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DAPITAN: INA Š COPYRIGHT 2020 by the Flame. All rights reserved. Dapitan is the official literary folio of the Flame, the official student publication of the Faculty of Arts and Letters, University of Santo Tomas. The copyright reverts to the Flame and the individual authors appearing in this folio. The works may not be published or reproduced in any form without the consent of the Flame or the authors. Copies of this issue may not be entered into any kind of business transaction. Correspondence and contributions may be addressed to: Dapitan c/o the Flame G/F St. Raymund de Penafort Building University of Santo Tomas Espana, Manila, Philippines or to dapitan@abtheflame.net Book cover and layout by Frances Marie G. Ignalaga and Ella Marie M. Mercado
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PAUNANG SALITA Ang Teorya ng Malapit Madalas na kung ano o sino ang malapit sa atin ay siya nating nababalewala, hindi naidodokumento, hindi naitatampok. Nitong mga nakaraang taon, napansin kong bihira ang mga akdang tungkol sa pagiging nanay. Di ko alam kung bakit. Dahil ba kakaunti ang manunulat na babae? At mas kakaunti ang manunulat na ina? Weird kung tutuusin, dahil ang mga nanay, kilala sa pagiging matalak, masalita. Pero bibihira ang akda na sila mismo ang nagsulat. Kung bibigyan ng pagkakataong magsulat, ano nga ba ang isusulat nila? Anak, asawa, tahanan, bahay, paghuhugas ng plato, paghihiwalay ng puting damit sa de kolor, pagliligpit ng kalat, pagwawalis ng sala, bayad sa upa, pagde-defrost ng ref, pagpili ng pinakamakintab na dalandan sa palengke, pagtaas ng presyo ng carrot at patatas, paghihiwa ng sibuyas. In short, ang isusulat nila ay lahat ng malapit. At hindi tayo fan ng mga bagay na ito. Araw-araw na nga nating nakakasalamuha, ay, bakit pa natin iha-highlight, bakit pa nga ba isusulat, bakit pa natin babasahin? Parang hindi natin ito ikatatalino. Araw-araw na nga, ang lapit-lapit pa. Walang bago riyan. Walang matututuhan. Siguro, ito rin ang dahilan kung bakit di tayo masyadong nagsusulat tungkol sa sarili nating kalye, komunidad, bayan. Sa isang writing workshop na dinaluhan ko bilang tagapagsalita ilang taon na ang nakakaraan, ang napagkasunduang paksa ay trapik. Out of 14 writers, isa lang ang nagbanggit ng pangalan ng kalye sa kanyang akda. Takang-taka ako. Bakit ayaw idokumento ang pangalan ng mga kalye? Kasi naman, ano bang meron sa kalye, komunidad, bayan natin
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kundi kapitbahay na nakakainis, tumpok-tumpok na tae ng aso, lagas at tuyot na mga dahon, ispageting kawad ng Meralco, cable, telepono, isang pirasong elementary school para sa buong populasyon, agnas nang ospital, matandang pamilyang kaytagal nang politiko? And we do not think that these are worthy to be the center of our written works. We do not believe that these are worthy of the time of the readers. Para iyan lang. Maliit na bagay ang domestiko. Hindi importante ang malapit. Hindi tayo bilib sa malapit. Ito rin marahil ang dahilan kung bakit mas malaki ang paghanga natin sa mga nag-aral sa malayo. Mas malayo, mas kabilib-bilib. Gayundin sa trabaho, mas di pamilyar sa atin, mas kahanga-hanga ang ginagawa. Paniwala natin, mas marami tayong matututuhan sa mga bagay na malayo sa atin. Pero sa larangan ng panitikan, ang pag-aakda ay hindi lang tungkol sa kung may matututuhan ba o wala ang mambabasa. Ito ay tungkol din sa paglalahad, sa pagbabahagi, sa pagpapahayag ng tao na nagsusulat. Simple lang. Ang pag-aakda ay tungkol din sa pagbibigay ng pagkakataon na makapaglahad, makapagbahagi at makapagpahayag sa sinumang nais magsulat. Lalo na sa mga tao na kadalasan ay binabalewala lang natin. Kasi nga, ang lapit-lapit lang nila. Masyadong karaniwan. Gayon din marahil ang kanilang papaksain sa akda. Malapit, karaniwan, pamilyar. Kaya anong tuwa ko nang dumating ang imbitasyong maging guest editor ng Dapitan Folio na nagtatampok sa mga ina. Gaya ng aking inaasahan, dumagsa ang mga akda tungkol sa malapit. May nagsulat tungkol sa kanilang ina at mga babaeng itinuring nilang ina. Malapit. Malapit na malapit. Humanga ako sa katapatan ng mga estudyante sa kanilang damdamin. Kahanga-hanga rin ang likot ng imahinasyon ng mga estudyante, lalo na ang mga sumulat ng akdang nagtampok ng imaginary na ina, at ang masalimuot na ugnayan nito sa tahanan, komunidad, bayan. Mababasa sa Dapitan Folio na ito kung paanong iniisip at nililikha sa isip ng mga Tomasino ang malapit: ang kanilang mga ina at ang pagiging ina. Special mention ang mga akda nina Aurora Cristina Paguio-Bermudez at Imelda Morales. Nagsulat sila ng sariling danas hinggil sa pagiging nanay. Nang finally ay dumating sa inbox ko ang kanilang mga akda, nacurious ako. Agad kong binasa ang mga ito. Ganito pala magsulat ang mga Tomasinong nanay. Ganito pala sila magtampok ng malapit. Curious ka na rin ba?
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Aba, tuloy na! Pasok, pasok, dito sa tahanan na nilikha ng Dapitan para sa iyo. Ang koleksiyong ito ay binubuo ng tatlumpu’t apat na akda na kinatha ng tatlumpu na manunulat. Pagpasok mo rito, huwag nang magtaka kung biglang magliwanag sa utak ang konsepto ng malapit. Ikaw ba naman ang makipag-one-on-one sa sari-saring ilaw ng tahanan? Mula sa amin ni Dr. Joselito De Los Reyes, ang kapwa ko guest editor, isang mainit na pagbati ng WELCOME HOME! Beverly Wico Siy Mayo 2020 Bacoor, Cavite
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A mother of three, Beverly Wico Siy is a writer, editor, and copyright advocate. She has nine books produced by mainstream and small publishing companies. Her book of essays won the Filipino Readers Choice Award in 2012. She was one of the country’s book champions and intellectual property ambassadors in 2015. Four of her books were finalists in various categories of the National Book Awards in the past few years.
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Joselito D. De Los Reyes is currently a resident fellow of the University of Santo Tomas Center for Creative Writing and Literary Studies and a research fellow of the Research Center for Culture, Arts and Humanities of the same university. He has a BSE Social Science degree from Philippine Normal University. He obtained his master’s and doctorate degrees in Philippine Studies from De La Salle University where his final research project was given an Outstanding Dissertation Award. He is the author of PAUBAYA (UST Publishing House, 2014), TROYA: 12 KUWENTO (Visprint, Inc. 2016), two National Book Award-winning collections of essays about social media: iSTATUS NATION (Visprint, Inc. 2014) and TITSER PANGKALAWAKAN (Visprint, Inc. 2015), and numerous literary translations including the timeless novel ANG METAMORPOSIS of Franz Kafka. His latest book is FINDING TEO: TULA/TALAMBUHAY (UST Publishing House, 2018), a popular biography of esteemed poet, Teo Antonio won for him the 2018 National Book Awards for Nonfiction. His upcoming books include a collection of humorous travel essays and his musings as an academic and columnist for several media and new media platforms.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS POETRY
The Potter Growing Apart Silk Tongue Their Unswerving Stride Password My Mother is a Shapeshifter It Comes Home Resistance to Light My Mother is an Estrie The Ghost of Routine At the Cloth Shop
PROSE
That Bright Light A Second Son A Message of Regret Who I Cradled
FLASH FICTION
Fated A Truer Sleep
CREATIVE NON-FICTION
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Iba’t Ibang Mukha ng Parihaba Even Dawn Casts Shadows: A Memoir A Mother’s Journal Ang Manlilikha
16 19 21 23 29 31 32 35 36 38 40
44 47 60 64
68 72
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TULA
Dementia Sa Hapag Kainan Oda sa Batang Nawawala Kumot Para Kay Oryang
KATHA
Aswang as You Love Me Bulagan ang Hugis ng Hinagpis Ulam Luz Lata ng Sardinas
BAGONG ANYO
Kasing Kahulugan ng Pag-ibig
96 98 100 104 106
110 117 122 126 130 134
DULANG MAY ISANG YUGTO Ma
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CONTRIBUTOR PAGE
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ART AND PHOTO INDEX
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS PAGE
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DAPITAN STAFF
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Poetry
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The Potter Ana Muriel R. Veron
When she chose the clay, She perhaps desired the Kaolinite That would have resulted in pristine, white porcelain. She knew this medium would limit her And her creation But it does not bother her. She would be content in the results Of her skill and the love She would instill in her craft. To create was a heavy task to take on— She would labor For the rest of her life. She worked alone. In an orderly workshop With occasional visitors and seldom assistance. She did not need it. She molded the heart and mind With her inexperienced yet careful hands. The muddled dirt stuck under her fingernails And staining her skin. Sweat running down her forehead. Though she wishes for it to be beautiful, This is not its purpose. She wanted the best parts of herself showing In every bend and curve Passion and honor and kindness. So that everyone might see that this Is what she had made.
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She left it to dry in the shade But it didn’t. Not completely. There were too many variables: The humidity The impurities in the clay Certain parts were too thick. She would have waited longer But she could not. Her aching hands were too tired, Too worn And it was time for firing. She places it in the kiln. She is impatient but she hopes for the best As she closes the door on her work, Leaving it in the burning heat. So she waits And she can only pray That it does not crack.
