The Culprit
Of Evil Aunts
There are only so many times a person can blame someone for who they have become before realizing the real culprit. For most of my life that title belonged to my aunt. No one comes to mind but her. She is the Petunia to my Harry, the Spiker and Sponge to my James, the Lydia to my handmaids. To put it simply, my aunt made my life harder than it already was during my high school years.
Of Empty Hearts and Empty Homes
In 2003, my mother traveled with my stepfather and stepsister to Manila to complete the processing of her Visa. She was supposed to work as an apple picker in Canada. Unfortunately, this turned out to be an expensive scam, which forced them to stay with my stepfathers’ parents in Pasay for good, leaving me alone in our rented room on 30 de Deciembre St. Baybay, Leyte.
The news reached my aunt and uncle, who, knowing I wouldn’t survive on my own, picked me up one night while en route to their weekly prayer meeting. When I was informed of their visit that afternoon, I immediately started cleaning the house. Afterwards, I packed all of the things I would bring with me. Around 8 p.m., I heard the familiar humming of an engine pulling over and knew this was my cue to meet the couple outside.
The Characters
A loud woman who wears her eye bags like a badge of honor for her undying religiosity, my aunt is the embodiment of selective frugality. She’s generous to other people, especially her wealthy friends. But to us “freeloaders,” she is stingy. My uncle is the opposite of my aunt. He is a taciturn presence whose love for karaoke and performance shines during special occasions. My aunt is thrifty with money, my uncle, with words. He prefers to communicate using a personalized morse code system. This consists of a series of exclamatory tsks, used to express his disappointment at disturbing news headlines, my problematic life decisions, and that one time my attempt at making a rotisserie quail produced a charred rubber, burnt beyond recognition.
Before stepping out, I took one last glance at the now empty room, which bore witness to the struggles of the family it housed days ago, and then approached the facade. I said my farewells and goodbyes to my neighbors and the landlady’s family, and exited the gate. Outside, my uncle’s clunky owner-type jeep greeted me. I regarded them both with a faint smile as I approached the vehicle. And like muscle memory in action, I tossed my belongings in the backseat, climbed through the front passenger seat where my aunt was seated earlier, and reunited with my stuff.
A menacing background
When I was younger, my mother, older sister, and I lived with my aunt and uncle and their two sons. We occupied a small room built at the rear of their apartment. As a kid, I was pesky, causing ruckus wherever I went. My track record was bad: I stole items from the couple’s sari-sari store, wrecked havoc on their sons’ garden pond, and did a lot of silly things silly children at my age enjoyed doing. During that time, my mother worked daily as a cashier in their sari-sari store from 7 a.m. to 8 p.m. With her out of the picture, it was the couple’s responsibility to straighten my crooked ways. Whenever I get caught, my aunt would perform the initial disciplining. She would then relay my mischief to my mother, who would beat the crap out of me right after arriving from work.
Even with the passage of time, my aunt and uncle haven’t forgotten how difficult I was as a child. They have always seen me as that shenanigan-loving brat who was always up to no good. And them welcoming me back into their home was a risk they were willing to take.
Apartment #24
We rode in silence for what felt like an eternity. Arriving at the host’s house, I was directed to the dining table away from the living room, where they would be conducting their prayer meeting. Knowing how lengthy these meetings were, I extracted a book and notebook from my overstuffed bag and began studying. Hours later, I found myself in the backseat headed to VSU. Upon arriving at apartment no. 24, I carried all of my things and climbed out of the jeep. As I reached the front door, the vehicle roared back to life. Wait, aren’t they sleeping here? I thought happily.
“Sa Marcos mi ma-tug,” my aunt said, confirming my assumption.
The next day, I learned from their helper that the family’s new house in Marcos was nearly finished. The couple had been staying in it for months, and they were slowly transferring everything to the new place, which explained how empty their old apartment seemed. It looked less homey than it did when we lived with them.
The house by the sea
Several months after, I found myself again in the backseat of my uncle’s jeep travelling to Marcos. Upon arriving at the gate, my aunt jumped out of the vehicle and unlocked a small door. She entered through it, raised the gate’s pins, and swung it open from the inside. The vehicle entered through the gate, idling along a stony path until it reached the garage. I descended from it carrying my belongings. My aunt who had closed the gate behind us called my attention and led me upstairs.
The house looked like a typical guesthouse: a modern two-story nipa house fenced with spiked concrete walls and a large maroon steel entrance gate. Except for the balcony, the second floor was made up mostly of light materials such as bamboo and wood; its thatched roof made from nipa. The first floor — consisting of two rooms, bathroom, kitchen, and the living room — was largely cemented and tiled. The house had a front yard sprawling with different types of plants: orchids, succulents, flowers, and shrubs. And like many other households in provinces, it had a dirty kitchen, located near the outdoor laundry area.
