All It Takes Is One Good Day
To restore sanity in this insane world
My mother and I were from a rural province, but we lived inside a condominium complex in Taguig City for a while. I often stayed there beside the eastern wall — a giant block of concrete with faulty electrical security wires.
I was just 8 years old, sitting under the shade of a large wooden swing in a garden.
I was alone until I wasn’t. A random kid had fallen from the top of the wall, somehow maneuvering his way around the wires, and fell with a thud. I watched him pick himself up and slowly walk towards me.
Here I was, baffled that some kid from outside — thin with ragged clothes, dirt smeared all over his body — had managed to climb inside.
He sat beside me in the swing.
“It’s way better here, you know,” he said.
“Where did you come from?” I asked.
“Outside.”
He smelled like the streets — an odd combination of vehicle smoke, secondhand cigs, sweat, and more sweat dried up and condensed into his rough skin, which was two shades darker than mine.
He pulled out a tattered blue pouch. He opened it and showed me these diamonds… no, marbles — little shiny plastic balls with waves of assorted colors painted inside.
“Where’d you get those?” I asked.
“Someone gave them to me as a present,” he said. “Let’s play!”
And we did. Hours passed and we took turns tossing the marbles in the dirt, in the fancy green grass, and we played all kinds of games. We laughed, we screamed, we had fun.
“I should go now,” he said.
“Okay.”
“You should come outside, too. We can play at my house. But, you know, we don’t have a swing.”
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“Outside,” he said.
That was the first and last time I have ever seen him. I didn’t even catch his name.
Of course, I told my mother. She scolded me. I should never interact with kids from the slums, she said. I could’ve gotten hurt. I could’ve been kidnapped. He must’ve worked with some syndicate, luring unsuspecting kids to their secret lair, and I would’ve been exploited into child labor or had my organs harvested for profit.
Was that kid a bad person? No, I don’t think he was.
Other people — the ones that lived inside the walls — saw him as dangerous. Just because he was born in a different place and had different circumstances. It’s funny how the privileged are always the ones so quick to judge. They sit comfortably inside their safe spaces when all it takes is one “break-in” to crumble their morality.
He was just another kid, like me. He got lonely from time to time. He found someone to play with and he had fun. He made my day. I still think about it from time to time.
Perhaps it’s a reminder to be kind, to be understanding, to be sensitive.
Alam Moore wrote in The Killing Joke:
All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy. That’s how far the world is from where I am. Just one bad day.
Similarly, all it takes is one good day to do the opposite.
I was inspired to write this article after reading 10 Ways That Life Truly Is Like a Box Of Chocolates by Hudson Rennie.
Either the fancy wrapping heightens our expectations or it’s used to mask a subpar product. Either way, life isn’t always what it seems. And for better or worse, you should never judge a book by its cover.
Thank you, Winston, for the opportunity to write for Coffee Times.
