(2016) AHWW 21 Zine

THE 21ST ATENEO HEIGHTS WRITERS WORKSHOP FEBRUARY 6–8, 2016 R I V E R V I E W, C A L A M B A , L A G U N A

HEIGHTS 20th Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop Zine Copyright 2016 Copyright reverts to the respective ­authors and ­artists whose works appear in this issue. No part of this book may be ­reprinted or reproduced in any means whatsoever ­without the written permission of the copyright holder.

This publication is not for sale.

Correspondence may be addressed to: Heights, Publications Room, MVP 202 Ateneo de Manila University P.O. Box 154, 1099 Manila, Philippines Tel. no. (632) 426-6001 loc. 5448 heights - ateneo.org HEIGHTS is the official literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University.

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THE 21ST ATENEO HEIGHTS WRITERS WORKSHOP FEBRUARY 6–8, 2016 R I V E R V I E W, C A L A M B A , L A G U N A

PA NEL ISTS Mark Anthony Cayanan Allan Alberto N. Derain Allan Popa Dr. Edgar Samar Dr. Vincenz Serrano Martin Villanueva

FEL L OW S Marco Bartolome [ESSAY ] Luigi de la Pe単a [TULA] Je ro me F lor [T ULA] Mark Christian Guinto [TULA] Martina Herras [TULA] Christine Imperial [POETRY ] Jonnel Inojosa [SANAYSAY ] Angela Lee [ESSAY ] Angela Natividad [POETRY ] Joshua Uyheng [POETRY ]

Ta ble of Co nt e nt s Introduction • 9 Marco Bartolome • 11 Luigi de la Peña • 21 Jerome Flor • 27 Mark Guinto • 33 Martina Herras • 45 Christine Imperial • 51 Jonnel Inojosa • 57 Angela Lee • 65 Angela Natividad • 75 Joshua Uyheng • 81

Introduction

Since its inception in 1995, the Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop (AHWW) has served as a space in which selected students of the Ateneo community develop their writing under the guidance of established writers. With critiquing sessions, writing activities, and lectures, the AHWW has always sought to continue and further literary excellence within the university.

Twenty-one years later, the AHWW continues to be one of Heights’ flagship projects, a big tradition for the publication and organization, and a way for Heights to continue serving the Ateneo. As this year’s workshop director, I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of applications that we received. With over sixty portfolios to evaluate, the initial screening process was a difficult task. Our readers, comprised of Heights alumni and faculty members of the School of Humanities, remarked how talented this year’s applicants were. The ten selected fellows, whose works are featured in this special online issue, were certainly representative of the kinds of writers that we were looking for: passionate, purposeful, and fully committed to learning.

When it comes to literary excellence, I want to emphasize one thing: Writing is a process that does not simply mean getting from Point A up to Point B; beginning and ending a work with skill and satisfaction. To me, and to many of us in Heights, writing is both an arduous and ardent task. It requires constant practice, openness to criticism, and a desire to grow. The workshop, in all its twenty-one years, has always strived to promote these attitudes among its fellows and panelists. More importantly, the workshop is a reminder that students continue to write, that our faculty members and alumni are still eager to learn, that the practice of writing is very much alive in our community. I’d like to think that the AHWW, like many other writing workshops in the country, is a meaningful way for us to continue, appreciate, and give progress to literary tradition.

On behalf of the editorial board and workshop committee, I would like to thank our fellows: Marco Bartolome, Luigi de la Peña, Jerome Flor, Mark Guinto, Martina Herras, Christine Imperial, Jonnel Inojosa, Angela Lee, Angela Natividad, and Joshua Uyheng for your participation in this year’s AHWW. I also cannot begin to express my gratitude for our readers: Deirdre Camba, Tina del Rosario, Abner Dormiendo, Julz Riddle, Nikay Paredes, Paolo Tiausas; and our esteemed panelists: Mark Anthony Cayanan, Edgar Calabia Samar, Allan Derain, Allan Popa, Vincenz Serrano, and Martin Villanueva. Thank you for your time and patience. It was an honor to have each of you part of this yearly endeavor.

In this special issue you will find works of the fellows—pieces from their portfolio that they have selected themselves—that they revised after the workshop. You will also find their personal statements about writing, some of which touch on their personal

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development as a writer, their artistic influences, and their AHWW experience. I hope that you enjoy them.

Catherina Dario Associate Editor April 2016

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M A R C O B A R TO LO M E

From as early as I can remember, my understanding of the essay had always been limited to seeing it as an argumentative tool sustained by cold, hard, and verifiable fact. I had seen it as a necessarily fixed and tightly-woven form, with an impenetrable argumentative structure. It wasn’t until I encountered works like Stephanie Shi’s “Projectile,” Norman Maclean’s “A River Runs Through It,” or Virginia Woolf’s “Street Haunting: A London Adventure” that I was faced with the potential of the essay as form.

In “The Essayification of Everything,” Christy Wampole writes that the attraction of the essay comes in its ability to provide an alternative to “dogmatic thinking.” As Wampole notes, the essay, in the origin of the form as popularized by Michel de Montaigne in 1580, comes from the French verb ‘essais,’ which roughly translates to ‘attempts.’ To begin to write an essay, in this sense, is to always attempt at something—perhaps to attack at the complexity of a situation or a preoccupation that perplexes the essayist.

And I find that this attempt is never one that guarantees success or a clear cut path from point A to point B. Often, in the face of such a complex issue, the essayist is forced to meander through the twist and turns of experience, to become more honest as psychic defenses are lowered in the face of perplexity, or to come to an acknowledgement that perhaps things can never be resolved and wrapped neatly like a present. And perhaps, it is this resistance to oversimplify things, to be content with a universalist comprehension of the complexities of one’s preoccupations that lead me to an interest in the essay.

“Stillness” was one of the first few works I had written at the onset of my interest in the essay. In its earliest form, it was a narrative essay that focused on my relationship with my father, with the figure of the car as the incidental background image. Since then, the work has seen countless revisions (many thanks to my nonfiction professor and ‘mentor’ Sir Martin), and the work eventually turned towards fragments as I began to expand the essay, and go beyond my experiences with my father and beyond the space of the car.

The essay, in its current form, owes a lot to the panelists and my co-fellows.

Words aren’t enough to express how grateful I am and how much I’ve learned from all those involved in the workshop. Until now, I find myself thinking about how else I can improve. Thank you all for your comments and especially for the humbling experience.

There is still so much for me to learn and to explore as an essayist, and I hope to one day find a way to, as Dr. Vince Serrano put it quite nicely, bring my essays to the brink of collapse.

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Stillness

When people ask me for the earliest memory I can recall, my immediate answer is pushing my older sister off my favorite toy horse. They are shocked to know that I was violent as a child. In truth, I don’t remember what age I was then, but the story of my violence is enough to impel them to share more stories of pushing or being pushed. It’s a story I’ve gathered from albums: my sister on the horse, while I reach for its side. My eyes are wide, looking at the camera. My mouth, a frown. The only things I truly recall are the horse and me, crying for my turn. There was probably a tantrum involved, but back then, I could barely even topple my sister. I leave this out of my story.

The second memory, I keep to myself. I remember asking my lola to cut out the shape of a fish’s tail from the red- and white-striped National Bookstore bag. She took the cutout shapes, and with pieces of tape, wrapped them around the legs of my sister’s Barbie doll. To my five year old self, it looked just like the Ariel I spent hours watching on VHS. I was amazed with how quick a human doll could turn into a mermaid. My father, however, was not. The birthmark near his right eye used to make me think he was angry because it looked more like a wound and made me think of blood. He insisted that I stick to my own toys: race cars, robots, and mechanical animals.

That Christmas, my father bought me a bright orange Hot Wheels track, with a vertical loop and two navy-blue racers. The night I got it, I watched the cars zoom across the track like lightning bolts—from a steep drop, past a sharp turn, across the death-defying loop de loop, and back at the start once more. In my head, two racers were competing toe-to-toe in a never-ending race. It reminded me of Speed Racer and his white race car. I learned to love that race set, even when I learned that the cars wouldn’t always make it across the loop de loop. I had turned six then, and it meant the world to me that the track came with a big loop de loop. Back then, I was convinced that I would one day grow up to be a race car driver. It was the only toy I played with for days; I refused to set it aside, until I eventually grew out of my fascination for race cars. * It was probably like any other car, but my father’s gold Toyota Corolla impressed me back then. Withholding tends to make things more amazing for a child. He would drive the car every morning to Ortigas, and return late at night.

There was always someone to scold me whenever I tried to stay up late and sneak a peek at the car coming into the garage. Other times, they’d try to scare me. I had grown up fearing a number of things: dogs, the dark, the hair salon. They’d tell me someone like Erap would come and take me away because staying up was against the law. It was

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a company car, so I never had the privilege of riding it with just my father. I eventually learned that the flood of light meant retreat back to bed. One night, before I could run back to the room I shared with my sister, my dad had caught me still up. He surprised me with a tin full of Pokémon trading cards as an early birthday gift and asked me if I was excited for my party the following day.

I asked my mother once why she insisted the Corolla was gold when the paint was clearly silver. It wasn’t until I got a closer look at the paint job that I realized that it had a faint brown sheen to its metallic coat, like the gold-colored pencil I’d show off to my classmates. I became aware that the Corolla was there more and more. The car was parked in its spot; my father was abroad—Vietnam or Hong Kong—for a business meeting. He would refrain from calling the house landline because it was too expensive, but it had never occurred to me to look for him—even now, when he no longer travels. It was a part of his job to be constantly travelling, my mother explained once. She worked too, but back then, she never had to fly out like my father. Even after my father turned in the Corolla for another car, I dreamt of maybe driving a Corolla one day to work like my father.

I used to run around the garage and pretend to be a race car or a dinosaur in the Corolla’s empty parking space. At times, I’d mimic characters from the Disney movies I watched by myself on VHS: Li Shang during the training montage, Prince Philip in his fight with the dragon, or Prince Eric as he steered the ship to pierce Ursula. I’d cry whenever I’d scrape my knees or elbows against the concrete. My yaya would always scold me, and remind me the princes in the Disney movies never cried. Neither did every other character I learned to admire at that age. We owned a basketball, but I never learned how to shoot or dribble, unlike the other boys who lived along Starlight Street. The house across ours had a basketball hoop attached to their gate. From behind the black metal gate, I would watch them play basketball with each other. * The first time I sat in the driver’s seat, I panicked and lifted my foot from the clutch too fast when the stoplight turned green. We were along Gil Fernando Ave. Namatay yung engine, my driving instructor told me, as if I hadn’t noticed the car stop shaking. The cars behind me were honking, telling me I was being an inconvenience. I rushed to start the engine once more, but it kept dying whenever I would release the clutch. My instructor had to guide me through the steps again and again. My sister, seated at the back, kept quiet the entire time I was learning. By the time I had gotten the engine to start, the stoplight had turned red once more.

That evening, my mother asked my father why he insisted on having my sister and me learn how to drive manual when all our cars then—the Tucson, the Starex, and the Benz—were all automatic. The lessons for driving a manual car were more expensive than the lessons for an automatic car. My father told her it was a good life skill to have, in case I was forced by circumstance to drive a manual car. At least, I would be prepared.

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He had been the one who taught her how to drive. My mother would often joke that my dad couldn’t get mad at her while she was still learning because he had been courting her then. After learning how to drive manual, learning how to drive an automatic car wouldn’t be a problem, my father explained.

My sister did a considerably better job handling a manual car. Though she had made the same mistake of lifting her foot too early, she eventually learned to time when to lift her foot so that the clutch released with ease. Months before, she had complained to my dad that all her blockmates were getting their licenses—and they were just seventeen.

In just a few sessions, she had learned how to park the car both facing towards and facing away the parking block without having the engine die. She found it exhilarating. During every session, I would watch her practice her turns from the back seat, my sweating palms gripping the seat covers.

After our first day of driving lessons, she asked our driver if she could drive the Benz from the village gate to our house. We had spent the day practicing our turns on the streets by the empty lots behind Marquinton. Our driver obliged, even when our dad made it explicit that we weren’t allowed to drive until we were done with all sessions.

