Rizal Street When It Rained
By Berellyn Alberca
Rachel was a close playmate from my childhood hometown
Our houses were connected by a strip of concrete that stretched between two sari-sari stores,
fenced by chismis amongst the bushes of gumamela and santan
We came to know our playground as Rizal Street
A small road where childhood imagination could soar almost as high as the coconut trees
and Filipino kids know how to play!
Expertly finding small rocks white enough to leave a mark on pavement like chalk,
debating whether that day would be saya saya, patentero, or cross ni Magellan
Even children who lived in neighboring streets hurried over to laugh, fight, and play along
until day became night.
We frenzied under the sun,
but sometimes,
it rained.
Other children would be stuck at home watching reruns of Kambal sa Uma
with their grandparents quietly napping by their side,
Rachel and I, who lived the closest to each other,
would play alone.
The game was called balay balay, or playing house
It was a game we kept a secret
played it only when it rained
In the safety of our solitude and imagination,
we drew and colored pictures of what a happy family looked like to us as children
I was the wife, she was the husband.
I was far too young to realize that Rachel and I made two wives
And Rizal Street was far too small a world for me to understand that our happy family
would be just as happy
even if the hands of our imaginary children were held by two mothers
I never knew a woman could love another woman until Rizal Street became only my
hometown and no longer my home
Never realized it was something I was allowed to feel
So I tried my best to stop feeling it
Relied on the convenience of my attraction to men to deny the abundance of my love
Planned to stay in the darkness of my closet
Hoping my skeleton will be bleached clean from the colors of my heart
That way, I won’t ever have to explain myself
Because I feared that I would never be able to
Maybe if I had spent my childhood in a place where the bamboo fences weren’t as sharp,
where the typhoons weren’t as strong,
I wouldn’t have buried my soul for protection
Buried it so deep beneath the soil
And left before I could see it flower
Maybe I would’ve seen that it could flower
And learn that my soul was not a coffin,
but a seed.
And maybe,
we could’ve played balay balay under the sun too.
I scroll through Rachel's newly posted pictures on Facebook
She smiles widely
Her hands tangled tightly in her boyfriend's
She lives in a different city now
And I wonder
Did she ever feel the way I felt?
Did she ever have questions about herself?
Questions only she could have the answers to
Yet not having the slightest clue as to what the answers actually are
I left Rizal Street as a child and met the world through the eyes of the United States
Wondering each day who I would’ve been
Who I could’ve been
If I never left
Rachel,
I hope Rizal Street was as kind to your youth as it was protective of our childhood
I hope that your moving away felt more like a celebration of growth and independence
instead of parole
I hope your love is unrestrained,
your faith, discretionary.
And I hope
Your soul is a blooming garden no typhoon could uproot
watered by a rain of love,
nurtured by the bright rays of acceptance.
Balay balay was one of my favorite games
It was a game we kept a secret
Played it only when it rained
Perhaps afraid that if we played it under the sun that raised us,
we would get burnt.