What is Youth
by: Ibrahim Jubaira
Some nights back, my oldest boy was reading aloud a poem entitled, “To the Filipino Youth" with passable accent and enunciation. When he got through he turned to me and said that he knew what it is to be a Filipino, but what is youth? I thought a while and then said: Youth is the grey imperceptible dawn that precipitates morning: the wet foggy mountainsides and misty hilltops, the sparkling dew on the grass, the wild untrimmed vegetation of life, its carefree undergrowth. Youth is the virgin morning, the seedtime of life; it's the fresh immaculate clouds, the dazzling expanding sun, the cool silvery moon upon which a child's delight is focused with wonder and fascination. It's the vigorous winds, the falling rains, the cascading flow of newly found rivers; it's the shore of life. That is youth, partly youth. But youth, I told my boy, is more than that.
Youth is the first dance you have had, the first stealthy date, the first nervous kiss. It's passions burning like fire. It's holding hands in a semi-private room and talking with your eyes, because mere words have miserably failed. It's tossing in bed, remembering stolen scenes and sleepless nights. It's the first reluctant parting between young lovers. It's possessiveness and jealousy and petty quarrels. But all this, I told my boy, is just a small part of youth.
Youth at times is the shuffling feet of a girl, her whimpers and cries, her endless complaints. It's a boy's fistfights and black eyes in the classroom one moment and then his unequivocal friendship the next. It's scrawls and chalk marks on the walls, the crude writings and drawings on the board; it's a pencil constantly licked by an innocent moist tongue. It's pigtails and fancy ribbons. It's the anxious hand fingering the book, the eyes focused on the board, an eager ear to catch the word. That is youth, partly youth. But then, I told my boy, youth is more than that.
Youth is the ever-questioning boy who has not yet caught the meaning of the world, who is confused by the intricate pattern of life. It's a boy rubbing his eyes, raising his voice to ask: What is beyond that mountain, moon, the sun, and the stars? God could not be sufficient answer, because who made God then? And you ask him to be quiet. Youth then is curiosity and sober thoughts. It's a child hungering for knowledge, because it has not acquired any yet. All this is partly youth. But youth, I told my boy, is more than that.
Youth is a child at play. It's rich laughter in the rain and vigorous running in the sunlight. It's also a child's broken ankle or a lost coin. It's candy and rubber bands and other little things in the child's pockets. At other times it's a child's dirty face. But all this again, I told my boy, is just a small element of youth.
Youth then is a boy or girl laughing and crying on the face of this earth. It's bicycle and bus rides and movies and hitchhiking and reckless, aimless wanderings. It's a robust boy drinking the sweet water of this earth, hugging the sweetness of life, lamenting nothing, because life for youth is more laughter, while heartaches and real sorrows and responsibilities belong to another age, another time, another season.
Now I turned to my boy and asked him if he understood what I was talking about. It was beautiful, he said, more beautiful than his poem. But, he remarked, some parts about mountainsides and the sparking dew or something were a bit confusing. Correct, I told him. Confusion is part of youth. I told him to grow up and he'd understand. Grow up? Yes, I said. Growth is also part of youth. And now would the boy please go to bed?
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