Shet, I know how to drive! she exclaimed as we approached the house. She turned to me and asked, Don’t you like driving? I told her I did. I just hated having to deal with the clutch. * I can hear my tito strumming his guitar in the background. I assume it is my father who is taking the video. The camera is focused on my sister. She opens her gifts and dances out of excitement. The camera pans to the left and I can see my cousins playing, my grandparents conversing, and Kindergarten me entering the shot. I am running with a toy robot in hand. A voice—my lolo or a tito, perhaps—asks me: Who is your girlfriend?

I reply: Ara! The room laughs. Another voice tries to clarify: girlfriend or girl friend? but I run out of the shot. * I often found myself being partnered up with Ara. As we lined up to enter the chapel—two lines, one for boys and another for girls—she would do her best to have me beside her. She would tell me I was shorter than the other boys, even though I wouldn’t believe her. Even when I tried to argue with her, none of the other boys agreed. They always wanted to be taller, even just through insistence. The arguments would always end with the nuns asking me to keep quiet, as they began lead us into the chapel.

I eventually resigned to being paired off with her, and she became my dedicated playmate. We kept each other balanced on the seesaw, and I would follow after her when she would go up the slide. Sometimes, we would share snacks from her pink lunchbox.

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Her headband and hair ties were also pink, like most girls her age. The nuns who ran our school thought we were cute together. I remember that she had tried to hold my hand once, but I said no.

My relatives insisted it was a crush. She had liked me, I liked her, and that we would one day end up together. My lolo used to joke: Your girlfriend, Ara? Ara Mina? He had kept a calendar of Ara Mina in a bikini back at his house in Sorsogon. He showed it to me once, when my parents left my sister and me with him for the summer. In an old photo album, there is a photo of me and Ara walking down the graduation aisle, side-by-side. It is my mother’s favorite story to retell.

Ara and I became classmates again for one of our outreach classes in college. By then, our mothers were working for the same company, and my mother would often ask me if I remembered her or if she remembered me. I couldn’t help but remember her still as the girl with the pink lunchbox, the girl who had tried to hold my hand. She did not seem to remember me when I introduced myself to her once more. * At twelve, I noticed that I was starting to grow hair underneath my armpits. They were barely visible, but I still did my best to hide them. During PE, I would turn my back to my classmates, as they showed off the hair growing on their arms, legs, and even their privates. Some were starting to develop muscle from countless hours of playing basketball during recess and lunch. The difference had become noticeable, especially when voices started dropping. I wondered when I would experience these changes, too. It was common then to be sent to the grade level coordinator for indecent exposure. The first time I saw another boy’s penis, I was already seventeen and two days away from graduating from high school. My classmates then always got a kick out of yelling bading! at anyone who looked for too long. The label would often stick. A boy in another class was teased because he had stared a few seconds too long at his classmate’s abs. Sometimes, they would tease me when I would catch a glimpse. I eventually learned to look straight ahead instead.

One of my mother’s cousins remarked that I was starting to look more and more like my father. I had his eyes and his nose. I had his smile, too. But fairer skin, just like my mother. My father pointed out that my sister’s friends were starting to notice me. If only I talked more and seemed less masungit. The frown on my face always seemed to scare people off. Another relative said that the girls I’d be meeting better watch out; that my future girlfriend couldn’t be prettier than my mother, otherwise I’d be in trouble. During a ride home, my father said that the reason why girls were crushing on me was because I inherited his looks. He asked me when I planned to start putting muscle on my bones.

It was around that time that the other boys from my school started visiting Miriam more and more. To them, it made sense to have an all-girls school right beside an all-boys school. They wanted to know the girls who guest starred in every school play. The Miriam girls, on the other hand, would visit us during our Feast of the Guardian Angels. I

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would hide in my classroom every time to avoid getting caught by the infamous marriage booth. I didn’t want to get paired off with a girl I didn’t know—or worse, another boy.

It was the marriage booth that caused trouble for my class during the seventh grade, because we had allowed boys to marry other boys. It had been a common joke then to treat another boy as a significant other. I had never really understood the appeal of it, and whenever anyone from my class would try it on me, I would grumble and tell me to leave them alone. The teachers saw the joke as harmless when the other boys did it, and while I had never joined in on their joking, I had also never bothered to question why it had been permissible for them.

But a boy had been made to kiss another boy under our supervision. Our grade level coordinator expressed how disappointed she was that Catholic school boys were allowing same-sex marriages on campus—even if all those marriages had been jokes—when both the Church and the state didn’t allow it. To want to kiss another boy was fine, but school was not the time or the place for such behavior. What would our Jesuit headmaster think? * The classroom is always noisy during breaks. Open notebooks are vandalized: an imprint of the word sex, a penis, or a penguin. There are two students piled on top of each other; one is bent over a desk. He is being dry humped. Their friends are laughing, and you know it’s probably the same in the other classrooms. You and your friends keep your distance, enough to hear them behave like animals. But not near enough so they can hear you say that. You pause to make fun of your gay classmate once he leaves. Someone copies the way he sways his hips as he walks. You hear someone quote the Michael V. song: Hindi siya bakla, babae siya! It’s what everyone does. I’ve gotten used to it, he tells you, even without you asking. Your teacher mistakes you for one another and you tell yourself it’s because you share the same initials: JM. * My tito once told me that when my father was in high school, he would drive his own car to school. My grandfather had faked my father’s age to get him a license. Back then, there was no Metro Manila Skyway to and from Ateneo so getting his license early was convenient, my father explained once. The photos of him in the yearbook I found in our school library showed that he looked no different; just smaller and leaner. We were the same size and weight: 29” waist and 120 pounds.

He wasn’t an achiever by any means, but my mother told me my father used to join street racing competitions when he was sixteen. I didn’t see his trophies until we moved to a new house, when I was sixteen. He had kept them hidden, above the refrigerator. My father was never one to brag about any of his accomplishments. They are

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lined up now on the topmost shelf of my parents’ bedroom—fourteen 1st place trophies.

Until now, I find them hard to reach without a chair. A faded photo of his racing car rests on his desk.

My father had also met my mother when he was in high school and started dating her come college. My father never told me anything else about his dating life—just that he met my mother at a soiree. He always avoided questions. My tito and tita hinted at him dating other girls, too, but they never told me anything more. * I met Joshua in high school during freshman year, even though he swore we went to the same grade school. I didn’t recall seeing his face, even when I found out we had joined the same club during the seventh grade. He was seated beside me and mocked the way I walked. He would walk beside me, head down, hands to the side, with an exaggerated pace. Hulaan niyo kung sino ako, he would tell our classmates. It irritated me to no end. I learned that he acted this way, too, around his friends and track teammates.

I learned to tolerate him, for the most part. He was an efficient worker and always took the shortest way possible. He cheated off of me during class activities; he would poke my arm repeatedly until I noticed him. Put your arm down, I can’t see the answer, he would say. I eventually learned to tilt my seat at an angle, so he could get a better view, even after when he stopped asking for my answers. It had gone beyond routine. During first summer we shared as classmates, when a stranger had called my phone and started asking for personal details for some gym membership, he tried to prank that stranger back. He told me to stop talking to strangers, and we started talking more after that. At times, he would vandalize my notebook and cover them in penguins that overlapped with my notes. I had to apologize to my teacher when she inspected my notebook for notes.

He tried to draw a better penguin when he gave me a card a few days after my fifteenth birthday, some unspoken apology for pushing me past my limits. I had gotten mad at him when he pointed out I was letting a lot of classmates hug me. I had made it a point, then, to ignore him and made sure he knew. And though my reasons for doing so were petty in retrospect, I still found myself trying to justify what I did when he would ask me why I had gotten mad in the first place later on. There was nothing malicious about a hug from another classmate. In the card, he told me to learn to relax; I always looked stiff when I walked.

I assured myself that it was admiration or maybe envy. A classmate had told me that he couldn’t help but idolize Joshua. Even teachers were impressed. He was a varsity athlete and a first honor awardee; he didn’t even have to try to achieve. I had witnessed him cram his homework the morning of every deadline, and when we became friends, I had become complicit to this. I would lend him the homework I had worked on the night before for him to copy. A QPI of 3.92 was tough to beat—his only B+ then, Music. It was something I would never achieve throughout high school, and even when I eventually

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ranked 10th in the batch during my last year, I felt bad because I had tried. * One of the first things the nuns taught us back in Kindergarten was that to be considerate of others meant to know when to be silent and to accept. In the peace of silence, one could hear God whispering. There was a time and place for noise. But always in moderation.

When praying in our school’s chapel, I would clasp my hands tight to remind myself not to make any more noise.

Though not the exact words taught to me, the lesson had stuck because of how the nuns scolded me every time I was too loud or whenever I ran in the classroom.

They’d ask me why I couldn’t be like my sister or my classmates—always obedient. Once, I was running—crying—to the janitress to ask her to help me tie my shoelaces, which my classmate had untied. A nun stopped me mid-run, slapped my hand, and told me to stand in the corner, my back facing everyone else to remind them not to misbehave. The other children would refuse to talk to me after each punishment.

It was my father who first noticed I wasn’t talking or running as much as before.

In photos from my grade school years, as opposed to when I was younger, I am always hiding behind something in the presence of faces I barely remember: behind my silver GameBoy Advance, behind my mother, behind my folded arms. It wasn’t until late into high school that I began to smile for photos. There had always been something about seeing the way my mouth would curve and my eyes would squint in a photo that made me uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because I would often be forced to see my features as they are—and not how I would imagine them. A dimple on the left cheek and a smile like my father’s. In the pictures from my childhood that show my face, I am either frowning or confused—perhaps taken by surprise.

My father thought I was being rude whenever I was quiet. He and my mother always made the effort to make small talk, even with people they didn’t know. Conversations, he taught me, built connections, which were important for when I’d grow older. That was why he would make it a point to scold me every time we would get back to the CR-V to drive home after a dinner with his or my mother’s friends. Their friends would ask me what grade I was now in Ateneo; who I thought played better: LA Tenorio or Enrico Villanueva; if I hated La Salle. I remember someone adding: Hala ka, Tito Marco comes from La Salle. I would make an unintelligible noise, as if to ward them off, but my parents would always answer for me.

I had always thought of silence as the easiest way out of things, in spite of my parents’ lectures. In silence, I was unyielding. Eventually, they learned to stop nagging and I learned to speak up. But even then, only when it was necessary to respond, out of politeness. I would answer questions about my age and my course, about a student from my batch (and if I knew him) or what I planned on doing with a degree in Literature.

When asked if I have a girlfriend or a girl in mind, I would politely say no, and add

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nothing more than the standard I’m too focused on my academics. To that, my mother would quickly add Kaya ganyan QPI niya, and the conversation would shift back to them. * We were sophomores when Joshua first opened up to me about his father. He had insisted on taking me out to get frozen yogurt from the same store he had introduced me months ago. We had to climb to the second floor of the building near Bo’s Coffee to reach it.

During exam week, we would walk to the store and spend hours together on a haphazard pile of bean bags.

At that point, Joshua and I had spent a number of hours talking to one another over the phone. It became our routine to text each other whenever we were bored during the Christmas break. He had asked me once if I considered him as one of my close friends, to which I answered yes, but he argued back asking how I could say that when I knew so little about him. I couldn’t name his favorite color or his favorite film when he could name mine, and it didn’t hit me until then that I knew so little about his life outside of school. It frustrated me, and when I told him that, he apologized and told me he would be more open about himself. The closeness that we shared had been new to him—and to me as well.

His father didn’t want him to slack off. He had worked hard to get to where he was—at eighteen, in between college and jobs to support his pregnant wife—and he wanted Joshua to exert the same amount of effort. All Joshua wanted to do was relax.

Back in freshman year, I heard from someone that Joshua had gotten a girl pregnant. He had pushed her off the stairs in a confrontation. Another classmate told me he had always been torpe. I never found the courage to ask him which one was true.

He stopped talking about his father after that, and he resumed with trying to hold my hand. I didn’t think to ask anything else about his life. Instead: We should go on an adventure one day like mag-Katipunan lang tayo from ten to ten. Just us. You’ve never tried smoking?

Have you worn the shoes I bought you na? If you get drunk, I’ll give you coffee then yayakapin kita so you won’t do anything. What about drugs? Under the stars? Hindi ba malalamigan ka? We should go to Italy—I let out a laugh at his suggestion—I’ll have steak and wine delivered.

Maybe the Katipunan one, I replied.

On the last day of sophomore year, he surprised me by giving me his checkered jacket. He said I needed my own jacket. Another apology: this time for getting mad at me when I had flipped his chair while he was seated on it. We didn’t speak for days, even when we were seated beside each other, and I had cried when I tried to apologize.

