UNTITLED

1810 Sandejas Street, Pasay City was reminiscent of the not-so-posh neighborhoods of New York: decrepit houses, graffitied walls, dirt-strewn alleys, and not-so-silent neighbors. Now that I look back, where I lived was like a scene out of those ghetto movies – the typical place for people down on their luck. I’m not saying that we couldn’t afford a better place; it’s just that the place was sentimental for my parents and their relationship that they didn’t bother moving out when they had me.

Our house was situated in the very heart of the street, right in front of the sari-sari store my ninangs owned. I used to get freebies by helping out in the store, which meant just minding the counter while watching television, usually sucking on a lollipop or drinking bottle after bottle of Yakult. That store was witness to major events in our neighborhood, and was usually the rendezvous of a lot of people. It was where you could get the latest chismis on the new hunk in town, get updated on Mang Bert and Nang Beth’s on-the-rocks relationship, talk about the yaya who eloped with the baker’s son, and get the recent news on the PBA playoffs. It was also right in front of that store that I almost got hit by a car one night, if not for my ninong, who was having a drinking spree with friends. I was only three then; that was the last time I remember seeing him, but I can still recall hearing sirens and screams.

Right beside us was a bakery, owned by a man whose daughter I became best friends with. I think we were of the same age, and we both liked Wowie de Guzman, pretending that we knew him personally and were chummy with him. She even had a poster of him in her room, where we would just sit and stare at his picture, our imaginations running wild. We were very tight, until she accused me of stealing her Barbie doll, and took revenge by breaking mine’s head off. Turns out, she had left hers in the bakery’s counter where we used to play, but I was too upset to make friends again. Last time I heard, she supposedly already has three sons. That was about half a year ago; I was still 16 then.

Our house wasn’t that much. We had a spacious sala, perfect for those restless nights when we’d pop a VHS cassette tape and do a movie marathon, or have a ball rooting for our favorite teams in the PBA finals; a kitchen and dining area that could accommodate about a dozen people or so, but seemed so small whenever there was a birthday celebration, in which case the entire kalsada was invited; and two bathrooms, though we’d have to fight over who should use it first, be it because of age (who’s younger or older), or who got there first. There were four bedrooms: one was for the housemaids and our three yayas; one was for my aunt (who owned the house) and a good friend of hers; the other one was for my male cousins; and the last one was occupied by me, my (then) three (now five) siblings, and my parents. We were all crammed into that one room, big enough for two queen-size beds, a TV set, and some drawers, but ours was the only air-conditioned room in the house.

Late nights my siblings and I would play hide-and-seek in our bedroom, only that we’d turn off the lights. In our backyard, you could here the cheers and groans of the adults as they played tong-its, and lost their bets to my mom, who was considered the best player in the street. Right in front of our house, my cousins and titos would have drinking sprees. I could still remember when they had one too many and got into a brawl, fighting over who should get more ice. They ended up with cuts & bruises, and by the time they got up late the next day, my aunt gave them much scolding.

Everybody knew everyone where I grew up; one’s business was everybody’s business. The street may have seemed dangerous, sinister even. Yet in my seven years of living there, talking and laughing, playing and fighting, just trying to live a normal life, not once did I feel afraid or scared of my street. I felt at home and familiar with the place, somewhere where I felt I belonged. It didn’t matter if it was dingy or dark, dirty or just plain crude, what mattered most was that everybody that I loved, and who loved me as well, was there, making my days special in one way or another.

We may have moved to Davao City, but whenever the stillness of the night makes me restless, I just go into my bedroom, call my siblings, turn off the lights, and play hide-and-seek in the dark, pretending to hear all around me the sounds of 1810 Sandejas Street, Pasay City, the place I once called home.