Sprint, breathe—tag. 

It was yet another beautiful warm sunny day in 2002. An upperclassman has excitedly and manually rung the school bell with a stick, signaling the end of a school day. Students hurriedly made their way out of their classrooms, but none looked more anxious than the five of us—me, the funny kid, the reserved kid, the bright kid, and the cheeky kid. We were anticipating a big rematch of Tigso—us, the lowerclassmen, against the upperclassmen. 

Allow me to take you to the day before. 

As usual, after school for the five of us typically entails adventures and games, but none more played by us than our favorite game—Tigso, also known as Agawan Base, which is a running game or a variation of tag or capture-the-flag. We usually play it with anyone and try to match individual skills and speed to even out the teams. However, on this particular day, for reasons I barely can recall other than us just being kids full of guts, we decided that teams would be based on grade levels. Lowerclassmen consist of us kids between first through third grades and the upperclassmen between fourth through sixth grades. Yes, we were damn ballsy, and one can probably predict the outcome of this game by now, given that the upperclassmen have all the advantages—speed, physical attributes, experience, and strategies. Thus, on the first day of this match, the upperclassmen have mercilessly obliterated us on our favorite game, but our fiery spirit remained unextinguished, so we demanded a rematch to be held the next day after school, leading us back to the present day of this story.

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When we were kids, everything looked humongous, including the playing field where we now stood, facing the upperclassmen. One can see the reserved kid and me shuffling in the background, looking for a rock as a mark for our base while the rest of my teammates prepare themselves to run—or get captured. The tension continues to build up on our side while the upperclassmen were relaxed and confident as ever. Once our marks were set, we began our rematch. We were drenched in sweat as we ran, attempted to tag opponents, got tagged multiple times, became prisoners, lost our shoes, laughed, and even got a few wounds and scratches—but most of all, we had a lot of fun despite our annihilation by the upperclassmen 🤣. We were kids, and others would have expected us to begrudgingly cry or throw tantrums, but not us. Our losses did nothing to crush our spirits and motivations, and it certainly did not stop us from playing the game over and over with the upperclassmen—well, definitely just not against them.

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Buzzing, buzz—sting.

It was a bright sunny Sunday afternoon circa 2003. My third-grade self did not have anything else to do since I had finished doing all my chores. The dorms were quiet as most of the adolescent girls budding with youth left for their homes to spend time with their families. You see, I was placed in a dormitory with high school and college girls since second grade; my papa wanted me to have a Christian education.

I decided to take a stroll outside, and one of the nicest things about this campus was that there were plenty of fruit-bearing trees, like mangoes and caimitos (star apples). The faculty was always very generous and gave us—students—free rein to pick and eat the fruits within the reach of our short little arms. I see a line of caimito trees as I walk along the main dirt road, and oh boy, did I crave to pick and taste some.

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While looking up, studying which trees have the tastiest and juiciest caimito fruit, the funny kid appeared out of the blue. His inquisitive eyes observed me for a short second before asking me if I’d like to pick a caimito fruit, to which I eagerly nodded. He hurriedly signaled me to follow him, and we both darted toward the faculty homes. There, a teacher looked at us questioningly. Perhaps she thought our rapid inhales and exhales meant something was wrong, requiring her urgent attention. She smiled kindly as the funny kid began explaining, stood from her seat, and handed him a “sungkit,” which is a long pole with a hook at the tip, typically used to pick fruits from tall trees. We said our thank yous and rushed back to where the trees were, drooling. The reserved kid had seen us running with the sungkit and followed us, probably hoping to partake of the fruit of the tree. I asked the funny kid if he was really going to climb. I was scared for him, but he was so confident, claiming he had climbed many trees before. The reserved kid and I watched as he effortlessly made his way to the top of the caimito tree. There, he told us to hand him the sungkit because he expressed that he was currently looking at the nicest, juiciest caimito fruit for us to feast on.

He took the hook, and with a big smile that stretched from ear to ear, he extended it towards the fruit, jerked it back, and ungraciously slid and fell off the tree—one leg landing on animal dung. What he thought he saw as caimito fruit turned out to be a nest filled with nefarious yellow jackets that mercilessly chased and stung him off the tree. The funny kid, now bearing a serious face, warned us not to get close. I was shocked and panicked. I didn’t know if I should go near him, afraid the yellow (jacket) devils would chase after me too. The reserved kid pulled me, and we immediately rushed to get help from the adults. I felt so guilty and horrified when I saw the funny kid’s red swollen face, neck, and arms. Had I not craved the damned fruit, this would not have happened to him. He was so brave, he didn’t even cry.

