10 Peso Sale

As I lined up for my turn in the Fotohaus station of Victoria Plaza, waiting to get a chance of my final kodak. My eyes surveyed the now-fading silhouette of the mall, I found myself swept up in a rush of nostalgia. Part of my childhood was shaped here. The walls of this place helped forge everything I've become. Even with my eyes closed, I am familiar with every nook and cranny. I finally understood why people would call something bustling, noisy, and almost chaotic their home. In a sea of people that would come and go and I’ll never see again, I found strange comfort and familiarity like I’ve always belonged. It was a strange realization, these feelings hadn't vanished over the years; they were merely waiting for the right moment to resurface. It came back to greet me once again to etch certain memories when it finally allowed itself to be forgotten. 

Victoria Plaza became my playing ground for Sundays, when other children went to the park with their families in this relaxing time of the week, I spent it at Victoria Plaza, strolling around like some lost kid yet I knew about the place like the tip of my little fingers. On Sundays when my Mom hadn’t left abroad and when I was a little younger, we consistently went to church. Mama worked there as a stand-in teacher and helper for the Sunday school program to help fund our living expenses. Victoria Plaza had their cinema stalls up for rent to use as public spaces. Our church back then rented the place to gather for mass. On our way riding the Route 4 jeepney, I looked over the streets of JP Laurel with the air kissing my face, almost tucking in strands of my hair into my ear.  I already knew that I was desperately looking for something to hold on to when Papa left us. Mama's hold on my back in this bulky ride was faint, I could barely feel it. Perhaps it was a testament to her faith, She had God to hold on to, I found myself finding it hard to put my faith in something that I haven't touched or seen, to which I blame my innocence. How do I hold on to someone whose hands I cannot touch? 

I could not stand being in the church for long, everyone preaches of the gospel yet I couldn't understand the morality of it, all I could think about was what is outside the cinema. There is a restless, intoxicating rush in navigating a mall as a child, especially when your upbringing has framed such environments as the height of worldly luxury. Mama didn't fail to teach me the basics of the bible yet I couldn't find myself to be drawn to it.​ While the pastor preached, I grabbed my Mama's copy of The Bible and feigned understanding, scanning the texts as if i understood the linguistic complexities of the NIV when I was simply recalling events from the simplified stories during the Sunday school. I knew the beginning of man, because I could read that their names were Adam and Eve. The story of the bible was astonishing as it is, but knowing that someone had to die or to be punished for doing something wrong by someone they couldn't see, was scary to me. I closed the book and kept bothering Mama during the service because I wanted to go out and won't be too far. She shrugged me off silently, her hands gesturing to me to sit properly. That made me want to go out even more. I lied to her for the first time, the rush of curiosity was something I couldn't contain any longer in the many days I kept going to Victoria Plaza yet always end up on the corners of the church only. I lied to Mama mid service that I would go to the bathroom. She didn't answer and I took it as a yes. I deliberately went outside. The cinema was located in the 2nd floor, I knew I was scared to go down, my little feet carefully strutted along the stores of the mall. 

10 PESO BOOKSALE! 10 PESO BOOKSALE! 10 PESO BOOKSALE 

The words repeated on the LED. It wasn't ‘deep’ English, I understood right away. People were busy scurrying over and scanning the books. Some carried stacks, I could only look over in jealousy. 10 pesos was enough to buy Pancit at the eatery. Early on I understood that some people could afford 10 pesos like breathing. My steps were once again careful, afraid I'd be towered over by the people hurrying to get their own. I dropped to my knees to reach over the books below the counters. The pages were obviously worn out and brown, yet I was enticed for the first time with it's pink cover and kids all over. The book was The Babysitter's club. The kids had fun in their day to day life alongside other kids, and I liked reading about them having fun. I understood each words of each pages. For a second, I forgot about wanting to explore the malls further, I forgot about being sad about Papa going away. I forgot about everything a child like me shouldn't be burdened to. Time had passed, and I forgot about telling Mama I was just going to the bathroom.

Slowly, the people left with their bag of books. I didn't even notice the silence as I was already in a world I'm about to get deeper into. In the best memory I can recall, the sellers that would take turns in their shift, were named Ate Nelie and Ate Raya. Ate Nelie  was the first I've met, when the rush of people was gone, she annoyingly went out of her stall to redo the mess. She saw me as the only one left reading on the floor, the screeching sound of the cashier door opening made me come back to my senses. I was overly familiar with annoyed faces and Ate Nelie was one. I returned the book, stood up, and helped her stack the books properly. I didn't know where to put where, she probably saw how eager I was to help, finally smiled and together, we arranged the books silently. After everything, she gave me The Babysitter's club book I was reading. I felt like I had my first taste of luxury when the price of that book could've fed me. When I came back to the church, true enough, Mama was frantically looking for me. She couldn't get mad at me in the face of her other churchmates, and could only sigh that the child who she thought was going to the bathroom, came back with a book on her hand. From then on, the Bookshop have become my go-to place but with Mama's knowledge this time. Mom would only buy me books if it favors her salary from serving the church. Sometimes, Ate Nelie would give me some for free as it became a habit that I'd help her arrange the stacks of books after the rush had slowed down. 

