“Mom, I don’t want to go to school today,” I told my mother who was combing her beautiful, wavy black hair one early morning.

“Why?” she asked with a dismissive tone.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied, unsure whether to play hooky that day or drop out of school altogether, the challenges becoming too much to bear.

“Well, would you rather be a farmer and till the soil with *carabaos?”

“Uh…no,” I stuttered, not the concerned answer I expected.

“So, get ready for school or I’ll smack you with this comb,” she chided.

I scooted away from my mother while she gently coaxed the curls to frame her face.

Getting hit with a hair groomer didn’t frighten me, corporal punishment being the norm in our family. It was her stated alternative that gave me pause.

We indeed had a farm with:
• Hundreds of coconut trees laden with fruits which were ready for harvesting – the meat/milk as a dish ingredient and for conversion to oil; the sap as a daily source of fresh coconut wine; and the husk for firewood.

• Countless clusters of tall bamboos with their creaking and the rustling of their leaves adding to the lulling sound in the shade.

• Mango, avocado, star apple (caimito), banana, cherisa (Jamaican cherry), papaya, jack fruit, and other trees providing not only free and accessible nourishment, but also adding to the visually restful verdancy.

• A horse; goat; carabao; cow; hens and baby chicks; rooster as a standby; pig, and “Roger”, our loyal dog, rounding out the community of farm animals.

• A nearby river for swimming and a cool spring for continuous source of fresh water.

• Bonfires, kerosene/petromax lamps, candles, moon, stars, planets, and fireflies making up for lack of electricity.

• The love and care of barefooted grandparents and cousins in a house on stilts made of bamboo and **nipa which was well-ventilated, the bamboo slat floors and opened doors and windows providing unencombered supply of fresh air.

“Hmm…so far, so good,” I thought. However, I somehow felt that there was something significant that was missing.

It was when I reviewed the list that I sensed a glaring omission – HECTARES OF LAND TO TILL!

“WHAAAT?” I silently cried, the yearning for the farm coming to a screeching halt. “Tilling, barefoot, the clayish soil with a carabao and its dung in the sun and rain is NOT in the cards for me. I don’t have the dexterity, the physique, and the strength for this manual labor, MOM! I’d rather continue putting up with endless homework, pop quizzes, cramming for exams, subjects that I can’t wrap my head around, and teachers who don’t know shit from shinola!”, I continued with my quiet ranting.

With the renewed resolve, I finished dressing up, picked up my books, and walked by mother to say goodbye.

“By the way, mom, could you please give me your full name? I am completing this form for school,” I tentatively asked, forgetting her most important personal identity that brief moment.

She stopped primping her hair to face me. With a look that could kill, she obliged.

Lucky for me, she had already set aside the comb.
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*water buffalos
**leaves of palm trees native to India and Pacific Islands