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Growing Apart Winona S. Sadia
I wake up to a mountain of clothes still clinging to their hangers since Sunday laundry. On the kitchen sink, dishes from last night remain unwashed, reeking of sweet sauce from the plate of spaghetti a neighbor had shared with us. A waft of cigarette smoke greets me as I step out, intending to leave the house as it is. Has any of my siblings started smoking? I wouldn’t know—I’m asleep when they’re awake, they’re awake when I’m asleep, they’re away when I’m awake. It’s been weeks since last Skype with Ma. Our calendar is stuck on February.
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Silk Tongue Winona S. Sadia
The first time I heard mother curse, I felt betrayed For she raised me my words filtered: This mouth was not to call father bad, the boys in my class gross, our neighbor’s dog ugly. This tongue was never to taste liquor nor cigarette smoke. I wonder how much it took mom to swear before my ears while she traced the thinning footsteps of dad– That fucking shit.
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Their Unswerving Stride
Djulienne Flor V. Foster
He is caged within these walls, hindering the sun’s rays, illuminating the corridors in strips of hope against looming despair. She musters the strength to take each step, resonating, countering, the deafening silence until she is stopped in her tracks. She peers into his confines, squinting and shading her eyes from the afternoon glare. There, she sees him hunched over, as if he carried burdens atop his shoulders, dragging him down, shackling him in chains. Lolay could do nothing but stand and bear witness to her son’s final moments, depriving her of an embrace with him. Only angels will cradle him now. She could only wrap her arms around herself. Silence and anguish suffocates her as she tries to take in his blurring silhouette, the cast of his frame, every sound and stir of his figure’s heaving, memorizing each detail despite her failing senses. He gave her a sideways glance
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DAPITAN and caught sight of her mourning, knowing the inevitable, yet he smiled at her. How she wanted to cup his face— to hold him close and keep him safe; to give him the warmth and joy that summer brings Instead of the chill of late December. How she would cherish and keep in mind these loving gestures he’d throw at her; to comfort her in the coming years, blanketed by the agony of loss. “My child—a moth, flying much too close to a lighted candle, burning its wings as it inched near, drawn by the flaming pool. Do you remember this didactic tale of a moth which has sparked this flame within you?” “You were never one for such intricacies. You were never fond of Sundays’ drawn-out meetings and ceremonies. Children diligently and somehow mindlessly follow in their fathers’ footsteps, hiding in their shadows, having hammered into their heads orders and maxims. You’d drown it all out or let your mind wander and play in the midst of their discourse while you nurture in your youth your own philosophies and ideologies to carry you in the besieging of times, moving you to your next course of action;
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to be your resounding faith, spurring you on, more than poetry verses, phantasmic tales, prosaic truths, and these weekend sermons, profound and logic-ridden.� She wonders what has brought him to stammer out such tropes and metaphors, bringing them to life, capturing the essence of the embers of his thoughts. She feels that verse and prose could never encompass him: his ponderings, his realizations, even in his lyrical farewell, a coda to a well-lived life for love runs over and words stop short; What the heart feels and means is set into mere hues of utterance, much like the language of the figure before her— inches away yet distances apart from his mother’s loving arms; A love so fierce, gentle, and true, for this ideology of a country, made concrete. Who knows what your insights and faiths, tempered by your knowledge, may bring; Only time will tell when his ideas are enshrined in the hearts and minds of many, starting in a flame and spreading like wildfire, making a mark in the palimpsest of history. Yet no frail syllable in a verse or intricate text can compare to him; this soul she bore and vigiled over.
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He reached for her hand, withered against his youthfulness, kissed it and pressed it against his forehead as he asked for her forgiveness. Shaking slightly, she tightly held his. Words could never truly encompass what the heart wishes to say and know. It is with a veil of sadness that she accepts his fate; The thoughts that remain in his mind will forever stay there, and will only be known to him and him alone— his mother unable to decipher his final thoughts. As much as she would like to know more, the end is nigh. She wonders if she has stoked a flame within him on the day she was taken. He was only eleven. She held her head high, dignity apparent, despite the odds against her. Under the sun’s blaze, on the roads to Santa Cruz, she trudged the trail with head held high, yet she is simply viewed as some common criminal, unlike him. And his unswerving stroll from his cell to his eternal spot, every stride sure until the very end, his heart unwavering, until his fall at rise of early day welcoming him toward the everlasting sky.
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Passport Philip B. Jamilla
To wait alone in long lines in government offices is the mark of adulthood — or so my mother says as I ponder for the third time if I am on the right line. The guard beside me points to a sign, assuring me my number will be called to the counter. A mother takes the seat next to me as she carries her baby on one hand, her folder of documents on the other. As the numbers drift and flutter, I begin to wonder just how much the government knows about me: my name, birthday, the fingerprints on my thumb, the crumbs of biscuit stuck between my teeth— these folders of paperwork and their photocopies will tell them everything they need to know. I go and take the next seat as the line moves. I sit still, trying hard to kill the creaking of this aging chair as I wait for my turn, the slow burning of time eating away at every second of sitting in silence and balancing the weight of my weightless body. The baby on the seat next to me screams with glee and jumps to the floor and runs around in a chase with no one except his mother as he runs further and further and disappears to the end of the room. The voice on the counter rumbles in the speakers calling the next number and the long line moves. How much longer do I wait—but what a minute. Where is my number? Where are you, mother? What do I do? Where do I go? Where do I go?
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my mother is a shapeshifter Alexandra G. Pelonia
sometimes she’s the arrow in the compass when i’m lost, the wood on my shoes when i walk over thorns, the calcium in my bones when i’m weak, the leaves of a tree, shading me from beams.
but all the time, in every turn of her shapeshifting, she’s a mother.
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It Comes Home John Patrick A. Magno Ranara
I never believed in monsters ba-DOOM ba-DOOM ba-DOOM until three sharp knocks came. My ears hurt from the sound it made, my hair bristles from the force it gave. The clock said it was morning. The sky said it was raining. My feet shuffle towards the door, my hand touches the cold knob turning, clicking, squeaking, swinging. A shadow, a blackness looms before me. Not a person with plastic smiles and plastic bags. Not the kid from down the lane who comes to play. It was a monster and it looked at me with red, watery eyes. I know that I’m not dreaming, I know that I’m not imagining, because mommy sees it too as she stands from behind.
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Resistance to Light
Hans Lawrence V. Malgapu
There. In that lone Aegean blue dress IN a frame plagued by red and shades Resistant to light. There. She scurries to find her beloved In the pile of bodies that understood The futility of resistance. There in the midst of chaos Where one was bathing with light, Watching until the last of the warriors Getting dragged out of life, smearing innocence In the eyes of prosecutors No more resiliency to knock one out For the last tie, clinging for everyone’s good. There The body. Or maybe not. In the shadows, there Comes laughter Because they all think that death was the solution, A finality, to fend off those who had offended them Better dead than living, to hear, to know They are slaves of their own bloodline Where death is but a show
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My Mother is an Estrie
Theriz Lizel R. Silvano
My mama, so long have you been seen From the turbulent forest where the sun gleams How is it to be in a fine hospice? After you lost me in an oak coppice You birthed me destructively Along with a storm near the Dead Sea But how did you end up here? Oh, mama, is it the Jew man who called you ‘dear’? Now that I’m in Hell I know why people came to you and tell, “You’re nothing but an Estrie,” “Who killed Jews and fairies!” But mama, a Jew man seduced you He who maltreated and made you a shrew You then became half-evil and half-human Which made you slaughter every man And mama, you’re an angel from above You did nothing like a turtledove Only a man made you a demon Who locked your kindness in a dungeon And now the pain is gone When you birthed me at dawn But here I am An unbaptized demon-child who’s weak as a lamb Jailed in Hell like a Pagan From where I am, the first limbo spun But mama, I’m alright Just pray for me every night.
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The Ghost of Routine Juan Carlos Montenegro
There’s a tingle that alarms My dulled senses. Caused by the proximity Of her body approaching Mine at exactly 5:15 am, Followed by my name, Mentioned through her cadenced Whisper; Pulling me from my subconscious daydream, re-settling in the comfort of mundane. The quiet of mornings unveiled plenty: The soft whir of the electric fan, The muffled noises of GMA News Talking heads in the living room, the faint sounds of urban noise Seeking attention under pale and hueish skies. Wooden floorboards would sing softly In precise rhythmed creaks; Feeling the shift of weight In her feet with every step as Slowly, she exits the door of My room Now -- my body reacts To the proximity of anticipation; An accustomed response that Pulls me away from the subconscious reality
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where her voice did not resound From recited memory, her caress not a phantom stimuli caused by the rigid motors Of schedule. The air is thick with memory, Eerie and unsettling with The vacuum of silence Blotting out the metropolitan noise. In the blur of my eyesight, I would see your figure Emerge from the spaces you once occupied, and make your way To the exit-- towards The passing minute of 5:15 am.
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At the Cloth Shop Aimee Morales
My mother lost me one day There at the cloth shop She was buying textile for my first uniform She had all the shades and textures on her lap After some time, she suddenly remembered That she brought her daughter along So she called my name and looked for me Tearfully, she searched hard and long She shouted at the store clerk She called and screamed at the cop She called my father, she called her mother She even harassed the gathering mob All that racket woke me Up from beneath the cloth heap For there I found among fresh fabrics A wonderfully warm place to sleep My mother was happy, no, I think she’s mad I really don’t get her sometimes She looked sheepishly at everyone else But stared at me with her piercing black eyes
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Prose
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That Bright Light Rommel Fuertes Jr.
