“Anyone from my generation who had their eyes glued to their TV sets would remember the words of hope and fortune”
ON MAY 31, the world will once again be reminded of the ill effects of cigarettes. The “World No Tobacco Day,” created by the World Health Organization, aims to educate the public of how a little stick — laden with its own chemicals — could alter one’s body functions. In this sense, the widespread practice of cigarette smoking continues to be highly discouraged by health experts.
Anyone from my generation who had their eyes glued to their TV sets would remember the words of hope and fortune during nighttime.
Born in the decade of the new millennium, I had my great recollection of people having fun on TV. I saw them running across fields, obstacle courses, and sporting events. The soothing siren of their own pied piper allured me to be one in their own world and gaze at their comfort. Then, a cigarette stick would appear, placed within their fingers, and have it lit for their own pleasure.
I was part of the “yosi” generation, where cigarette ads used to rule the airwaves until 2007.
True story. My family — then of three – were listening to an ad for Fortune Cigarettes on the radio. My papa was chiming along with its jingle. Being the only child then, I could remember him having to raise his pitch to match the female singer’s voice. I had the impression he was teasing me into testing my bounds of my own fear. Seeing me in tears made him sustain that shrill.
Dearest me, I was three years old back then!
The thing is, cigarette ads were a part of my childhood. Wait. These commercials, now prohibited from being shown on the air, were my childhood.
Years ago, I began to rewatch some of them online through YouTube. Having to experience their respective campaigns sent me into my own nostalgia. As such, I couldn’t avoid thinking about having to hold a cigarette and, well, smoke!
That thing came to reality. Unfortunately, a twist of bizarre circumstances led me to try and light up a menthol stick.
Last year, I was with a friend, having dinner somewhere in Los Baños. I asked that person out at the very last minute as I wanted to confide my grief of the things I saw at a meeting that I attended earlier that day. It was that distress signal, which was demonstrated in its own form of yearning, that prompted us to walk along and take ourselves to a place near where we ate our late evening meal.
From there, we sat at a small, cemented seat around a tree where, out of curiosity, I began to ask for her cigarettes. She was kind enough to lend me her own stick and have a puff from it. As soon as I inhaled my first stick, I began to cough.
But, oh, the relief. The pleasure. The soothing feeling they used to convey in the ads I grew up with.
These sank into my own system that led me to ask for a second try.
I had fun trying the sticks from her box anyway. Besides, it was my first time. How bad could that go for me, I thought.
Later that night, I began to ask a few acquaintances about the sudden cough and some form of heaviness inside my chest. It was a normal occurrence, they told me. It wasn’t something to worry about.
For a time, I did savor all of what I stood against cigarette smoking. I even began to laugh at the thought of my abhorrence towards it. I realized that smoking is fun when done in moderation. For some reason, I was in another world to be in.
But slowly, the warning signs began to rise. The cravings. The hunger. The desire.
By then, my need for tobacco became my newfound yearning at the day’s end.
Not so long after that night, I began to call the same friend and asked if we could hang out. She agreed. We went to a nearby store outside the campus bounds as we began to talk again about our day.
Quickly, I asked for her yosi. It was menthol. A foreign brand. It was smooth enough for my throat to satisfy my long-awaited craving. I was feeding on my lungs with the same forbidden air.
I have long been against cigarette smoking all my life. Growing up having to use my voice on various occasions and events, I had to be reminded of the need to take better care of it everyday. I later got wind of some PSAs condemning its practice. I saw how these would affect a person’s body upon consuming sticks (or boxes) of it over time.
One’s lungs would take the form of an overcooked inihaw which compromises one’s ability to breathe. The heart would pounce its beat at an irregular pace. Hoarseness could also become permanent. These illnesses, along with others directly related to its consumption, would lead one down to the grave.
Fortunately, my voice gradually returned. From then on, my commitment against cigarette smoking has fostered into something beneath than the usual sloganeering. My experience with that cancer stick was a warning sign for me that I still get to follow every single day, even until now.
I cannot afford to take the same risk anymore. I hope you’ll do the same.
Quit when you still can. Life is too short to breathe heavily.
(The author tries to cure his haywire from his personal grind as he writes essays away from the news. For comments, you may reach him at ngrolando2003@yahoo.com.)
