01/05/2025
If you were a 90s kid in the Philippines, you know we grew up in a vibe that was just different. No smartphones, no social media, just us, our friends, and the streets buzzing with life.
Let me take you back, like we’re chilling on a sari-sari store bench, swapping stories under a flickering streetlight.
Picture this: it’s 1995, and you’re rocking your oversized t-shirt, probably with a faded Superman logo, and those chunky rubber shoes that squeak on the linoleum. Mornings start with you bolting out of the house after scarfing down pandesal with a smear of Star Margarine. The neighborhood’s already alive, kids shouting, “Taya!” in a heated game of tumbang preso. You grab an empty sardine can, join the fun, and pray you don’t trip on the uneven pavement. That was our cardio, man, no gym memberships, just pure street hustle.
School was its own universe. You’d walk to the public elementary school with your barkada, backpacks heavy with textbooks and that one precious notebook you’d doodle in during boring classes. The flag ceremony was non-negotiable, line up, sing “Lupang Hinirang” with your hand on your chest, and try not to giggle when someone farts in the back row. Recess meant pooling coins for fishballs or kwek-kwek from the manong outside the gate, orange sauce dripping everywhere. If you were fancy, you had a peso for Chocnut or Flat Tops to share with your seatmate.
Afternoons were for adventure. No one was glued to a screen, so you’d bike around the barangay, dodging stray dogs and jeepneys. Or you’d climb the neighbor’s mango tree, praying Tita doesn’t catch you swiping unripe fruit.
When it rained, you’d fold paper boats and race them in the flooded gutters, cheering like it was the Olympics. And, those merienda moments? Your lola’s kutsinta or turon, fresh from the palayok, hitting different while you listened to her stories about the old days.
Evenings were pure magic. After dinner, adobo or fried chicken, always with rice, you’d huddle around the one TV in the house. Everyone’s fighting over whether to watch “Mara Clara” or “Esperanza,” and your ate always wins. If the brownout hits (and it always does), you’re out on the street with candles, playing taguan under the stars. The older kids would scare you with tales of the white lady in the balete tree, and you’d sprint home, heart pounding, but low-key loving the thrill.
Weekends meant waking up to “Sineskwela” or “Bayani” on the TV, learning science or history while munching on SkyFlakes. If your parents were feeling extra, you’d pile into the tricycle for a trip to SM North or Megamall, back when malls felt like Disneyland. You’d beg for a Jollibee Chickenjoy meal, then spend hours in the arcade, stretching your 5-peso coins on Tekken or Street Fighter. Or maybe you’d hit the palengke with your mom, weaving through stalls of galunggong and kangkong, the air thick with fishy smells and vendors’ banter.
Music was our soul. You’d save up for a pirated cassette of Eraserheads or Rivermaya, blasting “Ligaya” or “Kisapmata” on your clunky Walkman. If you were lucky, you had a cousin with a karaoke machine, and you’d belt out “My Heart Will Go On” like you were Celine Dion, neighbors clapping or cringing. And those slam books? Passing them around, answering “Who’s your crush?” and “What’s your motto?”, that was our version of posting a status.
Life was raw, unfiltered. You fought with your best friend over a game of pogs, made up the next day, and planned your next “battle” with tazos. You learned to haggle with the taho vendor for an extra scoop of sago. You felt like a king when you won a round of text, those cardboard cards were currency. And when you got your first crush, you’d write their name in code on your pencil case, heart racing every time they borrowed your Mongol #2.
We didn’t have likes or followers, but we had loyalty. Your barkada was your tribe, through the scraped knees, the secret crushes, the times you got sent to the guidance counselor for being too rowdy. We talked face-to-face, laughed till our sides hurt, and dreamed big without a filter. The world was our chatroom, and every day was a new thread.
That’s what it was like, growing up Pinoy in the 90s. Just us, the streets, and a whole lot of heart. What’s your favorite 90s memory, pare? Bet you’ve got a story that’ll make me nostalgic all over again.
