If Sigmund Freud was correct in his theory that personality development was influenced by one's childhood experiences, then probably some of those who knew me, in an incredulous tone and a shake of their head would invariably say, "So unlikely!" Or was I kidding myself? Well, there were two schools of thought, so you're free to enter a portal of your choice. Read on:
Late afternoon after school. My third grade homework was completed and my books were being hastily put away when staccato voices in the front yard, punctuated by sounds of young male laughter, grabbed my mental focus. A mild argument, a few seconds of quiet, then an outburst of a triumphal "Yes!" reverberated in the humid afternoon air. "No, it's my turn. You go after me", said the familiar voice of one of my cousins, and with that, I knew a game of shooting marbles was
in full swing. I rushed to the window facing the front yard of my grandma's house where we lived at the time and checked with amusement the protagonists in this all-male game of marbles. Cousins, neighbors, some my age, some older than I, were gathered in an attenuated trail that connected my grandma's yard to that of my uncle's and were totally engrossed in the game that was riotous and chaotic at times. There were no girls in sight. Either they were still doing their homework or decided to play in somebody else's house so they could exclude me, the trouble-maker. Huh! Too bad for them. Didn't they know I could always find a way to entertain myself? Besides, I wasn't eager to play with them either with their boring game of "Hopscotch". Boys' game was more tough and challenging, I decided.
So I rushed down the house, jumping to the ground to skip the last two steps of the slippery bamboo stairs, and dashed right where the boys were huddled over. I sidled close to the side of one of the holes that the marbles traveled and watched with half-concealed impatience the progress of the game. No one paid any attention to me as they fought for dominance in this match of skill, either they were deliberately ignoring my presence or they were just completely absorbed by the game. After a few more minutes of animated exchange of banters and laughters as one team made or miss to score, the first game drew to a close. They prepared to start the next bout and at that point, I moved to the starting point, squatted facing the first hole and said, "I wanna play". An instant roar of vehement disapproval erupted from that group of show-offs, and in a tone filled with the fervor of fresh, budding machismo they said, "No, you can't". Then these little band of rascals stationed themselves to their areas to resume the game and totally disregarded me as I went back to where I was first squatting.
I did not protest; I did not complain or say anything, but I was biding my time. Then as the first player successfully tossed his marble to the first couple of holes, I started kicking dirt into the hole right in front of me. The hole, that wasn't deep, did not require a lot of loose dirt and after a couple of good kicks, it was almost obliterated. As soon as the boys realized what I was doing, there was pandemonium. They were so angry, screaming, threatening, telling me to stop and I thought they were going to attack me. I stood up and was ready to hurt anybody who would attempt to lay his hand on me but nobody dared. However, some of them came close and screamed on my face in a furious tone telling me to stop. Unfazed, I said, "Then let me into the game". Another chorus of loud protestations that I followed with another kick of loose dirt into the hole prompted my oldest cousin, Ernesto, to seek for adult assistance. "Kakang Emin, here's Ate Norma. She won't leave us alone", he called in an agitated voice. I saw my mom, who was preparing dinner in the upstairs kitchen, peeked from the kitchen window with a most stern look and called me to come upstairs. I just looked at her but did not move like I was deaf and did not hear anything. Giving in to my mom's command or entreaty, whatever it was, would be tantamount to losing face that would probably earn me a lot of taunting the next day of school from this band of rascals. Besides, I could not give in. If they would not let me play, then nobody could play. That was my obstinate, implacable, unreasonable logic. So I just stood there and kept on kicking little pebbles, some dried grass, dust, whatever my bare, unelenting toes could dig from the parched earth. The boys were raving mad but didn't know what to do except continue their loud, infuriated remonstrations, that my mother, finally realizing I would not obey her, left the kitchen window and started to come down. As she was coming down the stairs, I saw her carrying a piece of "uyo", a dried, long, hard pod that covered small coconut fruits when they were young. Dried "Uyo" was used for kindling in the barrio but was also very handy for beating disobedient, obstinate and unruly children because of its long and tapered form. It was rather unfortunate that such instrument of torment and I did not require introductions but I had no plans to be re-acquainted with its punishing touch that humid, summer afternoon.
So as soon as my mother's feet touched the ground, I stopped the kicking process, turned around, and ran in the opposite direction towards one of my uncle's house (my cousin Ernesto's house). I saw two of my girl cousins already in the front porch probably brought out from the inside by the furor of the disrupted game. Two neighbor girls were with them sitting on the front steps watching the little mother-daughter spectacle a few paces away. Just then, I reached them, took the open area on the steps where the two girls were sitting without breaking a stride and was soon inside the house. It was such a brazen display of callous disregard for one's private domain but in our days, in our neighborhood of close relatives where things were almost communal, there were no established boundaries. At this point, seeing their Kakang Emin's predicament, some of the children started laughing (Kaka means aunt). My mother was getting really mad, probably sensing she was losing control of the situation infront of the prying eyes of her nephews and nieces. So she started to climb the stairs thinking that she had cornered me inside the house. But my uncle's house had a back porch that opened to the wide unfenced backyard where bananas and some other fruit trees were planted. I dashed to the back porch, disregarded the stairs, and jumped to the ground while my mother still continued in relentless pursuit. Her remonstrations of my blatant disregard for authority and deliberate obduracy had progressed to a contest of wills and her motherly pride was now at stake. As I glanced back to check her progress, I could tell by the look on her face that I was in serious trouble and was probably digging myself deeper into the quagmire of punishment. She was now getting louder telling me to stop running and come back but at the same time throwing ominous warnings about the grave consequences of my defiant attitude. The backyard chase went on and now and then I had to dodge out of the reach of the most-dreaded "uyo". My mother was in a hot, persistent, but hopeless chase as I scampered around trees, scurried past her to the other side of the yard, or pretended to engage her in a game of hide-n-seek as I used a tree to shield me from the whacks of the "uyo" that she would unsuccessfully deliver every so often. The situation was so comical in itself that as I started to laugh on the other side of the tree, my poor mother, probably sensing an unresolved impasse, could not help but join in unrestrained laughter.
That ended the whole thing. She turned around, with the unused "uyo" still in hand, to go back to the house after warning me to stay away from the boys' game. With a mischievous smirk, I skipped back to my uncle's front yard, where my girl cousins and neighbors were now gathered, and with an attitude of complete imprudence, acted like nothing happened. I sat on the front porch and fixed on them a daring stare that was enough to hold their tongue in place, until one by one, they disgustedly turned away and left. Liliosa and Nenita, my 2 cousins who lived in the house, stayed around and pretty soon - free of the short-lived spat from petty nonsense of the young - we were in friendly terms again, interacting and concocting a fool-proof strategy on how we were going to raid the cucumber patch of one of our aunts without getting caught. Another scheme was brewing and that was enough to subdue the fire of resolute, egregious naughtiness that burned within me constantly. Tomorrow, it's the cucumber patch and maybe my mother's ever-ready "uyo"... again... and something else the day after...again!
Well, Sigmund Freud, you know, I did not turn out to be so bad after all regardless of some unsolicited, unflattering, highly critical "prophecy" of those who had grown inured to the mischiefs of the "Little Imp".
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