Orange

I was seated on my bed, tapping on my notebook, and marking out today’s to-do list. Finish unpacking, checked. Sort giveaway schoolbooks from those to keep, checked. Tally store inventory, unchecked; that would have to wait for tomorrow.

I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the clock on my desk—two minutes past twelve. I stretched and slumped into the sheets.

That fifteen-hour bus ride from Manila earlier was grueling. But once I passed Laoag City, fatigue left me as I gazed upon the rural scenery. The long stretches of green-golden fields and gently rolling hills, the vast expanse of the coastline and the shimmering deep-blue sea—as this panorama swept by, a wave of nostalgia coursed through me.

Beautiful Ilocos Norte.

I turned to one side and closed my eyes. But I wasn’t tired. Despite that long bus ride, I was up and about. I then recalled that boy I met earlier at Manang Auring’s. What was his name again? Tristan? Tris? Christian…

It was Cris. How could I forget. That very attractive young American guy—whose seemingly nice and friendly boy-next-door demeanor barely masked what I sensed was actually veiled, deep-seated arrogance. Nonetheless, he struck me as quite intelligent, and despite himself, he even seemed kind… I recalled his eyes—his soft, muted, brown eyes, and how he looked at me, his gentle gaze constantly upon me… I recalled his lighthearted chuckle, and that open, honest way he smiled…

I shook my head. Hello, Anna. Didn’t you feel he was also a jerk? How could he not be… I removed him from my thoughts and left my bed. I curled up on my window-side chair and stared into the night.

Here in the province, the evenings were tranquil, serene; my thoughts could wander endlessly into the night. In Manila, I couldn’t sit by my window and let my thoughts wander, for they’d wander straight into a red brick wall that lay one meter away.

In the city, I lived in a dormitory jammed between buildings. Every day I’d hear neighbors hurl profanities at each other, walk the streets as kanto boys whistled at me, and bear the rush hour commute with jeepneys spewing black smoke at people who actually paid them for that service.

In my hometown, there were no screaming neighbors, no buildings crammed like Metro Rail commuters, and no black shrouds of respiratory death looming across the horizon at six A.M. All around me was the stillness and calm of a long summer night.

I was born in the province. My father was a shipman and returned home for only a few weeks before heading back to sea. My memories of him were as distant as the oceans he traveled all those years. And although I grew up with Mother for a time, I eventually left my hometown when I was ten, for Mother had me move with my aunt to Manila to better my education.

The big city was difficult at first. My classmates called me names like promdi, because I was from the province. And while they were brought to and fetched from school in fancy cars, I had to take public transportation. They had all the latest toys, while I had only a few dolls to my name. I despised them for having so much, for I had too little.

Yet I learned to cope. As those little girls enjoyed their dollhouses, I concentrated on my studies.

I graduated at the top of my class and earned a scholarship from Poveda Institucion Teresiana, where I easily won my peers’ respect due to my academic skill. Moreover, high school was when I learned all about boys.

Boys. I smiled.

Although I had many admirers and suitors, I never had a boyfriend, at least during those years. Given my priorities, I had little time for little boys.

Nonetheless, high school wasn’t simply about studies, boys, and breaking hearts. It was also when life forced upon me one of its most drastic, unexpected lessons.

I came home from school one day and received a phone call from the hospital—my aunt had been involved in a car accident. She did not survive. Suddenly, I was alone in the big city! I had no other relatives who’d take me in and support me! I panicked and fled to Bangui that same night.

My mother was furious! She scolded me for leaving without any care for my aunt and schooling and dragged me back to Manila. She stayed during my aunt’s wake and also made arrangements for my new dormitory. The night before she left, she said to me, “Life will test you, hurt you, and make you cry. But remember—these tests are gifts. Your aunt is gone, but she left you her final gift: A chance to be strong and independent. Take this, Anna. One day you’ll be rewarded.”

She then left Manila, and I spent three days in my new dorm room, crying. I remembered my aunt who tried to give me everything I needed. Now, she was gone. I also remembered my mother—her words, how safe I felt in her arms—but she left me, too. I then realized Mother was right. This was my aunt’s final gift. I had to take it.

The next morning, I went to class. That was a turning point in my life. When I finished high school, I was the model student: Class President, head of the Debate Team, and an honorary member of two exclusive and prestigious interscholastic academic guilds. Plus, I graduated with the highest of grades—the best and brightest of my graduating batch. Mother was right.

I was then offered numerous scholarships to several top colleges in Manila. I chose the Ateneo de Manila University, for I was awarded the Merit Scholarship. Not only was my education free, but a generous stipend likewise very much helped me with my day-to-day living.

And now, after four years, I received my diploma along with one of the University’s highest honors—Magna Cum Laude.

Mother was very proud of me. Word spread fast of her daughter’s academic achievements. Soon all of Bangui knew of my success. “Anna,” the townsfolk said, “when you take your place in this world, always remember your roots. Tell everyone where you’re from, so they’ll know what outstanding children we Ilocanos have.”

Indeed, I’d make them proud.

I was going to be their finest daughter.

A ROOSTER crowed in the distance. I snapped out of my reverie. I checked my clock. It was four minutes past one. I returned to bed and began a short prayer, thanking God for all His guidance, all His support. From my earliest days in my village’s small school, to those years in high school and college, where I was taught more about Him, where I met Him in my heart and asked Him to be my Dearest Friend—and finally up to that moment I took my high honors within the great halls of the best university in the country.

After my prayer, I let my thoughts wander as I drifted off to sleep. I pictured the farmers who tilled the rich green fields of the province, the Cordilleras looming behind them. I thought of fishermen who pushed their small bangkas to the sea, and how they’d pull in their nets at sunset, rich with the ocean’s yield. I heard the laughter of children as they ran around the poblacion’s little park, their eyes sparkling with carefree innocence.

I smiled at these thoughts, and once more, I thanked God for taking me home.