Note: Yesterday I twittered about not posting this pathetic reflection. Mam Noemi in a reply told me to post it anyway. So here it is, read at your own risk. You have been warned.

When I was in high school, my fervent wish then was to get old soon. Thank the accelerated program for that.

When I was in grade three, someone must had been impressed with my academic performance (heck, I was out of school for more than a month because I was confined in a hospital somewhere in Sta. Cruz). After the school year was over, I was enjoying my vacation with my aunts at Caloocan, culminating with a trip to the beach. Sadly, after the beach, I was sent back home. Waiting for me was a letter asking me to take an exam at an elementary school near our house. I had no idea what it was for, and I can’t remember now what the letter said.

So, with mom in tow, I went to that school, met a teacher, and took an exam. Without even reading books before that; that was how arrogant I was back then. After the exam, the teacher told us to come back in a few days to find out if I passed or not. I was lucky, I was told; it was the last day for the exams.

We came back after a few days, and saw my name on the list of 30 names. Then another teacher explained to us what was it all about. I was to take grades four and five within one school year, effectively accelerating my elementary years. That June, I left my school and acquaintances (I was not friendly back then) and entered a new one.

What an experience it was. We were in a new building together with the blind, the deaf, the mute, and those with Down’s syndrome. Welcome to special education, kiddo. Now don’t blame me if I feel that I’m abnormal. I can’t help it, and I don’t blame the blind, the deaf, the mute, and those with Down’s syndrome, either. That’s just how I felt then, and how I feel even today.

Back then, elementary students are expected to stay at school for five hours; we “accelerated” people stayed for almost eight hours. Aside from the usual textbooks (one per subject), we got a lot of workbooks and supplementary reading books (that’s why I knew Rizal’s life from cover to cover). Heck, we were even asked to make a compilation of “juvenile literature”; had a showdown of songs with the lowerclass men (I was in grade six by then, second year in sp-ed); and we boys were made special police.

So I entered high school, and it was troubling to be in the same year with your older brother. More troubling was the fact that two-thirds of my classmates were older than me. I met an accident during the first month of the school year, so once again I was out for a month. (That was the year of the Great Earthquake, where Cabanatuan and Baguio were almost reduced to rubble. My right leg was in cast, and I was on the third floor of the building. I was lucky, real lucky I am still alive.)

Returning to school was no means less troubling; I found out that I was moved in the section where my brother was in. And that’s where the story really begins. (Sorry about the long introduction.)

Here I was, a whole year younger than most of the guys, recently came from convalescence and still in crutches; and there they were, a year older than me, never been in an accident, happily playing sipa; and here I was, sitting at the shed, watching them play. With me was a classmate, a polio victim, condemned to live forever in a wheelchair and with limited mobility in the limbs. I felt so crippled, and I don’t blame the classmate, either.

They never took me seriously. My brother had a group of friends, while I was in the fringes of the group, a semi-friend. I was an outsider all throughout high school; and them letting me in the group whenever they like was like settling for bread crumbs that fall from the table. Don’t get me wrong – I was thankful for the gesture. But I was an outsider still. My brother continues to be friends with them; I am still an outsider.

Maybe it was loneliness – maybe it was despair – that drove me to make that wish. Or maybe it was the fact that I was yanked away from my own age group. Or maybe it was the fact that I was forced to mature quickly.

College started innocently, feeling as if it was just an extension of high school. After a semester, that innocence was broken, mutilated, raped – it made me face my problems, but I ran away from them. It went downhill from there on, and the period I termed Dark Age of My Life began. And nope, I won’t tell you what happened during those times; that period was well-documented with four volumes of journals and some letters.

The nadir of that Age was reached was when I had to leave college; then began my long, torturous journey in purgatory. Understandably, I was depressed; everything I saw was a reminder of what a failure I was, what a cripple I was, how abnormal I was.

I was employed as a tutor to two kids shortly thereafter. They live in Sampaloc, and to go there I had to pass by the University Belt. It was pure torture, passing by that area. Seeing groups of students was torture. Seeing them reminded me what a dismal failure I was.

Luckily, I was able to get into another college, and the reverse of what had happened in high school had happened. My wish had come true. Most of my classmates were way younger than me, and they took me seriously. Too seriously, in fact, that once again, I was an outsider. I couldn’t relate to their likes. I felt like I was an old grandfather when I was with them.

How I wished I was young again.

But unlike before, they took me in, but not as completely as I liked. It was impossible; I was generations away from most of them. I respected that. It was a compromise that lasted until, after eight years since high school graduation, I graduated from college.

Even before graduating, I was already applying for jobs. I did not even attend the baccalaureate mass because I had an exam that day. Makati beckoned, but I was sidetracked into teaching instead. And I don’t know if it was a mistake or not. After all, I would be dealing with people who are younger than me. As in people younger by more than five years.

After my final interview with the school director, I was immediately asked to attend my first subject. I was half-afraid that I would be seeing kids straight out of high school; half-excited because, after all, it was my first day at work. When I saw the students, I was surprised that they are not as young as I had thought. Only a two-four year age differential.

Then I had students who are about my age, shave some months or a year. Finally, my age group! However, I was a teacher, and being in that role limited my interaction with them. From them a core group of students, most of whom played for my team during school intramurals, was formed. These students treated me like a friend after school; they waited for me when it was time for me to go home after school. We ate tokneneng almost every day, and played basketball during weekends (nope, I was just a spectator). They tell me their problems, they find my jokes corny, they attended my classes regularly, and they usually sat in my classes even if they were not enrolled in those subjects.

Then, they all left, either because of graduation or because of money problems. Another school year, another new batch of students. And this time, they were much younger, and it showed. I was again a grandfather amongst kids.

It was also the time that I fell in love; it was also the time when love left me. It was the time when I was no longer alone; it was also the time when, once again, I was alone.

Now, I am 29 years old. My generation has left me behind – they are either married, committed to someone, or dead. The generation before me left me behind, too – married, committed, or dead. The generation after me – well, some are married, most are committed, and I don’t know if some of them are dead, too. And they will leave me behind, too. After all, who would be interested in an ugly, crippled, pushover?

Anyway, it must be in the blood. In the father’s side, there’s an old maid aunt; in the mother’s side, there’s an old maid aunt and an old bachelor uncle. Besides, we are five brothers, so there’s no pressure to get married and have kids. I’ll be just a doting uncle, and I’ll have to get rich, quick. Yes, AWB Holdings. That’s my goal from now on. And oh, new friends here and there.

Send me bittersweet greeting cards. Yep, no one has given me a greeting card. Ever. (Except from a godmother/aunt, when I was about two years old. But that doesn’t count.) As I was rummaging through the box where I place letters sent to me, someone did send me a birthday card. Wow. My memory’s failing me.

PS: Why year 2? Year 1 was a locked entry at LiveJournal. This post is basically the same, with some additions.