DADDY'S LITTLE GIRL

UNEDITED SAMPLE LITERARY ARTICLE
By Ma. Beatrice Camille Valencia Gaviola
IV - Enrico Fermi


A few years back, I remember my life was all I wanted it to be. Well, yeah, there were a few arguments here and there. But for me, it was next to perfect. Everything I ever needed was there. Everyone important to me was within reach.

But suddenly, it all changed. Everything came crumbling down at the blink of an eye. My parents got separated, and this made life a little harder for us. We had to scrimp a little, and transfer schools when we reached high school. We moved from a private school to a public school, which I used to think was cheap and dirty. It turns out that it is not at all what I had thought it to be. I was dead wrong. It’s one of the best things that ever happened in my life. I got to meet new friends, and I kind of kept the old ones too. I got to really discover who I was. I got to show others who I really am, without worrying of what they’d have to think. Social ladders and that entire shenanigan do not really apply in schools like this. I got to be myself. I got to be loud, crazy, weird, and just plain stupid whenever I wanted to be. I learned to laugh along when people laughed at me. I became a joker. I know I made others happy, and I am certain that I made myself happy.

It wasn’t always like this though. During my first year in this new school, I had a hard time adjusting. It was too hot, too tight, and just way too small for a school. The people were certainly different. It was like a whole new world to me. A world unknown. But thanks to my newfound friends and all their help, I got by pretty well. I, little by little, discovered this world, and found it very pleasing and enjoyable.

But of course, there must be a balance to it all. With all these good things being thrown at me, bad things were just lurking around the corner, waiting for me to pass their way. I had to transfer houses too. I had to stay with my grandmother because their house was nearer to the school. Here, I lived with my grandparents, aunts, uncle, brother, and cousins. And of course a few house helpers. Now I tell you, this was definitely not my cup of tea. The only person who really understood how I was feeling was my kuya. And we never really sat down to talk about it. Words cannot describe how much this house resembles hell, but I will try anyway.

My grandmother – from the father’s side – has an obsessive compulsive disorder. She likes touching everything and fixing and fixing and fixing them, and going around and around; moving things along with her, and then returning them afterwards. And the routine just goes on about everyday. She sees something and then she starts talking. Manok na putak ng putak. She asks you a question, and before you get to even think about the question, comes another one and another and another. “Oh, bakit late ka nanaman? Ano nanaman ginawa mo? Saan ka nanggaling? Kinain mo ba baon mo?” Also, she only realizes our faults. We strive to do everything right every single day, and then we miss one day, and kaput! All our efforts, down the drain. We start from scratch again, dirty and soiled scratch. I know her heart’s in the right place; but I also know mine isn’t. And I was never really up for this kind of thing. My grandfather is the most stoic and passive guy I know… well, at least with me he is. He barely talks. Wait, scratch that, he does not talk to me at all. He never reacts to anything. He barely even looks. I am not even sure he notices me at all, or if I even exist in his world. Maybe, maybe not. My one aunt, well, let’s just say she is a note-writer. She doesn’t tell me anything straightforward. Instead, she writes them down on little Post-Its, for everyone to see. One time, my classmates came over for practice. They saw the chair in the room with a sign, “Upuan ng tao” and the door with a “Paki sara ang pintuan. Nag-rereuinion na ang mga daga dito” signage and they started laughing. I can’t blame them, I mean, who wouldn’t laugh? What kind of person would put that sign anyway? I don’t know. She’s also a backstabber. I have ears, you know. I’m not deaf, nor am I blind, or ignorant. I hope one day they’ll come to realize that. My uncle, I hate him – the most. One time I was sitting in front of the computer, concentrating on my task. Now, when I am seriously concentrating on something, I don’t hear anything – and I mean anything at all – around me. I don’t notice anything happening around me. Anyway, at that time, everyone was sleeping except me. And then all of a sudden, he comes out and says, “Diyos ko. Magkaroon ka naman ng silbi. Hindi lang ikaw ang nakatira dito ‘no.” At that moment, I drop my books in an attempt to beat him to the door and open the gate, because I suddenly become aware of everything and find out that the car has been honking its horn. But he’s already on his way, and he ignores me. While he’s outside, I secretly cry my heart out. What stabbing words he had just told me. And to think he’s one who also never talked to me. My other aunt, his wife, is the only decent one in this family. I’m not sure if she knows, but I really, really love her. I appreciate her attitude and I feel easy around her. She shows us so much concern and sweetness, like we’re her own children. I think it is because she’s not part of this family by blood, but by matrimony. That’s why she doesn’t have any of the jerk cells they scatter here. My cousin, who is in second grade now, is the biggest spoiled brat I have ever seen. I’m not saying I’m not a spoiled brat myself. Don’t get me wrong. I know I am. But, my God, this is way out of proportion. Everyone is at her beck and call. When she shows the faintest sign of displeasure, everyone’s trying to fix everything for her. They will believe any story she tells, even if it means they have to get mad at us – for something we didn’t do or say. She can get away with absolutely anything and everything because everyone still sees her as cute and adorable. I see her as a villain. And a cunning one at that. My dad once said that he and his sister – who doesn’t live here – are the only ones in the family who grew up as “normal people”, and I agree with him wholeheartedly.