He took me from one restaurant to another that day, but in the end, we settled for our yogurt store. A few months later, the yogurt store would close and become a drinking place. He tried to draw on my hand, and when I told him no, he started to threaten to kiss me on the cheek again. He kissed my hand before I could react. In the end, I let him scribble PROPERTY OF JOSHUA.

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That night, I told my dad my friend had scribbled on my hand as a joke when I fell asleep while studying. * About four hours into driving lessons, my sister grew tired of following a fixed schedule, and decided to one day skip out on them altogether. It was the first time I was driving with just the instructor, and while I had gotten better at handling the clutch, I still fumbled. My driving instructor noticed how the car shook violently because I could not keep my foot steady on the clutch.

We were about thirty minutes into the session when another car had made its way beside ours and rolled its windows down. I was afraid that the driver was about to complain about how slow I was driving, but instead, she had rolled the windows down to tell us we had a flat. It had gone unnoticed the entire time, and so, my driving instructor took this as an opportunity to teach me how to change a tire and what to do with a flat tire. He gave me instructions to get to the vulcanizing shop, all the while talking about how his other student—who was a great student—had given him a copy of Warm Bodies.

The trip to the vulcanizing shop took another thirty minutes, including the time we spent practicing two-point and three-point turns as way to still stay on track with the lesson. He told me that I did well, and that I was to wait in the car as he took care of things. In a way, I was relieved to spend thirty minutes less on the road. When my instructor came back, he laughed about the situation and told me that after today, I’d never forget how to do a two- and three-point turn. As we were heading out of the shop and onto Gil Fernando once more, my driving instructor commended me for a job well done because I had gone through a day without the engine dying on me. It was an improvement.

I had already turned my head to thank him, when I felt the car come to a jolting stop. I felt my head hit against the headrest and the seatbelt scratch against my neck. My instructor had his foot down on the emergency break. Barely a foot in front of us was a tricycle that had tried come from a side street, with no intention of stopping. The driver zoomed past before I could process what had happened, and when I came to my senses, I released my sweaty palms from the steering wheel and apologized to him. I had been doing so well, but he reassured me that it wasn’t my fault. There were no casualties, but I couldn’t stop thinking about his head crashing through the window shield.

I had once thought that cars were safe. I believed that, like in Speed Racer, a car meant one could get out of any sort of danger. But my father has since stressed otherwise.

It had never occurred to me as a child to think of Speed Racer caught in the wreck of a car crash. Though I do not remember the crash that destroyed the front of my father’s Corolla, I remember the gauze that covered my yaya’s right eye and matched her white uniform. I remember asking my mother why I remembered nothing else about the crash when I first saw the dents on my father’s car. My mother told me that I was sleeping, and

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my yaya had protected me, and so I was saved from any injury.

It was my father who was driving then. At times, I wonder if, at that moment, my father felt the same tinge of guilt I had felt. If he had felt that he had no one else but himself to blame for the way he reacted to things, or if I would have anyone to protect me had I ended up hitting the tricycle at that moment. * The start of junior year marked two months since Joshua went back to smoking cigarettes.

It had been two months since we had last spoken to one another. He had tried to quit during sophomore year, but caved in. He had explained once before that he started smoking because both his parents were smokers. There are still times that I see him smoking just outside campus, though we do not acknowledge each other when we cross paths.

Eventually, I heard from his best friend Luis that he was going after an ICAn he met at a soiree. He had bought her a shirt, but he denied thinking of her as more than just a friend. His friends teased him endlessly for it, and Luis teased me. He thought that a shirt didn’t compare to the shoes Joshua had gotten me as a Christmas present to follow after the card he had given me. Joshua’s friends began spreading rumors that they had seen JM sleep in the same bed as Joshua during our junior year retreat as a part of a joke.

I began to spend more time with Luis after that; we became dedicated pair work partners. He had been my classmate before, back in Grade 6, when he had angered our homeroom teacher. She broke an overhead projector when she found out he had forgotten his assignment, and I would remind him of this constantly whenever he failed to do something for our group works. He was the only one daring enough to tease me about Joshua, and when he asked me what had caused me and Joshua to stop talking, I told him I didn’t know exactly why. But I knew that the way our classmates talked about us didn’t help. It was easier to tell Luis that than to have to sort through what was going on in my mind then. While I told Luis that I knew things weren’t going to go back to the way they were, I think I already knew that what I wanted more was to go back to being quiet.

I had heard that in another class, a student’s parents had him withdrawn because they were afraid that he was being influenced to become gay. Another student had to withdraw because his parents had found out about his relationship with another classmate. I thought it unfair to be placed in this situation. It was something I never asked for. When I told this to our teacher who had heard of my friendship with Joshua from my classmates, she told me that maybe I was hiding something because I felt the need to defend myself, and a part of me wanted to tell her to fuck off. When I told this to my classmates who had spread it, they remained silent. It had helped to imagine that beneath the silence, they were panicking at how things escalated; that they had realized it was all their fault for taking things out of proportion.

Joshua and I didn’t speak to each other until I tried to apologize on my seventeenth birthday. He told me that we should talk about it the next day, when both our minds were

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clear. I was tipsy then, and the next time I drank during the night of our graduation party, I let Luis kiss me behind the bathroom door. It did nothing to make me feel better; soon enough I tried to distance myself from Luis too. * It had already been two years since my high school graduation when the US Supreme Court came to a decision to legalize same-sex marriage. It had taken me by surprise. I watched as people I knew—from both college and high school—quickly placed rainbow filters over their icons, to stand in solidarity with a group that had long been marginalized. There were jokes among my high school batchmates that so-and-so could get married now, after years of keeping their relationship secret. After all, love wins. A friend of mine had told his parents something similar, when he came out to them. He told me that he had to do it. There was a point where one grew tired of keeping it a secret.

Within the same year, Bench had come out with their Love All Kinds of Love campaign. It was progressive, but provocative to have the image of two men holding hands plastered along EDSA. So when the hands of Vince Uy and his boyfriend Nino Gaddi were erased, it was understandable why it had to be done. It would take years before Filipinos could appreciate what the campaign meant because too many still believed in the traditions of the Catholic Church. I saw it plastered all over my feed: there was no use in pushing for progress when majority of the country would be opposed to it. But I never bothered to see the result of debate on whether or not their hands should be painted back.

Until when would we need to wait, until we could say we’re ready? * The palanca my father wrote to me spoke of finding happiness. It was a tradition for the school to ask parents to write palancas for their sons’ junior retreat. I keep it hidden, along with the other cards and letters I’ve received in my bottommost closet drawer.

The only advice he had for me was to search for what made me happy; it didn’t matter what, as long as it was right. This, he said, was what most adults struggled with. My classmate told me the best way to confront my father about it was to sit him down and tell him—there was no timing involved. He had been involved in the group that scrutinized me and Joshua, and when he had asked for my forgiveness during his mother’s wake, I told him it was my fault too.

When it was time to leave, Joshua offered to walk with me down the stairs. We had been at the yogurt store for nearly two hours. I offered him a ride, but he said he could go home on his own. I reached into his hug. We stayed in that stairwell for a few minutes, locked in an embrace. I thought that he would try to kiss me on the cheek again.

I had hoped he would, but my father started calling.

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* It was raining when my parents picked me up from the retreat house. I couldn’t help but hug them, after seeing my classmate break down and cry over his mother who had passed just last June. She had told him to not to cry over her death.

I heard my father turn the key to start the Tucson, and I shivered when I felt the air conditioning against my damp clothes. I decided against putting on the jacket I brought. My father in the driver seat: eyes focused on the road, lips pursed, and hands gripping the steering wheel. From the passenger seat, I watched my mother grin as she fixed the contents of her purse. Just moments before, I had told her about how JM had complimented her outfit.

“So bading ba ‘yung classmate mo na ‘yun?” my dad said.

“Yeah.”

My father’s grip on the wheel tightened as he let out a hearty laugh.

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˜A LUIGI DELA PEN

Una kong nakilala nang ganap ang sarili sa panitikan. Matagal na akong nagbabasa at nangangarap na magsulat ngunit ngayon ko lang naipon ang tapang upang magsimula.

Sineryoso ko ang pagsusulat buhat nang ako ay mag-aral sa Paris at pinabaunan ng aking mga kaibigan ng Ladlad. Naging mapagpalaya ang karanasang ito upang tanggapin ang sarili nang buong-buo at maghanap pa ng mga panitikang homosekswal ang tema na hindi ganoong kahayag sa bansa.

Nabihag ako ng mga tulang nakapaloob sa antolohiyang iyon. Kaya nitong gapusin at palayain ang mambabasa sa iilang taludtod. Kalakip ng kapangyarihang ito ang hamong parehong maghari at mapasailalim sa mga salita: isatitik ang enerhiya sa bigkas, isakataga ang tunay na gamit ng talinghaga, at sabihin sa pahina ang lahat ng hindi kayang sambitin. Malaking dagok para sa akin ang gumamit ng wikang hindi lamang humaharaya sa damdamin kundi gumigising din sa isipan. Sa huli, natanto kong nagiging hinog ang isang tula kung kaya na nitong tumindig nang mag-isa. Tungkulin ng makata na bigyang-hininga ang tula; ang mga susunod na pagsinghap ay tugon na ng mambabasa.

Kung tutuusin, hindi ganoon kadali ang pagtula, maging ang paglikha. Hindi ganoon kasistematiko gaya ng iminumungkahi ng salitang “proseso” ang aking paraan.

Higit na malalim itong pagsipat sa mga udyok ng katawan at paghulagpos nito sa nibel ng pisikal. Sa tuwing nagsusulat, malaya ko munang pinapagana ang subconscious (kung tunay nga itong maipapakilos alinsunod sa kagustuhan) at “pinapatulog” ang burador.

Matapos mag-ipon ng lakas ng loob ay gigisingin ang sinulat at sariling diwa. Naghuhudyat ng pagtula ang pagpapaamo ng malikhaing pag-iisip sa udyok.

Isa sa mga naging bunga nitong proseso ay ang “Lupa.” Nag-umpisa ang likha bilang isang salin ng “Rain” ni Danton Remoto ngunit napansin kong may angking lasa ito, maging ang paggamit ng ilang mga salita ay iba rin sa orihinal. Hinamon ako ng workshop upang rebisahin ang tula sa paraang lumalampas sa pinaghalawan at takdaan ang limin ng pagnanasa at pangungulila. Tigib man sa kapusukan, nais pa ring aminin ng tula sa huli na hindi ang lumisan kundi ang naiwan ang nagmamalay sa kawalan.

Matapos sabihin ang lahat ng ito, saan pa nga ba tutungo itong pagsusulat?

Kinakatawan ng aking paglikha ang mga pagtatangkang tukuyin ang dulo ng pagnanasa at paghantong nito sa pag-ibig, kung tunay ngang aabot ito sa ganoong rurok. Nakalilok sa balat ng mga tula ang mga matagal nang ikinubling agam-agam, takot, at hiya na humaharap sa unang pagkataon upang makilala, hubo’t hubad ngunit tunay na lumilitaw, lumalaya, at nabubuo. Walang puwang ang pagtatago.

Kaugnay sa ganitong pagsuong, mabuti ring itanong: Bakit kay daling isuko sa hindi lubusang kilala ang sagradong katawan? Dahil sa pagbabahagi ng katawan maski sa iilang sandali lamang, nabubuo ang sarili, napupunan ang mga guwang. Maaaring kamatayan din ang kahantungan kapag natapos na ang lahat, ngunit naghihintay ang bawat pagkamatay ng muling pagkabuhay.

Tutula akong nakikinig sa tinig ng balat, sa pagkaluoy at pagbangon nitong muli.

Kaya hindi na matatapos ang aking pagsusulat.

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Lupa Para kay Geo Tuwing dadayo ka sa lupain ng aking gunita, dumadausdos ang pawis sa balat at binabalot ng alimuom ang katawang nahimlay sa putik ng pagkaluoy: ibinabaon ko ang mga daliri sa pagitan ng mga binti at maririnig na dumadagundong ang iyong mga yabag, nililindol ang buong katauhan, hanggang yapusin ng init ang bawat sulok ng daigdig, hanggang malibing sa kumunoy ng alaala mo, hanggang tuluyan akong madurog na bato, buhanging pira-piraso.