I still remember the day everything went south. It was my life’s way of saying “We will take you out slowly.” And slowly it did. My left arm started to feel numb, the developing pain reached my then it raced to my head. Saliva started flowing out my mouth unconsciously and then, ever so quickly, I dropped. My husband picked me up and carried me to the nearest hospital. He always had bad knees, but adrenaline powered him to bring me to help. Maybe it was love. We have been married for sixty years, sharing one roof despite the highs and lows, and not once did he even think of seeing another woman. It most likely was love. “Lily, don’t sleep…please don’t sleep!” I heard him say while catching his breath from running. He propped me in an ICU bed and waited. He waited patiently. I wanted to run to him and thank him for still treating me as his wife after all these years. I wanted to hug him, I wanted to kiss him, I wanted to tell him I love him, but my body won’t allow me. Unfortunately, by that time, I could only think. Not move, not talk, not cry, just think. My left eyelid was gently opened followed by a flash of light, then the same thing happened to my right eye. I was examined. “Where’s mama? What happened to her?” I could recognize that voice in my sleep. — That sweet little girl, Arlene. She was the only child I gave birth to. She was the only girl I found beautiful. She had my eyes. She was the fuel that kept me going. When she was a kid, her father would scold him and I would always rush to her aid to tell her she’s safe with me. “Oh that man, I’ll scold him when he gets home for scolding you!” I would always say, and her frown would turn upside down like a pendulum changing the course of its swing. She grew up never forgetting her roots, she’d always run to me when things got way too difficult for her temper. She would call me in the middle of the night only to vent out her emotions. “He’s still not home, can you believe it? I had to get off work early to take care of Ivan cause he still didn’t get home. This is unbelievable.”
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INA “Men. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them, it’s such a complex thing but we can’t just up and leave. Understanding is important, maybe even more than love. What makes you think me and your father are still in this marriage? It doesn’t get easier, but that’s when you get tougher.” We were best friends more than Bert and Ernie. It wasn’t even like we were mother and daughter, we were more like sisters. That was rare. Every time she’d visit us, she’d bring us gifts, but I always get a little extra from her. When she’d bring home jackets for me and his father, I’d get an extra shirt. She’d bring dinner, I’d get a free dessert. It’s simple, but it sure did favor me. If there’s anything I’m very proud of in my ninety years of existence, it’s raising her with the utmost care. Her number one woe was always her line of work. She would always tell me how hard it was to be overworked and underpaid, but it never fazed her to resign, she loves her job. “I got my mom’s resilience,” was her primary answer whenever I brought up the idea of quitting. Maybe she would have been better managing banks or trying out marketing but building relations as an associate for a big company was her undisputed thing. It was like watching poetry in motion with her. One day she’s crying at three in the morning waking up the neighbors, the other she’d be breastfeeding her baby to prevent the same raucousness she did when she was an infant. And then she’d cry again. An impending cycle. — I saw Arlene gasping for air in my peripherals from bawling her eyes out. I also witnessed my husband sitting on the floor, clenching his knees. They saw what was happening; they knew it was inevitable. “Show us that resilience, Ma! Please fight, please wake up!” As much as I wanted to show her how tough I was, I just couldn’t. It is true what they say, the mind can wield immense fight but it won’t be able to deliver when the body can take no more. For two years I have suffered the idea of breathing, but never really living—more so, moving. But with tubes in my mouth and a ton of dextrose punched through my wrist, I felt a sort of relief, a selfish type of relief knowing what was about to occur. It wasn’t so hard to be old; it was much harder to feel helpless. I faintly felt a nurse climb atop me, his appearance ever so blurry. I felt a sharp thud in my chest… then another… then another… my breathing started to decrease. Slower and weaker, my lungs could take no more of what is needed for me to see the light of tomorrow. I felt like a bird getting shot down, my fall was coming either way. I heard beeps, the same ones I heard from soap operas I watched at night. The beeps from the hospital room when an individual is nearing the verge of death. I wanted to fight back and get up, but fighting death was like punching air. It’s no use. Death was coming for me. The beep turned into fastpaced sounds, like morse codes, then it became more rapid, and then a long sound. All of a sudden the cries and begs of the room turned into silence, I felt some sort of astral pulling. No noises, no emotions, nor movements, just light. A very bright light. I had no time nor consciousness to determine what it is, I already knew what it was. It felt like the end, the last page off of a novel, the final word of a novena, but it wasn’t. — “You think you made the most out of your time down there?” “God…?” “No.”I wanted to feel fear, but there was no such thing. How would I scream if I had no mouth? How would I run if I had no feet? How would I react if I had no face, only light? “I’m not a redeemer, a savior, nor a gatekeeper. I’m just here to grant people one last thing before they go…Someplace.”
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DAPITAN “Am I going to Heaven?” “No.” If there was ever any moment to wear fear like a fur coat, this was it. “I’m going to Hell…? “No. I won’t answer any of that, I have no rights to. It’s not my place. I’m only here…” “To grant one last leeway before I completely die, I get it. I wanted to ask what people do ask for when they get here, but I was positive I’d only get a ‘no’ once more. I didn’t need to think any further, I knew what I had to say. I knew what I had to ask of whatever that was. “My husband and my daughter. I want to see them before I go. There was no word of approval or noise to signal a “You got it”, just a very very quick flashing of darkness and then I was someplace. I could not get a glimpse of what I was, but I can see. I can see the world I once stepped foot on. I had no determiners of what time this was or if I was even in the same land, but I was alive. Somehow, some way, I felt alive. — I felt like I was flying, or floating, I wasn’t really sure. The first place I decided to go to was my husband’s. I have loved the man for years, and if my life was to be stripped off completely, I would need to see his face one last time. I was by the window when I saw him cleaning out the house. I wished I could help him, but that would be impossible, like the probability of the ocean waves reaching the far fetched moon. Everything seemed like a normal general house cleaning until he attempted to fold my wheelchair. He began to tear up and my heart, if I ever had one in this entity, started to crumble. He knew that wheelchair as much as I do. He’s touched it just as much as I did, for whenever I would be seated in it, he’d be there accompanying me to wherever. He never got tired, he never complained, he just did what he had to do to get me to move, because I can’t. I would always ask him, very silently, under my breath, “Do you not get tired of this?”. And just as I remembered uttering that question, I heard him whispering to himself somehow. His answer then remained unchanged. “I’ll never get tired of you.” He continued to clean then knelt down near our altar to say a little prayer. I wished I didn’t need to leave him, but when your time comes, your time comes. If only I could have hugged him, it would shatter the harsh reality for a second, but it wasn’t doable. I have seen many movies of melodramas and romances, but the idea at hand was more tragic than anything I have ever laid my emotions on. I continued to wander. This time, at my daughter’s home. The sky was painted light blue, so I presumed it was sunrise. I was again, by the window when she woke up and immediately reached her phone. Her attention started to change very sharply when she looked at her screen, like a dog perking her ears up when she smells a treat from afar. I couldn’t see what was on her phone, but it looked like good news. Very good in fact that she started to climb out of bed and jumped. A lot. She phoned someone, then, at the top of her lungs screamed, “I finally got promoted!” Finally, I thought. She has waited for that announcement as far back as I can remember. From late night phone cries to lunch time rants, she’s finally given what she’s earned. If I was given the opportunity to express pride, I’d do it. After hanging up the phone, her eyes watered, this time, with joy. I’ve always known her to be emotional, but this is the good type of emotional state I want her to be in. She looked out the window, her eyes misty from tears. I was looking at her directly, but she couldn’t see me. She heaved a sigh, wiped her eyes and mouthed what seemed to be a message for me. “I wish you were still here to celebrate this with me. This is for you, Mama.” The sun peaked high. The time was probably noon. What was time? What was I? So many questions I could not answer, but maybe I didn’t need to. I was given the chance to see the gems of my life for final brief moments and I was given it. It’s my time now and I’d be glad to accept it. I soared up to the sun, the light that shone upon me.