The first time Mama asked me what I want for my birthday, I knew I wanted a notebook. I couldn't help but feel jealous, jealous of the life my characters have. In my little notebook with Dyesebel in the cover. I wrote about a world I didn't have. I for sure had the wrong spellings. Looking back at it, I even inserted myself into the characters, posing myself as the rich woman with a beautiful garden. I'd write about silly stories and remakes of old legends like Ang Alamat ng Mayon. Sometimes, I would make retellings of my favorite Disney characters like Aurora, probably my first entry into fanfiction and I didn’t notice. After I finished a notebook, I was only driven to write more. I would read my stories to mama before bed and even when she was tired, I playfully forced her eyes to open and we would laugh together by my antics so she’d listen to what I wrote. My childlike innocence made me think that Mama must’ve loved my stories. It was the time of the night, I got to see her smiling before closing my eyes to sleep. After all that pain she had to endure day by day. It was then and there that I’ve etched into me that I can make Mama happy with my silly writings full of self-inserts and plot holes. It kept me going. Years later, even when I didn’t let Mama read my works any longer as I start to get a tad bit embarrassed of things I like to write about, there was no way I’d let Mama read the story I’ve made about a nerd falling in love with a campus heartthrob and end up heartbroken and got her revenge. It might sound silly, but I genuinely stayed up on some nights just to write chapters in my new notebook. I realized I loved writing even without anyone reading it. It was an outlet. It served as a sort of a diary. My feelings are woven in a creative narrative. My emotions reflect the state of my characters, the story of my life retold in some chapters. The memories I had with my Papa, re-imagined on some occasions. It was a priceless hobby that made me feel like I’m free to be who I am. 

Ceramic plates at department stores dropping into 50% sale like everything must go and be swept away before the year starts. I find myself searching for the ghost of an old bookstore, the sea of sales reminded me of that sanctuary. An escape beneath a mountain of books. Back then, the ten pesos sale for all books felt like an entry fee into another world; now, that world is buried under percent off stickers and the frantic rush to empty the shelves. There is a certain irony in only recognizing the weight of a place at the moment of its careful goodbye. I used to dismiss that sentiment as dramatic, yet here I am, realizing I was just as guilty of taking something for granted as everyone else. I am bidding a silent yet heartfelt farewell to the sanctuary where my literary voice was first awakened, of which ignited the spark of writing within me. 

In the real world, especially in the area of academia. Writing isn’t as rewarding as I think it is. It’s often seen as simply a method of instruction. In my teenage years going into Senior High School I took up HUMSS. In this course, we often delve deep into the complexities of writing and focus on forging essays. However, the curriculum was strict.  It reminded me of the feeling of not wanting to be allowed outside the church, when there is so much in the world to explore outside the rubric. It was painful even and excruciating, everything was stagnant and controlled. At that point, I was already aware of the political climate the Philippines is in, I educated myself with social issues and didn’t bother conforming to my mother or my family's political stance as I was always willing to question the facts given to me. In the process of doing that, I have discovered authors that inspired me by their literary landscape and writing. Authors like Lualhati Bautista, Mia Alvar, Bob Ong, Patricia Evangelista and Ellaine Castillo. Even when some of the authors mentioned don’t display explicit political criticism. Writing itself is already political. They influenced my writings greatly back in Senior High School, there was this obvious shift in writing creative stories to political essays yet it didn’t diminish my will as a writer. I was asked by my teachers to tone down the politics in my writing when it’s not needed. I was determined there to bypass the very system that hinders my will to write what I want to write. I searched for the deepest corners of my youth and found my childlike wonder to write stories. In a way that they didn’t notice, I used fiction and sometimes epic characters as a method to critique the dangers of capitalism. When my teacher in Creative Writing back then stopped telling me off about my writing, I felt accomplished as a writer that they didn’t see through my criticism. I felt back then and there that I had the literary ability to weave important societal topics into academia. 

However, getting into UP, a school that heavily emphasizes the importance of service. Writing finally served its purpose. To serve. This realization extends beyond mere ‘service’; it facilitates a profound reckoning with my past. Though my early years were marred by hardship, it curated most of my identity. It was a win-win situation for me this time. To write about what matters to the world, and to me, above all. Each assignment was me extending myself to the world. It reveals parts of myself and parts of my past I would not dare forget like Victoria Plaza. I recall the pain the people of my country had to endure in the face of money hungry officials. The rage of the people and the emotions I’ve always had in me plays a huge role in the writing process. It becomes my leverage, a starting point even. That even in the face of countless revisions, kept me going. I always make it a point to adapt changes from my Professors who were masters of the field. Their thoughtful guidance paved the way for the improvement of my literary journey but also eloquently. For the struggles of the marginalized deserve a voice that is as beautiful as it is unwavering.  I must ensure that every word I craft serves as a bridge between my private sanctuary and the public struggle. My opportunity of education in UP, and my Creative Writing course pushed me to unlearn certain stigma and writing beyond the created limits. To live in the name of Creative. 

Despite everything I’ve learned and unlearned in my new academic environment.  I must never forget the girl in the 10-peso book aisle, for she is the reason I know that every story deserves to be heard. My evolution from writing self-insert stories for my mother to weaving subtle political critiques in my Highschool classroom has been a process of shedding my innocence to gain insight. I have learned that the true power of the pen does not lie in the beauty of its prose, but in its ability to act as a crucible for truth.