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J E R O M E F LO R

Nagsimula akong magtula noong ako’y nasa hayskul. Binigyan kami ng aming guro ng sari-saring pagsasanay sa pagsusulat; marahil iyon na ang nag-udyok sa aking tumula nang tumula. Natuto akong pumitas ng mga idea mula sa aking kamalayan. Mula roon, sinanay kong hubugin ang mga ideang iyon upang makabuo ng isang imahe. Sa binata kong sensibilidad, nilaro ko sa pamamagitan ng tula ang mga bagay na agarang mararanasan.

Bumabangon sa isipan ang iba’t-ibang pinag-uukulan tulad ng kalikasan, dilim, tao, pag-ibig, pamilya—hilaw pa rin siguro. Ngunit ipinagpatuloy ko lang ang pagtutula.

Nakahanap ako ng bagong libangan sa paglikha, pagbasa, at pagpapabasa ng tula.

Mahilig ako magpabasa sa mga kaibigan sa teatro, sa pagsusulat, at sa aking mga guro. Halimbawa, sa pagitan ng mga klase, magpapabasa ako sa mga katabi ko. Isa na roon ang matalik kong kaibigan na nahumaling din sa pagtutula kahit hanggang ngayon.

Nagpapalitan kami ng mga tulang nakasulat pa sa notes ng mga klase namin. Nagbigay rin kami ng puna sa tula ng isa’t-isa. Natuto akong makinig sa payo at pananaw. Kahit man pareho ang aming inaral sa klase, marami akong napulot na bagong pagtingin at pag-unawa sa mga bagay.

Higit pa sa mga aral na natutuhan ko sa mga kaibigan ko, naging mahalaga para sa akin ang maging bahagi ng ugnayan ng mga manunulat at mambabasa. Isang kakaibang karanasan ang makihalubilo at makibahagi sa mga taong mahilig din sa bagay na gusto mong gawin. Inaamin kong sa ngayon, hindi ko pa natitiyak kung gaano kasigurado ang aking pag-oo sa pagtatangkang magtula. Ngunit sa mga karanasan ko sa isang kahanga-hanga at masigasig na komunidad ng manunulat at mambabasa, patuloy pa rin akong natututo at nahuhumaling na pumalaot sa gawain at bukal ng pagtutula.

Nakakahanap ako ng kaginhawaan sa pagsusulat. Nakakahanap din ako ng kaibigan. Sa ngayon, ‘yon na muna ay sasapat.

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Hibo

Huwag mo akong tingnan na maaari mo akong hubaran. Dadaplis ang maga-maga mong sulyap sa akin. Hayaang magpawis— mahinog at kusang mahulog sa iyo, tulad ng ating pagdatal sa rurok ng mga hingal at turuan akong manlimos sa pagsabing tingnan mo ako, tingnan mo ako.

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MARK CHRISTIAN GUINTO

Buong buhay ang binubuo sa pagsusulat. Ang binubunong mga salita, sulat: sabay na nagiging tuntungan sa pagsalat sa kahulugan at lusungan ng higit na pagdanas sa karanasan.

Pagpapatuloy ito sa gitna ng pagkaalanganin ng maaari—itong diwa ng paglapit bagaman nananatiling halukipkip—nang sa gayon ay makatuloy sa kabila ng mga hangganan ng hangganan. Sa isang pagsipat, isa talaga itong kilos ng paglabas sa sarili na higit sa isang palabas. Pakikipagniig ito sa totoo, sa hindi kagyat na namamalayan, sa maaari, sa laylayan, sa mambabasa, sa tao: anupat masasabing tangka nitong magtangka ang lahat.

Tinutudyo nito ngayon ang mga unang dumanas ng lugod sa kanyang bunga: lapit pa.

Tuloy, nagsusulat ako.

Ngunit bakit pala tula? Marahil dahil sa bigat ng bakit ng pagtula kasama ng pagbabakit nito, higit pa sa kakayahan nitong maipagkasya ang bigat ng mga bagahe ng kasaysayan sa mga salita. (Marahil, sa pagbabalik-tanaw, dala rin siguro ito ng aking naging galak sa mga pambungad na tula-panalangin ni Dr. Edgar Samar sa aming klase sa Fil11.)

Bagamat maaaring maging maikli, maaaring mayroong maiwang sumasalaming mundo ang tumatalilis na tula gaano man ito kamunti. Hamon palagi sa pagtula ang pagtagpo sa hindi lumulubay na kagandahan at pakikitagpo sa sinumang babasa sa pamamagitan ng mainam na paghubog sa parikala. May tinutudlang kabuluhan ang tula na patuloy na pinayayaman ng lantay nitong pagmamalamang, kaakibat ng anyo nito. Kaya nga siguro mahirap harapin (bagamat hindi mapapasubaliang kalugud-lugod) ang mga tulang tunay na pinagpagurang mahinog sapagkat dinadala nito ang mambabasa sa puntong alanganin kung saan natatagpuan ng isa ang sariling paulit-ulit na bumabalik sa mga linya—manapa’y mangingiti o makapagdarabog siya dahil sa naitanghal na katotohanang alam na alam niya ngunit hindi magawang mabigkas.

Wika ni Samuel Beckett: “To find form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist.” Datapwat hindi pa ganoon karami ang aking mga naisusulat/naiguguhit, nababanaagan kong tunay nga na isang pagbaling sa salimuot ng karanasan ng buhay ang paglikha ng sining. Hindi nga ba at isa itong pakikipagniig? Sa Isang Araw, sinubukan kong gumawa ng isang tulang makabubuo ng mga eksenang magiging tapat sa karanasan. Ukol ang tula sa isang karaniwang araw ng mag-ina at ang lunos sa gitna ng kanilang tahimik na paghihintay. Mainam na pagtuunan ng pansin ang naipunto ni Mr. Allan Popa sa pagka-“patchwork” ng anyo na maaaring sumasalamin sa pinagtagpi-tagping kalagayan sa tula. Gaya naman ng naipabatid noong AHWW, lubhang kailangang pag-ingatan na talagang matapat din sa totoong buhay ang mga inilalahad na kilos sa akda, maliban pa sa pagsusumikap na huwag maging lusaw ang mga binubuong imahen.

Ang pagpapatuloy sa pagsulat ay lagi namang kilos ng pagtatangka, gaano man nagiging pambalana ang gamit ng salita, sa pagtungtong at paglusong (kahit pa mapuyat).

Ganoon naman ang bumubuong buhay.

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Isang Araw

Sa siwang ng tabla-tabla nananahimik ang mga anino.

Kumot para sa nahihimbing na batang kalong-kalong ng ina: nakasalampak sa basyong sako ng bigas, maya’t maya kung luminga sa butas na nagsilbing bintana.

Pumalaot ang isip ng ina sa hangganan ng eskinitang nililisan ng araw, isang Manansala ikinuwadro sa retaso ng pawid na namumutiktik sa amag.

Panibagong gabi, lumang buntonghininga; hinaplos ng gising ang kanang pisngi ng bata, payapa kahit pa sa labas maririnig ang nagkikiskisang bakal ng traysikel, lumalangitngit habang itinutulak ng mga drayber papuntang kanto upang muling mamasada; kahit pa maghumiyaw sa di kalayuan ang asong ipamumulutan hanggang umaga; kahit pa sumisigaw sa daan ang manang na nag-aalok ng balot sa kapitbahay bago niya tunguhin ang puwesto sa gilid ng simbahan.

Tinapik-tapik ng ina ang anak, tinitigan ang kalahati ng mukhang di pa kinukuyom ng dilim. Buwan niya sa loob ng silong, repleksyon repleksyon ng kanyang buhay.

Salarin sa pag-alat ng sulsi-sulsing basahan.

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Sa pagsirit ng huling himulmol ng liwanag na ipinahiram ng langit, dahan-dahang inihilig ng ina ang ulo ng bata iniwan sa sahig ngayong batid niyang wala nang dadalaw kundi iyong tumatalab sa sikmura.

Lumabas ang ina at bumalik sa pagtitinda.

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MARTINA HERRAS

Apat na taon akong nag-aral sa bundok ng Makiling, at ang madalas na ikinukuwento sa aming mga estudyante ng mga guro ang lahat ng kanilang nalalaman tungkol sa Diwatang nananahan sa bundok, at ang kanyang kapangyarihang manumpa ng kung sino mang gagambala sa kanya o sa lugar na kanyang binabantayan. Isa sa mga paborito kong kuwento tungkol kay Maria Makiling ay isa rin sa pinakamasakit na aking napakinggan—kung saan nagsimula ito sa pagkahulog ng Diwata sa isang mortal, at natapos sa kanyang pagsumpa sa pamilya ng kanyang minahal, buhat ng kanyang galit at dalamhati.

Unang lumabas ang tulang Maria Makiling bilang isang tulang-prosa—ang unang layunin ay ang maikuwento ang pagdadalamhati at ang pagsumpa ng Diwata sa isang monologo, na para bang idinudura ni Maria ang lahat ng kanyang galit. Ngunit sa pagdaan ng tula sa palihanay nag-iba ito ng anyo—mula sa tuluyan ay naihiwalay ito sa mga pira-piraso, bilang mga paghinga sa pagitan ng bawat linyang nagpapakita ng lubos na pagkadurog ng damdamin. Ang bawat paghinga ni Maria ay kanyang pagtutol sa paglimot, kung saan ay uubusin niya ang kanyang galit sa pagsusumpa, na siya ring kanyang magiging sumpa: ang lumilingid na kislap ng pag-asang makikita niya muli ang kanyang minahal.

Naiiisip ko minsan, tuwing binabalikan ko ang tula—paano kung, tulad nating mga mortal, ay binabalik-balikan rin ng mga Diwata o kung ano mang mga nilalang, ang kanilang mga alaala, malungkot man ito o hindi. Una akong pumasok sa kolehyo na iniisip na maaari ko munang maisantabi ang pagsusulat upang mahanap ang direksiyon na dapat puntahan sa buhay. Ngunit nanatili ang inakalang nakakubling pagnasang magpatuloy ng pagsusulat. Naisip ko na ang pagsusulat ay ang direksiyon kung saan dinadala ako ng hangin—tulad ng pagbabalik at pagbabalik muli ng isang Diwata sa isang bagay na akala niya’y maaari niyang malimutan.

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Maria Makiling

Nakapanghihinayang ang panoorin kang nagsisisi.

Namimilipit ka sa loob.

Alam ko, dahil naipakita mo na sa akin ang laman ng puso mo at isinusumpa ko ito.

Hindi ka matatahimik; bubog ang lupang iyong lalakaran.

Apoy ang tubig na hahalik sa labi, sasakal sa lalamunan.

Mahahanap mo lang ako muli sa kaibuturan ng iyong mga bangungot, kung saan hahabulin mo ako at aabutin kita at mawawalan ka ng hininga at tatalikod ako, bago mo pa man mahawakan ang dulo ng aking mga daliri, at tahimik kong hihilingin

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na sa sunod na magkita tayo

ay haharapin kita nang kapwa nating makita ang mukha ng pagkapinsala.

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CHRISTINE IMPERIAL

2015 was the year when I started to be more secure in my writing. Before that I felt no pride in any poems I had written. Reading most of my early poems, there’s a sense of hollowness. They read as if the poet just wanted to get the writing over with. 2015 was the year I went on JTA in Liverpool. Aside from having more time to read and having a wider array of books available to me, I think it was being in a new environment and trying to locate the self whose mutability (I felt) was amplified by being placed as stranger in a foreign land that helped me become more self-reflexive in terms of my writing. I wanted to gain a clearer sense of who I was and writing poetry helped me find that.

“Kintsugi,” the poem I’ve chosen for publication, started off as a poem called “Artificial Anatomies.” It was essentially a catalogue of similar images of broken things being reassembled and insights excavated from these images. During AHWW, the panelists agreed that the work could be pushed further, that it was lacking a sense of tension. During my re-writing of the work, I focused on the juxtaposition of the image of the persona’s mother tying the persona’s hair and the image of a cat eating its newborn kitten. It was from this juxtaposition of images that I felt the poem was the most engaging, so I tried to sustain that until the poem’s ending. I lessened the aphorisms while focusing more on how the images relate to each other in a way that was not predictable but necessary.

The images no longer seemed like convenient proofs for the insights. Now I feel like they provide a clearer sense of who the persona is.

