BAKURAN (Yard): Part II

The first hint that there was a problem in my relationship with my family was exposed when I was in sixth grade. My teacher in Language and Grammar asked us whether we will choose our friends over our family in a specific scenario I cannot remember anymore.

          Initially, I answered that I will choose my family because they were my best friends. The simple answer I gave was enough to spark a light conversation among the members of the class. They started talking about how their families helped them solve their problems. Some of them blissfully described their family bonding activities. A lot did not share anything.

          I wonder what those who remained quiet had to share. In 2008, 38 percent of the babies born in the Philippines were delivered by unmarried mothers. Maybe, some of those who stayed quiet were raised by single parents. In my college days, I met people who were raised by their grandparents or other relatives because their parents died young. What if someone from my class of more than forty students was gripping her desk, struggling to contain his tears because of the envious feelings she felt towards those with normal families? If an orphan or a street child heard a recording of that day, what would he say?

          The stories my classmates shared illuminated an aspect of my life I did not know existed. I was unhappy with my family. I realized that since fifth grade, my parents have not asked me about how my days went. They did not know who my friends were and how I spent my time with them. They were clueless about my aspirations and passions in life, what I liked, who I loved, and what gender I preferred. I have never had the liberty to express myself as a response to the hormonal and other developmental changes my physical body had to go through. I was never me in our house. I was never at home.

          I have never been confident of confronting my parents about my personal issues. The lack of attention from them made me feel that my voice is not important, and that the stories that concerned myself mattered to no one else but me. I became talkative, extroverted even. I subconsciously sought for connections that would allow my sentiments to seep through small talks because my soul wanted to be known. I was searching for a home. So, I raised my hand and answered again, I’ll choose my friends because they know me better.