46
INA
A SECOND SON
Von Zyron Alimorong
I took a silent dinner with eyes as watchful as the police and movements as precise as clockwork then paused; ran to my son’s bedroom, and took a second look at my son unbothered in his childhood rest, before finally returning to my dinner—which is, more often than not, my breakfast and lunch for the day. It is good for a mother to be as thrifty as she can when it comes to the things that she consumes so that she would have something to give to the person she bore for nine months inside her womb. No—that is not a good thing to do. It is a thing that a mother ought to do. A moral obligation of sorts. Why would a sane woman bear a child that she desired and protected for nine months, only to have all the focus to herself when she returns to her former self? No—not a former self, but a former body—for pregnancy does not allow a woman to just simply return to her former life like she is changing clothes. I learned how to cook tinola for Bruno three years ago when he was just nine years old; it’s his favorite ever since he tasted it on his birthday. But now, he said he didn’t want tinola anymore and chose another cuisine with more meat in it. I supposed I’ll be cooking something else on his birthday. I have three days left to figure that out. Soon he will be ten years old. Oh, my Bruno. What a cherub he is when he’s asleep. Chubby cheeks, rosy skin, curly hair, innocent smile—I hope he remains the way he is for all eternity; to remain incredibly young and innocent; to forever be my young child who’ll come to his mother every after school to give a hug, or to give a kiss, or to tell stories of how his day went or how his grades are going (he excels a lot in school; it is so appropriate to his look to be so intelligent). That’s my Bruno and he shall forever be my sweet little Bruno. After I finished my dinner, took extra care while washing the dishes (so that Bruno won’t wake up by the sound of clattering dishes), washed my secretary outfit for tomorrow, and reviewed a couple of papers to be disseminated for tomorrow’s meeting, I went by Bruno’s side and placed my arm around him, wrapping him with body heat to combat the coldness of August night. The next morning went like the usual—just the way I always liked it to be. Bruno took his meal in high spirits and had finished it quickly, just as he always does. Then after he finished his meal, he took a nice little bath, but he often took longer at that activity (he said he likes to play with soap bubbles). After that, I helped him dress in his white school uniform; I had his uniform modified to make sure it is perfectly fit for his size. I disliked having him wear something a little bit too big; it often doesn’t look nice to me. After a kiss on his cheek and a tight hug and some reminders for him to always keep in
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DAPITAN mind, I had asked Joebert, our driver, to drop him off exactly where we often drop him off back when Bruno was younger. “You wouldn’t come with us, Miss Marquez?” asked Joebert soon after I gave the instructions I’ve always given him for the past two years. Bruno was quick to enter the car. “No. I’ll just take the train. If I come along, Bruno and I will both be late,” I said. “I’ll just take the train.” Joebert shot a pleasing smile and went to the driver seat. “Bruno,” I said, leaning forward. He already had his eyes on his phone so it took me another “Bruno” to catch his attention. “Behave well in school, okay? Just keep quiet. Just play along with your classmates but not too much, okay? Always be mindful of your belongings. Listen to Miss Poppin’s advice. And may the Heavens watch—do not hold Merisa’s hand again. I don’t want her family thinking you too have a relationship. You both are way too young for that.” “Is a relationship bad, Mom?” said he in the most innocent tone. “No—but it is when you’re young. Do it when you already have a job, okay? Now behave well or Mister Joebert won’t play your favorite music.” “Okay, mom,” he said again in the most innocent tone. They went off and I went off to fix myself and my belongings, take a short breakfast, then hurry to the nearest train station. The train was packed with people of various faces, each telling a different story or a different train of thought. The nuances on their faces barely changed throughout the entire journey, like sculptures with permanently sculpted faces. Stinking men and women standing up with no room for any child’s desire to roam around freely. All of us were still, but the time was not; and yet it would look like that if one would close his eyes for a minute then open it the next—no one will shift their position. I desire for the old times to come back; the times when I was in London and everybody on the train was seated, conversing, and actually delighted by the journey. If it was not for Bruno’s coming to earth, I wouldn’t have left London and its train that never changed, even after I grew old. Here, everybody just wanted the trip to end. The meeting at the office went the way it always does and the way I liked it to be: Mrs. Vance presenting her idea to the board, the board calmly asking Mrs. Vance for some revisions on her plans, and Mrs. Vance responding to all of it. The meeting went smoother than stroking a velvet, just as how it always does and just as how I liked it to be. When the meeting had ended, I went back to my small and familiar office and got back to work as soon as my bottom landed on the seat. “Hello?” I said after picking up the phone. This must be Jonathan, Mrs. Vance’s driver. He often calls every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday to ask where Mrs. Vance would like to eat so that he would know when to fetch Mrs. Vance. “Hello, Clarisse. So, where would Mrs. Vance go for her lunch today?” “She hasn’t said anything yet. I’ll call you as soon as she tells me.” “Okay.” Then he hung up.
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INA I went to Mrs. Vance’s office to ask her where she would like to go for lunch. “Mrs. Vance, Jonathan just called. He was wondering where—” “Oh, is it lunchtime already?” “Yes, Mrs. Vance.” “Oh, I didn’t notice—oh, yes, it is 12:37 already. I must have been too focused on managing these new high-profile investors. They’re such a pain in the ass, don’t you think?” “Personally, yes, I do think the same, ma’am.” “If you were me, where would you go for lunch? Shrimpland as usual? Or would you like for a change? Maybe Toppers or Absolute Chicken.” I didn’t hesitate for even a moment. “I would go to Shrimpland. I think that’s a better choice than Toppers.” “You don’t like Absolute Chicken for a change?” asked Mrs. Vance, as she shut down her computer and readied her belongings. “No, ma’am. Absolute Chicken—I really didn’t like their menu.” “I guess we’ll go for Shrimpland, then. Go tell Jonathan.” “Yes, ma’am.” As soon as we went from the fiftieth floor to the ground floor, Jonathan was already parked outside to wait for Mrs. Vance and me. I arrived at home around five in the afternoon and Bruno wasn’t still at home. And there was already a sensation of dread in me; I felt the goosebumps passing through me like a wave, first, around the shoulder area then flowing downwards. I called Jericho, Bruno’s adviser, and he said that the class ended two hours ago. More dread in the hands. So much dread that I misdialed a number on the phone, instead of calling Joebert. “Joebert, where’s Bruno?” and I might have raised my voice a little but maybe not. I really did not notice it well. Maybe I did. “We’re still on the road. We hit traffic. They said an accident happened ahead. I think two jeepneys crashed onto each other. It caused a heavy clog on the road right now. I’m sorry, Miss Marquez. Bruno might come home a little bit later than usual.” “You’re stuck on the road for two hours?” “No, Miss Marquez. We’ve been stuck here for an hour.” “But his teacher said the class already ended two hours ago.” “Bruno said he wanted to have time with his friends a little bit longer. They stayed a little longer in school before Bruno agreed to go home.”
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DAPITAN I could not say anything right away. It wasn’t the usual Bruno whom I know of. I told him countless times to go home as soon as the class ends. I told him not to spend too much time with his friends or he’ll go home too late. Who knows what danger might come in his way as soon as the sun quits and goes to rest? But I trust Joebert. Although I have only hired him three months ago, I trust he’ll bring Bruno home safe. I really do hope they’re safe. “Miss Marquez, I am so sorry for calling this late. Anyway, the doctors said that the treatment was successful. If the ambulance arrived here just a little late, they said they might not be able to do anything to fix it,” said Elizah, Mrs. Vance’s secretary, on the telephone at around nine in the evening. “They said it was food poisoning. The police were quick to act on it since Mrs. Vance is the President’s sister-in-law.” “Did they say how she got it?” “They said it must have been the shrimp,” she said. “There have been some accusations on Shrimpland two months ago. Apparently, two more people supposedly got food poisoning after eating there. They say it was on the news for a week already, but Mrs. Vance—Justin! Put that toy car down, it’s not supposed to be placed on the washing machine!—sorry. Mrs. Vance is not exactly someone who would watch the news. The only news she ever took notice of are the business news. No—don’t put it there, Justin!” “Thank you, Elizah. I’ll just move some of Mrs. Vance’s schedule for the entire week. I’ll hang up now. You seem pretty busy with Justin.” Clarisse.”
“Yes. I’ll take care of Justin for the meantime since her mother isn’t around. Thank you,
Then I hung up. Bruno asked what it was about since he remarked that I looked like “I’ve heard of someone’s murder”—and though his word choice was a bit bizarre—by a short glance at the mirror, I found him to be utterly correct. I really looked like I heard of someone’s murder. What Mrs. Vance got herself into would definitely cause a hit on her business, especially if her condition worsened over the week. I’ll contact all the people whom she was supposed to have meetings with and move it to another week. As much as I want to tell them that Mrs. Vance got food poisoning, they might have a negative reaction to it that could impact the business. Besides, letting them know is something that Mrs. Vance probably wouldn’t be fond of. I do hope Mrs. Vance recovers as soon as possible. In the meantime, it is her brother who’ll temporarily take care of things. “It’s nothing, baby boy,” I said, setting the phone back to its cradle. I was in the living room when all of it had happened and I have not moved ever since I’ve heard the news about Mrs. Vance. By my side on the sofa is the planner, with all the dates this entire week occupied with meetings and conferences. I looked at it then released it with a heavy sigh. “Now finish your milk and go to bed.” “I’m not a baby boy, anymore.” I think that is what he had said. really did.
