I GREW up with the transistor radio as my best friend. I was the loner type, which means that while the other kids in the neighborhood were beating the hell out of each other in imitation of a wrestling match they just saw on TV, I stayed home glued to the radio set, crying over the story of a peasant girl who had to leave home after she got pregnant by, of all people, the parish priest.
Mother: Wa ka nauwaw sa imong gibuhat? Nakig-relasyon ka og pari, usa ka-alagad sa Diyos! Layas! Sukad karon, wala na koy anak! Layaaaas!
Daughter: Igo na mama, igo na. Uhuhuhu… Imo kining sala. Ikaw ang nagtudlo kanako nga way gipili ang gugma. Nahigugma ako ma, ug way gipili ang pinitik ning akong kasingkasing. Apan sige, molayas ako. Ug sukad karon, wala na pud koy inahan! Ari na ko nang!
On Sundays, when radio stations didn’t air soap operas, I switched to musical shows and felt the weight of the world on my shoulders while listening to Imelda Papin’s “Kung Liligaya Ka Sa Piling Ng Iba.”