Caught in the Middle

I was a teacher’s pet in primary school. I was on the track team, a monitress, a prefect, and a basketball team captain. Most importantly, for my parents, I was good in academics. For my mother and father, it was always about academic excellence. My sisters and I were not allowed to use the computer too long. We have never owned a single game console, like PlayStation or even those cute Tamagochis. Our father made sure there was nothing to distract us. My parents almost had me quit basketball. They thought it was a distraction.

One day in the summer of 2007 in the Philippines, I am at my paternal grandparents’ house. It is hot inside. My older sister is plucking my aunt’s white hair. I am lightly swinging my baby cousin in her hammock-like cradle.

I hear my maternal grandmother tell my aunt: “Nikka is hardworking. But Dane, not really. She’s not hardworking.”

Every end of term in primary, my father would ask “Are you in the top 3?” and I would answer hesitantly “No, daddy. But I’m top 4”- as if that would make all the difference. Being a teacher’s pet mixed with my parents’ expectations pressured me. Once, I tried to cheat on a Chinese dictation. I got 95 marks all because I forgot to add 1 stroke. 95 marks was not enough to make my parents happy, I thought. I tried to distract my seatmate by pulling the classic “Hey, what’s that over there?” trick so I could add back the stroke. He didn’t fall for it.

I didn’t say anything about my Chinese dictation when I got home.

I knew from a young age that my grandmother favoured my older and younger sisters. My younger sister is the baby of the family. My older sister is the first-born- that already puts her on a pedestal. I’m the middle child. Ironically. I could never be the centre of my grandmother’s attention.

Hearing her say I wasn’t hardworking hurt and angered me.

At 12 years old, I graduated Primary 6 as valedictorian.

The Black Sheep

I was 15. It was at night in winter. The wind was cool against my face. My fingertips were icy cold. But it felt hot. I could feel cold sweat on the back of my neck. My ears were ringing, blocking out the sound of the wind. I could hear the faint noises of cars passing by and car horns honking. Bright, white spots filled my vision. I could only see my mother’s face clearly. Like a camera lens blurring out the background of its subject.

Shock, anger, disappointment.

But there was something else in my mother’s eyes that made her anger softer. Something that filled me with guilt.

Sadness.

My legs felt weak.

I was going to faint.

“Mommy, I can’t hear you… I need to sit,” I am saying.

I don’t remember her reply. I just remember walking blindly towards a bench behind a concrete planter to sit down. Our building security guard was probably watching us from behind, realizing that my mother didn’t know about the boy who always walked me home.

2 minutes. 5 minutes. Maybe even 10 minutes passed- I don’t remember- before my hearing comes back and my vision clears. I wanted to cry but not a single tear fell. I sat there, trying to hide from passers-by. Trying to hide in shame.

“How long has this been going on?” my mom asks.

She has just caught my boyfriend and me together.

My older sister stood there. Speechless, for she knew about my secret.

For a moment, I was quiet. I was thinking of denying whatever she had just seen. Claim that he and I were just friends and he was simply walking me home. But she is my mother. She is the only one that can read me like an open book.

“2 months,” I whisper.

My tears fell. Answering her meant confirming what she saw. To me, I knew it meant the end.

We had been seeing each other longer than that. Even after getting caught, my first instinct was to lie. I’ve told more lies than my 2 sisters, combined. What I’ve been doing. Where I’ve been going. Why I’ve been coming home late. All lies.

Perhaps that’s what happens to children with strict parents. They become afraid of their own mother and father. They become afraid to tell the truth.

In every love story, there’s an antagonist. It was my mother for me. She wanted me to end my relationship with my boyfriend. I didn’t want to. If our relationship was not hurting anyone, why should it end? Why should I end something that made me happy? She said I was too young. She said he didn’t care about me. He wouldn’t have run off that night if he did.

I hated that she didn’t understand. That she was getting in the way of my happiness. I knew other girls who didn’t have to hide their boyfriends from their families. I hated that my parents couldn’t be the kind of parents who let their daughters fall in love. Most of all, I hated the fact that my mother was right.

I was 15. I didn’t know any better.

I avoided my family as much as I could by coming home late. I started cutting. It was the only pain I could control. I started failing classes. I fell asleep crying every night. My teacher asked if everything was okay at home.

What home?

Home

Right outside Mama Dic’s house, beside the driveway, there is a bamboo bed where my family used to sit and eat lunch under the shade of a mango tree.

Hot, fluffy white rice, crisp mangoes dipped in shrimp paste, fried fish or soup with meat and vegetables, and a pitcher of cold soda to beat the heat.

Right next to this bed-made-table was her mini store. Sometimes during lunch hour, there would be little children wanting to buy sweets. Our grandfather would shoo them away. No one disturbed our family meals.

After eating, when the day was at its hottest, Mama Dic told us to take a nap.

“If you take a nap now, I’ll give you some pop and chips from the store when you wake up,” she said.

I hated nap time, but her offers of junk food worked. She took out mattresses and pillows, set them on the living room floor and turned on the fan.

The quiet hum of the electric fan, the low chatter of people outside, chirping birds, and the soft afternoon light lulled me to sleep.