“What did you say?” I might have raised my voice again, although I hardly noticed if I “Soon I’ll be thirteen, mom,” he said after finishing his glass of milk and setting it on the
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INA sink, walking with slumped shoulders, weakened arms, exhausted eyes, and an impending yawn on his face—approaching the stairs with the most somber face. “What’s wrong with you? Hey—” he had stopped at the base of the stairs as I trod towards him, possibly with the sourest face a mother can ever conjure in front of her son (as if I had kept in my mouth three slices of fresh oranges for a little bit longer than I should). “What did you sa—What thirteen years old?” “Mom?” There was an audible shudder in his voice as if a long-tailed, cold breeze had just passed through him. “What thirteen years old?” “Mom, I’ll be thirteen years old in a few days,” he said, his windpipes airing innocence. “Did you forget my birthday, Mom?” His eyes had turned to a mirror; I could vividly see my own face, younger and with no wrinkles and little gray hair here and there—a reflection of the younger years that wasn’t. If it wasn’t for that portrait of me in his eyes, I might have proceeded in putting my anger at him. There was an urge to place my anger at him; perhaps with all this stress that had tried to subdue me, it was only through anger that I can fight back—and my son was almost the unfortunate victim of an angered me. “No, no—of course, I remember, son,” I said, then knelt down until my eyes were at the level of his. “It’s just that… I did not know times have been that fast already. And that you’re growing.” “I know, Mom—and I am more than excited to become a teenager!” I tried to carve a smile on these lips of mine, but they refused to do so. My eyes probably had told Bruno everything he needed to know. “I know, I know. Now, go to bed and have a good night’s sleep. Now, give—” I said, but he had hurried too soon for me to finish, “—your mother a kiss, baby boy.” I said this but it was definitely a murmur. That I was pretty sure of. I stood up, aired another deep, regretful, painful, aching sigh— then took the planner and shifted Mrs. Vance’s schedule. It was around two in the morning that I finished all the paperwork and other things on my to-do list. It is after the end of a heavy work that a rest long due felt more savory and satisfying. The rest wherein the body naturally gravitates on the nearest cushion and a compelling desire to sink the body deeper on the cushion until you and the cushion felt like one and the same. I had just reviewed all paperwork exactly a week before it was supposed to be used, just as I had always done ever since I got this job. The door. My sight happened to land upon that single piece of wood. For some reason, my eyes naturally rested upon the sight of the door that seemed to have regained its sinister aura after all the years that had passed. I must not worry about any of it for now. I trust my son’s soul that he’ll never follow what decrepit spirit the other one had. I know him well and I had seen it in his eyes for yearslong; an eye of innocence and it shall remain like that forever. Fresh bruises as pink as a raw flesh in the market marked these frail arms and these frail legs, and
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DAPITAN along with them was a transcription of that dead geezer’s incredibly detailed lecture on how I should live. “Mark my words, Clarisse—carve it deep in your head— that if you ever chose to continue to be what you’ve become, I’ll make sure that Big City is no more for you and you shall dust these rotting corners and make use of you around here!” was the nettlesome geezer’s Christmas greeting fourteen sullen years ago, when I came back to our house near the coastal region, northeast of our country, just by the body of water where the rolling thunderous claps and party of vibrant lightning and windy rains are daily visitors. The old fool seems to be incapable of tasting or smelling regret whenever his hand would have traces of my own blood. After that event of lecture that was far more thunderous to the ear than the thunder far outside, he would naturally gravitate towards a bucket of cold beers sitting beside his couch. There was no room for me to sleep comfortably after an exhaustive eight hours of travel time. The house was not a place to sleep, but a place to mourn the past; a place to mourn our old selves, our old acquaintances, our old memories as much as I mourn my mother’s death. She died from being terribly ill. I was never made aware of what her condition was. Father, who is the only capable of the two of writing letters or doing anything to communicate, did not do so. I expected nothing of him, anyway. It never even seems to have lingered in my mind that long the thought that he would care for anybody else as much as he had cared for himself. And so I knew nothing of how Mother died or when she died or in what manner she spent her last moments on or anything other than the fact that she was ill and she is dead. I only came to know of it after I bumped with my aunt on the streets, which happened after my favorite coffee shop filed for bankruptcy, forcing me to change to a new café. And there I bumped into my aunt Selina, who had mentioned my mother’s death just as a background to her story of almost everything I missed out on. She had expected that I would know about it since it was my mother who had suffered yet another visit from the Hooded Figure, for my mother had grazed her soul a few times with her encounters with the Hooded Figure. Yet this time, it was a permanent sleep that the Hooded Figure had installed upon my poor mother’s being. I took the first trip in the morning and landed in my hometown eight hours later, to which I had confirmed with the freshest set of eyes (fresh when it comes to corpses, that is) that my mother had already been what she was (a dead person) for five full days. And in this visit of mine—that was the greeting of one old geezer named Johannus, who is married to my mother and had never been a well-enough father for me. He is nothing more to me than a partner of my mother (on paper, at least). He, with his titan frame (in both muscular and fat build, but there are more muscles there, I assume), full frayed and bushy beard that seem to have covered whatever he had left of his neck, struck me in my right cheek with a force so blow I would have been jawless for my entire living hours. Perhaps living seconds, that is. “We sent you off to one of the most prestigious schools out in the world and this is the product—a rebellious and activist-mouthed, irrational scoundrel of the highest degree, with an almost unrecognizable face because of that heavy makeup?” said Johannus the supposed father. “What has become of you, you wretched being?” “A political activist, an artist, and a future lawyer for the poor and weak, father!” said I with
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INA a sea of tears reserved just behind this poor visage. “A political activist? A future lawyer for the poor? An artist? See what you call yourself, young woman!” he had said. “You call yourself all that?!” “It is all for you and all for mother!” Doing it for him is a fact that is nothing more than a pretense to protect me from further disaster. But it is all for mother—my dear sweet mother who has been asleep permanently for some time already. “Do you think that any piece of your malignant nature will ever be anything that I or your foolish mother will ever be proud of?” said he. “If that is what had gotten into your head, then you are just as foolish as that old fool—” It was the product of his mouth that had enraged and encouraged my hands to go ahead and attack his right cheek with much force that his entire body had moved to the opposite side to where I had struck him. It was the first time that this hand had ever landed violently to another person’s skin, let alone the skin of the man who raised me. But he is not that man at all. He was another man. He had shapeshifted into another person when that terrible illness had gotten my Mother’s lungs. “What had gotten to you, Father?” said I as all was in momentary stillness. “What had gotten to you that you speak of my Mother—your great loving and faithful wife—the great woman whose body became the victim of harsh fumes and lethal factory elements, whose death was a result of your addiction to countless vices—the great woman whose dead and soon to rot body now lies on that casket just a hop away from us—why and how had it happened that you speak of my Mother as unclean as your soul?!” “Do not speak to me that way you speak to me, young fool, as if you know more than I do!” he had said, although it was after reclaiming his posture back to how it was before I had struck him in the cheek. “And if somehow that decrepit brain of yours does not remember, it was I who was here while you tried and protected some poor bastards out in the streets!” “It was you who was here, Father, and I was out in the big city miles and miles away from here, but why is that I had done a great deal more to Mother than you had ever done?!” I said and it was clear as his anger is to me that this had taken him off by surprise. “It was you who was here, Father, but you had done nothing!” “Look, woman—it was your foolish Mother’s fault that she had enlisted herself to work at that dangerous factory—” “No, Father—it was your fault!” I said. “You were jobless and you didn’t even take any effort to find one! You just took small jobs around here when Mother is asking of you to find bigger jobs at the city where there are more than plenty of big jobs for you to choose from—and I am your daughter from the city and so I commit these words to the air with much honesty than you had ever done to my Mother!” He had looked at me as if the last bit of what I had said did not register well in his ears. “What are you saying, woman?”
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DAPITAN
“Mother knew and she told me! She told me that she knew about your affair with her sister! She told me that you started changing when she had gotten ill! She wrote—” “You, woman, be careful of what that mouth of yours is trying to say!” “What has gotten to you, Father?” asked I, and it was at this point that I was becoming aware that my face had gotten wet from the river of tears that had streamed across it. “Why the change? Where is my Father who is as great as any man wishes themselves to be? Where is my Father who had never lost a day without a genuine gesture of love towards Mother? Where is he!” “You are one to talk, Clarisse,” was his quick response. “What had gotten to you that you had changed so much?” At least it was a change for the better, I answered him, but this doesn’t seem to be the answer that he was looking for. “We both changed, Father, but we did not take the same direction and it did not land us on the same end. I knew that you too will change over time, Father, but it disappoints me so greatly that you did not change the way that I had expected. We both changed, but at least mine was for the better.” And that was the last that Father and I had talked. It was the last exchange of words that we ever had. At the funeral, we spoke less to our relatives and none to each other. He stayed in the house and
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INA God knows where his fate in drinking, gambling, and smoking had landed him over these years and I had moved to the big city where two sons later, I am living a life way better than I had expected. And when I had committed myself to familiar things, it all went usual and smooth. Why should I venture off to a path that is not usual that had worked for me? I was never in the search of newer experiences, for that is the work of any fool who thinks they are born to ripe various fruits but then ends up not ripening each fruit well. Why, there is nothing better than juicing the fruit of all its juices than just ripening it. At the end of the memory that had terribly played in my mind while my body was deep in its rest came my wakefulness, and right after this wakefulness of mine, my eyes naturally sat upon the sight of the door of which there are fewer locks than there are supposed to. Two locks are not enough to keep it well shut. These three locks had kept it safe for ten years when there were still four souls in this abode: two old, two fresher ones. When there were still just two older souls here, it was just one lock. If my memory serves me well, I do think that I have two spare locks in here somewhere, with one of the locks having two, stainless steel chains attached to it. It was supposed to be Mrs. Vance’s, but after she ordered me to do it, she found out that her husband had already bought plenty of new locks and had made changes inside the house while Mrs. Vance was away. She told me that it’s mine and I could use it if ever I find it necessary to change the lock on my door. I kept it, although I find it unnecessary to make changes in this house since it’s working well for me for the last couple of years. It has been that long and I hardly noticed. It felt like yesterday when three souls lived here, now there’s only two. These locks would suffice. Bruno was, as he had often been just a few nights ago, unable to calmly sleep. Indeed, his eyes