I am extremely thankful I got accepted into AHWW this year. From this incredibly humbling weekend, I was able to gain advice that helped me better understand what direction I want my writing to go.

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Kintsugi

My mother gathers my hair and twists it

into a bun. Each strand wound tightly in place. My scalp stretched. I try

to look for traces of myself in the mirror as she dabs powder

around swollen eyes. “You look just like me.”

A cat eats her kittens. The child’s head

in her mouth. She understands survival as the faint cry of what was

once welcomed—Bone against bone in broad daylight, on subdivision sidewalk

as fur splinters palette. Skull smashes into teeth. The first response: an ad

for prosthetic limbs—Reattach the broken pieces with gold. My mother splices herself

into the image of my siblings on a beach in Bataan, zoomed in face

beside portraits taken on gray sand.

In a gallery, pyramids of foil jut out from

black canvas, cutting my body into—My mother wears a kaleidoscope

of clothes my sister and I forgot in her room.

The foil carves each limb into triangulations—Behold

this bleeding, this splintered palette. My fingers count the squares on a map of the world to locate

a time zone. From the prime meridian, 16 hours apart—I look around the garden

to stomp on what my grandmother calls “shy plants,” to watch petals

clasp into each other, forming vertical lines—And someone

grabs my hand in the dark. A response: the flinch, the body pulling away

from—My mother tries to hold me while I sleep. My body curled up

against the wall as—I count squares

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towards the Philippines. I step on plants. I type in N/A

on an information sheet.

At a family dinner, I see my grandfather

reach into his mouth to push out teeth. Webs of saliva, aging gums smile. My mother tells me

to stop crying. She leaves. Responds to memory: I cut it up. I glue it onto—I count

enough squares toward California—And the channels change all at once. Barbara Walters reports the news

while a clip of a smiling cowboy beside a tiger resting on his shoulder plays on. I scribble “desire paths”

on my palm. Three reporters smiling—A survey of the Southern California landscape

before it was lined with billboards. An infant grips onto a finger. I peel

bark off narra trees. Cartoon family. My sister and I carve out faces on family photographs. Excited

fingers misshape round surfaces of heads into rocky mountain paths. Glue oozes

from the in between of my sister’s face imposed on a wedding dress. A figure in floral print

with my enlarged toddler head cradles my infant brother.

We find it funny. We pass it around.

We cover our mother’s face.

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JONNEL INOJOSA

Nais kong isipin na laging nanggagaling ang udyok ng pagkatha sa kagustuhang maging makabuluhan ang pag-iral. Ngunit gaya ng sabi ng malapit kong kaibigan, ang patuloy na paglikha ay bunga ng pangangailangan. May puwang na sinusubukang punan. May kawalang-katiyakang inaasam na mabigyang-pangalan. Kaya nagtatangka.

Para sa akin, nagsimula ito sa pangangailangang mahanapan ng kaluguran ang sarili. Sa pamamagitan ng malayang paghaharaya o pagpapahayag ng nadarama, may natatamong saya. Hindi laging malay ang sarili na may maaaring ibang ipinapakita ang artikulasyon ng hilig sa bawat kilos. Ganito ako noong umpisa. Noong nasa probinsya pa, ang bawat pagsali ko sa patimpalak ng pagsulat o pagbigkas ay nakatuon sa pananatiling maligaya. Nakahahanap ng kalaro sa mga salita.

Nang lumaon, ang simpleng pag-angkop sa panitik ay nahalinhan ng pangangailangang manggalugad. Sa pamamagitan ng iba-ibang paraan ng pagkatha, nailalahad ang sariling hindi maunawaan. Tinatalunton ang identidad. Sinusubukang makahanap ng kahuhulugan. Inilulugar ang sarili sa gitna ng iba ring kabataan na pasapit na sa pagitan ng musmos at may gulang. Una kong sinubukang siyasatin ang sarili sa pamamagitan ng pagtula sa Filipino. Sa salita isinasakatawan ang sariling katawan.

Nang tumuntong ako sa kolehiyo, dito ko unang natagpuan ang iba-ibang pamamaraan ng pagkatha na hindi lamang nakatuon sa mga salita. Nagsimula akong umarte para sa Ateneo ENTABLADO at magsulat para sa Matanglawin. Natutunan kong bagaman may lugod sa pagpapahayag ng sarili, maaaring kilatisin ito sa pamamagitan ng mundo. Ika nga ng isang hinahangaang guro, sa ako na hindi ako.

Subalit ngayong taon, bumalik ako sa pagsusulat, sa pamamagitan naman ng sanaysay, bilang tugon sa ilang masasalimuot na pangyayari sa aking nakaraan. Muli kong tinalunton ang sarili at ang aking mga naramdaman upang magsilbing parausan o catharsis kumbaga ng aking mga karanasan. Tulad ng karaniwang pakahulugan sa Ingles, ang aking mga essay ay pagtatangka. Sa mga sinulat kong sanaysay, tinangka kong tasahin ang usapin ng sariling identidad sa lente ng bulag kong paniniwala at malay na pagbabaka-sakali.

Sa Paglalaan, tinangka kong mabigyang-pangalan ang isang uri ng pangungulila sa isang tao (o pangyayari) na hindi pa dumarating. Nagsimula ang proyektong ito mula sa limang magkakahiwalay na tulang-prosa sa klase ko ng pagtula kay Ma’am Beni Santos.

Katalogo ito ng proseso sa likod ng mga gawaing-bahay, mula paglilinis at pagluluto hanggang paghuhugas ng pinggan at paglalaba. Nilangkapan ko ang mga ito ng personal na pagmumuni-muni at paghaharaya ukol sa karanasan ng pagkapirmi sa loob ng tahanan sa probinsya.

Noong simula, ang Paglalaan ay mistulang “liham” lamang sa aking nakaraang sarili noong nakapirmi pa ako sa probinsya. Kung kaya’t lubos ang aking pasasalamat sa mga panelist ng Ateneo Heights Writers Workshop sa taong ito. Inakay nila akong lumabas sa sarili upang maialay ang aking munting salaysay sa kung sinumang maaaring makahanap ng tahanan dito.

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Inaasam kong sa pamamagitan ng paglalahad ko nitong kuwento-sanaysay, maipapahiram ko rin ang aking sarili sa mga boses na nakapirmi sa probinsya. Gayon na rin sa mga patuloy na umaasa sa hindi pa dumarating. Bagaman hindi ganap na matagumpay.

Ngunit nagtatangka. Kaya nagtatangka.

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Paglalaan

Kakaiba ang araw na ito. Siniguro ko. Nagalugad na ang mga tinidor sa tukador, inilapag sa mesa. Sinagi isa-isa upang mahulog sa sahig. Paparating ka. Iniwang bukas ang pinto upang malayang lagusan ng hangin. Hinawi ang kurtina sa mga durungawan. Tinuring na panauhin ang alinsangan. Hinayaang tawiran ng alikabok ang patlang ng sala habang sumisilip sa mga siwang ang silahis ng umaga. Nakalahad sa kulang.

Hinanda ko na ang tahanan sa pagdating mo. Gamit ang tambo, winalis ang salas: palibot ng sopa, telebisyon, mga nakaligtaang sulok. Isinunod ang kuwarto: ilalim ng katre, paligid ng aparador, inaaalikabok na himpilan ng sapatos, lumang sisidlan ng mga larawang nalimot. Kasunod ang kusina: ilalim ng hapag, likod ng pridyider, umapaw na butil sa may imbakan ng bigas. Bakuran: nangahulog na mga dahon, dumi ng ibon, naligaw na bato, basurang pinadpad ng hangin. Gamit ang bunot, naglampaso. Pahayo’t parito.

Pinunasan gamit ng basahan ang aparador, ang lamesa, at kama. Ang banyo, binuhusan ng tubig at detergent. Hinilod ang inidoro, lababo, at sahig. Muling pinaanuran ng tubig.

Hanggang umalwan ang lahat ng dako. Makilala sa taal nitong anyo.

Tulad nawa ng ating pagtatagpo. Sapagkat batid ko. Mahirap pantayan ang mga luhong kinalakihan mo. Walang SM dito. I don’t have it all for you. Ang tanging parausan ng pagtitipan ay ang dalampasigan at mga liwasan. Ilang kilometro pa mula sa bahay ang mismong bayan. Masasanay ka rin naman. Marami rin kasing mapaglilibangan. Ililibot kita sa sa kapitolyo. Dadalhin sa perya sa may tabi ng ilog. Sasakyan natin ang octopus at caterpillar. Magpapalamon sa dilim ng horror train. Tataya sa bingo kung saan nakatatak na sa mesa ang mga numero at mamarkahan na lang ng tisa. Maghuhulog tayo ng piso sa mga tablang tadtad ng mga parisukat. Makalipas ang ilang subok, maaaring panghinaan ka ng loob. Mangyayaring sasakto naman ang paghitsa mo. Mananalo ka ng baso. Matutuwa tayo. Mag-aaya ka sa color game at pupusta sa kulay fuschia. Walang fuschia sa color game.

Pula lang. Ngunit uuwi tayong madaldal ang mga bulsa sa naipong barya. Pagdating sa bahay, matatagalan pa bago tayo dalawin ng antok. Mamasdan natin mula sa bintana ang papawiring hitik sa bituin. Sisikaping punan ng mga salita ang nakabibinging katahimikan.

Maingay ba diyan, kung nasaan ka ngayon? Hindi siguro makapahinga ang mga kalsada sa pasada ng mga jeep, kotse, bus, at traysikel. Baka ikaw rin, hindi nakakatulog.

Mahirap naman kasing mapag-iba riyan ang gabi sa umaga. Hindi humuhupa ang pagdating at paglisan ng mga tao. Hindi ka ba nasisikipan o naiinitan? Balita ko lang naman, hindi gaano kaalwan diyan. Marahil, may aircon ka naman. Bentilador lang ang mayroon ko, kung mausisa mo. Malamig kasi rito ang ihip ng hangin. Alimpungat mo sa paggising, duyan sa paghimbing. Katambal nito ang singaw ng init sa tanghali. Kung papalarin, mainam ang timpla ng panahon upang makauli sa labas. Makapaglakad-lakad.

Nariyan ang malawak na bakurang hitik sa orkidya’t gumamela. Walang mintis mamunga

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ang puno ng aratilis. Sa pitak ng damuhan nama’y maaari tayong humilata. Kung saan mamasdan natin ang walang humpay na paglipas ng mga panganorin sa langit. Iba-iba ang anyo. May malalapad na mala-pandesal. Minsan nama’y parang mahahabang espada.

Masarap magmasid nang walang inaalintana.

Pasensya na. Baka hindi mo naman trip ang ganitong mga libangan. Nananabik lang ako sa pagdating mo. Ikaw rin siguro. Hindi lang naman ito ang alay ko sa iyo.

Marunong din ako magluto. Ipinaghanda kita kung sakaling hindi ka nakakain sa biyahe dahil sa pagmamadali. Nagtakal ako ng ilang salok ng bigas na pula mula sa sako. Inipa.

Nilipat ang bigas sa kaldero. Binanlawan nang dalawang beses. Pinuno ng tubig ang kaldero.

Isinakto sa pangalawang linya mula kuko ng hinlalato. Inilagak ang kaldero sa kalan.

Pinakuluan sa ilalim ng katamtamang apoy. Isinaing. Binantayan nang hindi umawas o magkulang ang tubig o matutong sa lakas ng apoy. Binudburan ng asin ang takip upang mabilis uminin. Pagkatapos, nagprito ng isang pares ng itlog. Iniuho sa kawaling may mantika. Hinintay itong mahulma sa gitna ng tilamsik. Matapos hanguin, inilublob ang tuyo at longganisang Lucban. Unti-unti intong nagkutis-ginintuan. Pagkuwan, inilipat ang ulam sa plato. Pinalitan ang kawali ng maliit na kaldero. Nag-init muli ng tubig hanggang kumulo. Nilakipan ng instant mami. Hinango. Saka inihain sa hapag ang mga niluto.