A prison cell of a room
With me trailing behind, we went up the second floor and walked past their bedroom and guestroom. We reached the balcony. The area was cemented, overlooking the sea. My aunt pointed toward the edge of the roof, where I noticed beneath it, a tarp covering a small extension of the house. I removed the tarp and saw a door the size of a hobbit. A four panel jalousie window was installed next to it. This looked misplaced, like the room I was about to enter.
She gave me the key to my room and left me to settle in. I unlocked the door and entered crouching. A few seconds later, I crawled out, gasping for air. Realizing I won’t be situated elsewhere, I returned inside my shanty and combed the area for signs of life, fearing mine would cease if I stayed for too long. The room had an old folding bed with a soiled pillow and a dilapidated wooden side table, small enough to fit in the already claustrophobic space. The room had all the charm of a prison cell. Hanging from the ceiling was a light bulb attached to a pull switch. Come night time, the place would transform into an interrogation scene from a movie: the light bulb swinging, casting shadows of the suspect in question.
Justifying my existence in the household
For years, I have witnessed my self-esteem dwindle right in front of my very eyes. All those days I tried to justify my presence in their household; I made sure every allowance I received was reciprocated in number of hours spent in doing chores — even those that I wouldn’t do if I had a choice. My obedience and discipline were my only currency, and, to some degree, my self-worth.
Whenever I asked for money, I would become timid. Before asking, I would memorize my lines and practice it over and over to muster any semblance of courage, only for it to dissipate right before finishing the first line. My aunt would use her piercing eyes to further agonize me while l perform the first few lines of “Vengeance is not ours, it’s God’s” poorly. In the end, she would provide the money I had asked, but will make it worth her while — at the expense of my ego.
During a party the couple held, I got so conscious that I only took the smallest portions of food from the buffet. Then, I hurriedly planted myself in the farthest corner of the room, away from my aunt’s judgmental glare. I returned for a second helping but decided against it, because my aunt was still near the table, replenishing the dishes. The moment she went outside, I dashed toward the already-skinned lechon baboy and forked as many sliced pork as I could — with the window of time I had — into my plate. I grabbed anything edible within reach and returned to my seat nonchalantly. The next day, I would rummage through the refrigerator and sneak any leftovers from the party that I wasn’t able to try, and devour these in my room.
Of moon lamps and cost-efficient lighting
Ever since my first day in their house, my aunt had been very strict with my electric and water consumption. Every task which increased the utility bill was timed: taking a bath, using the iron, washing my clothes. One time I forgot to turn off my light after a failed attempt to pull an all-nighter. My aunt, who had woken up around 4 AM for a mañanita, noticed streaks of orange coming out of my room. I woke up startled to her yelling. After that incident, it was lights off every night. I had to wait for them to fall asleep so I can turn on my light and study. One full moon night, I opened my mini-fridge of a door and read a whole chapter of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix under the moonlight.
Huleee ka! (Caught you!)
One time after arriving from an early dismissal, I noticed the house was empty. Taking advantage of the situation, I quickly changed in my house clothes and beelined to the living room. From the gate, one can easily peer into the living room through a glass window and an aluminum screened door (when its main door is open). Before turning the television on, I made sure to shut the main door. I lowered the TV’s volume to easily pick up any noise from outside.
Hours later, with no signs of any threat, I became complacent and dialed the volume up. It was 3 p.m., they would arrive hours later for dinner. I got engrossed from watching an afternoon rerun of MYX Daily Top 10 that I didn’t notice the gate creaking. When I turned to check, my aunt had already closed the gate behind her. Nervously, I unplugged both the TV and the cable device and scrambled my way out of the living room. “Huleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh!” my aunt’s shrill voice echoed throughout the house. While I cowered near the kitchen sink, hiding from her, she uttered a string of accusations. I stayed seated, unmoving on the stairs connecting the old kitchen to the living room, and waited for my aunt to stop.
When the house became silent, I decided to return to my room. But as I got out of the living room, she was already waiting for me outside with her arms on her waist.
I walked toward my room, my heart growing heavier with every step. Reaching my safe place, I cried as I silently shut the door. That is the last thing I would do — show any signs of resentment. But I don’t want to be here anymore. One more day in this house and I would lose my mind. If the walls could speak, I want them to comfort me, to see me through all my days in this miserable place.
