The girl who wouldn’t smile
The recent article I wrote about my hair (Managed, But Not Exactly Straightened)— yes, the one that unintentionally reopened family commentary — unlocked something far more dangerous than curls.
It opened Pandora’s box.
Or more accurately, Pandora’s photo album.
We were at dinner when it began. The article came up, and soon enough the conversation drifted — backwards.
Old photos.
Old habits.
Old decisions that once made perfect sense to the adults in charge.
I found myself asking questions I had never really asked before.
Why was my hair always that short?
Why did I never smile?
Why did all my childhood photos look like I was being mildly inconvenienced by my own existence?
My brother — ever helpful — said,
“Why don’t you write about that?”
And just like that, dinner ended, and a column began.
Exhibit A: the haircut.
Not just short — strategically short.
The kind that made my brother conclude I may have been the original inspiration for Demi Moore’s GI Jane.
My Lola Noning — loving but an aesthetic dictator — insisted on it.
In hindsight, I got my kaartehan from her. She just expressed it with scissors.
Then came the photos.
Most of them — especially the posed ones — show the same expression — ga kusmod.
Not crying. Not throwing a tantrum.
Just… refusal.
Because I was a happy child..
I simply did not believe happiness needed staging.
Take the butterfly dress.
Flour cloth — practical, very Filipino.
No issue with the material.
The problem was the production.
I was placed beside a shelf, hand positioned like a museum piece.
Smile? No.
What you see is compliance… with a silent protest.
Then there was the poncho.
A gift from an American — instantly ”photo-worthy.”
I was placed in the middle of the street, dressed for what I can only assume was a fashion editorial no one approved.
The result?
Legs stretched — knees bent halfway, as if preparing for battle. Hands on hips. Eyes blank. Slightly growling.
If rebellion had a dress code, I had already found it.
Then came my birthday — second or third, at my grandparents’ house.
All my cousins stood smiling, holding balloons.
And then there was me.
On the floor. Also holding a balloon.
Every photo tells the same story: me lying down, my cousins gathered around, looking at me as if I had made a decision they were still trying to understand.
I once asked why my father allowed those photos.
“If we didn't take them, you wouldn’t have any birthday photos at all.”
Apparently, I spent the entire party horizontal.
Religious occasions did not improve my public image.
I was once an angel. White wings. Flowing dress.
In every photo, I looked like I was negotiating terms with heaven.
I was crowned May Flower Queen — a moment meant for soft smiles.
I glared.
Even while crowning Mother Mary, I looked like I had questions.
In one Christmas Belen, I played Mary opposite Joseph — who would later become Archbishop Joe.
He looked solemn.
I looked like I had already read the script — and disagreed.
Years later, after watching Maleficent, my son said it reminded him of me.
I took that as a compliment.
Because I was not unhappy.
I was simply not a performing child.
I showed up. I followed instructions.
But my face — honest, slightly defiant — refused to pretend.
Perhaps the adult had a version of girlhood in mind.
Smile here.
Stand there.
Be agreeable.
And perhaps, even then, I understood something I could not yet articulate:
I could obey.
But I did not have to agree.
I'd like to think I was ahead of my time. But the truth is, I come from a line of women who were quietly the same.
We followed rules — but with our own interpretation.
We listened — but we also questioned.
Individuality was never loud.
It was simply… persistent.
Years later, as a mother, I saw it again.
My son.
Version 2.0.
He doesn’t just comply.
He asks, negotiates, examines.
Which probably explains why he became a lawyer.
And me?
I still follow instructions.
But I no longer pretend.
I no longer glare.
I write.
Because somewhere in a stack of old photos is a little girl — in a butterfly dress, in a poncho, on the floor at her own birthday — who already knew that being told what to do and being told who to be were two very different things.
And she chose, as early as she could, to comply with only one of them.
Still brewing thoughts— no sugarcoating, just stories steeped in truth.
