What I hate about the rain

People who call Nueva Ecija home, where the sun reigns supreme and the heat can be relentless, usually find comfort in the rain. For them, it is like a special treat, a break from the sweltering heat. However, it is not the same in my case.

I remember not joining the other kids in our neighborhood for rainwater baths because our elementary science teacher told me that rainwater was unclean. Drying laundry outside becomes a game of timing, hoping that a sudden downpour will not soak all of my clothes all over again.

I also avoided wearing my favorite white sneakers, fearing they might end up covered in mud. Carrying an umbrella was also quite a hassle, and raincoats and rainboots were something I steered clear of, mainly because I did not feel they suited me.

So, yes, I hate the rain. But it is not about the cleanliness of rainwater, the struggle with drying clothes, the state of my sneakers, the inconvenience of carrying an umbrella, the aesthetics of raincoats and rainboots, the canceled plans, or my vulnerability to the cold—my dislike for rain goes beyond that.

Growing up, I witnessed how the rain brought with it a lot of challenges.

Our house, with its worn-out, rusty, and weather-beaten roofs that allowed rainwater to seep in, the absence of ceiling that made the sound of every raindrop hitting our roof impossible to ignore, walls made of makeshift plywood that seemed to hold together by a thread, and windows barely deserving of that name—instead concealed by big blue sheets or “lona” in place of proper glass window—I have come to associate rain with struggle.

I can still vividly recall the way we used to prepare for every approaching typhoon. My parents would meticulously seal every hole in our roof using “vulcaseal.” They had to put tires filled with heavy stones above our roof and tie them to a sturdy tree to prevent strong winds from blowing our house away. During those times, my brother and I were responsible for setting up buckets and water basins to catch the water leaking all over our house. Back then, I wondered why we had so many around the house, finding it a bit strange. But as I grew older, I came to realize that they were kind of our lifesavers, our helpers during tough times.

As we braced for the possibility of leaving our house should it fail to withstand the onslaught of rain and wind, my mother asked for help in packing our clothes and important documents. Meanwhile, my father diligently orchestrated the relocation of all our belongings inside the house.

The living room, being the area least susceptible to leaks, was turned into a sanctuary for our possessions. A stark contrast, however, awaited us in the bedroom and kitchen, where the pervasive leaks had transformed these spaces into something resembling shower rooms and waterfalls rather than functional living areas.

As the clouds gathered and raindrops began to fall, it was not a pleasant experience for us.

Despite our best efforts, the rain still found its way through the cracks and holes, causing leaks from both the roof and walls. During those moments, sleep was a luxury we could not afford, as we needed to monitor our situation throughout the night.

We were busy ensuring that the wind would not blow away our house, switching out the buckets once they were full, and wiping the water off the floor. It was tough—living in a house that failed to provide us the sense of comfort and security a home should.

So, yes, I hate the rain—not for what it is, not for the comfort and peace it brings to other people, but for what it really represents. It is the burden it bears and the inequality it exposes that weighs heavy on my heart. I hate that it reminds me of the privilege we could not afford.

I hate that it is considered a blessing for many but a curse for us. I hate that it is accessible only to those with secure roofs and stable walls. I hate that instead of the soothing pitter-patter that most people enjoy, the rain triggers memories of hastily positioned buckets and basins, efforts to stop water from seeping through the cracks, and nights spent on a vigilant watch. I hate that the rain carries not just water but the narratives of privilege denied.

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Maria Angela Natividad, 20, is an anthropology major from the University of the Philippines Baguio.