ECHOES OF AFFECTION

              The very first memory etched in the recesses of my childhood mind is one of being locked in  the dank, stinky confines of the old bathroom in our backyard by Nanay. It was the space reserved for showering the dogs, illuminated dimly by an orange-hued bulb reminiscent of those adorning our family's altars. In that suffocating darkness, I found myself praying fervently, pleading with God to release me from my solitary confinement.

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               But my prayers fell upon deaf ears. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I wailed in desperation, the sound echoing through the night, surely reaching the ears of our neighbors.

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               Many hours passed like an eternity.

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               Tatay opened the door for me, rescuing me from my claustrophobic prison. From that moment on, he became my favorite, though the reason for Nanay's punishment remains a foggy memory.

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               That experience left an indelible mark on my psyche, shaping my behavior in ways I didn't fully comprehend at the time. I ceased clinging to my stubbornness, instead striving to please others, yearning for acceptance and affection. Yet, as I grew older, I grappled with the weight of unrequited love, questioning where all the love within me dissipates when no one reciprocates it in the way I  crave.

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               And having so much love inside a person is so beautiful until you have no one to love and no one to love you, not even yourself. Always begging for love like an abandoned dog in denial.

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               Additionally, I also developed a slight fear of tight and dark spaces, feeling panicked unless I willingly choose to go there. Nanay never apologized for it, perhaps she felt it justified. Maybe it was. But for the life of me, I cannot think of anything that I could have done to deserve it.

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               Everybody in the family acted like everything was normal the next day. They laughed at me and told me to be compliant, respectful, and easy. And that was that.

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                I did not learn anything from that experience. I never learned how to apologize either. Instead, I learned a harsh truth: that those who claim to love you can inflict deeper wounds than any stranger's insult. Yet, despite the pain inflicted, I found it impossible to harbor hatred toward my family, their actions merely adding complexity to the tapestry of my love for them.

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               Nowadays, Nanany mellowed down. Made weary after the years, her once stern countenance was replaced by a gentler disposition. She tends to her plants with care, the blossoms flourishing under her nurturing touch. Sometimes, I find myself wishing to be reborn into one of her plants instead. Despite our tumultuous history, I still love her dearly, cherishing the memories of her maternal gestures during my formative years.

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               This is the woman who brushed and braided my hair every single morning in elementary and gave me money for school. The one who walked me to the stage in every recognition when I was in elementary. Her cooking is the food I know. I can recognize her scent anywhere I go. She is all my nostalgia.

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               In many ways, I see myself mirrored in Nanay: her rebellious spirit, her passion for food, and her tender sensitivity. We share a propensity for tears concealed beneath a facade of strength, our vulnerabilities laid bare only within the sanctuary of family.

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               Times like this I wonder what went on her mind when she was raising me. Did she also see our resemblance? Did she imagine my future? Does she love me or does she despise me just a little bit?

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               Yet, amidst the turmoil of emotions she elicits within me, I cling to the small gestures of affection she bestows upon me—love bits scattered throughout my life, reminders of her enduring affection. The real gold earrings that I consistently wore during elementary, the pink ribbon she sewed herself after noticing that I was starting to like girlish things again, the lunches she would pack for me when I was being tutored, and all those smiles she would give me after every competition won.

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               I still keep all the photos from recognitions. Nanay would smile at the camera and place her hands on my shoulder after giving me my medal. These are the only pictures that I have of her with  me, family photos are not counted.

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               I am scared of her; I pity her; I love her; I wish she was better; I wish she always stays the same.

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               I wish this was easier. But this is what we got. Classic Filipino households really.

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               There are still so many years to go, but I want her to see me graduate. I need to spoil her and show her that I appreciate her. She made me cry numerous times since childhood but that is my grandmother. Those calloused and bleached hands were the ones who sculpted my foundations. I am who I am now because of her. And yes I agree that I am not the pinnacle of good, but I still think I have done pretty well for myself.

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               I took what she left of me on the pottery wheel and painted myself me. My base is strong, it would not break easily. And though our relationship may be fraught with complexity, I yearn for her pride and approval, endeavoring to carve out a path that honors the foundation she laid for me.

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               After all these years, I still want her to see me.

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               (Read: This started full of hatred and the expectation of catharsis that never came. Love spilled out from my edges and it just comes to show how I could never really hate my family no matter how many times they made me cry. Maybe it’s brainwashing, maybe that’s just who I am, or maybe it’s just a Filipino household thing, who the fuck knows. Loving my family is akin to an overlapping melody, one full of rage and noise that demands to be heard and a softer voice that is repeating itself over and over again.)