw the ring across the hall like they do in the movies when the girl tries to forget the boy she likes. The plastic ring makes an unimpressive, silent landing on the red, polished concrete flooring.

Not far enough, I think.

I skip to the ring, pick it up, and throw it again as far as I can, tears finally rolling down my cheeks.

A/N: This memory is so funny to me, but thanks for reading one of my many core memories! As I explained in my previous entry, I'm trying to write down memories before I forget them—I don't want to grow old and only have a few stories left to retell. 

Core Memories: Tomato Dance on my 3rd Birthday 🍅

Have you ever wondered if you'll be able to remember today when you turn eighty?

It still bothers me that I've had and will have good and bad days that will weigh on me—transform me—and I wouldn't even remember anything about them in a couple of years. Sometimes I wish I didn't lose my diaries so at least there's something to read when I get a little bit older. On the other hand, I like that I can at least always retell random stories about my childhood to my husband so I won't forget them.

I read once that when you barely remember anything from your childhood, it's probably because of the trauma. I must have had a wonderful childhood then, because I remember so many things.

At least for now.

I'm actually worried I'd end up forgetting them in a few decades and just manage to tell 3 or 5 stories to my grandchildren when they ask.

Can you imagine that?

A whole life lived, and only 5 stories to tell at the end of it all.

So, while I may not be able to write an entire autobiography of my oh-so-ordinary life, I could write a series of blog posts like this and call them Core Memories. Perhaps when I grow old and there's nothing left for me to do, I can come back to this series and remember that I have lived a beautiful life after all.

Core Memories: Tomato Dance on my 3rd Birthday 🍅

January 12, 1998

It's my third birthday.

Daddy, who dislikes big parties, is still in South Korea so my mom takes the chance to throw me a big birthday party while he isn't around. (You know, with the guests, balloons, a big cake, and hotdogs and marshmallows on bamboo skewers.)

I'm wearing a new denim dress and black gladiator sandals. I remember this only because we have a photo back home to prove it. My black curls bounce on my shoulders, and I don't remember minding that it isn't straight like my other friends'. 

On normal days, I only play with two friends: Ate Minmin, who I guess is only 3 years older than me, and that other boy who made fun of me when he saw I didn't wipe after I went in their bathroom to pee. Today, I see so many more kids. Some of them I kind of know, and some I do not. So I sit in the corner and look at them play with my toys.

In the middle of the living room I spot a little kid about my age playing with my new telephone toy. I don't remember being a selfish brat, but I go to the kid and pull my toy away because it's new.

My mom must've noticed because she comes over and tells me to share.

Reluctantly, I let go and the kid, unfazed, happily takes my toy again and I end up playing with my other toys, stealing glances at the kid and my telephone in case they break it.

***

I'm not exactly sure who the little boy is and why the adults are pairing me up with him, so I could only guess now that I must have had not found a partner for the tomato dance. Didn't I say I only have two other regular friends? Maybe I'm the odd one out. Maybe nobody picked me. But of course it's my birthday, so they look around for another kid I can tomato dance with. Eventually, they bring a boy inside the circle. He's probably four inches taller than me so he bends his neck a little when the music starts so our foreheads meet.

The adults place a tomato between us and they clap and cheer as all the kids "dance" to the music, moving and taking small side steps so the tomatoes don't fall to the ground.

I know I'm only three but I suddenly get shy and feel my cheeks grow hot when I look up and see that our faces are only three inches apart. Ten seconds into the song, my tummy feels funny and I drop the tomato intentionally so I could peel myself away from my partner.

The adults think it was an accident, while my partner frowns, probably just concerned about the prize.

*Photo above is from 1999 or 2000, I think. I don't have the photo from my actual 3rd birthday with me so I'll just edit the post when I find it.