“Give this a title, I can’t think of any”

Did I mention before that I’m a total disaster when it comes to writing? This is weird because my discipline has a lot to do with the written communication. Perhaps when I was in college, I was so busy thinking of where to get my transportation allowance from our village to my alma mater on the next day. Result? I ended up teaching it. (lol) Result number two? I ended up marrying a writer!

Anyways, I want to talk about the road to being successful or the attempt of many to enlighten us on this. Much has been written and said about it. In fact, next to love – I think it’s among the most commonly abused words. But let me define it in my own terms. Not necessarily circumscribe ala Merriam, or Wikipedia style – maybe, say something about. (See, I was positive a medical practitioner can diagnose me with ADHD. Meaning, my memory flutters so fast from one topic to another that I had to catch them one by one). I grew up in a small, poor village located in the Bicol region. As you might probably have known, the region is popular for two of its provinces being on the top ten with the highest poverty incidence in the country. Yet despite its ugly reputation – I can still vividly remember my childhood and teenage days with all candor. My father is a palay farmer who used to tend a half-hectare land given to him by my grandparents when he married my mother. Every summer, we were among the children who’d play games barefoot in our Tatay’s uma. We would also help Nanay sell her deliciously-cooked pansit, softdrinks and tinapay to the paraani. My siblings and I weren’t afraid of getting our clothes soiled. I think it was typical for barrio children to think that way. Even after school when my feet would perspire while on the way home, I’d prefer to walk minus my step-in. No one is looking anyway. The barrio I live before was not as populated as it is today. Our house then was built in an area near a meandering creek. One time, Tatay went on summoning all my strength as he smash me with his panlatob. I took three or four hours taking a bath in the creek with my cousins. It was his rule that we don’t take a bath on it. I was so carefree not to mind about the spanking that follows every trip to the kali (local term for “creek”). Not even if Nanay warn us we’ll get buni or that leeches are all over to feast on our blood! Those were the days. And until now, I can’t help but laugh remembering them. My cousins and I imagined it was a swimming pool we’re into and not a creek that sometimes had “yellow submarine” floating in it.