Now, my brother is in college, and my sister is in high school, which means that she also has to stay here. She feels every single thing I feel, but with just a little more tension. She started off with a bad image, and with the people in this household, grudges are held, together with first impressions. By the way, it’s not only the family that’s the matter. It’s the maids too. They drive us crazy with their menacing attitudes. They treat us like we’re the maids, or even lower. They argue with us frequently, and rarely help us out.

My daddy says we have to learn to coexist with them, that we’re just living in their house, and that they are doing us a favor. I don’t think so. I don’t think they’re doing us a favor. I think it is normal that family members sacrifice for one another, that they give and share what they have. I think they’re forgetting that we’re not just some strangers they picked off the sidewalk, who came to live with them. For Pete’s sake, we’re their blood relatives. Doesn’t that mean anything anymore?

They said we always have to give in to the younger one because we know better. We are younger than most of them. Why are they doing this to us? Because we have reached the right age to think correctly? What about my cousin? Everything she does is right, and everything we do is wrong. Does this mean she doesn’t have a mind of her own yet? What drives me crazy is that they give her the consent to do all this bratty stuff. They don’t even teach her what’s right. I try to ignore it, most of the time. Because, well, who am I to teach her? I’m just the stranger they picked off the sidewalk, right?

This family is also very biased with their decisions. By the way, every time I speak of this family, I mean everyone in this house except my sister and me. See, we’re not allowed to use the big chandelier, because it uses up too much electricity. We have to scrimp and use the little desk lamp, even when we’re reading, and it’s very, very dark. But when my cousin’s just playing, or watching television or even just standing around like an idiotic moron, she’s free to use the chandelier – or chandeliers even. This is so not a democratic home. Come to think of it, this is not a home at all.

Today, after I don’t know how long, I let it all out. In front of my dad, I let the tears flow. I didn’t want to, because I know his heart bleeds every time he thinks of how much pain I’m going through, but I couldn’t stop it. He knows it’s inevitable, and that they’re equally wrong as we are. He says life is what we make of it. I know this is true. But how am I supposed to believe that? I’m trying to make the best of my life. But I spend most of my time in this prison, this dungeon. How am I supposed to make the best of my life, with all these people around, trying to bring me down deeper and deeper?

I miss my mom, I miss my brother, and I miss my dad. I miss our family. I miss our home. Even though my mom and I had a lot of arguments in the past, she knows I love her, and I know she loves me too. Even though I’m not very verbal, I think my family is the best ever, because they keep up with my severe mood swings and cranky attacks. I don’t have to hide who I am when I’m with them, unlike when I’m here in this hell of a house. I know this essay makes everyone look bad, and me, good. I’m not trying to keep my slate clean. I’ve done a lot of wrong here too. I don’t keep a tidy place, and I give them a hard time waking me up. But still, it doesn’t give them the right to talk about me when I’m not around. They even call me and my sister the artistas. Pasosyal daw kasi. I really hope they see that we’re not. We’re trying really hard to control our temper and just keep our mouths shut. We’re trying to do everything we can to regain their trust. We’re trying everything. And still, everything does not seem to be enough for them. I know this essay seems pretty harsh, but those words are gentle and soothing caresses compared to what I really feel – the scorching thorns of the blood red rose that prick and poke every inch of my emotions, provoking. They are delicate waves that pat against your legs on a cool beach day compared to the violent tidal waves attacking every single corner of my soul.

Sometimes, the only thing that keeps me going is what my dad told me some time ago, when I told him how I felt. I told him that it feels like I don’t have anyone in the world anymore, that I don’t have anyone to back me up, anyone on my side. “I’ll always be your teammate, Bea,” was all he said. And that line, it changed everything. Up to this day, he stays true to his word. I love my dad so much. Although he is going through much tougher circumstances than I am, he talks to me like everything is going to be all right. And even though some people think he’s a bad guy because he left my mom and found another, I still think he’s the best dad anyone could ever have. I’m not angry with him. I love him so much. I must admit I am a daddy’s girl; and I am and will always be daddy’s baby girl.