My life has always been measured through steps, even before Strava became a trend.
Most people would
celebrate a milestone by looking at the receipts for every
car they bought, every mile they have travelled, or the
growing frustration over gas prices. I measure mine by
the number of holes in the sole of my slippers, the
number of times I have stubbed my toes on stubborn
rocks, the number of pair shoes I have worn until the
threads holding them together practically gave up, and
the number of hand-me-down branded shoes that not
only had good quality but were also comfortable enough
to keep my feet from blisters. I walk everywhere, even
with the option to hitch a ride or commute. Walking, for
me is the most convenient way of getting where I am
supposed to be.
When I was little girl, my world was bounded by long stretch of dusty, rock embedded roads leading to the Central School in the neighboring barangay where I was enrolled from grades one to six. It was roughly a two-kilometer walk, but I didn’t think much of it like many children of my age would because I was naturally distracted by the long stretch of green fields on both sides of the road, the marudut trees growing across Uncle Rogie’s farm where ghosts supposedly live, the small creek serving as irrigation to the vast corn fields where snails, and leeches co-exist as if they were best of friends.
I travelled this road each day at six-thirty in the morning when the morning fog was still suspended in the sky, and the grasses by the roadside were fresh with morning dew, and my breath formed little clouds of fog when I exhaled. I was accompanied by my mother on the first day of school when I was in the first grade. On the second day, I went there by myself because I had already memorized the way to school and where my classroom was. Obviously, we only had one long stretch of a road, and one right turn towards the school. It was not rocket science. I was not scared of going to school by myself because I had a few neighbors who walked alongside me. I refer to them as neighbors because I wasn’t a particularly friendly child. I was awkward, and it did not help that my mother put my hair in a very tight ponytail that I could feel my forehead growing three sizes toward the back of my head. During those days, a pair of cheap rubber shoes were not just footwear, it was my vehicle. It was not a “I want a life where I do not have to apologize for the space that I take.” Kawasaki. It was a Kawasaka.
By the time I reached high school, the distance grew. My new destination was Alabug. A solid five planets away from our house. Kidding. It was five kilometers away. On good days, when I had a few pesos tucked on my pocket, I would treat myself into a tricycle ride. But mostly, it was the slap-slap of my slippers or the tok-tok of my heeled shoe on the concrete road. There I learned how to depend on my not so good navigation skills because that part of the town is bombarded with vehicles and national high ways.
When I was in college, I enrolled in the neighboring town called Piat. I studied in Cagayan State University- Piat Campus where I met the most amazing people whom, just like me, had to ride a jeepney from Tuao to Junction Maguilling, and then a tricycle from Junction Maguilling to CSU-Piat. One way cost around forty pesos at that time. The cost would be too much for me if travelled back and forth every day, hence, I decided to live in a dorm. The school dormitory was called Catleya Ladies Dorm, and it was only a minute away from my classroom at the College of Teacher Education, except when I had classes in the Information Technology Department which was a few planets away. Walking from the campus dorm to the campus gate was a journey that I grew accustomed to at the end of every week. It was like a mandatory penitentiary walk about being penitent inside the classroom for a whole week. There was a time when my friends and I put off our shoes just to keep it from being absolutely trashed while we traverse the slope from the administration building to the front gate. This video had gone viral once. At least, my feet and my terrifyingly muscular calves got the exposure they deserved.
Few years went by, and I finally entered the workforce back in my hometown. Like I had always done, I walked from our house to the school where I used to teach. I had a few pesos for fare, but I always chose to reward myself with sweets instead of using it to catch a ride. Once again, I walked to school. Once again, I walked back. Some days, a student would say “Ma’am, sabay na po kayo,” but I always took the chance to refuse. Some days, a co-teacher would honk from their car and wave me toward the passenger seat. Some days, I accepted. But most of the time, I refused.
Walking which had always been my solace, became a shield.
There came a time that the constant visibility in the road made me wonder if the people were silently wondering what have I done with my life. Most of my batch mates had their cars and their own families, yet I am still here walking the same path every day. The road that held my dreams became the road that made me extremely self-conscious. Good thing, I owned and still have a reliable wired-earphone and a dozen of playlist that blocked my thoughts away from the world.
I was conscious about my weight because it was obviously, like my forehead, skyrocketing. It consumed to the point that I feel guilty of consuming space in a colleague’s vehicle. I felt too large, and too heavy a burden for a colleague’s car.
There was a time where we had to go to an event. As the vehicles were loaded, the familiar wave to go with them felt like a trap than an invitation. Each of them had their own partners, and I hated the feeling of having to ask someone who clearly had no plans of taking me with them for a ride even if I insisted on paying. Paralyzed by the thought of me consuming such a large space, and being too heavy for their vehicles, I refused to join. Instead, I walked home.
Our head was gentle, and had quiet empathy. She understood the weight I was carrying and allowed me to skip the event. The other faculty members were not quite on the same wavelength. I tried to think that the space I was supposed to occupy, if there was any, was not filled with cruel words.
Now, the scenery has changed again. In a new environment, walking was not frowned upon. I was not ashamed of walking to the office everyday because the understanding run deeper. I still walk, but the weight of insecurity is gradually fading. My shoes are still getting worn. The threads give up. The soles are uneven. The white shoe laces are now brown, but they took me to places where I smile as I open the door.
The sun fried my skin, my slippers, and the soles of my shoes, but it was all worth it.
Someday, I know, I will have the life where I do not have apologize for the space that I take.
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