High School Musical Memories
Whenever my aunt and uncle had prayer meetings, I would go home giddy, knowing I had the house to myself. One Friday night, while they were both away, I finally watched High School Musical 1. It was a status symbol back then. You were cool if you knew a song or two from the movie. That night, I remember turning on the TV to catch Enkantadia on GMA 7. Half an hour later, I went through different channels hoping to find something interesting to watch before the couple returned. Stumbling upon one cable channel with the credits already rolling, I saw on its schedule preview ‘HSM1’ starting in 5 minutes. How lucky was I? It was 10 p.m., enough time to finish the movie before midnight. Still, I was on the edge of my seat watching, trying to pick up any sound of approaching vehicle outside. It was an exhilarating experience: enjoying a good movie while trying not to get caught. The movie ended around midnight, and I was happy to finish it unscathed.
Of small wins and big realizations
After sneaking in a few more uninterrupted TV time days later, I felt more confident, happier. There were times that I would borrow DVDs from my classmates and watch it whenever the couple wasn’t around. As the credits rolled, an overwhelming sense of relief and fulfillment would wash over me. I would always savor these small wins because for a moment I would feel normal, like a captive animal returning to its natural habitat, frolicking from the uncanniness of the situation. But sometimes there’s a disconcerting feeling — a disconnect I couldn’t put my finger on. Why do I feel guilty for experiencing something so enjoyable, something I had been deprived of for so long? Why do I need to justify every act of disobedience to experience any semblance of normalcy and self-worth?
Emancipation by Graduation
Months before graduating from High School, my uncle, who worked as a professor in VSU, encouraged me take up Geodetic Engineering. “You’ll breeze through it,” he blurted out during dinner, catching me off guard. With nothing helpful nor interesting to add to the conversation, I nodded in response. Although I appreciated him for breaking out of character, “breezing through” was not the right word to define how I had endured the last 4 years living in this house. And you’re telling me you’re willing to pay for my college expenses if I stay for another 5 years? Are you out of your mind? If he only knew, I had been counting down the days before graduation — before I could walk up the stage, receive my diploma, pose of a snap or two, and walk away from this hellhole of a place. And yes, I wasn’t referring to High School.
In March 2007, my mother and younger sister went to Leyte to attend my High School graduation. A few days later, we were headed back to Manila. The feeling of relief was so palpable, I could taste it in the air — finally, a new beginning! I might have to unlearn a few things and get accustomed to this newfound freedom. But whatever the future holds, as long as I have my self-worth intact, I am all set to conquer anything, I thought to myself as the bus carrying us started backing up.
A life-long process of unlearning
It took a while before I got accustomed to my newfound freedom. I had to unlearn years of ingrained habits and start building my self-worth from the ground up. Although, sometimes, I would find myself slipping back into my old habits. I would get suspicious of people being nice to me, thinking I would have to repay them in the future. This resulted to a lot of rejections and even stunted some of my relationships. Over time, I developed a love-hate relationship with self-deprecation and realized with a sting of recognition that it started way back in High School. I learned how to use self-deprecation as a defense mechanism. Some days it worked in my favor because I made people laugh. But most days, when I can’t cope, it started becoming a mindset: No one can hurt me more than I hurt myself.
…
Projections! Projections! Projections!
When my younger sister lost her smartphone for the second time, I made sure to teach her an unforgettable lesson. The kid had it coming. And it was imperative that I made the most out of such a parental opportunity. So, to satiate this big-brotherly indulgence, I lectured her with a scalding tirade about how I did well on my own when I was her age and why I expected her to do better. I even inflated some of my stories to make it dramatic, punctuating different versions of “Mahirap kumita ng pera, sana maintindihan mo” to an unhealthy amount. Noticing her face crumpling, I stopped, expecting the waterworks to commence shortly. When it did, she cried in an outburst of emotional turmoil, exclaiming “Sorry kuya kung pabigat lang po ako sa inyo ni ate.” Feeling satisfied, I held back, for fear of going off the deep end and scarring my sister even more. But as she continued sobbing, I found myself transported back in Marcos, inside that small prison cell of a room, overcame by feelings of inferiority and guilt.
Eventually, it dawned on me: This has happened before. But this time, instead of me being on the receiving end, my hands are now on the steering wheel. It wasn’t difficult to put two and two together: I have become what I loathed about my aunt.
All this time, my subtle displays of aggression toward others — which seemed harmless to me — were projections of my insecurities, brought by my inability to purge the bitterness in my soul. I badly wanted others to experience what I’ve been through. I wanted them to suffer, to walk a mile or two in my shoes. But that was 12 years ago; I had all the time in the world to heal and move forward, to become a better person.
Discovering the real culprit
It seems easier having someone to blame for your own shortcomings; it removes all accountability from yourself and deflects everything on the culprit. But there are only so many times a person can blame someone for who they have become before realizing the culprit. All my life, I have been pinning the blame on my aunt, who only wanted to look after me and my welfare. Although her misguided ways of showing affection caused more harm to me than good, I knew her heart was in the right place.
As it turns out, and for a very long time, it wasn’t my aunt, but I, the real culprit.
