Growing up in a farming-dependent household, I witnessed my older siblings leaving the nest and returning home only to leave again to chase bigger opportunities in distant places. Then my turn came.
Two months after returning home as a college graduate, I held myself together, packed my things, folded my umbrella, and left my hometown again on that rainy September day. Arriving in Manila, the rain was more daunting, and the traffic was horrible. The vehicles and buildings looked blurry from my bus seat — the rain dripping on the window, framing an abstract cityscape. I got off the bus under my umbrella, stepping inside the painting that was Edsa-Ortigas. I looked around and tried to blend in, a tiny stroke dwarfed by all the elements coming into play with the rain.
I searched for the bridge my biracial cousin described in chat. The next thing I knew, I was crossing a clunky, slippery footbridge. Amid the sound of the rain clashing against the traffic noise, I found my fight song. It was so fierce it could shred the little bravery inside the faint-hearted. But I kept walking with the rhythm of the rain.
I made it to our meeting place, where I waited for my cousin for almost an hour before the sky grew even darker. No formal welcome, he asked me to remove my shoes — the only pair I brought — and place my stuff in his motor’s top box. In the snappiest way I could, I also wore the oversize raincoat and helmet he handed me. Under the spiky drops falling ruthlessly, we hustled our way to his Pasig City apartment, braving the traffic, the torrential rain, and the murky water splashing on our feet. Everything made sense when he almost tossed his stuff to prepare for his evening shift.
I would certainly remember Manila for the rain, from its “warm” welcome to its enduring toughness. My battleground for two months, Pasig City introduced me to a rainy world of the least and the lost. I failed multiple job interviews and exams, leaving towering venues downhearted. It felt like it was raining hard outside, although it was not. It was inside of me—a downpour of self-doubt and shame.
Eventually, I got accepted into a night shift. In the meeting room, I met people from different backgrounds. Some had no idea why they were there, though their resumes could have brought them somewhere else. A few weeks before I made the adult decision to move to a new city, a friend started not showing up. She was the same person who told me, “’Di naman tayo mapapakain ng passion natin.” I later found out she pursued what she loved: music.
We often seek shade from the sun and shelter from the rain. Sometimes, we just need an umbrella to keep going. I carried my umbrella with — within — me when I moved to Quezon City. I thanked my cousin for opening his door to me. But in order for me to become fully independent, I had to live on my own. I had to find the truest expression of myself without sacrificing my responsibilities.
It has been almost five years since that rainy first day in Manila. I have lived in two cities since then. I have realized that as we grow and move from one place to another, the way we look at rain becomes more dynamic, as does our experience.
As a kid, I hated rain because it ruined the smooth, unruffled surface of our backyard. It knocked leaves down, which meant more debris to sweep or pick up. It drummed on our roof so hard I could barely hear. As the son of a farmer, I thanked the rain for the essential element it provided. As a commuter back in high school, I learned to be patient with it. If I was luckiest, I sat at the edge of the driver’s seat while it rained cats and dogs, the trike’s wheels splashing mud onto my white polo top along our rural dirt roads. As a normal university student, I walked under the canopy of trees on a rainy school day and played patintero with falling leaves and branches. It felt exhilarating for a moment until your last day in class came, and the rain became a memory.
Now, as someone working and living independently in Manila, I have come to know the rain more. It’s a heads-up about what to bring before walking out the door or when to leave somewhere to avoid getting caught by it. It’s an elapsed time, an interval between two periods of time. It represents how long to wait under a roof before moving to the next destination. It’s a waiting game until it wanes—until it’s bearable. It’s also a force, making us unstoppable, most evidently aboard public vehicles, passing by commuters waiting for transport along commercial buildings and streets brimming with life and chaos. We look at our fellow passengers and wonder how “rainy” their day has been.
A lot will change the moment we leave school or our hometown to be in another place. A lot will still change after that. And we will leave not just a place once in our lives but also a career, a passion, or maybe a relationship. We will be on our own and feel alone for the first time. But one thing remains: our hope to carry on. Maybe we can choose to wait for the rain to subside and make it. Maybe we can also make it through it.
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Mark Christopher Viuda, 25, works at a publishing company. The title of this piece is also a song he loves to listen to.