Of course, you wouldn’t doubt? You see. I was born white, with curly hair, and yes, I was a sumo wrestler stuffed in a baby's body – nine pounds to be exact. None of these traits are imprinted in my parents’ genes.
Later on, I found out that I also did not inherit their ability to sing. They love music. Music loves them. Mama can sing. Papa can sing. Brother can sing. All of my relatives can sing. Even our neighbors can sing. As for me, well, I despise music. Music feels the same way to me, too. Whenever they would sing with the videoke, I just sulk and lalala in the corner. I cannot sing. I never sang even a single note. I only sing when I’m constipated.
Mama and Papa also kept a piece of my brother’s umbilical cord in my brother’s album. My album, on the other hand, only showed pictures of me crying.
My father used to tell me that my real parents are from a certain tribe (which probably explains why I look this way). Sometimes, he would tell me that my parents are Badjao or T’boli or Manobo – depends on what tribal name that would come first in my father’s mind. My real mom, according to my father, left me at the pier. He said that one day my real mother will come back.
She never did.
As I matured, I knew that my father was only kidding. You see. Papa is sometimes crazy - only to the extent that he can throw out jokes like he means it.
I never listened to them, though. I am quite positive that I am their offspring - a product of their honeymoon in a hotel after the wedding. Even though I did not inherit my mother’s charm or her ability to sing, I am sure that I'm not Badjao nor am I T'boli. I AM YOUR SON. And there's no chance in the world that you just picked me up at the pier.
So mom, on your 52nd birthday today, let me greet you Happy Birthday! Even at 52, may asim ka pa rin. I love you.
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