12 February 2008
Kubo
Eighteen faraway years ago, I was in kindergarten. 'Twas a blast. Probably because I was in a class where politics came first before learning to write your name ("I arrived first, so I should be first in line and no I'm only 6 feet tall." "You have candies; it's only right that you give everyone of us here in the bus or we'll throw you out." "My parents are richer than any of yours, hence I should get all the stars every dismissal."). The best part was, at 3-feet-1, I was at the helm of our Maskman gang--I played Black and yes, we were better than your Bioman's. It was half the reason why I had a fabulous childhood--the other being that I was still notoriously nice until the sixth grade.
It was in those short but quite full years that I became friends with a timid fatso named Kevin. He was a bit shy because he was... fat. Or so I've always believed. We literally spelled "10". On some days he'd get teased for moving slower than his vocabulary exercise--but that's when I always came in. With my stance which only fire ants would admire, no one dared bug him. I guess that made us best friends.
My brother and I would get up at 5AM, fight until 5:30 then hop on the school bus by 6. Then we'd sleep until we reach the small Montessori, which stood at the center of a private village a few minutes from our subdivision. Part of the school's "rearing" for the tods was its daily merienda. Me and my classmates would guess what's on the menu for the day, and I'd always get excited unless I hear "mayonnaise". I always sat beside Kevin whenever that happened.
A typical day at the school would be, as best as my selective amnesia allows: teasing latecomers (those who arrived after us), flag ceremony, gossip on the merienda, Writing, Art, recess, a "silent period" (We'd sit inside a small room doing... nothing. Seriously.), Math, playtime, a mini-brawl, early lunch, dismissal. I learned longhand writing before I learning how to spell my name. I also did well in Math, and my eerily excited teacher would ask me to solve equations the length of a page of a standard notebook during free time (It usually involved a 5 or a 7 or a 9 and lots and lots and LOTS of "+" signs). Kevin sat there to my left each time, feasting on our coloring books and doing the rest of the pages' white spaces. Our parents would finally arrive and we'd go home feeling absolutely proud of ourselves.
Behind the two school buildings, on a lot the size of a football court, stood a nipa hut about 10 feet high. Three ping-pong tables could fit in it. It was lined with two benches inside and it had a slide. The Kubo, we called it, was our little sanctuary. Graders dared not hangout there, kinders clearly ruled. Although I remember enjoying only half of it because Kevin, who already had asthma at his age, could only riot with us for so long. I'd see him sitting up the hut, sweating, while one of our teachers frantically tried to fan him with a cardboard. Then I'd ask the others to play another game--'coz, "Hoy pagod na 'ko! Iba naman!"--although I could've run some minutes more if only to show our custodian how much I hated her perfume. We'd content ourselves to storytelling on the Kubo's filthy floor and theorizing on Shaider's fate until the afternoon breeze (and the teach fanning Kevin) gets tired of cooling us off.
I wasn't sure how my last meeting with Kevin went. It was probably during a party where the adults tried to dress the kids as walking Christmas tree ornaments. I was a candy cane in polka dots and he was, well, don't laugh please, Santa. (Shut up, I WAS A CANDY CANE.) I no longer remember how we said goodbye for that day. But I'm sure that we were having the time of our lives in that party. All of us. Probably there were "See you again soon"s, only to realize after high school that they were simply innocent promises no one would be able to keep. Kevin flew for the States after that party.
I had two more best buds (and three more gangs) after him.
I don't know where Kevin and the rest of the "Maskmen!" are now, let alone if he's dropped his weight or still plays a sickly Santa. Which should be cute either way. My handwriting kinda sucks now due to massive... QWERTY-ing--sad. But I can now do multiplication, subtraction, division PLUS some Trigonometry. And I am now a master at Silent Periods. I still hate mayonnaise, but I will always treasure the memory of those cool afternoons in the dusty hut with Kevin and the gang.
It was in those short but quite full years that I became friends with a timid fatso named Kevin. He was a bit shy because he was... fat. Or so I've always believed. We literally spelled "10". On some days he'd get teased for moving slower than his vocabulary exercise--but that's when I always came in. With my stance which only fire ants would admire, no one dared bug him. I guess that made us best friends.
My brother and I would get up at 5AM, fight until 5:30 then hop on the school bus by 6. Then we'd sleep until we reach the small Montessori, which stood at the center of a private village a few minutes from our subdivision. Part of the school's "rearing" for the tods was its daily merienda. Me and my classmates would guess what's on the menu for the day, and I'd always get excited unless I hear "mayonnaise". I always sat beside Kevin whenever that happened.
A typical day at the school would be, as best as my selective amnesia allows: teasing latecomers (those who arrived after us), flag ceremony, gossip on the merienda, Writing, Art, recess, a "silent period" (We'd sit inside a small room doing... nothing. Seriously.), Math, playtime, a mini-brawl, early lunch, dismissal. I learned longhand writing before I learning how to spell my name. I also did well in Math, and my eerily excited teacher would ask me to solve equations the length of a page of a standard notebook during free time (It usually involved a 5 or a 7 or a 9 and lots and lots and LOTS of "+" signs). Kevin sat there to my left each time, feasting on our coloring books and doing the rest of the pages' white spaces. Our parents would finally arrive and we'd go home feeling absolutely proud of ourselves.
Behind the two school buildings, on a lot the size of a football court, stood a nipa hut about 10 feet high. Three ping-pong tables could fit in it. It was lined with two benches inside and it had a slide. The Kubo, we called it, was our little sanctuary. Graders dared not hangout there, kinders clearly ruled. Although I remember enjoying only half of it because Kevin, who already had asthma at his age, could only riot with us for so long. I'd see him sitting up the hut, sweating, while one of our teachers frantically tried to fan him with a cardboard. Then I'd ask the others to play another game--'coz, "Hoy pagod na 'ko! Iba naman!"--although I could've run some minutes more if only to show our custodian how much I hated her perfume. We'd content ourselves to storytelling on the Kubo's filthy floor and theorizing on Shaider's fate until the afternoon breeze (and the teach fanning Kevin) gets tired of cooling us off.
I wasn't sure how my last meeting with Kevin went. It was probably during a party where the adults tried to dress the kids as walking Christmas tree ornaments. I was a candy cane in polka dots and he was, well, don't laugh please, Santa. (Shut up, I WAS A CANDY CANE.) I no longer remember how we said goodbye for that day. But I'm sure that we were having the time of our lives in that party. All of us. Probably there were "See you again soon"s, only to realize after high school that they were simply innocent promises no one would be able to keep. Kevin flew for the States after that party.
I had two more best buds (and three more gangs) after him.
I don't know where Kevin and the rest of the "Maskmen!" are now, let alone if he's dropped his weight or still plays a sickly Santa. Which should be cute either way. My handwriting kinda sucks now due to massive... QWERTY-ing--sad. But I can now do multiplication, subtraction, division PLUS some Trigonometry. And I am now a master at Silent Periods. I still hate mayonnaise, but I will always treasure the memory of those cool afternoons in the dusty hut with Kevin and the gang.
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