That house was my freedom. It was where I learnt how to climb the guava and mango trees beside the driveway. Where I learnt how to do cartwheels with my cousins on the soft brown soil, getting our hands and clothes dirty. The house where I was free to play with dogs and stray cats, unafraid of getting bitten or scratched. I petted them, fed them, and carried them around – the way my sisters would with their Barbie dolls. My mother and maternal grandmother reprimanded me for touching all sorts of animals, even the chickens roaming around. But I was at Mama Dic’s home.

The home where I learnt to be brave.

When my grandmother passed away, I couldn’t look at the house the same way. It became empty. The fan was just a fan. Voices became louder to fill in the silence. I stopped listening to the birds. The sunlight was just another light, to illuminate the house’s dullness.

The Middle-Child Syndrome

Searching through Google about the middle-child syndrome, I’ve collected a few words and phrases that are usually associated with middle-children: resentful, isolated, rebellious, neglected, low social skills, attention-seeking, etc.

Middle-children are assumed to be all these unfortunate things because their older and younger siblings receive more attention and favouritism among family members.

When I was young, I associated my family with constraint, lack of freedom, control, unfairness, and punishment. Although I was a quiet child, I loved roaming around and being outside. My older sister was asthmatic and feared a lot of things. My little sister was too young to run around with, so I usually played with our 2 cousins. We were like the 3 musketeers. We climbed trees, we ventured through tall grass at the back of our grandparents’ home, knowing there could be snakes waiting to strike. We also loved playing with animals, and we had a tendency to stray away from our family and get lost in shopping malls.

I don’t think I was a naughty child. I was simply curious about many things. Once I walked to my friend’s house, which was 10 minutes away from ours because I wanted to see how her house looked like. I didn’t tell anyone. When I was on my way home, everyone at the market told me my mother was looking for me. I knew it meant I was in trouble.

My parents disciplined my sisters and me by hitting our behinds with a belt, slippers, hands, rulers or hangers. When I got home that late afternoon, my mother was holding a stick and she had a stony expression. I noticed her knuckles where white. She was not angry. She was terrified.

It is safe to say that it was me who got in trouble the most. I used to think it was because my older and younger sisters were the family favourites. Unfortunately, it created fear and distrust between my parents and me. This fear and distrust became the roots of the countless lies I would tell my parents through my teenage years.

I realize that it was an irony to be named after a religious figure. I was anything but religious and righteous in my adolescence. My name came from the Hebrew prophet, Daniel. My parents, you see, wanted to name their three daughters after Biblical figures. ‘Daniel’ means “God is my Judge” and he is known for the story ‘Daniel and the Lions’ Den’. God gifted him the ability to understand and interpret visions and dreams. A gift valued and respected by kings. But even with an honourable reputation, Daniel was thrown into a den of lions as punishment for worshipping God when King Darius prohibited it. But he was not eaten by the lions. He claimed that God sent an angel to seal the mouths of the lions. Daniel was innocent in God’s eyes.

When I was a teenager, I went to Mass without understanding. I prayed without conviction.

“Is there really a God?”

“Why does He let us suffer?”

We are not innocent.

“When will He take away my pain?”

I’ve lied. I’ve cursed. I’ve envied.

I am not innocent.

The lions devoured me.

Rebirth

I read a quote once about diamonds and coal. They say under great amount of pressure, coal can be turned into a diamond. I don’t think this has been scientifically proven, but I’d like to think that the quote is referring to human experiences instead.

Not too long ago, I was at the lowest point of my life. I thought the only way to escape was by stepping away from the pavement while a fast car approaches or by digging a blade deep enough into my wrists. I was very close to doing the latter. But, unknowingly, my friend stopped me. I called this person my guardian angel then.

In the summer of 2012, I was invited to go to a 2-night Catholic youth camp. I wasn’t sure what to expect. A spiritual cleansing perhaps. The truth was I only went because one of my best friends was going. I thought of it as a sleepover party instead. At this point in my life, I did not take Catholicism seriously. Yes, I prayed, but my relationship with God was only surface-level. I didn’t think anything would change during the camp.

On our last day, my parents surprised me by coming to the venue. All the youths were given some alone time with their parents. My parents and I decided to sit in this quiet white room full of chairs. I was wearing my Superman shirt. This was a year after my mother had caught my boyfriend and me. My relationship with my parents was still rocky.

I sat opposite my mom and dad, nervous and awkward. I don’t remember the beginning of our conversation, but at some point, I felt this immense feeling of truthfulness and confession. I thought that if I truly wanted to change my relationship with my family, I had to start talking and let them in.

I told them that I cut myself. Confusion was written on their faces.

“What do you mean?”

I explained to them that whenever I felt down, stressed, or pressured, I would take a blade and run it across my wrists. I confessed that I have lied about my scars before. I would claim that I had fallen down or scraped my arm on a rough wall.

Whenever I think of that moment, I always wonder why, after all those months, I chose that time to open up. But I can only remember what I felt. I’ve had the same feeling quite a few times after that. For example, when I decided to get an eye surgery despite the risks, when I defied my mother and went to see this celebrity so I could take a video of him saying hi to my sisters, and when I decided to go to South Korea for a summer exchange even though my parents were hesitant.

It is a sense of confidence- though nerve-wrecking- that I am doing what I am meant to do.

Suddenly, I’ve accepted being the middle child. Middle children are risk-takers and being constantly in between two siblings can make them great negotiators.

This is how I conquered my struggles. Negotiation and taking risks.

After all the blood, sweat, and tears, this is my favourite version of myself.

And I would gladly go through everything again if it meant being the person I am today.