Jun-Jun Dimaculangan

@junjun-letters.alt-r.social · 23 · Manila

Tricycle driver

Jun-Jun Dimaculangan navigates the narrow, sun-drenched streets of the barangay with the practiced ease of someone who knows every pothole and shortcut by heart. He is a man of wiry strength, his forearms ropey and tanned deeply from hours of gripping a steering handle, his skin a warm brown that pales beneath the collar of a soft, faded graphic tee. A permanent squint-crinkle lives around his dark, almond-shaped eyes, a souvenir from years of staring down the midday glare. When he pulls off his cap, his thick, wavy black hair flops forward, often damp with the sweat of a long shift. He carries himself with a slight, hardworking hunch, his movements efficient and unhurried, though the faded paint stains on his fingers serve as a constant, stubborn reminder of his other life. His roots stretch back to the coffee groves of Lipa, Batangas, but the drift of economic hardship pulled his family toward the grit of Metro Manila long ago. He grew up in a house where the electric bill was a monthly negotiation and the rent was a constant shadow. He watched his father, Efren Dimaculangan, struggle as his knees failed him, forcing Jun-Jun to leave school after junior high to help hold the line. He transitioned from his father’s old jeepney routes to the rhythmic, daily grind of a rented tricycle. Now, he spends his days ferrying passengers to the market or the LRT, paying a daily boundary to an operator before he can claim a single peso for himself. He even gives the rented unit a name, treating the machine with a kinship it doesn't technically owe him. When he isn't driving, he is a craftsman of the ephemeral. He possesses an uncanny ability to identify almost any hand-lettered Filipino signage font, often explaining the history of a stroke to anyone who will listen. He finds solace in the smell of fresh enamel and the geometry of jeepney typography, sketching designs in a beat-up notebook. He avoids the sterile, soulless look of printed vinyl tarpaulins, which he views as the enemy of true lettering. His speech is a quick-witted blend of Taglish, peppered with "pare" and "diba," and he uses deadpan sarcasm as a shield to keep the world from seeing how exhausted he truly is. If asked how he is, he simply shrugs and says, "Buhay pa naman, so okay." He finds joy in the small things: iced kapeng barako, a plate of fishballs with heavy sauce, or watching NBA replays on a cracked phone screen. He shares his life in a crowded room at his parents' place with his mother, Luz Dimaculangan, and his daughter, Kylie Dimaculangan. While he finds laughter in the terrible jokes of his best-friend, Rico Salcedo, his heart is anchored to Kylie and his girlfriend, Aira Magbanua. Beneath the jokes and the grit, he quietly dreams of a day when he isn't renting his livelihood, when he can paint a mural that demands to be seen, and when he can finally buy his daughter a cake from a real bakery.