As early as I can remember, I haven’t been able to see very well. Even when I was sitting in the front row, the words on the board seemed to lose their form. The white chalk’s dust looked like ribbons entangled. I knew something was wrong with my eyes. Under the sun, they shone—rich brown hues resembling dark chocolate—and in their bitterness, I suffered.
In 2nd grade, an optometrist visited our humble public school, providing primary healthcare for the young pupils. Our classroom was emptied out, eliminating distractions. The pupil was then positioned in the back of the room, right where the teacher’s desk was. The Snellen chart hung across the room on the blackboard. Goosebumps crawled all over me—it felt like this might be the end. I was nervous, afraid it would be embarrassing if I couldn’t name all the letters. Would they laugh at me? I asked myself, shaking. I had been first honor the previous year; they said I was a bright student. But this time, I felt like I was the most stupid, waiting to be exposed. From outside, I peeked through the windows, memorizing the letters while my classmates chatted. And when it was my turn, I stuttered on the fifth line. My brows furrowed. A headache was coming. I squinted until my eyes looked like the slit of my bamboo coin bank. I leaned in slightly, and it helped. I let out a sigh.
Old books had been my pastime since we couldn’t afford toys. They sat under the rusting television, waiting. Whatever the book was about, I read it anyway. My mother would scold me for reading under poor light, but we had no other lights available. Once or twice, our electricity was cut off, and all I could do was stare at the dark walls, imagining what would come out if I blinked. I still remember the yellowish glow of our old lightbulb—it was warm and comforting, but under it, everything seemed ugly. Still, I read. My mother also told me to stop reading while lying down, but how could I resist? The soft pillow hugged my tired head as I traveled through books. My back flat on the banig, my body welcomed me into a world of comfort.
My mother worked hard, and on her rest days, she often drank with her friends. I understood. The world was harsh to a single mother. I heard chismis about her, even in our own house—a house I shared with my aunt and cousins, with neighbors who were family still. She deserved peace. So, on summer vacations, I stayed either at my grandmother’s house or my cousin’s. Both were sanctuaries. Both offered me attention, warm food, and, of course, books smelling so sweet I imagined myself floating like a cartoon character lured by a pie cooling on a windowsill.
At my mother’s mother’s house, I was at my happiest. Away from the city, away from dust and car honks. I lay on a hammock with a book in my hands. It was an encyclopedia of the natural world, starting with the letter S.
“Did you know a shark’s liver contains so much Vitamin A that consuming it can cause organ damage?”
I read it twice, then flipped the page. But my mind replayed that shark trivia, as if snakes, spiders, and swallows didn’t matter anymore. I needed the shark’s liver. Even after I ate, I couldn’t stop thinking about that monster from the sea. Maybe I could get some, I told myself. I had also read that people in China hunted sharks for their fins. Maybe they could give me some, I fantasized sweetly.
That longing for the shark’s liver grew stronger as school years passed. Each time I was asked to copy from the board. Each time my math teacher discussed an equation I couldn’t follow because the letters and numbers weren’t visible. I sat at the back, defeated. Even in the front row, I couldn’t see.
I tried convincing my mother that my eyes were at their worst. But she wasn’t convinced. It’s because you read books under the blanket, she said, brushing off my worsening state. Maybe it was my fault. Eyeglasses are expensive, and if you wear them, your eyesight will just get worse, she added when I pleaded again. School became punishment. How could I learn when I couldn’t see what was written on the board? I couldn’t even spot my friends when they yelled my name across the field.
In 10th grade, I went home very late. I was afraid to knock, fearing my mother’s anger. But she calmly asked why I was late. I told her the truth—that I had been at a fiesta with friends, and when it got late, they made me ride with a strange man on a motorcycle. He scared me by “joking” he’d make a wrong turn. I couldn’t stray far from him; the house I had to reach was over half an hour away. In the darkness, my broken eyes were useless. Like a lost child clinging to the first adult I saw, I was helpless. If I could just see a lamppost, I murmured, preparing to jump the moment a flash of light appeared. When we finally arrived, he explained it had only been a joke, that I should be careful. But the joke had already shaken me. That night, I cried to my mother and desperately pleaded for eyeglasses, afraid of what might happen next time in the dark. She finally agreed.
I was ecstatic the first time I wore them. At last, I could copy lessons into my notebook without borrowing from a friend! I could take the English quiz without asking to borrow a phone to take a picture of the board. My precious black-rimmed glasses—so simple yet so treasured—were mine. But almost immediately, I was ridiculed. “Mia Kapipay!” they teased, saying I looked like a pornstar. My breasts didn’t help the situation. From then on, I wore my glasses only when necessary—for discussions, activities, or quizzes. The moment the bell rang, I took them off.
Even a year later, I still removed them after class. One day, after working late on a project at a computer shop, I slipped off my glasses before going home. The next morning, I realized they were gone. Not in my pocket, not in my pouch, not in my bag. My chest tightened with dread. I was terrified of my mother’s reaction. A new pair would cost us a month’s worth of groceries!
Back at school, without glasses, I was once again confused. The board blurred into nonsense. I feared failing, but more than anything, I feared my mother’s anger. My hands shook just thinking about it.
And in that moment, I thought again—I wish I could eat a shark’s liver.
Fu Vedic Marchan is a graduate student at the University of Southeastern Philippines.