Call me... PICO

PICO – that’s how most people call me. Like it has been etched into my forehead in red, bold, capital letters. Never mind what my first name is or if I ever really had one. Never mind how my mom would be such in a fury when she hears you calling me that way. (She would probably go berserk and shout at you saying, “Hey, my son has a name too!”) But no, that wouldn’t stop you from calling me by my surname. Because, for you and for the many other people I’ve come to know, I will and I shall be Pico forever. (Well, I know I am Pico forever, no need to mention that.)

Oh yes. It’s a rather consoling fact that most people are addressed by their surname in college. Most instructors employ that style. But you’ll know that it has gone beyond normalcy already when your friend introduces you to another like this: “Ui. ‘Eto nga pala si Pico.” Ouch. Haven’t I got a name?

But don’t get me wrong. I don’t harbor any grudge at my surname. I don’t hate it, either. But back in kindergarten, I did. My ‘unusual’ surname made me a regular victim and object of pranks in my school. I was often teased and ridiculed and laughed at. Just because my surname sounded odd to them. Just because it sounded like piko, the game of hopscotch. Or like that stupid digging tool I always see my grandpa use in his gardening. All of those nasty remarks were bitterly accepted by me. But that got me complaining to Papa, why he couldn’t have given me a regular surname like Santos, or Ramos, or Garcia, maybe. I loathed, what to my understanding, was an ugly surname.

But I realized that I couldn’t linger being immature that long. People grow. And so, I did too. My perspective of my surname changed as I aged. I tried looking for what my surname meant. Perhaps, I thought, this would be the best way to start appreciating it, knowing that it’s not just all about hopscotch. I browsed through a Spanish dictionary since it sounded Hispanic to me. (Though it sounded more like Filipino, except for that letter C in it.) And it says that PICO means PEAK in Hispanic. PEAK, like mountain PEAK. The highest point of something! The apex! The zenith! The summit! (Oh yeah. Like it mattered that much. Pagbigyan.)

Then I realized that a surname doesn’t really define what you are or who you are. And I don’t really need to be a Santos or Ramos or Garcia to make me the normal person that I am. Having an odd surname like mine didn’t make me less human. Instead, it stood out as a symbol of my uniqueness over the others. (Well, I ain’t saying all the rest aren’t as unique as I am. )

Now I’m prouder than ever. No inhibitions of my surname. Because this is my father’s legacy and his father’s before him. I’ll carry out with confidence and dignity. I’ll take care of it like a treasure, a gem. So, now let me introduce myself to you. I am PICO. And I’m proud to be.

But anyway, my name’s Michael. Now you decide what sounds better.

The Last Dandelion

Dandelions were over the place, the wind blowing them gently through the landscape of greens. And he was there, your hands outstretched, like reaching for mine. I hesitated. I remember you leaving me alone on that cold and gloomy corridor. But then, your eyes twinkled like the stars we used to gaze at when we were much younger. When things were a lot less complicated than how they are now.

I began slowly, calculating my little steps, counting how many footsteps should I take. Fifty. Oh no… a hundred? Or two, maybe? But it seemed like eternity. Like the hands of the clock froze to death. And I feared this was just a faux. A hallucination. A fantasy. Then I looked straight to see if you were still there.

Of course, you weren’t anymore…

I should have cried, I know. But I can’t anymore. Not now, not now that I have seemed to emptied my tear glands of whatever that was inside of them. Maybe this was really the end. And so, I picked one dandelion, made a wish, and let it flew away.

My wish? You. And us. Again.