miyako73
12-21-2012, 01:47 AM
I had nice memories with Tito Nick. He was the only one in the family who would call me Dadang (Small Girl), the opposite of Dodong (Small Boy), only when my parents were not around. I could not hide my smile every time I heard him say it—Dang (Good Girl), the more endearing, instead of Dong (Good Boy). To let him know how I appreciated what he said or used in place of my real boyish name, I would get him a glass of water, scratch his itching back, or shine his leather shoes with my spit and the underside of the shirt I wore—using a rag would make them look still dull and dirtier. Those sweet names that came out of his mouth somehow validated who I really was—a small good girl inside.
One summer, he taught me how to swim without holding my cheeks, my jaws, my chin. Assuring me that I could hold onto his shoulders, he threw me into the deep river and scared me with sharks. Wanting to survive, I instantly learned how to move my arms and legs in a rhythm of a dance and use my hands and feet to push myself against the current. My strokes slow, my kicks constant but unwavering, swimming and barely floating like a dog in the verge of drowning, I reached the riverbank safe and whole. When he first brought me to the beach, he did not have to drown me anymore. I already knew there was no shark anywhere in our coastal town. I had also improved, my breaststroke and freestyle fast and reliable. I dove deep and rode the waves with him, the froths of the sea on my brow and its salt on my lips. How could I not forever etch an uncle like that in my memory?
I could never forget that one Sunday when the family got together for lunch. Tito Nick harvested the dirt clogging up his nostrils as he waited for his burps to come out. He had an unusual way of picking his nose, his thumb inside and his forefinger above outside pushing a light pressure. Later he rolled the dirt he collected into a ball the size of a pea and asked us to guess what it was. We all wanted the five-peso prize he laid flat and straight on the table. Of course, we touched and probed it, moved it around like a marble, weighed it on our fingertips, made it slide on the back of our hands, and had it bounce on the floor. I thought it was a ball of gum he burnt with his Zippo lighter. The girls went to check the kitchen and yelled their answer: a mixture of dough and charcoal. Neil gave up after saying that only God and our uncle knew what the tiny ball was. Tito Nick only stopped us when we attempted to taste his dark booger that looked different from ours. It must have been from his chain-smoking that burnt the dust he breathed and turned them into black gooey ash. Nobody won, but we had fun--yes, dirty but still fun.
He also had me pull his middle finger after telling me how he punched someone drunk— I believed his story. I held his finger delicately like it really needed some gentle help, hoping all the bones would align. To ease the pain, I counted one, two, three and pulled, and he let loose the loudest frrrrrttt I thought had exploded with a discharge or had torn his pants or had cracked the chair. When he had a good, filling meal—that meant at least three plates of steamed rice and other delicious stuff piled on top plus a large bowl of soup that had some solids in it—he could easily do a nonstop foul do-re-mi. Lola Azon would look at him with disgust, and he would blame the cushion he sat on or say the stinky sound came with his new pair of jeans. She would end up laughing, hugging him, and babying her youngest son. Just for always making me smile and laugh, he had somehow completed my childhood. Tito Nick, his face that always looked like he was about to giggle, and my fun times with him had never escaped my memory.
One summer, he taught me how to swim without holding my cheeks, my jaws, my chin. Assuring me that I could hold onto his shoulders, he threw me into the deep river and scared me with sharks. Wanting to survive, I instantly learned how to move my arms and legs in a rhythm of a dance and use my hands and feet to push myself against the current. My strokes slow, my kicks constant but unwavering, swimming and barely floating like a dog in the verge of drowning, I reached the riverbank safe and whole. When he first brought me to the beach, he did not have to drown me anymore. I already knew there was no shark anywhere in our coastal town. I had also improved, my breaststroke and freestyle fast and reliable. I dove deep and rode the waves with him, the froths of the sea on my brow and its salt on my lips. How could I not forever etch an uncle like that in my memory?
I could never forget that one Sunday when the family got together for lunch. Tito Nick harvested the dirt clogging up his nostrils as he waited for his burps to come out. He had an unusual way of picking his nose, his thumb inside and his forefinger above outside pushing a light pressure. Later he rolled the dirt he collected into a ball the size of a pea and asked us to guess what it was. We all wanted the five-peso prize he laid flat and straight on the table. Of course, we touched and probed it, moved it around like a marble, weighed it on our fingertips, made it slide on the back of our hands, and had it bounce on the floor. I thought it was a ball of gum he burnt with his Zippo lighter. The girls went to check the kitchen and yelled their answer: a mixture of dough and charcoal. Neil gave up after saying that only God and our uncle knew what the tiny ball was. Tito Nick only stopped us when we attempted to taste his dark booger that looked different from ours. It must have been from his chain-smoking that burnt the dust he breathed and turned them into black gooey ash. Nobody won, but we had fun--yes, dirty but still fun.
He also had me pull his middle finger after telling me how he punched someone drunk— I believed his story. I held his finger delicately like it really needed some gentle help, hoping all the bones would align. To ease the pain, I counted one, two, three and pulled, and he let loose the loudest frrrrrttt I thought had exploded with a discharge or had torn his pants or had cracked the chair. When he had a good, filling meal—that meant at least three plates of steamed rice and other delicious stuff piled on top plus a large bowl of soup that had some solids in it—he could easily do a nonstop foul do-re-mi. Lola Azon would look at him with disgust, and he would blame the cushion he sat on or say the stinky sound came with his new pair of jeans. She would end up laughing, hugging him, and babying her youngest son. Just for always making me smile and laugh, he had somehow completed my childhood. Tito Nick, his face that always looked like he was about to giggle, and my fun times with him had never escaped my memory.