Inilaan kong lahat para sa iyo. Huwag ka nang mahiya. Sasamahan naman kitang kumain. Samantalang wala ka pa, manunuod na lang muna ako ng telebisyon. Oo, mayroon ako noon. Nakakabanas nga na halos pare-pareho lang ang mga palabas. Puno ng mga kakatwang tambalan na hindi ko masiguro kung tunay ngang nagtitinginan sa totoong buhay. Alam mo, nabalitaan ko, may ibang katipan daw si James Reid, hindi si Nadine Lustre. Hindi rin daw magkakatuluyan si Kathryn at Daniel kasi hindi sila pareho ng relihiyon. Kupal daw si Enrique Gil kay Liza Soberano. Palaos na rin ang sina Alden at Maine. Nahalata mo na sigurong Kapamilya ako. Hindi bale, pagdating mo, kukumbinsihin pa rin kitang manuod ng mga binili kong CD ng Pangako Sa’Yo. Iyong si Kristine pa at si Jericho. O baka mas matipuhan mo naman ang mga lumang pelikula nina Marvin at Jolina. Ang tanda na rin pala nila. Bata pa ako noong katanyagan nila. Tanda mo noong sikat pa sila nina Rico Yan? Sayang sila ni Claudine. Kamo, kung hindi lang pumanaw si Rico Yan, sila pa rin ngayon. Nababaduyan ka na ba? Kung gusto mo, si Coco Martin na lang. Ang probinsyanong tulad ko. “Knight in shining armor” na patok kahit sa horror.

At ika nga sa commercial ng Nescafé, yummy pa. Pwede tayong magpalitan ng pamatay na linya sa pelikula o mga iniyakang eksena. Hindi natin maitatago ang nararamdamang kilig. Kasi naniniwala tayo.

Gaya ng pananampalataya ko sa pagdating mo. Kahit hindi madali. Mabigat ang bagahe ng paglipat sa hindi kilalang lugar. Malamang nag-aalangan ka. Ngunit kahit anong oras naman, mainam lumuwas. Mas maganda sana kung kaninang madaling-araw, upang makatulog ka nang mahimbing sa pamapasaherong sasakyan. Kung hindi mo pa napagninilayan, pwede ka pa ring lumuwas ngayon, kasi hindi pa gaanong matrapik sa

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mga lansangan gaya ng EDSA. Wala namang problema kung mamayang hapon pa. Baka kasi puyat ka pa o hindi mo pa naaayos ang mga damit na iiimpake. Kung sa gabi naman, mainam din, para makapagpapaalam ka pa sa mga kaibigan at katrabaho. Hihintayin naman kita. Dumating ka lang. Pagbaba mo naman, naroon na ako sa terminal ng bus. Makikinig ako sa karanasan ng iyong paglakabay. Nasuka ka ba? Napansin mo ba na hulmang suso ang tuktok ng bundok Banahaw sa malayo? Oo, may Jollibee rin dito. Nakakabagot nga siguro na hindi pwede manigarilyo sa sa bus. Mahal talaga rito ang Marlboro. Mahirap din kasing lubayan ang bisyo. May beer din dito. O lambanog, na paborito ko. Taga-saan ka ulit? Handa akong makinig. Kung naisin mo lang naman.

Hindi na bale kung mahuli ka. Sanay naman akong walang karamay sa hapag-kainan. Baka hindi mo rin magustuhan ang hinain kong kanin at ulam. Ililigpit ko na lang. Sisiinin ang pinagkainan kong pinggan. Ipaglalagom ang tira-tira at ibabahog sa aso ng kapitbahay, sa bakuran, sa basurahan. Pagpapatung-patungin ang mga pinggan, baso, kubyertos. Ilalapag sa lababo. Magdadayag: isang banlaw ng tubig sa lahat ng hugasin. Una, ang basong tubig lamang ang laman. Pangalawa, kubyertos sa isang lubluban. Pangatlo, plato at mangkok na sisidlan. Huli ang kawali, kalderong pinagsaingan. Pupunuin ng tubig upang bumitaw ang sebo, ang kanin, sa gilid-gilid at kailaliman. Bibinyagan ng bula.

Gaya ng sa simula: baso, kubyertos, pinggan, kaldero. Iisisin hanggang matanggal ang sebo. Pakikislutin ang espongha hanggang mabura ang lansa’t baho. Ikikiskis sa pisngi ng kawali’t kaldero. Muli, papasadahan ng tubig. Hanggang maglaho ang lansa’t baho.

Alam mo, nakakabanas din minsan maghintay. Lalo na kung walang tiyak na oras o araw na inaabangan. Mahirap tukuyin ang mga araw. Kung Lunes ba o Biyernes na.

Minsa’y nakakatawa kung paano ko ito kinakaya. Bukod sa kaunting baong nakukuha ko sa pagkalinga sa bahay na ito, wala naman akong ibang inaasahan. Nasa malayong dako ang aking mga magulang. Ilang taon ko na ring hindi nasisilayan ang mga kapatid kong sa siyudad nakikipagsapalaran. Lumilipas ang panahon nang walang pakundangan. Nakakausap ko naman ang mga tindero tuwing mamamalengke ako sa merkado. Nakakapalitan pa minsan ng kuro-kuro ang aking barbero. Bumabati sa mga manang sa simbahan tuwing linggo o mga palaging nakakasabay sa jeep pag-uwi ko. Tuwing nakapirmi sa bahay, walang mintis ang pagdaan ng iba-ibang naglalako: taho, ginataang mais, balot at penoy, kutsinta’t puto. Linggo-linggo nangangalap ng basura ang mga basurero. Nakakatanggap ako ng sulat-paalala ukol sa patubig o kaya’y sa Meralco. Nasisilayan ko ang dagsa ng mga kapitbahay ko papuntang trabaho o estudyante papuntang eskwela tuwing umaga. Babalik silang isa-isa pagdapit ng hapon. Kung gayon, may mga nakakasalamuha naman ako. May ibang boses na naririnig, may ibang mukhang napagmamasdan. Ngunit nakakapagal rin minsan. Sa gabi, tanging kapiling ang sarili. Masama bang humiling sa darating? Kaya oo, ikaw na lang ang hinihintay ko.

Biro lang. Desisyon mo naman iyon. Huwag kang masyadong mabahala. Baka hindi pa matuloy. Malaking bagay din naman kasi ang ilang daang piso na gagastusin mo.

Dagdag pa ang mahigit-kumulang apat na oras na pagbiyahe papunta rito. Ngunit kung hindi naman malaking sakit ng ulo para sa iyo, wala namang ibang pipigil sa pagdating

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mo. Nakalatag na ang lahat para sa iyo. Nakabukas naman ang ilaw magdamag. Kaya’t halika na. Dumating ka na. Hindi ako sanay mamilit ng ayaw. Huwag mong isipin na mamamatay ako kung hindi ka darating ngayon. Sabi ko nga, handa ako. Hindi naman ako iyong tipong mahilig maghintay lamang sa wala. Wala ka ba? Hindi naman diba?

Ang dami ko ngang nagawa. Daig ko pa ang bagong kasal na walang atubili sa pagbili ng bagong gamit sa bahay o damit para sa magiging anak. O kaya’y pamilya ng balikbayan na sabik na nakahimpil sa hintayan ng paliparan. Kita mo naman, marami akong trabaho dito sa bahay na ginagampanan. Ngunit nilalakip kita sa ganitong mga pag-aabala. Kung pwede lang, hindi na lang ako maghanda. Wala naman talagang ganap na malilinisan. May maiiwan at maiiwan pa ring dumi. Araw-araw ito ang buhay ko. Hindi ko hinihinging tanggapin mo. Ngunit ito. Ganito ako naniniwala sa iyo. Kung ayaw mo naman dumating.

Edi huwag. Magpapatuloy ako.

Maglalaba. Palanggana ng tubig, bareta, fabric conditioner, sabong panlaba.

Babanlawan ang mga damit. Ilulublob sa tubig, iaahon. Bibitaw ang alikabok at libag.

Pabubulain. Kukuskusin isa-isa ang damit. Kusot, gusot sa tindi ng pangingislot. Ilulubog, ibibilad sa tubig at bula. Paulit-ulit hanggang luminis: Aahunin. Babanlawan. Ikukusot.

Ikukuskos. Magugusot. Mangingislot. Aahunin. Babanlawan. Pipigain hanggang tumakas ang bawat patak ng tubig. Isasampay sa alambre sa bakuran. Hihintaying manuot sa bilad ng araw. Patutuyuin. Kapagdaka, sisimulang tupiin. Kakapkapan ang mga damit kung kabuua’y nasaid na ng tubig. Susungkitin ang mga piraso ng damit sa pagkakasabit.

Huhubarin mula sa hanger o nakaipit na sipit . Ililigpit ng marahan. Una ang mga maong na ayaw patahan. Pangalawa ang mga tuwalya. Kasunod ang mga panglakad na kamiseta.

Mula sa manggas, paloob. Gilid, patiklop. Kapagdaka ang mga pambahay na sando, kalsonsilyo. Huli ang mga salawal at panyo. Ilalapag sa basket at ipapasok sa bahay. Sa aparador maayos na ihahanay.

Sa ayaw mo’t sa hindi, kapwa tayo maniniwala. Malinis ang aking tahanan. Buhay pa si Rico Yan. Isang oras lang ang pagitan mula sa kung saan ka manggagaling hanggang dito. Piso isang stick ng Marlboro. Bakla si Coco Martin. Hindi malalaos si Alden at Maine.

May kulay fuschia sa color game sa perya. Masarap mabuhay sa probinsya. Mahilig kang kumain ng tuyo. Magaling akong magluto. Hugis espada ang mga panganorin. Totoo ang JaDine. Hugis suso ang tuktok ng Banahaw sa malayo. I have it all for you. Hindi traffic sa EDSA. Lahat ng ulap, hugis espada. Matagal lutuin ang instant mami. Ang Nescafé, yummy. Hindi ako nag-aalala. Darating ka.

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ANGELA LEE

I have always tried to explore the gendered individual. For instance, most of my essays talk about the experiences of a lesbian narrator, and many peculiar moments that could happen to someone who is gay. I also talk about the troubles of being one, and the things in life one cannot experience “normally” because of their preferences.

In other words, gender and sexuality have always played an integral role in my works. Because of this, whenever I write, I always worry if my works would be something people would be willing to read. J. Neil C. Garcia would call these works “sob stories,” or stories usually brimming with melancholy—bittersweet narratives concerning gay struggle and resistance. Consequently, I tend to think if stories coming from a very particular kind of context would turn readers off. And this begs the age-old question of whether “art” has to be relatable or not in order for it to be appreciated.

The piece, “I’d Say Life is Pretty” is part of my thesis—which is a short collection of essays entitled Monster. Since most strangers cannot decide on what to address me, and usually stutter between calling me “ma’am” or “sir,” I always imagine them one step closer from calling me a monster. And like the symbolism the image of the monster holds, much can be observed in most of my writing. “I’d Say Life is Pretty” was actually a villanelle-essay, whose two repeating refrains were one, my examinations of what pretty meant in different circumstances; and two, the sunflower dress. During the workshop, the panelists commented on how the symbols could be implicated better in the essay, and how there was room to better manage the withholding and deployment of details in the work. I think this is great advice, especially when I tend to fixate on symbols quite intensely.

Most memorable however, was when Sir Allan Derain had warned us that “each act of writing is an act of solidarity.” Which brings us back to the question of art being relatable—I believe it doesn’t have to be per se, but rather, more importantly, I believe that it has to be accessible—art that is not afraid to put itself out there especially when it plans to talk about struggle. From the experience of being misgendered very often, or to the personal battle with silence—I ambition to write in a form that could, beyond being an experience from someone gay, become a statement of experience. Whether it is about love, heartbreak, or survival—whatever it may be, I hope it is indicative of a common experience of struggle, so that there is a much greater possibility for empathy to exist among people. Thus, whenever I fear that my stories would just be segregated from other stories because of it being “different,” I would always tell myself that it’s a matter of perspective—aren’t all experiences equated by their differences anyway?

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I’d Say Life is Pretty

My first dress had a sunflower right above the waistline. It was a surprise present from my mother one Sunday morning. The dress was white with a light blue plaid skirt, lacking the frills or pleats which other dresses had. It was simple, yet I knew it was perfect to impress my father with once he came to visit.

I always assumed that he was away for work. As a child, I never asked anyone else in the family about what could have been the real reason why. He would visit almost every day, and he and my mother made sure to take Sunday trips out of Manila frequently.

It was as if he did live with us with the amount of time we spent together.