One thing I realized that day was that I have the coolest and most caring friends. My heart was filled.

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It was a gloomy and chilly winter day for this young teen. His birthday is approaching, and it is on the very day many long to celebrate near the end of the year. He wore a pensive and defeated disposition as he slowly moved toward where I was sitting in the school cafeteria. A black crossbody bag hung over his right shoulder, a red jacket dangling over his right forearm, and on his left hand, he held something inside a disposable tin foil pie pan. It was the last day of school before winter break, and the sun had not even risen.

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Sharing a birthday with the savior of the world comes with some disadvantages, one of which is that this disgruntled teen will never truly experience being the center of attention, at least not on his natal day. Now, one should not invalidate how others feel just because they think they have it worst. I know some will be quick to say, “it’s just a birthday,” but most of them would be lying if they said they have never once looked forward to a party, a cake, gifts, and all the love and attention.

He stood in front of me, tiringly stared at my face, dropped his bag on the floor, and with a heavy sigh, sat down. He placed the disposable silver tin foil pan he was holding in front of me as if it were some kind of offering before saying, “It’s pumpkin pie.” I stared back at him, my face contorted in confusion. One, two, three seconds. I eyed the pie before me, then his face, and back at the pie. And that was the day he and I sought to dislike pumpkin pies.

I dedicate this month to the disgruntled teenage boy, Yin.

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Walking, crouching, crawling—dirty shirts, scraped knees and elbows.

It was one of those nice sunny days after school. The funny kid had instigated that we, along with the bright kid, the reserved kid, and the cheeky kid, go on an adventure and explore the nearby caves across the river. The campus was full of wonders for our young and curious minds, and more so for me since I'm the new kid. I had never been and had never seen a cave before, yet here we were, getting ourselves ready for this grand adventure. I was still determining what to expect. I had fears, alright. The cheeky and the funny ones were outspoken about snakes in the H-cave, the tight spaces of the U-cave, and the bats in the I-cave—apparently, each cave derived its name from its shape. Finally sensing my hesitation, the other two—out of their robust excitement—failed to notice, the reserved kid and the bright kid each gave me encouraging words and assuring smiles, effortlessly persuading my easily-manipulated mind to trust them. Along the way, the four little boys chatted with enthusiasm while my eyes twinkled with wonder as I listened to their tales.

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We first arrived at the U-cave, and it did not look scary at all. The funny kid volunteered himself to lead us by entering first, followed by the cheeky kid, the bright kid, me, and finally, the reserved kid. I recall us walking, that was, until the cave felt like it was beginning to shrink as we got deeper inside to where our tiny bodies had no choice but to crouch. It grew dark, and the next thing I knew, my face was against the dirty and dusty ground. I grasped for air as I secretly panicked, struggling to worm and slither my way out toward the light. Then, relief. Before I could even realize the existence of red stains and the feeling of pain on my elbows and knees, the cheeky one impatiently dragged us toward the I-cave. It was a bit of a disappointment, there were no bats, but I preferred it since we walked all the way through—emphasis on walked. Finally, the five of us found ourselves in front of the H-cave. It was slightly bigger compared to the aforementioned caves, so we confidently trekked inside. As soon as we reached the median point, there appeared a large pit, and because it was dark, it was impossible to see how deep it goes. The only way to complete the cave was to go through using the unsturdy degenerating piece of wood as a bridge propped on top of the pit. Then, we started hearing hisses coming from the pit. What do you think happened next?

Adventures can be scary and dangerous. You might scrape a knee, an elbow—or both—or make your mom angry by coming home with dirty clothes, but adventures can also be fun and exciting—with the right kids.

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I see wooden desks and wooden chairs—children stare. 

It was one of the many first days of second grade for me, and it was half past the school year of 2002. You've read that correctly, "one of the many first days of second grade," because my mama and I moved to so many places, but that's another story. The kid to my right, outspoken and bright, would often raise his hand to answer the teacher's questions, for which none of us had answers. Sitting in front of me was a kid with a silly laugh—a mouthy one, for sure. I realized later on why the bright one described him as sanguine; it was evident in his talkative and cheeky personality. Behind me sat another boy, assertive and funny—he had volunteered to lead the class in a song and had the whole class laughing in less than a minute. Then, there was this kid I hadn't really noticed sitting at the back, just behind the bright kid. He was a bit reserved, but whenever I would meet his gaze, he would give me the warmest smile I never knew a child could give. It was as if he wanted to approach me but was extremely shy. Yes, it was indeed the many first days of second grade—I was an outsider, but I felt like I was in the right place. 

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