Raincoats, Grass Hooks, and Childhood Echoes

I no longer live in Hong Kong, but every now and then, certain memories pull me back—not to the city’s neon lights or MTR rush hours, but to something much older, much simpler: my childhood in Davao. It was a time when the world felt both small and enormous, when the most exciting part of the day could be a walk home in the rain or a brief escape from class.

Back then, a sanggot—a simple grass hook used to cut tall grass—was a familiar sight in our neighbourhood. You’d see it hanging from a neighbour’s belt or leaning against a wooden post, its curved blade glinting under the sun. It was one of those everyday objects that defined rural life without us even noticing.

School days were their own universe. I may have witnessed bullying, but as a child I interpreted many of those moments as playful roughhousing—classmates chasing each other, wrestling, returning to the classroom as bulingit, sweaty, hair sticking out in all directions, but laughing as if that brief break was the highlight of their day. Looking back, I realise how innocent my interpretation was, but also how much joy we squeezed out of the smallest freedoms.

One of my favourite memories was walking along Kumintang in my raincoat. The weather was wet yet cool, the kind of rain that didn’t feel hostile but comforting.

I’d walk slowly, letting the raindrops drum on my hood, knowing that a hot bowl of champorado was waiting for me at home. I can still picture myself sitting in front of the TV, watching afternoon shows while steam rose from the bowl. It was bliss—quiet, ordinary, perfect.

Those moments felt safe, even though the Davao of that era was far from peaceful. The city was a hotspot for NPA hit squads, and poverty was a constant shadow in many communities. Yet somehow, as children, we carved out pockets of joy. We found wonder in muddy roads, improvised games at our backyards, and the simple comfort of being cared for.

Now, years later, I find myself wondering how today’s kids will remember their own childhoods. Will Gen Z look back with the same warmth, the same vivid sensory memories—the smell of rain, the thrill of a short break from class, the comfort of food waiting at home? Or were we simply romanticising an era that was, in reality, difficult and dangerous?

Maybe both can be true. Maybe childhood has a way of softening the edges of the world, even when the world outside is sharp.

So I ask myself: Do Gen Z kids recall their childhood memories the same way we did? Was I just fantasising that those eras were great, even though danger and hardship were always present? Or is it simply that, as children, we learned to find beauty in the cracks?