Whenever I wondered if it was not his work that kept him away, I would look at my sunflower dress hanging against the door. * People would notice my last name when I was halfway through high school. They would ask if my father was Chinese; asking perhaps if he was of pure blood. I wondered if there was something special about having a pure Chinese father. To their surprise, I told them my last name came from my mother. They found this unusual and baffling; and only asked about my father even more. Was it less interesting to have a Chinese mother? I told them that my father was like any other father in a family—that there should be nothing peculiar about him and our relationship. “So how did you get your mother’s last name?” they pestered, and I would tell them that my father was her second husband, and for that she was allowed to keep her own surname. They never seemed to find this answer convincing, and I was not convinced of it myself. But I never approached either of my parents about it, or verified my own theories. I never entertained the thought of them never tying the knot. * My first dress had a sunflower right above the waistline. It was a surprise present from my mother one Sunday morning. The dress was white with a light blue plaid skirt, lacking the frills or pleats which other dresses had. It was simple, yet I knew it was the perfect outfit to impress her. It would become my favorite dress. I would simply look at my sunflower dress hanging against the door—knowing it was her who hung it there. *

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I used to take the cab home everyday after school. My mother would have picked me up willingly, but I had to think of some excuse to stay late after classes had ended. For the first two years of college, I would give fake schedules and assure my mother that I took carpool rides with friends. But really, I’d be somewhere along Katipunan, where people made the search for the next vacant cab a bloody war. Whenever I would find one, there would at least be three cab drivers who would refuse—since they always assumed that the roads leading to home were congested. So most times I take the train going home.

It’s a one-hour commute mostly spent by walking. Like most people on train stations, I listen to music—John Coltrane’s “Blue Train” is always a must, so is humoring yourself to make the trip a little less vapid. John Coltrane was also known as Trane.

Trains actually make me nervous. * It’s always easier to look at my steps—to look down. So I wouldn’t have to see people’s stares, the looks they give me, telling me that these are not the feet worthy of wingtips.

They will always look big on me, as would any other polo; any other pair of knee-shorts; and any other kind of undercut. The big blue train is calling to me, breaking cement and metal telling me to get drunk. Or to light up a stick. So I do. But the moment I look up, I miss my train. I’m lying. There is always a train when you’re hurting. * My four-year old nephew, for all his life, had thought that I was a boy. Since I was always happy with my tomboyish fashion choices, wearing polo shirts and oversized sneakers, my nephew was shocked to have seen me wearing a skirt and earrings to a children’s party. I wore it so well I caught my nephew staring—as if it was the first time he saw something really pretty. * We’re in the food section of a discount chain store located in Shibuya, filtering through dozens of Matcha-flavoured pastries to bring home to relatives and friends. Almost all the items are half the price of what we’d usually get them for back in Manila—with Ralph Lauren socks casually hanging on the side of shelves and authentic Casio watches sold in the best bargains. We have around four baskets lying on the ground filled with pasalubong. We’re drawing attention by spending more than ten minutes on an item, but I’m lucky to have my mother and older sister ordering me around so it looks as if I have no other choice. Then he approaches, a man who I assume is in his thirties. He is

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a foreigner, a stranger both to this country and our own. I am the first one who notices him. He brings with him his beard and the smell of beer, and an accent that is mostly slurred English. I don’t know if this is from the intoxication or not. He walks past me, and asks my sister if he knew her from somewhere. She makes a face, sensing where this is going. She tells him that she doesn’t recognize him, and he starts asking about where she is from. My mom and I start closing in, and my sister introduces us. As she points to the space behind this foreigner, he is surprised someone is even there.

“My sister,” she begins, while pointing at me. His eyes go wide.

“Oh, I thought you were a boy!” I guess he had noticed me before. I try not to make a face.

“Nah, I get that a lot.”

“Oh, you lesbian?” he asks.

There is a moment of silence among us. My sister after a while says no, and out of impulse I say the same. I gauge my mother’s reaction. We try to laugh it off, but there is already tension. He picks it up as well and dismisses himself, saying it was nice to meet us.

I look at my mother again, and I’m reminded of how her smiles, when of genuine pride, were actually pretty. * Maybe it isn’t the train that makes me nervous, but train stations. * I knew I was gay by the time people started asking me about my last name. I met my girlfriend a year before college and we were in a relationship for two years. Her father owned and ran a school bus line. She’d say that he no longer had any direction in life, and that he and her mother were no longer close. I always pictured him as one of those men leaning against windshields while waiting for their buses to fill up: like the cab drivers who eagerly wanted their passengers to get in to have work gotten over with.

At some point, my mother had grown suspicious about how I left the house more often, and how I always came home late. As I met with my girlfriend more, my mother asked if there was anything between us. I denied it. Although I started lying from there thinking that we had more to lose if our parents found out, my mother already knew. So when she personally called my girlfriend, she was ruthless. My girlfriend could not utter a word, so my mother asked to talk to her mother, accused her daughter of using me as an avenue for her personal problems, and implied that her daughter may have had father issues and thus confided in me. *

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Every encounter is a train station. *

One time, I filled up my passport renewal forms. When I filled in the Birth Right, my mother told me to indicate “Illegitimate.” She told me something about her not remarrying.

This is how I found out that my parents were indeed never married. Surprisingly, the news had not hit me as hard as it would have back when I was answering the questions about my last name. But I also realized that I knew absolutely nothing about my mother’s first husband. I knew nothing of my sister’s father.

But I would never ask them about these. My family would do the same. It seemed like we would never ask the important questions. Perhaps I hoped for the day they would find it unusual, having a child who never asked about the peculiar relationships that made up our family. Perhaps it had crossed their minds at some point. Perhaps they had decided to leave me to seek for my own answers. I never knew what made me fear asking them, and I was never approached about them, which made me think that the answers were never meant to be divulged. I feared that these were useless background noise. * Everything is in one way or another, constructed.

I come from a home with no men. As far as I can remember, my father never lived with us. My uncles all lived abroad. For most of my nineteen years I would live with my mother, my half-sister, and a housekeeper. My aunt would visit almost every day, more frequently than my father would. When my sister got married, I was eventually left with only my mother and our housekeeper. Pretty proper. The absence of a father, the occasional overseas call from an anonymous uncle, and the temporary footsteps of men coming in and out of our doorstep had left the closets half-full, the bathrooms cleaner, and my mother’s side, empty. I make sense only out of filling it in.

Unfortunately, we are not born with the clothes people make.

Everything is in one way or another, constricting. * By the time I entered college, I started to consider that my father’s visits were no more than visits. I learned to distance myself from him, but I always hoped that he would share with me the stories of his own mother and father like how my mom would occasionally do—pretty stories which were told from the other side of the family. Instead, he even started to spend holidays overseas, and I lost any kind of expectation. This time, I was happy to settle with the thought of him being away for work, since it was the only reason I felt I deserved. I became thankful for the fact that I did not bear his last name. Although

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I still would not ask the questions, and the rest of my family would never give me the answers; the noise we feared had crept into our silent home. * The blue train rushes by. She whistles, but I am sitting on the bottom of the stairs, making holes on my wingtips. Underneath them are my feet; so I’m breaking cement and metal wishing I was drunk. And that I had my last pack. Here is my slow burn, and here starts the long walk. I like the sound the train makes as it speeds away. So now I’m stuck, perpetually waiting for trains in its stations. Because they make better noise.

Everything makes me nervous. * My last dress had a sunflower right above the waistline. It was a surprise present from my mother one Sunday morning. The dress was white and simple. It will probably be the only way to impress my father. He visits—work is all that keeps him away. I look at the sunflower dress hanging against the door.

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ANGELA NATIVIDAD

“Writing is about endurance,” Ma’am Mookie, my professor, said to me over an interview, answering my question on the most important lesson she wanted to teach a student. At the end of the interview, when I asked her what advice she could dispense to someone who’d always wanted to write, she answered me with: “Endure.” The rest of the interview was also full of phrases and pieces of advice that were poignant and quotable but these two were the ones that stuck with me. As an athlete, I understand endurance, how stamina and willpower makes or breaks winners or champions. This endurance required of me, however, asked to be understood on a different plane altogether.

When I write, I know I am stubborn. I elect never to part with a line or a word, even if it’s just to create a specific sound. I’d like to believe that I’m a lover of peace and quiet, of the non-confrontational, of acceding to what others want and ask me for.

Writing taught me to fight. Writing taught me to grit my teeth and grip until my knuckles turned white. It taught me to stand by my idea, to rally behind it. It put a spin on me before I even recognized it myself. Stubbornness isn’t necessarily endurance, I know this.

But it definitely helps to have it.

I am writing now for the girl who couldn’t articulate how she felt and turned to words in verse instead, watching the lines stacked pretty, spliced and enjambed. I am writing for the girl who tried her hand at it, cutting lines so haphazard and clumsy, determined. I am writing for the girl who stood by a word or a sound or a rhyme, who otherwise would never raise her voice—if only to protect it. I am writing for the girl who said she wished to endure, to shape her voice, sharpen it, refine it, enough for her to shout her fight into the universe.

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Stills from the Mountain Heart

1. A promise forged in the mountains between tree fronds browned and dusty in clay-earth.

2. A kiss eclipsed by palm leaves and the swelled petals of decayed wildflowers by firefly light.

3. The bamboo of my splintered walls prone to rain; earnest hands resting against each other, holding a home together.

4. Resigned to pulse of life, mist vanishing into edges of skin warm and wild with touch.

5. Curb desire as you linger by the stair, step over stone and breathe the ash of my crackling fire.

6. A cluster of boulders polished by waves and white froth splayed like lace around our torsos.

7. A stream of cool water whistling from the mountain heart, foggy water sloshing against ankles.

8. Upturn stones to slip into my hands, crumble red earth and rock until we carve ourselves into the cracking soil.

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9. The crawl of light over crag wakes you, your hands sluggish in the unruly twists of my hair.

10. Breath fevered against body the brush of trees swallow only those willing to lose themselves—

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JOSHUA UYHENG

Over the years, my work has tended to constellate about themes of God, myth, and the act/ process of mythologizing. In many ways, I am certain it would be impossible to discount the hand of the rest of my life from why this must be: When I was a child, I was taught by my school, a Christian one, to be devoted to the Bible in its entirety—Word of God, way to salvation. To be faithful, then, was a simple matter of obedience, correspondence with truth, what’s given. To this day I remain enamored of all these stories all the same: as text, the Bible accompanied my childhood as a kind of fairy tale—great floods, talking donkeys, locust swarms and all—that I could take as truth. What wide-eyed child wouldn’t relish the certainty that comes in a life ahead, where he secretly believes in a perfect world beyond his own—or where, in the same world he’s learning to do long division, a God can send down hail and fire from the sky, part seas for the crossing, cast planets into orbit with a word?

Whereas, since then, perhaps my approach to Scripture has possibly evolved (c/o best profs Ray Aguas, Ma’am Natividad, Fr. Catalan, and Fr. Dacanay), the wonder I first knew it by has not only persisted, but grown. In the work I submitted to the workshop, “Prophecy,” I wanted to channel that wonder—here, in particular, in relation to the story of Ezekiel, one of the major prophets of the Old Testament. Ezekiel lived in a time of exile, and his prophetic messages included rebukes of sinful nations, including Israel herself, but alongside glorious promises of rebirth, rebuilding. What struck my imagination in Ezekiel were the beautiful and dramatic visions that served as vehicles of God’s message for his people, such as the great four-faced, four-winged beasts that first appeared to Ezekiel when he was called to be a prophet, or the valley of dry bones where all the dead were reanimated and stood before him, given new muscle and sinew and skin, but still soulless and without life, awaiting God’s breath.

During the workshop itself, I received plenty of feedback and advice that I am extremely grateful for and excited to carry out, not only in the work I’ve submitted, but also in further endeavors in the future. For my other poem, “Son of Man,” I was reminded that in any appropriation, there ought to be more than mere (re)telling; that where I take from a myth, I must learn also to give. For “Prophecy,” on the other hand, I was enjoined to expand my horizon of engagement with the material, to go beyond the level of mere sound—something I hadn’t till then seen in my work as, more than tendency or propensity, a crutch. Inasmuch as the themes of history, naming, and the body—which I hoped to invoke—were numerous, heavy, and complex in their own right, I needed to find concrete experiences upon which to anchor all these abstractions, and thereby engage those abstractions with courage, candor, and meaningful clarity. I hope, in some way, I have moved toward responding to these challenges.

