My_Apple_Tree

My apple tree Johna M. Aguilar ON MY fifth birthday twenty-three years ago, I found among my gifts a big picture book. What fascinated me most was its cover showing a big leafy tree with big red ripe fruits hanging from its branches. My sister who bought the book for me gave me a big hug and whispered, “Yes, my dear apple, you now have your own apple tree.” She knew apples were my favorite. On that birthday, my family couldn’t throw me a party. My mother just bought me three apples which she wrapped in a colorful paper. That already made my day, but having an apple tree was something my young heart almost couldn’t believe. I found the picture so fascinating that when I started going to preschool, I’d grab every opportunity to draw my apple tree. And I got excellent marks for my drawings. My first-grade teacher scolded me when I draw an apple tree instead of a mango tree, as she instructed. When I told her apple tree were most beautiful, she smiled and told me that inspite of my stubbornness , I was still her favorite. Unlike the other children of my age who collected all the sort of dolls, I collected books and pictures and drawings of apples and apple trees. Quite odd, some people might think, but during those early years, I already decided to be different. I developed the attitude of standing what I believed in and doing what gave me pleasure and happiness. We were poor and my mother would always tell me that I had to be strong and never feel inferior on account of our status. My family couldn’t shower me with worldly things, but in spite of that, my growing years were promising. My apple tree gave color to my life and brought me honors. One bright Monday morning when I was in Grade 3, I went to school early with my big art envelope. My teacher was sick and another teacher substituted for her. This teacher instructed us to draw with watercolor anything on the theme “My house.” From those two words, I began to create an artwork from my heart. I drew a house where I would like to stay. It was going to be different; it was going to be like a house I saw in one of my picture books. It was a place where I could study and draw and dreamed and sleep by myself. And most of all, it was going to be a place where I could be close to my apple tree. I wanted to impress the new teacher so I put attention to every detail. I finished firs. But my seatmate could hardly suppress his laughter when he saw my work. I knew it was going to be different, but I couldn’t understand why he was laughing. Before we went on recess, the teacher said she would hang the best drawings on the board and just show the rest to class. When we came back, I was dismayed to see that my work was not on display. Then the teacher started shuffling our works one by one. if she liked the work, she asked the class to clap. A queer feeling started to grow inside me when I noticed that she was praising not the way the theme was intended but what was actually drawn. All my classmates tried to draw their own homes. Then the teacher started to make disparaging remarks: “Look at the house of George, did you notice how big it is'” “Oh, let’s take a look of the house of Jose. It’s made of wood and nipa. His father must be a farmer.” And before I could prepare myself for what was to come, she was holding, my work. I had drawn a beautiful tree house, nestled in a big apple tree. My tree was surrounded by different flowers patched like a quilt in a blanket of green grass. “Whose work is this'” she asked as she began to laugh. I stood up as the class began to in her laughter. “I can’t understand why you draw a tree house, “ she said. “Is this where you live' Are you and your families monkeys that live in trees'” and she broke into a loud laughter. I told her, “You asked me to draw my house, not my parents’ house. It’s the house that I would like to have.” Nobody seemed to hear me. I wanted to cry and I almost choked from the lump in my throat. But I just stood there and told myself I had to be strong. Deep inside I was devastated. When classes ended that morning, a storm was ranging inside me even though the sun was at its peak. I went straight home without talking to anybody. I went inside our common room and broke into tears. I went to my drawer, got my precious book and began to tear up its pages. My collection of pictures was next. Then, I went to the mirror, wiped my tears and dumped everything into my trashcan' I went back to school that afternoon without a trace of the morning’s event. But that very day, the artist in me vanished. I changed. I could never draw again. My apple tree was dead. The years passed. I excelled in academics, but never again dabbled in art. That Monday morning, I lost my belief in me. I lost the confidence to stand up for what I believed in. Later, I realized that I was raging not against my teacher or my classmates, but against me for being a fool to believe life was as simple as an apple tree: all you can have to do is look at it, enjoy it, live with it. By being what others wanted me to be, I avoided being ridiculed again. There was emptiness inside me, but I had no regrets about getting rid of my apple tree. Until one Monday when I was twenty-five and engaged to a man I thought I truly loved. The day promised to be just another boring day when I had to interview job applicants. I was beginning to get tired of asking the same questions and getting the same answers. My head began to ache. Then I found myself staring at the last applicant. There was nothing extraordinary about him. He looked just like any other out-of-school lad, tall, ony and fair-skinned, applying for a contractual job. But he had this aura, something deep and colorful that I wanted to explore. Funny, but something in him brought back memories of my apple tree. It must be my headache, I thought. It was twenty minutes past lunchtime. I had to escape. I told Arthur he was hired. Arthur became my subordinate. We were assigned to the same section. He was hard-working. He supported all my objectives and we worked as a team. All was well, except for a strange feeling inside me that I couldn’t ignore. I tried my best to avoid him, but the more I was drawn to him. Worse, he felt the same way. Often our eyes would seek each other out for no reason at all. It’s as if we were soulmates who had drifted apart and now that we found each other, we had so many stories to tell and things to share. We began sharing our thoughts, plans, jokes and secrets. We became the best of friends. We were just swept away into a very close friendship – nothing more. He knew I was engaged, but we chose not to be bothered by it. Then the people around us started seeing things. Rumors spread that Arthur and I were having an affair. My superior informed me that I was going to be transferred to another store. She gave me the best reasons for it, but I was not fooled. They were looking at my relationship with Arthur in a different light. Working in different places did not stop our friendship from growing. Arthur often visited me. I knew my fiancé, was bound to hear the ugly talk about us, so I decided to tell him about Arthur. To my surprise, he said he already knew about it and was just waiting for my “confession.” But confess what' I just found a nineteen-year-old friend and what’s so sinful about that' My fiancé wouldn’t listen to my explanations. He couldn’t believe a single thing I said. He was so angry that he started to believe a single thing I said. He was so angry that he started to curse me and call me a liar and a two-timing cradle snatcher. He said if I would ask for his forgiveness and give up Arthur, he’d take me back and save my honor by not calling our wedding off. I couldn’t believe my ears. I told my parents about it, and to my great sorrow, they sided with my fiancé. How could I be so naïve' they said. People were talking and saying I was a fool to give up a bright future for an out-of –school boy who was just using me. Suddenly, it came back. I was again judged, criticized and ridiculed again. They took away my apple tree twenty-three years ago. Now they were trying to take my best friend away from me. Three days later, I found myself alone in my room. I had reached a major decision. I would take a stand. I would free myself from the bondage of letting other people direct me. I wrote letters to my fiancé, and to my mother. I was calling off my wedding and I explained why. I didn’t hear from my fiancé and up to now, my family is blaming me for what happened. I know I hurt them, but it’s my life not theirs. If I fumble, I have only myself to blame. If I succeed, my pride will be at its fullest. The void had been filled and I started to be full again. I could feel me. One afternoon I was helping Arthur review for his exams when suddenly I felt an energy within me that wanted to escape. My hands feel hot and itchy. I grabbed a pen and a piece of paper. I told Arthur not to move, and began to sketch his face. When I finished, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Tears started falling from my eyes, and he asked me why. I told him about the dreadful; classroom experience. I told him everything. That day my art came back. I could draw again. Not only that I craved for apple. I felt I could eat a whole apple tree.