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DAPITAN were closed shut and his senses had gone to dreamland, too; his consciousness had gone to its deserved rest. Yet he cannot seem to fixate himself on few positions while asleep. It has not been a minute yet when I started observing him in his sleep and he had shifted through ten sleeping positions already. I know my son well and I know when he is consumed by his deep slumber, but what is it that troubles my young boy that he cannot seem to find the rest that he is searching for? Can he not find it in the dreamland? What had gotten to my son? Is it the midnight burning that kept bothering his body? But the fan is turned on and its windy breath is strong and cold, something of which is aligned to Bruno’s preference (he likes it when it is cold around him). Does he have trouble in his school that bothers him in his dreams? Is he not telling me something? What is it that bothers my son so deeply? All that my being can ever deliver to him is a motherly kiss in the cheeks, hoping that somehow the magic of love can warm my young Bruno and ease his mind and make his being remain as it has been for the last couple of years. This Bruno is the Bruno that I love—the Bruno that I had raised, and the only Bruno that matters. Though nights had gone the same—him uneasy in his sleep, I busy with the sudden shift on how I should handle Mrs. Vance’s schedule (a task of which I had the most trouble with for all my years working for her)—it was the very night before his birthday that was the oddest and the most familiar of all. Familiar in the sense that it had happened, yet oddest in the sense that it felt like it never did. There was a small party that I had arranged the day before his birthday. I found that to be the easier way to do things, as I had done on all of his birthdays before. We would spend the day before his birthday with some of his friends and some of his cousins and some of our distant relatives. I’ll try to keep the party small; in that way, it would be a smaller mess to clean up after the party is done. His distant cousins—Sascha, Loisa, Luis, Ned, Evangel, Marc—were all present, although not all of them were able to stay until the end of the party. It was Ned and Marc who stayed, who were also Bruno’s closest cousins. Bruno invited seven of his classroom friends as well, although it irritates me to some minute degree that Bruno invited seven this time when it always had been just three friends. Back then, he would just invite Carlo, Jefer, and Charlius (Charlus? Carlius? Carleus?)—and I have gotten used to them and they seemed pretty fine. Yes, Carlo is a little bit noisy and Charlius (or however one should pronounce it) is a little bit eccentric for my own taste. Jefer is just a simple kid; I rarely notice Jefer when he is in the room. But now, Bruno had invited more than the usual set and I protest hard like an activist when it comes to abrupt change, for things are better how you’ve found them and how you’ve known them and how you’ve got used to them, and it makes one’s life easier as one would not need mind the problems that arise out of sudden changes. I had asked Bruno, by the end of the party, to never do such a thing again and I had made it clear enough that I dislike any changes that are not under my dominion of control. “Why do you get to decide my friends?” was the first-ever response from him that I had ever heard in my life of raising this child where his voice got higher and angrier than mine. “Why can’t I pick the friends that I want?” “What did you say?” Again I might have raised my voice more than usual but it didn’t really stick out as harsh to my ears. “I must have misheard you—did you just raise your voice at me?” The look on his eyes was piercing, soulful, but drowning in anguish, too. I looked at my son’s eyes and it seemed as if it was a stranger’s eyes I was looking at. The way it appeared to me—it
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INA changed. His voice did, too, which was pretty apparent. I knew his usual voice as much as I am familiar with mine, which made the sudden change stick out pretty clearly like the head of a nail. At that moment, it felt as if we were a still image. The wind did not say anything, not even a short-lived breeze. The leaves did not bend forward or leaned backward and remained as they are. The ants stood where they were, the family pictures did not say anything. The piano did not strike a note on the lower register, or higher register, or any register. And Bruno was like them and I was like them; silent, unmoving for a short moment. The world seemed to have stopped breathing for a moment when the clear conflict between me and Bruno was as evident as the sun in a summer morning. “Bruno, what did you say?” There was a clear hesitation to speak back. Of course, he was not used to this kind of situation, neither am I. And the apparent shuddering in his entire body, as if the entirety of him was undergoing a personal earthquake, was enough to tell me what scared soul lies behind that foul mouth. “Oh, great—what got into—” “I want to make friends on my own! Without your interference!” he said again with that raised tone, but he was on a clear verge of crying, yet he continued, even as his voice began to break. “Interference? Interf—interference, is that what you call it? Is that what you call good parenting now?” I said to him amidst the first break of his tears. “You are so lucky that you have a parent guiding you on who you should be friends with. I did not have that when I was a kid. Did you think I had that when I was a kid? No—and you are so lucky you have guidance. Do you think if your father was here, it would be far better? No—no, of course not. All fathers are alike, and you should be thankful that it was me whom you’re left with.” Again, he seemed to have been paralyzed by this sudden unmanly behavior of going against his parent who clearly knew more than a lot about him. I have been living the same way all my life, and it served me well. Why wouldn’t the same way of living work on my son? It served me well—now, why wouldn’t it serve him well? “Where’s that son of the governor, Clive? Why didn’t you bring that one instead of that kid earlier? What was his name—Aram? Adan? Aran?” I added. “Clive is a better example of what a kid should be. Silent, shy, well-mannered. Adan is such a loud bastard.” “Mother, Clive was a bully who bullied me and bullied others and punched other people until they bled! Do you want me to be friends with that man?!” I struck him almost as hard as I had struck the old man before, but one that was done out of a sudden jolt in the arm. “Where are your manners, Bruno! How dare you speak to me like that! You think you are so right when you disrespect your mother?” This made him run to his room, which was quickly followed by a heavy slam of the door behind him—heavy enough to shake the walls of his room and the picture frames that were hanged around the house with old, bent, rusty nails, and a thin wire. I tried to turn the doorknob but he had closed the door for me, along with his heart. I hope that this will be temporary. Obviously, it was not the birthday party that no one could have expected. Why do all my boys turn sour in their teens, as if a certain age they had learned how to disrespect their own mothers?
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DAPITAN It was a heavy night, made even heavier by a huge pile of documents that I had failed to accomplish by midnight as deep slumber had gotten the best of me. That deep slumber one’s body resorts to in times of intense fatigue or burnout or stress, where the mind just ignores everything, even our own will to stay awake, then just shut down almost instantly. But no matter how deep it was, the commotion at the front door was too loud for any ear to ignore, especially when the dining table, where I had fallen asleep, is situated the closest to the front door. All lights were out, but it was the light streaming from outside that showed me the figures of seven men of different ages. Their faces were unfixed as if their facial features were constantly (and erratically, I might add) morphing to a different one at every moment, resulting in momentary faces of unfitting facial features. But some features of their physicality remained as it is: the hair did not change, as well as the posture or the stance, the way their body leaned to a certain direction, their physique. Seven men. Seven strangers at my doorstep, all clothed in spooky black cloaks; and under one man’s cloak— the one with the adolescent features—calmly clung my poor Bruno on his legs. “Son!” I rushed, but only in thought and desire and in voice, for my entire body was paralyzed for some reason as if I was in a bad dream. But it was not a bad dream, for the pain in my heart felt so real as I watched him clung more tightly to the man that he had ever done to me. “Bruno! Come here!” “I don’t want to be with you!” My face was planted—nay, cemented—on the dinner table, as a tear or two of mine found its way on the dinner table. It echoed in my head several times and in each repeat, the distance between me and my son grew larger, taking us farther apart from each other. I don’t want to be with you. “He is not your son,” said the man in an eerily familiar voice, similar to that of James. “He is not your boy. He is his own self. You cannot make him into the person you failed to become.” “J—James? Oh, God. Is it you, James?” I had said with a certain wring to my heart at every utterance of his name. “Oh my, dear James. Have you finally come back, my oldest son?” “None of us were ever your son. No parent ever had one child. Every child of theirs becomes a new child every moment. Every son is a son of a second—and each son grows every second, dear mother,” he had said. “That seems to be something you cannot realize, Clarisse,” the oldest stranger had said, who, in my eyes, had slowly taken the figure of that old bastard. “No—no, please. Please, don’t take one of my children again.” “He’ll come back. But he’ll never be your Bruno again, as you had never been your father’s sweet little Clarisse when you had come back.” “Please,” I had said. I think it was the first time I had ever uttered the word. “Please, Bruno. Please. Do not leave me.”
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INA I was a bent statue on the dinner table, unmoving, except my mouth and my eyes. And my eyes shot straight at him. “Please, son. Come back to me. I’ll change. I promise. You can have any friends you want. I’ll trust you.” “Change? Since when did you become a fan of that?” said him—Bruno, who had closed his eyes and hugged the man’s legs even tighter. “I hope we can go now.” “We will.” And they had gone forward and every inch of me was hoping that Bruno would look back and ran back to me. There was a fluttering inside the man’s cloak, but it was not Bruno turning back to me. It was Bruno, going out of the man’s cloak, and growing to another man right there within my sight. And he had grown indeed as they got closer to the farthest edge of the street, and I had never seen his face again. All that my heart beats for is the strongest desire that may all of it be a bad dream. But just like I did when my oldest son was taken away by seven men, I cannot know what all of it really is.
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A Message of Regret Ma. Pamela S. Reyes
Death came into my life was through a text message. It had a few simple words: “Wala na si mama.” Despite hearing the news, I went on with my daily life. As always, I woke up before the sun peeked through the horizon. I ran past other commuters piling around the streets, in hopes of catching a ride before anyone else. I needed to get to work on time. The ridiculous amount of bills being sent to my apartment was enough to distract me from the event. My mother could wait; I needed to survive. Once I got home, I grabbed the growing pile of letters from the table and checked them one by one. There were multiple bills from my phone courier and electricity provider. Out of nowhere, a little invitation card has also found its way. It was from my college friends— they were getting married. I snorted, marriage? A ridiculous reality I can never have. It was something I craved years ago but now that I am drowning in debt, it would be too crucial. A loud beep echoed as I sorted out the papers. It was another message from my brother— this time it was longer. kahit wag ka ng pumunta sa lamay. kailangan lng natin pagusapan kung ano gagawin sa bahay & gusto rin kta makita. panadaliang bisita lang, pls. I sighed, I owed my brother a visit— he was the only one I have left. In the end, I took a few days off and hitched a ride back to my hometown. Maybe it was time to make alms with my past. The province made for a somber sight. Compared to the cityscape, the tall rice fields dominated the countryside. The rain poured harshly when I stepped out of the tricycle. It soaked anyone who dared to set foot on the muddy road. I stood in front of my childhood home with a heavy heart. I took a deep breath to alleviate the fear that was taking over me, and yet, the smell of home hit me hard. It evoked some unpleasant memories.
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INA As I placed my bag by the entrance, I see the familiar bamboo living room set, the red checkered curtains, and the rocking chair I used to play on as a child. At the same time, the coffee table reminded of how she would throw the little trinkets on it at me. Sometimes, I would find myself running from my dead father’s photo flying towards me. I walked further down the hall and saw that the once gray unpainted walls of the kitchen have been replaced with white tiles. Even the old rumbling refrigerator was gone. All that was left was the mahogany dining set. I hated it— eating with my mother was a nightmare. I could hear the return of a long-lost sound: my mother’s silverware clanking on the ceramic plate, the chairs creaking while she reached for the fork, her face slowly etching into a menacing look, and bits of rice tumbling out of her lips as she screamed at me to get out. “Ay nako tigilan mo ko! Tong batang to wala na nga tinutulong eh hihingi pa ng pera para sa libro niya?” I slowly dragged my feet towards the old bedroom that I shared with my brother. When I finally entered, I see the blue paint still splattered across the walls. My eyes widened at the sight. Not much has changed, the bunk bed still stood by the window, the sheets were still the same crisp white, but the ambiance felt different. It felt empty, abandoned— as if no one has lived in it for years. The room felt unfamiliar and yet it held so many distinct memories. It was my refuge, a safe place away from the reality that haunted me. My train of thought halted when my brother entered. His eyes were glassy and his skin was pale. It looked like death has been toying with him as well. I have not seen him for years but he was the only one who kept in touch despite the circumstances. Kuya sacrificed everything to keep the family afloat. Every time I held his hands they felt rough— evidence of him working odd jobs. He did this so I could continue my studies but my mother disagreed. She wanted him to flourish into a better man, but my brother was relentless. He wanted me to have a better future. Again, the memories came flooding in. I was seventeen, a few months away from graduating when my mother finally snapped. I wanted to continue my studies in Manila and even my brother was encouraging me to do so. “Hindi ko babayaran yang lintik mong tuition,” she said while raising her hand at me. “Kung gusto mong magkapera gayahin mo yang nanay mo! Walang alam kung ‘di bumukaka at humingi ng pera!” “Ma!” I begged, my throat was hoarse from screaming and my body felt numb from being beaten up. Blood trickled down my face and I could feel my hair stinging from her grip. It was all too much, I just wanted to run away from her. “Ma?! Anong ma? Hindi kita anak,” she gritted her teeth. “Ni kailan ay hindi kita tinuring na anak!” My knees buckled when I heard her words. I was slapped by the reality I was in. I was a leech; an unwanted child. My father was probably guilt-tripped into taking me in— a child from his extravagances and disloyalty.
