Precious Angel Selorio
It had no swings or slides, only bulanteros’ (ambulant vendors’) tables for pretend houses and a coconut husk bed for a hideout. I was a stranger to our neighborhood kids because I grew up in a family of vendors whose whole life revolved around our little stall. The familiar kids from my elementary school were the same ones I served buko (coconut) juice to while my mom went around the market to sell her homemade pamahaw (breakfast) after class. There was a clear difference when my friends and I’d part ways as they headed to their homes, while I’d find my way to the market. While other kids’ rest started at 4 p.m., my day was just getting started.
At 6:30 p.., my hands moved on their own, bringing the containers of buko juice to the market’s faucet area as we wrapped up for the day. It was one of the highlights of my day—sitting with the adults selling meat products while we washed the dishes and they would remark, “Pisan ka gid nga bata” (You’re such a diligent kid).
At the age of nine, life taught me something I couldn’t learn in the classroom. I memorized the prices of our goods at the same time as the multiplication table. I differentiated states of matter as well as the taste of buko juice when using the extract of buko or niyog. Instead of playing Chinese garter or “shakay” after class, I went straight to the marketplace. Even for a fourth grader who weighs too much for her age, carrying a sack of responsibilities in order to survive was beyond my capacity. That kid will soon outgrow the playground.
The heavens did grant my wish—I was detached from that playground, but at the price of my mother’s illness and the closing of our business. When she struggled to breathe, I learned to commute on my own. The closing of our little stall remained unnoticed in the marketplace, but was the loss of livelihood for our family. That was the first time I came home at 4 p.m. The only difference was that there was no dinner on the table, and no one was home. I was out of the playground—because I was no longer a child. I learned to cook for myself.
I didn’t have any safety net in case I failed, so I strived for what I could only do: study. Even with the leaking house and mountains of debt, I was able to bring a smile to my parents whenever they shared that I was at the top of my class. The same convincing voice I used in the marketplace to sell our products was the same voice I carried as I wrote articles as a campus journalist., and the same effort I put into washing dishes fueled my late-night studying. The same drive that pushed me to leave the marketplace helped me break free from my comfort zone.
If I could tell my 9-year-old self one thing, it would be that life will not wait for you to be ready—not even for a child. You can say that you’re tired, scared, confused, but the world will keep spinning whether you keep up or not. People will say, “Just take a deep breath,” but even breathing comes at a cost when an oxygen tank is worth P5,000. That road ahead will be crowded—jeepney stalls in the middle of traffic, accidents delaying your way—but you will reach your destination. And when you do, you will not only stand taller, but you will also guide people walking on the same difficult path.
Those little moments became the foundation of who I am today. They taught me that education is a privilege—studying in comfort is a luxury, not a guarantee. They taught me resourcefulness, such as when the organization I lead had little to no funds, but still improvised with our creativity. They trained my mind to memorize, solve math problems quickly, and be resilient. Most of all, they taught me that poverty can break a child, and no child deserves to carry responsibilities heavier than their own schoolbag.
The marketplace was my childhood—but it was never a playground. It hardened me through the cruelties of the world and stripped away the innocence I should have enjoyed while it lasted. It had no swings, slides, or playhouse, but became the training ground where I built the strength to face life head-on. It was the playground I never wished for, but it carved who I am today: a student who turned hardship into honor, a leader who turned scarcity into creativity, and an individual who strives to no longer return to the same playground—and to make sure no other child has to. No child should ever mistake labor for play.
Hindi magiging pag-asa ng bayan ang kabataan kung sila mismo ay walang pag-asa sa bayan (The youth will not be the hope of the nation if they themselves have no hope for the nation).
