By: Telly Gonzaga-Ocampo
Robin Hood in the Playground of My Young Mind
Robin Hood first came to me not in a book, not on TV, but whispered over a banig in the sala.
Back then bedrooms were for storage. Banig, unlan, ug habol lived there during the day. At night, among kadtong bukharon on the sala floor. That was our bed, our playground, and our theater. While my mother combed our hair, she told stories. Mine always circled back to Robin Hood.
In my mother’s version of the story, Robin Hood was still a boy. He ran through the woods and pulled kids out of danger. In my 7-year-old logic, he could also save us from the tirong, – that shape-shifting beast we were sure lived past the coconut trees. If Robin Hood could outwit the Sheriff of Nottingham, surely he could outwit a tirong. We fully believed in this theory, then.
When school started, English arrived with teachers who knew how to hold a room. They didn’t just read. They performed. Suddenly, Robin Hood wasn’t just a bedtime voice. He was a man grown, with a green hat and a bow, stealing from the rich and feeding the downtrodden. That definition stuck. Protector of kids. Protector of the poor. Hero, period.
English came to us sideways, too. We learned “ready, get set, go” as “ready sigitsit go.” Nobody corrected us because we were all saying it. We shouted it every moonlit night as we played the ibo-ibo, biko-biko, tago-tago in the backyard. You didn’t need proper pronunciation to run fast. You just needed the signal and the moon.
School supplies were simple, then. A box of crayons was treasure. With those crayons and the first coloring books, Robin Hood got a face. Green tunic. Feathered hat. Forest shadows. I colored him over and over until my fingers were stained.
Years passed. The forest became a city. The bow and arrow became an armalite. Television arrived with all its color and noise. Cardo Dalisay in Probinsyano and Batang Quiapo took over. From squatters under the bridge to mansions with gates, the teleserye gave us a new kind of Robin Hood. I watched for a while. Then I got tired. Gikapoy na ko ug gihangak pa gyud sa mga pusilanay ug “buto-buto to the max.” Too much gunfire, too little hope.
So I went back. Back to my Robin Hood in the woods.
Now I’m an octogenarian. Mornings belong to the radio. Nights belong to the news on TV. And lately, with the impeachment trial filling the Senate halls, I’ve met Robin Hood again. Not in Sherwood, but in that chamber. A different landscape, same question: who stands for the downtrodden when the powerful close ranks?
It’s funny how one story can follow you in more than 70 years. From banig on the sala floor, to crayons, to black-and-white TV, to HD news. The setting changes. But the need for a Robin doesn’t.
How about you? How do you describe your Robin Hood in the Senate? In his fight for truth and justice? In our quest for the solution to: corruption, alleged flood control scandals, CONGtractors and TONGgressmen, unliquidated funds, EPALism, political vindictiveness, rude behavior in the chamber, liars, lavish spending, grave threats, poverty, arrogance and incompetence and many more?
Your answer is as good as mine!
