Tapping on My Window

borrowed from Dom08 of pinoyexchange.com

When I was a freshman in high school, our editor-in-chief asked us to submit poems as fillers for the magazine. I wasn't really much of a creative writer back then and didn't know what to write about. Meetings for the clubs were usually done during the last period on Wednesdays. After the meeting, I was picked up by the driver and headed for home.

borrowed from http://www.flickr.com/photos/menandrew/203689824/

It started to rain, and here in the Philippines, when that happens, expect heavy traffic. My van ended up in a jam under the Katipunan flyover, about to turn to Aurora Boulevard. Since I enjoy the relaxing sound of the rain on the roof of our cars, I was lost in my thoughts oblivious to the horrible traffic outside (one of the reasons why I would always rather let the driver do the driving up until now). I was roused from daydreaming, or rain-dreaming, by a soft tapping on the window of the van. I looked out and I saw a little girl begging for coins in the middle of the rain.

My parents always told me not to give to beggars as doing so would not really help uplift them from their situation and I always listened not thinking that there will come a point when I will start debating whether to do so or not. There was something about this particular little girl, standing barefoot in greasy clothes, wet from the rain, outside of the van. Perhaps it was the fact that I was seated comfortably in the captain-seat, dry and cozy, actually enjoying the reverie I was getting out of the rain only to realize that inches away from me, separated by a thin, lightly tinted glass, was a totally different world. Coming face to face with poverty like that stops you in your tracks.

I had lived in a world where we were shielded from this. My classmates in school perhaps never even bothered to look out of their driver-driven cars, vans, and SUVs. But now, one of us, was faced with what is supposed to be a reality.

When I got home, I wrote a poem about that situation, and what I felt. It was titled Tapping on My Window. Mindlessly, I forgot about the poem after it was submitted to my editor. When the first issue of the magazine came out, I was surprised that the poem was placed on the back cover with an image of a little boy reaching out his open palm asking for alms. I was a freshman, and it was a big deal to have my name plastered at the back of the high school magazine. That launched my career in Hilites. I eventually became editor-in-chief when I was a Senior.

Looking back now, I never really thanked that little girl who started this for me. I could have just been another random writer in a magazine. I would've gotten bored and eventually transferred to a different organization. But the discovery that I could write came about because I woke up, looked out, and saw her.

Ever since then, I would always have a soft spot for little girls begging on the streets. I would always pity them, which is horrible. I would always end up comparing them to my little sister, my only sister. She's our youngest, the little princess, and she gets whatever she wants. After all, girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice. How come some are not given what they want then? How come some resort to begging, staying as late an ungodly hour as possible for coins?

I had a recent brash with them. My boyfriend and I were in the Ortigas area, on our way home to Makati. We were stuck in traffic under the Shaw flyover, turning right to EDSA. I usually am the one driving, but I was so exhausted he had to take the wheel. I looked out and saw a girl holding a baby, possible hers, begging for coins. I almost cried. I tried to keep it in, but my boyfriend saw me. I told him, I have to give them something. Hurriedly, he looked around for random coins inside the Montero and handed these over to me.

I opened the window, and placed the coins on the baby's palm. The girl said thank you.

This was the first time someone like her had said thank you. The gratitude that I was one of the few who opened my window.

What's my point? We all have to know how to look back. I always look back at the journey that I went through to get to where I am right now. I don't think I'm all that, or that I'm perfect, and there are several things that I have regretted along the way. What's important is not to lose sight of where you started.

The bitch I was ranting about last week, doesn't know how to look back. She thinks she's perfect. Only a dumb person will think that she is perfect. She will wake up one day and realize that she doesn't have anything or anyone, because of her ugali.