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INA I clearly remember that night, in the same bedroom with my brother, I begged him to let me leave home. I could not handle the guilt, the torture, and the dismay I have been experiencing. At first, he was hesitant but he could see the desperation in my eyes. His own home was not doing any good for me, nor him, nor our mother. We were all stuck in a poisonous cycle and I wanted no relation to it whatsoever. So, I packed my bags, hitched a bus to Manila and the rest was history. Now, I’m back in the same room, but this time, with a grieving half-brother. The moment he saw me all of his resolves broke and he started crying. His hands were shaking when he held mine and with a hoarse voice he said, “Pinabibigay ni mama b-bago siya...” I looked at the paper he gave me and a strong urge to rip it apart came unto me. It was an old pink stationary. It had flowers, small fairies dotted with glitters, and her familiar handwriting. It was funny how she did not even bother to address my name. Noong una kitang nakita, isang malaking sampal sa akin na hindi lang pala ako ang mahal ni Donny. May ibang babae pala. Aaminin ko, hindi kita minahal, hindi ko kinaya. Sumisikip ang dibdib ko sa kaiisip na may iba siya at ikaw ay anak ng nakasama niya. May nagawa ba akong mali? Hindi ko ba siya minahal ng sapat? Anong kasalanan ko para maghanap siya ng iba? Masaya kami bago ka dumating. Si Archie nag-aaral ng mabuti, matalinong bata ngunit sinakripisyo niya yun para sa’yo tas anong ginawa mo? Lumayas ka lang sa bahay na ito at iniwan kami! Wala ka talagang ginawang mabuti sa pamilya na ito. Alam kong ayaw mo sa akin at ayoko rin sayo ngunit, sana masaya ka na sa buhay mo. Ang munting bilin ko na lang ay alagaan mo kuya mo at wag na wag kang hahati sa pamana ko! -Rosalita Before I knew it, I was laughing. I could not hold back and whispered to myself, “This is ridiculous.” I crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor. My brother gave me a concerned look, he did not anticipate my reaction. He probably thought I would be a crying mess by now. “What’s wrong?” He asked. I shook my head to dismiss him, “It’s nothing.” The reality that hit me years ago stayed fresh in my memory, “I just really hate your mother.”
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Who I Cradled Patrick V. Miguel
I was 14 and he was new to the world. Everytime I go out with Rick, people look at me with their eyebrows arched high. I can see them gather around and mumble hurtful words about me. From behind, I hear them laugh and mock me for what I am. There is nothing I can do but let each word pass through me like painful shards. I ask myself, what is wrong with taking care of a child at this age? As I stood inside the nursery full of toys and baby bottles, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It reflected Rick being cradled in my arms and also my appearance. I looked ten years older—no one would have thought that I was 15. The shadows under my eyes were deep and hollow, and on my forehead were dots of swollen zits. My arms were frail like a thin bough, and my legs were spindly like matchsticks. The shirt that once fitted my body now hung loosely like a burlap sack. My hair clung to my face with sweat. In my mind, the image reflected was a girl wearing a school uniform with arms wrapped around textbooks. Instead, it showed an exhausted woman in dismal from carrying the hardships of a mother. I imagine it must have been what my mother looked like when I was in her arms at 15. My mother died when I was 11 years old, and when she was buried, my dreams also went with her. With the loss of a maternal figure at a young age, I thought that I would fill the void by becoming
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INA the mother itself. It did not take long until I was the one nurturing and fostering a child like my own. I turned my back to the mirror and placed Rick in his crib. It did not matter to me if I was tired or if I looked like a mess; when I see him peacefully dreaming, all my burdens are lifted. His eyes were still closed, but his ears were good enough to hear me singing. Every night, I tucked him in bed and made sure he was sound asleep. I could have been studying in school, but I was confined in the house taking care of Rick. Each morning, I woke up early to prepare the bottles and milk, where instead I could have been preparing to go to school. I go out of the house with my backpack filled with baby formulas, diapers, bottles, and towels, but in another world, it could have been filled with textbooks. The thought of what my life could have been passed my mind most of the time but I just brush it off and accept that this is my life now—I will never reach my own dreams to be more than what I am. Time passed by, and I was right. Rick was once a child who crawled his way, but now, he is already standing on his own feet and he will grow more. I knew I had to leave him someday. That day came, and I see Rick standing by the front door. With a suitcase by my side, I face Mrs. V and Rick. Their eyes were full of tears, but mine were only as glassy as the sky. Being parted from Rick made my heart tighten; like a fist squeezing it hard. Rick, now six years old, hugs me tightly. “Nana, huwag mo ‘kong iwan.” He grew up calling me Nana, and I felt my lips tug upwards. I bent down to his level and wiped the tears from his eyes. “Kailangan ni Nana, Rick. Agsubli1 naman ako dito para bumisita. Gusto mo igatangan2 kita ng coloring book?”. He turned his head and looked at Mrs. V. “Mama, make Nana stay, please. Magsisipag na ako at gagawin ko na homework ko, huwag lang siyang umalis.” “Magpakabait ka ha.” I kissed his fluffy cheeks. “Huwag ka nang malungkot kasi malulungkot din ako. Gusto mo ba ‘yon? O sige na, kailangan ko nang umalis.” I rose up and walked through the door where Mrs. V stood. Without any hesitation, I approached and hugged her tightly. “Salamat.” she whispers in my ear. I broke free from her embrace, and picked up my suitcase. I began to leave the house and with it, also my motherly phase behind. My footsteps stride toward the path to reaching my dreams, but there is a part of me that remains hesitant. I could hear Rick’s loud whimpers behind. I turned and looked at them one last time. Our hands waved goodbye to each other, and after a minute I continued to walk down the road. They never saw my face after or the tears I shed as I moved forward. I am not his mother. I am just the maid.
___________________________ 1 Babalik 2 Bibilhan
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Flash Fiction
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Fated
Thea Monica S. Lacambra
I smell like a strange combination of isopropyl alcohol and summer sweat. The odor lingers on my skin. It is better than the strong scent of drugs wafting from the pharmacy. I should quit chasing the taho vendor every morning. I venture toward the small establishment behind the parking lot, nursing the cup of taho with a careful hand before peeking through the entrance. I spot mama in front of the social worker’s office, quiet and morose, gazing around the area as if searching for a familiar face. The crowd is a river of people moving in a reckless direction. There is a cacophony of scattered conversations and pleading voices from the rooms, echoing through the corridors. I lift an arm in the air, waving at mama, as I struggle to slip into a group of uniformed staff. Mama notices almost immediately and motions me to meet outside. After a few minutes, I see mama sitting on the plastic bench, shoulders slumped, head down. The sight kills me like a bullet straight to the guts. I have forgotten how happy she used to be. I have forgotten the sound of her laughter. For two years, mama has been in and out of the hospital, running important documents here and there to provide dad the medication he needs. She is a modern warrior—the kind of woman that inspires, rises, and leads amidst chaos. With courage, she conquers, wearing a heart of gold that beats for a positive purpose. But now as I look at mama, I am reminded that being strong costs a life full of pain and healing. “Is everything okay?” I ask. “They’re not going to cover the bills,” mama says, tears threatening to spill. “We’ve brought your dad thrice in just a month. We need to pay tomorrow or they’ll be forced to send him home.” The silence is knee-deep between me and mama. It is heartbreaking to witness how the situation worsens each passing day. The thing about suffering is it lives by the moment and there is no escape from it. Soon, mama and I proceed to the dialysis center. It homes approximately seventy patients, and ma-
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INA jority of the population have been diagnosed with end-stage chronic kidney failure. It is as devastating as it sounds, not to mention outrageously expensive. For some, it comes easy because the lucky ones can afford a transplant that costs at least a million. For others, it is a death sentence because they are left with no choice but to live through a blood-filtering machine. The nurse greets me and mama with a hello as we enter the room, trudging down the path, soaked in the familiarity of the place. The air is much more breathable here compared to the emergency wards where we would often bump into paramedics wheeling in patients on stretchers. Every surface is dustless. The walls are painted in moth gray which matches the tiled flooring. What makes it different is how sterile the items are from top to bottom. “I bought you manong’s taho,” I say, handing dad the cup. He looks at me with empty eyes. “Cesar is dead,” he tells me. I understand how frightening it must be for him to notice people disappearing each week. I, too, fear the future, but who am I to go against fate? Death is straightforward, too unkind, too merciless. It chooses you because it can. It does not distinguish the poor from the rich, the young from the old, and the good from the bad. It snatches your hopes, dreams, and desires all at once. I glance at mama whose lips stay sealed. I cannot muster the courage to speak. Tito Cesar is gone. I remember him sharing his basket of fruits, babbling about Eat Bulaga, laughing at old school jokes. I wish I had thanked him for keeping dad company whenever I was out to run errands with mama. “How are you feeling today?” mama starts, changing the topic. She knows dad can be emotional. Dad smiles weakly. “I’m happy because you’re both here. It’s kind of sad to think people have stopped asking about me, but I guess I’ve come to terms with it over the past months. I’ve made it far, haven’t I?” My eyes water as dad stares back at me, hopeful, waiting for an answer. “Yes, you have, dad.” *** On the recess of a Friday afternoon, mama spends the day watching her favorite film. It is one of the few moments I wish to keep forever. The little spark in mama’s eyes every time she sees Maricel Soriano, Nora Aunor, or Robin Padilla on the television is priceless. She seems at peace, not dreading tomorrows, forgetting yesterdays. I just want her to be happy even in the simplest ways. Occasionally, she gets excited with a couple of activities. She enjoys being in the kitchen and loves cooking the best dishes for me and dad. Her menudo is a classic favorite, plus his sinigang na hipon and adobong baboy. At night, she anticipates the drama teleseryes until she falls asleep on the couch. Before twelve midnight strikes, I catch mama preparing a bucket of water and a clean cloth. Her hair is ruffled and her cheeks are a shade of crimson. “Mama, what are you doing? Are you okay?” I ask. I settled into the seat beside her. “Lagnat,” she says, briefly touching her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’ll be fine. Get back to sleep.” Silence ensues, then it all explodes—the feelings, the emotions she has been bottling up for
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INA years. The tears are unstoppable. I feel helpless. I cannot move. It is tough for me to see her in such a vulnerable position, but I refuse to leave. I put my hand on the small of mama’s back. I need her to know that I am here, that she is not alone in this fight. “I’m tired,” she says, staring straight at me, and I have never expected hearing her surrender to hurt that much. She cries harder. “But anak, how can I give up?” she asks me. I stay rooted to the couch, sobbing, shaking in pain. “I don’t want your dad to die.” *** In the gloom of the café, I sit with a mug of coffee, tired and sullen, holding an envelope of cash. I have made mama a promise of shopping for new clothes for her and dad, including a dinner treat at Lydia’s Lechon Restaurant. For a starter job, I am content with what is handed to me every month. I earn enough and I can cover the hospital bills. I should tell mama that she does not need to beg the social workers again or worry about dad skipping a session at the dialysis center. I am here. It is relieving to realize that the present makes me capable of providing the necessary care she and dad deserves. But fate is not always fair. It has been a week since dad’s passing. They say, “Move on.” I tell them, “How do you move on from someone’s death? You can’t and you don’t. You live with it. You heal through time, but the pain doesn’t really go away. It sits with you, eats with you, walks with you, and it sticks right in the softest part of your heart.” Perhaps I should just accept the bitter truth that some chances in life are only meant for certain people. As I go home, I greet mama with an embrace. I have never hugged someone that tight for a long time.