Working, specifically, toward the revised version of “Prophecy” in this zine, I’d like to acknowledge my indebtedness to the panelists: Sir Derain, Sir Egay, Sir Martin, Sir Vince, and especially Sir Mark (who’s been kind enough, this semester, to suffer me sitting in during his poetry class) and Sir Popa (who’s pointed me in the direction of gorgeous collections like Frank Bidart’s Desire and Jorie Graham’s Overlord, which have evidently

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fueled the energies behind my revisions). To my co-fellows, too, for the friendship (#21Strong) and for changing what it means to me to turn off the lights. For the entire workshop experience, I’m also thankful to Heights, especially Regine, Cathy, Jeremy, and the workshop team—wonderful job, wonderful food, wonderful company. May we never speak of Fellows Night again.

Finally, for the year that has been, and everything yet to come, my gratitude to the English Staff and the EB, especially Billy and Ayana my ancestors, Marco literallythe-best, and Selina queen-of-effort-norm. And for staying all this time, whether we are visible or invisible to each other every day, all my faith, hope, and love: to Gil, Ica, Jeivi, and Hades; to Aeron, Emma, Gabe, Harvey, Jay Ang, Kath, Kim, Laura, Max, Raya, Tim, and the OAA; to Rafa and Shiph; to Karl; and to Pang.

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Prophecy

“I knew nothing; I could do nothing but see.”

—Louise Glück, Trillium One day he came to me King of Heaven

Lord of the One Universe

One day he came to me alive Creator

Almighty

All-knowing

Am That Am in the body in the flesh in the dream in the dark room of the mouth in the opening then shutting then opening again already beginning to speak already beginning in tongues speaking

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chasm of a body opening then shutting then alive— chasm of living—

One day he came to me

on his knees on his hands on his swollen belly scraping across the rocks

speaking—

his one mouth

his wrenched legs

unfurling in the meadow— Boy lying in the one field gently gently already beginning to rot— * Once, I awoke beneath the mountain amidst a field of dry bones.

Fingered a phalanx. Mistook ischia for ilia. Lifted a spine to the light to inspect for cracks. Fractures.

Held a skull by my face as if to listen

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for a name. Shook. In the rubble, found a jawbone to complete it. Tried to reassemble a ribcage. Took my care with each rib and the sterna. Took my time with the clavicles and scapulae, didn’t know what to do with the coccyges, sacra.

Did the world ask, I ask, to be named so meticulously. When I had made of this blasted mound of scattered bones a man, then another, and then another lying beside him, discrete, sprawled, neatly supine in a row, arms quietly to the side, wrong body but a whole body, a scaffold, a permutation of parts—I had to cover my eyes as a gust of wind came over me, over the mountain, blew apart all my makeshift skeletons and set of my stitching an unravel. A field of remains no less nameless than before. Yet over and over I will do this again, centuries hence, yes, this stitching, this re-inserting, this searching for joints, again, by the shadow of the mountain, endless sound of beating wings—I will be here, I am still here, walking up and down the rockface, never ceasing, never resting, ever pulling all my dead back together with these hands. *

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Years since the sentence is pronounced upon me, years since the sentence is pronounced final upon my person by the Most High God— I am roasting bread. I am tending to my iron pan with its humble kindling of warm shit. I have taken wheat and barley and beans and lentils and millet and spelt and placed them in a single vessel. I have carved a city into a shard of clay tile and laid siege upon it. In the middle of the square of the real city, I have lain naked upon my side, my left side, and then my right side, and I have not moved my body nor turned from the appointed side for the appointed time and I have set my face against the clay city and prophesied against it.

Doom. Beheading of a clay king. Wailing of clay virgins resounding through clay streets like the blaring of a war horn. Tearing open of clay mothers before their clay children are even born. Clay fathers eating into their own clay sons. Clay sons in turn devouring their own clay fathers. Collapse of clay walls. Collapse of clay parapets in fire. Sacking of the clay temple and the clay tabernacle lost. Sing Josiah and his fallen body in Megiddo. Sing Jehoiakim and the chorus of swords turning in firelight like a swarm of hungry eyes—

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And when I was finished, after many years, and the querulous crowds had since dissipated, I took a knife in my exile and proceeded to hack away at the skin of my head. My atrophied body bending, body writhing into aliveness, body cracking into supple after decades of disuse, meaning in service to its single utility—this decay, slow ferment, sheer spectacle, sole allegory of faith, might of fidelity—I sat up upon my haunches and placed my hair upon a pair of balances. Weighed them. Took a third of it and cast it into the fire. Took another third and smote it all about with the knife. Took the final third and scattered the strands abroad in the wind. Behold— * And quickening—how the body of the boy begins now to speak, though it does not move its mouth, only a voice, only a hollow seeming to emanate from everywhere, then nowhere at once, the boy crying, the boy hunted, the boy clawing through the dirt, tearing his limbs from his limbs from their hidden sockets, hitching, almost seeming to grin though he has no teeth, turns to look at me with longing though I cannot find his eyes— *

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Speaks now, the one creature by the riverside.

Speaks now, the one limp in the water, the one that scrubs and scrubs its hands free of dirt, hazards to.

Speaks now, from the distance, from the fastapproaching cloud, out of Chebar, out of the advancing whirlwind, out of the one amber flame coiling out of the narrow eye of the whirlwind, advancing, spiraling forth, spiraling back and forth like a needle beginning to thread a loop through the spool of itself, an amber flame beginning to swell, to upheave, to down-surge and sidewind like a serpent for weeks starved of all flesh, though it must consume, for it must consume the flesh of another but if another cannot be found, it will coil, and against coiling, it will recoil upon itself, open its mouth because it has the power to, has the power in its hunger to partake, to make of itself what hunger hungers for, the flesh of another, flesh of itself, easing in, easing down into the opening of the glottis, epiglottis, into the stretched chasm of the mouth, and what follows the mouth, and what follows the door past the threshold of the mouth, how it opens then shuts then opens again, this

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serpent, this flame folding in upon itself, to find eternity or infinity or the flesh of itself in itself— Speaks now with finality the four-faced, fourwinged beast with the one body, with the one countenance of a lion, and of an ox, and of an eagle, and of a man pointing north, as it emerges from the one eye of the amber flame advancing, as if birthed from it, as if rebirthed— Tell me, man, of the body which you saw.

It was the body of a boy in a field.

Tell me, man, how you came upon it.

I was out upon the mountain, stitching all the bones back together. To make of them men.

Tell me, man, what you still mean by this.

There was a siege besieging my city.

Tell me, man, how you will one day forgive a God his crimes, a God his sins, a God his hunger— We were hungry and my sons would not eat. * And one day he came to me And one day he came to me alive again in the body in the flesh in the dream in the dark room of the mouth opening already beginning to speak chasm of alive chasm of living on his knees on his hands on his swollen belly

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scraping against the rocks speaking his one mouth his wrenched legs unfurling in the meadow And one day he came to me the boy smelling of unopened flowers speaking I must die I must die I must die by the hand of him by the edge of the blade that hacks at the head that hacks at limbs that hacks at the branches of trees as if to tell their age or the white length of a bone to arrive at its marrow I must die I must die I must die he says he says over and over again and I say no I say do not listen I say come here come to me come to these arms shaking open before you come let me clothe your shaken body come let me count the countless hairs that still cling to the folds of your shirt—

* Once, under the shadow of the mountain, by the endless sound of beating wings, I heard them, the bones becoming bodies again, after all my stitching, my re-inserting, finally stitching themselves, slowly gathering, slowly accumulating of their own accord, as if stitched together by a single thread being pulled up into the sky—it had that kind of focal point, that sort of choreography, the pulling, the one trajectory of the pulling—and they reassembled themselves, every joint, every socket screwing into each joint, every carpal to a metacarpal to a phalanx—

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And there, I beheld the horde, their hungry coelom, staggering blind against the rockface. From afar, I watched them, bodies, writhing, quickening in the light: viscera knit to viscera, sutured tongue onto speechless tongue, discovering the bodies they fit inside, as if they were their own, coming into their own. I said: Behold their exodus from exile, this cruel arrival of flesh. Behold the manifold face of the righteous, behold them rabid here and ravenous, behold the rabble with its beating heart, behold their slow advance in raw musculature. I said: Behold the nation naked and not asking for a name. Behold here history hungered, here with its one mouth hanging open. Behold the mouth hanging open, as if learning at last to pronounce itself.

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WORK SHOP DELIBERATION COMMITTEE ENGL I SH Ms. Deirdre Camba Ms. Tina del Rosario Ms. Jasmine Nikki Paredes

FILIPINO G. Abner Dormiendo G. Paolo Tiausas Bb. Julz Riddle

WORKS HOP DIRECTOR Catherina Dario

WORK SHOP COMMITTEE Jeremy Alog [ASSISTANT DIRECTOR] Reina Adriano, Chaela Tiglao, Ayana Tolentino [ VOLUNTEERS] Bernard Patrick Pingol, Celline Marge Mercado, Gabbie Leung, Helena Hontiveros Baraquel, Kristoff Sison, Robyn Angeli Saquin, Ryan Molen, Anna Marcelo [ PROMOTIONS TEAM ] Luis Wilfrido Atienza, Ida de Jesus [ONLINE TEAM] FINANCE Selina Ablaza DES IGN Ida de Jesus Miguel Galace HEIGHTS MODERATOR Allan Alberto N. Derain

Acknowledgments Fr. Jose Ramon T. Villarin, sj and the Office of the Ateneo de Manila President Dr. John Paul C. Vergara and the Office of the Vice President for the Loyola Schools Dr. Roberto Conrado Guevara and the Office of the Dean for Student Formation Dr. Josefina D. Hofile単a and the Office of the Associate Dean of Academic Affairs Dr. Ma. Luz C. Vilches and the Office of the Dean, School of Humanities Mr. Danilo M. Reyes and the English Department Mr. Martin V. Villanueva and the Fine Arts Program Dr. Joseph T. Salazar at ang Kagawaran ng Filipino Mr. Allan Popa and the Ateneo Institute of the Literary Arts and Practices (ailap) Mr. Christopher Fernando F. Castillo and the Office of Student Activities Ms. Marie Joy R. Salita and the Office of the Dean for Student and Administrative Services Ms. Liberty Santos and the Central Accounting Office Mr. Regidor Macaraig and the Purchasing Office Dr. Vernon R. Totanes and the Rizal Library Ms. Carina C. Samaniego and the University Archives Ms. Ma. Victoria T. Herrera and the Ateneo Art Gallery The MVP Maintenance and Security Personnel Ms. Roxie Ramirez and The Guidon Mr. Ray Santiago and Matanglawin The Sanggunian ng Mag-aaral ng Ateneo de Manila, and the Council of Organizations of the Ateneo And to those who have been keeping literature and art alive in the community by continuously submitting their works and supporting the endeavors of Heights

Editorial Board Editor - in - Chief Regine Miren D. Cabato [AB COM 2016] Associate Editor Catherina Maria Luisa G. Dario [BFA CW 2016] Managing Editor for External Affairs Manuel Iñigo A. Angulo [AB COM 2016] for Internal Affairs Luis Wilfrido J. Atienza [BS BIO 2016] for Finance Selina Irene O. Ablaza [BS COM TECH 2016] Art Editor Lasmyr D. Edullantes [BS MGT 2017] Associate Art Editor Lorenzo T. Narciso [BS PSY 2017] Design Editor Ida Nicola A. de Jesus [BFA ID 2017] Associate Design Editor Renzi Martoni S. Rodriguez [BFA ID 2016] English Editor Joshua Eric Romulo B. Uyheng [BS PSY 2016] Associate English Editor Juan Marco S. Bartolome [AB LIT (ENG) 2017] Filipino Editor Christian Jil R. Benitez [AB LIT (FIL) 2016] Associate Filipino Editor Juleini Vivien I. Nicdao [AB PSY 2016] Production Manager Micah Marie F. Naadat [AB COM 2017] Associate Production Manager Angelica Bernadette P. Deslate [BS PSY 2017] Heights Online Editor Anna Nicola M. Blanco [AB COM 2017] Associate Heights Online Editor Ma. Fatima Danielle G. Nisperos [BS LM 2016] Head Moderator and Moderator for Filipino Allan Alberto N. Derain Moderator for Art Yael A. Buencamino Moderator for English Martin V. Villanueva Moderator for Design Jose Fernando Go -Oco Moderator for Production Enrique Jaime S. Soriano Moderator for Heights Online Nicko Reginio Caluya