Through the eyes of another child

He must have been around seven, this sweet-looking kid with bright almond eyes and hazel-streaked hair who came rushing to greet me with a wide smile plastered across his face. Eagerly he tugged at my wrist. He and his equally curious gang giggled as they toyed with my watch. Soon they got bored, and they moved on to my friend’s watch, which is blue and lights up. The giggling resumed, and then the hunt for another watch followed.

It was a frightfully sunny afternoon, but it didn’t take long before gray colored the rolling clouds overhead. There were more than 20 of us—young professionals and students who were out on a mission that day. Not too long ago, a friend’s friend spearheaded the plan to host a birthday celebration for the children of this barangay. Many, if not all, of the children never had a birthday celebration in their young lives. The plan was to feed around 30 children, but the number soon multiplied to 200, and eventually doubled to a staggering 400. The idea was picked up by other soft hearts both here and abroad.

And there we were, all in white shirts, sweat streaming down napes and hands cradling what must have been 40 piñatas rocking in dazzling colors against the wind.

She must have been my age, this Seon Galicia. Very much a millennial like I am, with a strong stance and piercing eyes, her ponytail tight in a knot as if not a single strand of her ash-black hair could stand in the way of seeing this mission materialize. And there was her team: Krisma and her overflowing goodies, Raymond behind his daunting camera lenses, Jonah and her infectious smile, and the Fishes and Loaves Inc. We, the Leos of the Mount Kanlaon Leo Club, were there to help.

As the youth counterpart of our Lions Club, we gravitate toward opportunities like this, finding a need where it is palpable, and alleviating that need along with Leos across the globe who belong to one Lions International network.

We were surrounded by kids of all sizes and temperaments. (It wasn’t too long ago when we were just like them. Or was it really too long ago?) Their minds are continuously in transit toward something exciting, and their lives are still a big work in process.

Days ago, I felt the rude nudging of nostalgia. Like all nostalgic interruptions, this one came out of the blue, pouring itself over me like soft drizzle would, gently but persistently. This is nothing new to us, as our Facebook and Twitter feeds suggest. There seems to be a plague affecting us all. I do not know what it’s called, or whether they have named it. But the symptom is the same: We all miss the ’90s.

The ’90s were our molding years. It was our decade, or so they say. For both millennials and Generation Ys, we were most probably oblivious to the uncertainty and chaos that loomed overhead in that decade. And for that matter, it seemed like we will always be talking about that decade, reminiscing its glorious years, wanting to relive its apparent simplicity but also its glaring prosperity in light of the years that would follow it.

It was all so fun, how we conquered those tree trunks and hills of sand. With bruised knees and scarred hands we scurried away from whoever was aswang, capes formed by towels flapping behind our backs. Torched by the sun, we formed our very first societies over games of tag or hide and seek. Those playmates were nameless and without identities, but it didn’t matter. We met so briefly for a round of games and departed soon after, never to meet again. How messy it was, making pancakes out of mud and rivers out of sand, but our laughter was so pure. There were no problems Dad couldn’t fix or items lost that Mom couldn’t find.

Our memories seemed to mean the world to us, now as we pack our bags to leave our hometowns to work in a different city, to move homes and change communities, our human relationships now more complicated and our innocence slipping through our grown fingers. We rushed through life only to find a cruel world welcoming us, where people come and go, and where things change beyond our control. And to find solace we wrap our nostalgia around us like t=our precious childhood blankets.

And then there are children like that kid with the almond eyes, the girl with the toothless grin, or the baby in free-falling tears clinging to his mother. It is unimaginable to discover how so many children are deprived of the opportunity to relish their youth, as they fight poverty with their small hands. How awful it is to discover how children are exposed to prostitution and drugs when they should be enjoying fond memories and quality education. How dare this wretched world manifest itself upon an innocent child. I used to be not fond of children, until I missed being a child myself and realized that not all children will grow through as nurturing, exciting, and loving years.

By now other people and loved ones have entered and passed our lives, places we’ve known have changed, and all we have left are feelings. And yet I still believe that within us is our childlike selves, whispering to us about that sense of adventure, or wanderlust, or passion for life. That part of us we have not outgrown; it just changed form. It is too late to go back to what the world was before all these changes took place. But it is never too late for another child, somewhere out there in the throngs who is yet to experience the kind of love and joy and freedom that we used to experience. Only then maybe can our memories become alive again, through the eyes of another child.

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