Being the bunso (youngest), it is rudimentary, wired in my mother’s brain, that I receive second-hand or even third-hand stuff to fill my wardrobe.
Inside my closet is a bunch of hand-me-downs. I snatch a huge Henley shirt and wear it under a faded blouson. I then buckle my trousers with an old-fashioned belt from Kyoto and put on my rugged loafers. I look in the mirror, and I see a younger version of my papa.
I rummage in my cabinet for more clothes—artifacts that remind me of family. On one shelf, large sweatshirts are neatly folded beside classic button-downs. Stretched corduroys lie on the other. I pull a drawer and find sloppy cashmere sweaters, overcoming me with acute nostalgia for the 20th century.
My school uniform hangs on a steel rod. It belonged to my kuya (older brother). My mornings entailed squeezing into his small polo shirt and pulling his tight pants to my waist. The cuffs didn’t reach my ankles, so I was teased and called a Michael Jackson fan, setting the trend with conspicuous white socks.
My classmates laughed at me, but these clothes deserved something better than mockery.
These pants traveled to different universities when my kuya represented his school in math or science contests.
This polo shirt was adorned with medals because of his excellent track record in both academics and extracurricular activities. And as I wore the same clothes that led him to success, I also accomplished a similar feat, even surpassing his achievements by getting involved in student employment opportunities, attending conferences, etc.
The school shirts that took some space in my closet belonged to my ate (older sister). We always jogged together, and on many occasions, I would wear her shirt. It didn’t give hint of a girl once owning it, except for her name printed on the back. Nevertheless, it complemented my papa’s basketball shorts and shoes.
Vigor
My ate and I would jog for hours, and whenever I felt tired, I would be renewed by the same vigor that sustained her in competitions in volleyball, badminton and basketball. She inspired me to go the 5-kilometer distance, and I felt determined to go farther in our next jog.
I wore a leather jacket that was wrapped in plastic. It was too big for me, and yet it gave me warmth—the same warmth my papa felt in his youth. As a DJ in the 1980s, he would mix recorded music and lose himself in his art—but always with an ear on the mood of his audience.
Just as he measured the range of his playbacks, so did I adapt to my surroundings, keeping my head up amid stress and discerning my environment to my advantage.
Everywhere I go, I wear these clothes, and friends and relatives would ask me, “Have you worn that before?” And I would tell them my papa did or my ate did or my kuya did. It gave them a sense of familiarity, and me, a reminder that I vicariously live through my family while directing myself to my own path.
Whenever I open my wardrobe and see all the hand-me-downs, I am reminded of the lessons I will cherish for a lifetime. As my dream to study overseas is fulfilled, I will put my own clothes on the shelves, in drawers and hanging spaces, for memories to be stored and kept forever.
