When I went back to the Philippines, I stumbled upon an unexpected treasure tucked away in a dusty corner of my childhood home—my old slumbook. Seeing it again after so many years was like opening a time capsule, one filled with vivid memories of writing, doodling, and collecting bits and pieces of my younger self and my friends. On one page, under 'Motto,' I had written: 'To be a good girl.' 😁😊 Looking back, I can’t help but laugh at how earnest and adorable it sounds. At the time, it felt like a profound declaration—my personal manifesto of virtue and goodness. Today, it’s a hilarious reminder of how seriously I took myself as a kid, as though writing it down would magically keep me out of trouble (spoiler alert: it didn’t!).
Eversince, I have always been into writing. I was even part of the writer’s club back in school. That passion for scribbling thoughts and ideas must have started here, with my slumbook. It carried with it the echoes of simpler times, untainted dreams, and innocent friendships. Holding it now, it feels like a portal to another era, where the act of writing and collecting small details about ourselves and our friends was more than a pastime; it was the original form of social networking.
Before status updates, selfies, and hashtags ruled the world, the slumbook was where connections thrived. Its pages brimmed with questions that seemed so profound at the time: What is your nickname? What are your hobbies? Who is your crush? These seemingly trivial details held the weight of youthful significance, immortalizing the personalities and quirks of classmates, neighbors, and cousins who wrote in them. Each page was a profile, complete with "likes," "about me," and even a hint of "relationship status."
Filling out a friend's slumbook felt like a big deal. It wasn’t just about answering questions—it was about curating your personality in the best light. Should you admit your favorite TV show is a cartoon? Do you reveal your crush’s name? And what do you write under "ambition" that sounds both impressive and believable? The pressure was real, but so was the joy. This analog version of self-expression was full of colorful pens, doodles, and even strategically placed stickers to showcase creativity.
Flipping through the pages today, the slumbook evokes vivid memories of friendships forged in school corridors, under the shade of playground trees, and during lazy afternoons spent talking about dreams that seemed so far away yet entirely possible. It reminds me of the innocent thrill of asking someone to fill out their page, secretly hoping their answers might include a mention of you or align perfectly with your own.
In many ways, the slumbook was ahead of its time. It had all the elements of modern social media: personal branding, oversharing, and even a touch of voyeurism ( if I can use such a word). Want to know if your crush likes the same band as you? Check their slumbook entry! Curious about a classmate’s dream job? It’s all there in their uneven handwriting, complete with doodles of hearts and stars.
Yet unlike today’s curated and filtered online personas, slumbook entries were raw and unpolished. They captured the essence of who we were in that moment—quirky, awkward, and unapologetically ourselves. Mistakes in spelling, uneven handwriting, and the occasional smear of ink added to their authenticity. The slumbook didn’t demand perfection; it celebrated individuality.
Beyond the nostalgia, the slumbook holds a mirror to the person I once was—a child with big dreams, simple joys, and boundless curiosity. It’s a reminder of how much has changed and yet how much remains the same at the core of who I am. It’s proof that even before algorithms told us who to follow or like, we were already craving connection and self-expression in our own creative ways.
In an era where digital connections dominate, the tangible presence of the slumbook feels even more precious. Unlike social media profiles that can be edited and deleted, the pages of a slumbook are permanent snapshots of a fleeting time. The doodles, misspellings, and playful answers are as real as the memories they represent.
My old slumbook is more than just a childhood keepsake; it is a testament to the beauty of simpler times and a reminder to treasure the connections and moments that shape us. It inspires me to pause, reflect, and perhaps even recreate the tradition, sharing a piece of my present self with others and creating new memories to cherish for years to come. After all, some things—like friendship, creativity, and a good old-fashioned Q&A—never go out of style.
How about you? Were you into slumbooks before?
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