Jungle Asians
Woah! First post! So excites!
I was a born on October 17, (Libra!) in a hot and bug filled country named the Philippines. Ahh yes, the motherland! Full corrupt politicians, cockroaches, head hunting Islamic terrorists, drug dealers, and Filipinos. All the things I've come to hate. Except for drug dealers, they're fuckin awesome.
If you you haven't noticed, the Philippines is...just...god...awful. If the heat or malaria wasn't going to kill you, the threat of being kidnapped and ransomed was, and our political climate is just as bad. I mean, just take a look at our tumultuous history. It's rife with invasions (Spanish & Japanish), assassinations (Aquino), and all that bullshit with America that I don't fully understand. Something to do with Douglas MacArthur promising to add more crunch berries, I don't know!
In retrospect, my early childhood wasn't too bad. It mostly consisted of catching baby mosquitoes in a drainage ditches, running away from cockroaches, sticking peanuts up my nose, (a problem, I inexplicably have to this day) and grinding my genitalia on any surface I can find (Another problem I inexplicably have to this day).
My parents, infant brother and I lived in a cozy 2 story home. Pretty modest to American standards, but pretty extravagant in the P.I. We lived in this weird fenced off cul de sac. To my left was my cousin from my dad side who lived in a house….on stilts? Like, I don’t fuckin know. This fool's house was somehow suspended in air, and there was this concrete staircase that just ascended like 15 feet onto a porch. This mother fucker had no guardrails, and I doubt this staircase was up to code. Like, what the fuck mom? She would just let me and my other cousins run up these fuckin steps like I wasn’t 4, fat, and shoving peanuts up my nose. (Peanuts in your nose make it hard to breathe, ok?)
I used to hate going to my cousins house. Not because running up these stairs could potentially kill me, but the house used to scare the shit out of me. Our great aunt had diabetes, and she was bed ridden due to a leg that needed to be amputated. Well some witch doctors came and removed her leg or some shit, and instead of disposing it like any normal human being, you know what these assholes did? THEY FUCKIN HUNG THE LEG ABOVE THE DOOR FRAME OF HER ROOOM!!!. AARRGGHH!! WHAT THE FUCK!!! YOU KNOW THAT SHE HAS DIABETES!! YOU HAVE ACCESS TO MODERN MEDICINE! YOU KNOW SHE AINT FINNA GROW ANOTHER LEG.
My other neighbor isn't much better.
On the right side of me was my other cousins from my Mom's side. They lived in a dirt hovel next door. Weirdest thing really, from what I can remember, my aunts dirt hovel seemed to be constructed the same way a house of cards is made. Thin sheets of corrugated metal are haphazardly stacked and balanced on a floor that seems to be made of DIRT.
DIRT FLOORS.
This fact did not stop my aunt from practicing dentistry in a black plastic bag-lined back room.
DIRT FUCKIN FLOORS.
Jesus Christ... and this is completely normal in this bizarro reality because it didn't stop my aunt from cleaning teeth or removing cavities. I get it. Want more can you want, you're jungle savages, I mean this is a luxury. LOL.
Afterwards, she would make her patients sandwiches and sit around and chat until the next appointment came in. I look back and I realize how completely crazy, unprofessional, and not to mention how unsanitary it is to fuckin practice dentistry in a random back room. Fuckin bonkers man.
It’s just so odd when I look back at it now, but this was just normal, everyday shit. Come in through the front door, grab a sandwich, watch my aunt pull my neighbor’s tooth out, collect mosquitoes from an open sewage ditch. I mean fuck, that's gross.
Well, what did I know, I was little and it was a nice. It was a comforting environment. Even when I was young I really got a sense of community. Everyone knew each other, and looked out for each other. Something that is really lacking in these modern day American communities. Sure we didn't have the luxuries that even the poorest of Americans had, but I’d get lost and wander the streets and someone would just pick me up and bring me home. Like these random people that would find me would know my parents from Church. People exchanged home cooking, and would genuinely ask how you were doing. It wasn't just obligatory niceties exchanged between passing apartment neighbors in the hall. There was a rare sincerity behind it that I miss.
I guess the Philippines isn't as bad as it sounds right? Albeit I was 4, and you just don't give a fuck when you’re 4. I don't remember my parents giving me a talk or anything. The only thing I remember was fluorescent lights of the airport, and riding my first escalator. They hadn't told me, but we were leaving the Philippines for America, the land of opportunity, and unbeknownst to me at the time, my infant baby brother as well.
