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The last time for the first time

By PINK-JEAN FANGON-MELEGRITO

When was the last time you did something for the first time?

It was this sophisticated airline magazine ad that made me think, “Yeah, when was the last time I did something for the first time?” (And you go ask yourself too.) It took me a lot of coffee mugs, mint candies, cigarette packs, repeated music playlists, and an arduous time of going through nostalgic college papers before I could finally muster the tiniest morsel of a sensible thought. And I figured, there are a couple of things I did for the first time in the past weeks.

As the cliché says seat back and relax, I’m taking you for a ride of the insufferable difficulties of my not-so complex life.

The most recent Last Time for the first time. It had been a year and five months and eight days until I had a formal job. Being a writer for Nordis since October conclusively finished my bum life. I graduated last year, April 24, and zoomed down home in Taytay, Rizal. Since then I became a full-fledged sitter of my half Japanese-half Filipino girl cousin, tutoring her with English homework, math assignments and ridiculously incomprehensible book reports for a 3rd grader; juggling those tasks with running errands for my grandmother and mama; and sidelining animation stints for my father. Don’t be wrong about wasting my Journalism degree, I have engaged in some writing workshops and attempted to join this national broadcasting network’s pool of writers.

Of course, I have joined the band wagon of raging-hormoned newly graduates hunting to land a measly paying job to augment handling own bills, help increase the family income, and ideally suffice for one’s self. But tough luck got the better of me; I didn’t get any job after all the grueling search.

It’s as if it had been a reality show. Contender: Fresh Grad. Qualifications: a degree much expected of high grades and had been acquired from a premier state university. Winning stakes: a great body, long locks of hair, flushed cheeks, ‘formal attire’ composed of a skimpy skirt and a low-neckline blouse showing the cleavage. All through my life, I have worn skirts and blouses once in a while, but not for the peeking pleasure of anybody. I became comfortable with jeans and artsy fartsy shirts (made by my artist of a father), which apparently didn’t pave my way to the squares of a commercially paying job.

But my personality is still intact, uncorrupted by the macho and stereotypical world of commodifying women in little ‘formal’ suits, uncompromising my principles by not getting hooked by the claws of transnational companies under the dictates of the imperialist America. Well, need I say more; blame it on the negligent government for the inadequate and unsatisfactory provision of jobs for its people. (I wonder when will we all unite for the ouster of that menacing ’lady’ of a mole? Just a question, no need for violent reactions.)

Anyway, to compensate my boring hours of staring (and sometimes traveling) into space and the boob tube, I made it a point that I monthly visit my theater orgmates (organization mates) here in Baguio. Each and every single minute I lay eyes on the new members makes me wanna cry, telling myself, “I wanna go back to being a student.” Back when all I did was just think of papers over papers, reports, and prolonged hours of tambay, showered with sheer laughter, jokes and serious analysis of the society.

Reality bites real hard. I need to get over my comfort zone and start providing for myself. It has been over a year and a half (a very long engagement with life’s transition) before I actually realized where I am going. And voila! Here I am writing a feature for the paper I chose to work for.

The second point of my last time’s thinking for my first times. I bought my mother a sarong (a local piece of colorful cloth for anybody’s imagination on using it anyhow: as a blouse, a skirt, a bag, a bandana, a poncho, and a lot lot more). I plan giving it to her when I go visit my family when time, er, presswork allows me.

I imagine the scene opening with a shot of me entering our gates, calling out, “Mama, I’m home,” while my little cousin tags along the door, excited to see me again. Then scene after scene, my mother would hide her teary eyes thanking Nordis for finally taking me in for a job. It was her almost long lost dream that I could finally say, “Here, Ma, I bought something for you… [prolonged meaningful pause while giving her the sarong] Something from my own salary [eyeing her for some awaited approval both of the gift and my coming-to realization of getting a job].”

It is one of those moments I imagined worth of a hallmark greeting card. But checking actuality, yes, it is a moment to be cherished forever. When kids start growing up, deciding for themselves, taking responsibility for all his/her actions, intense hormones work up searching for that one great love, nobody could ever be happier than the parent/s (or guardian/s). Rearing them with all flexible understanding and always fearing which direction their children would take are appropriately expected of good returns, i.e the child-now-a-young-adult’s fulfilled life, giving pride to everybody, especially of one’s self.

Now, I could altogether say I, myself, have somehow matured. Pride to myself, and to my parents (especially my mother) who have worked their blood and sweat off just to ensure I’ll have a decent life of my own.

And the last point of my last time’s thinking for my first times. The house is so empty. It used to be filled with harutan moments, tsismisan, scrambling and cramming for due-dated papers, reviewers for 3-hour exams, hilarity and sincerity. The apartment I share with my orgmates (who are still students) is now empty. The semestral break has taken them running for their hometowns.

It’s my first time to live alone here in Baguio; to walk on all corners of the house, cook and eat, clean the rooms, surf the channels, watch movie marathons all by myself. I miss their pranks, their jester-teases, their unkempt plates and mugs. I miss holding my partner’s hands, lying in the bed beside each other. And cheesy as it is, I miss them.

Nonetheless, I need to get used to this set-up. This commands me to be dependable, readying myself in the years to come when I’m older. Their homecoming trips just make me realize when to feel rightly sad. I mean, you can’t just be sad just because you live alone. Other critical situations arise with other people. Some wander in search of leftover or thrown food to somehow not starve. Some worry where their heads will be supported by a parsimonious shack. Some run for cover in fear another bomb or shells of bullets shower their home. Some miserably wait when Death will finally take its toll on their terminal disease. Some hide the real ‘color’ of their person, afraid others won’t accept them at all. After all, sadness is just a part of this game called life.

I guess I’ll just have to wait for them to come ‘home’ again.

Sigh. Everything has a first time that could happen the second time, the third, the fourth, and so on. It’s a tough world out there. And we can’t really learn, can we? Of course, we can. Life is a matter of strong and weak choices. Everything rests in our capacity to choose. But what can I say, I’m stubborn. But then again, I’m willing to take up all the lessons from the first time, the second, the third, the fourth, and so on…#

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