When Knowing Becomes Knowing

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

That is what learning is.
Not a flash of brilliance
but the slow unfolding of something
you’ve held all your life
like an heirloom tucked in the lining
of an old baro’t saya—
worn,
but stitched with care.

It’s not the first time
your lola says, over tinola and rice,
“ang buhay, parang palay—
kailangan yumuko para di mabali.”
You’re six, drawing hearts
on the condensation of the window,
the radio hums Freddie Aguilar in the background,
and you nod,
not because you understand,
but because you love her voice
more than the meaning.

But then, years later,
you’re twenty-three,
sitting at the back of a rusting jeep
as it crawls through traffic in Molo,
your interview was a disaster,
your umbrella broke,
your heart did, too.
Mud has kissed your heels,
your blouse smells like sweat and wet dust,
and in that exact moment
her voice comes back—
not like memory
but like revelation.

That’s what knowing feels like.
Like biting into ampalaya
in your tita’s dinengdeng,
preparing to grimace—
only to find it
oddly,
quietly
comforting.

Like saying something careless
to your Nanay,
and watching her eyes drop,
her silence drawing a circle around your words.
And suddenly,
the old proverbs sharpen.
They are no longer classroom phrases
but companions to your living.

Learning isn’t new,
Anna.
It’s the tabing na nilalaba tuwing Sabado,
the one that’s fraying at the edges,
but smells like sunshine and wear.
It’s the truth we wear
like tsinelas—
familiar, unnoticed—
until one day,
we step on gravel
and finally feel
how much we’ve walked.