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A Truer Sleep George Gonzaga Deoso
There was an ad on TV for this mattress that claims to get rid of body pain. My mother and I were watching this ad, and she said, “Your aunt bought that mattress.” A doctor told this aunt twice that she only had a few weeks to live. She had a brain tumor. Twice, she proved the doctor wrong. “When did she buy the mattress?” I asked. “Way before her tumor. She bought it for her husband, who had prostate cancer and who was bedridden before he died.” “And she died, too. When was it again?” “Last month.” “She died as well,” I said. “She died as well,” my mother said.
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Creative Non-Fiction
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Iba’t Ibang Mukha ng Parihaba Jeanne Clarisse P. Grajo
Minsan napapaisip ako kung paano ko siya naaalala sa tinig kaysa sa mukha. Kung hahalukayin ko siya sa aking gunita, wala akong ibang napapala kundi iba’t ibang parihaba— ang pinto, ang bintana, ang telepono, at ang kuwadro. Madalas, nakikita ko pa rin siya sa mga parihabang ito, dito, kung saan siya pinaka-matingkad sa alaala ko. Binigyan niya ng mukha ang mga parihaba. Naaalala ko siya sa parihabang bintana, nakadungaw, nag-aabang ilang oras bago ang napagkasunduang oras ng pagkikita. Nakasuot na siya ng kanyang makulay at mahabang bestida, pulang lipstick, at ilang mga alahas. Nagpa-microblade nga pala siya ng kilay, kaya naman kitangkita ang pagsasalubong nito kapag galit na siya. Minsan, natatawa ako habang pinagmamasdan ang mukha niyang hindi maipinta. Hindi ko alam kung masaya ba siya o galit, siguro magkahalong sabik at inis. Ganito siya palagi kapag sinusundo namin siya para umuwi sa probinsya. Nagigising ako noon sa tawag niya sa telepono, ipapaalam niyang handa na siya para umalis at tatanungin kung nasaan na kami. Dito namin natutunan na hindi dapat namin sasabihin na kakagising lang namin at nagising pa kami dahil sa tawag niya. Paniguradong mahabang sermon ang aabutin namin mula sa kanya. Kaya sinasabi naming papunta na kami. Ang hindi niya alam, sa banyo nga lang. Pero sa kahabaan ng biyahe, hindi mo siya maririnig na magreklamo o maninisi na kung inagahan lang sana namin ay hindi kami maiipit sa mabigat na trapiko. Lagi’t lagi lang siyang magbabahagi ng mga kuwento. Minsan nakikinig ako, madalas wala naman akong ibang choice kundi marinig. Pagdadahilan niya, dumadaldal daw siya sa mahabang biyahe para hindi antukin o mabagot ang nagmamaneho, lalo na kapag tulog na halos lahat ng pasahero. Pero ang totoo niyan, madaldal pa rin naman siya mahaba man ang biyahe o hindi, maging nasa biyahe man o hindi. Kapag nakita niya ang mga mata naming sumusuko na, madagdagan na ng tapik o hampas ang paghalakhak niya sa mga kwento niya. Mas marami pa yata siyang baong kwento kaysa sa pagkain. Makakatulog na kami’t lahat lahat, magigising kami sa boses niya na hindi pa rin tapos sa pagkukuwento. Parang mas mauuna pang sumuko ang radyo kaysa sa lalamunan niya. Biro nga namin ng pamilya, baka kahit habang natutulog ay maingay pa rin siya. Lagi’t lagi kaming binabalot ng tawanan dahil mukhang hindi malayo sa katotohanan ang ideyang iyon, pero ang totoo, minsan ko na siyang nakita na tahimik. Pakiramdam ko, isa sa mga rason kung bakit gustonggusto niyang umuuwi sa bahay namin sa probinsya ay dahil mayroon siya roong maliit na hardin na hindi niya natatamasa sa siyudad. Sa tuwing nagdidilig siya ng mga halaman sa umaga, para siyang nawawala sa sarili niyang
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Even Dawn Casts Shadows: A Memoir Franz Austin V. De Mesa
Disclaimer: This work is based from memory; it may not be exactly accurate, but it is real. Today I heard my mother say she wants to kill herself. Out of the blue, be it a little jest or an exaggerated expression, even then it still raises my alarms. I’m simply eating a bowl of cereal as I watch my mother wash the dishes; her hands gloved with bubbly soap. As I gulp down a spoonful of milk and grains, I ask her “How are you?” and I get that answer. Most of my life, my mother and I have a relationship that I can only describe as “quiet.” I don’t know what goes on about her day, what she eats for lunch, what kind of friends she has at work, or why she cried a few nights ago. No, I grew up not concerning myself with these things, nor having the care to. Perhaps it’s because she never bothers to take an interest in my life either. At school I have friends whose parents know each and every one of our names, like Darelle’s mom. Darlene, I think was her name. At Darelle’s 18th birthday back in September, I got a bit surprised when her mother greeted us by our names. My parents barely remember any of my friends’ names. I never talk about them or mention them; there was never a need to. Like I said, it’s very quiet. We share the same house, share the same food, the same family, and we love each other, but other than that, we’re strangers. Whenever my mom has problems, she only confides with my dad in their room, their small private room that’s detached from the rest of the world. What they talk about in there is unknown to my siblings and I. And quite honestly, I’d rather listen to some of Nitsua’s songs instead of caring. But now, here I am faced with this kind of dilemma. I just heard my mother say she wants to kill herself, what do I do? A thousand emotions surface from my head; which one is the right approach? She scoffs it off as if I just heard some lame joke of hers (and she rarely jokes.) “Oh no, why?” I finally ask. “Oh nothing, it’s just a joke.” She laughs. As if reassured by her laugh, I let it go. Maybe it is just a joke; I make that joke a lot, and I’ve never meant it once. Otherwise, I wouldn’t really be here, wouldn’t I? But I guess this kind of joke is a dangerous matter. You could never tell if it’s a joke or if it’s the actual thing. I tasted the pain of that two years ago when my friend jumped two stories from his roof. We only thought he was jesting when he said “I’m depressed.” So joke or not, I learned to always ask no matter what. There must be something
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INA that is bothering her to even jest about it. So I gather another fit of courage to ask. “No, it’s nothing.” She insists. “Just some work thing.” Some work thing, I’m sure dad knows about it. But we never do. For some odd reason, I suddenly remember stories about my Aunt Angie and her rebellious tendencies back in high school. Like that time when my mother was just a teenager; she thought aunt Angie was going to school, dressing in her uniform every day, but she was actually playing hooky, hanging out with a couple of kids from another university. Or that time when aunt Angie sent invitations to everyone that her debut party was at manila Hotel, even though they couldn’t afford it at the time. When my mom found out, she pulled poor Aunt Angie by the hair and slammed her to the wall. Then it hit me, by some epiphanic moment, it hit me. “Mom,” I said, “I’m going to write a story about you.” She looked at me like I just asked her to kill the president. “What story?” She asks. “The story of how you became the breadwinner of the family after Papa lost his job.” I didn’t even notice my dad enter the kitchen. “I like that idea,” he says, his balding head shining in the light. “Your mother has been through a lot; it’s about time her story was told.” I turned back to glance at her. Her frown disappears. “Alright,” she smiles. “Listen close, this is going to be long.” I look into her eyes, they teem with different sorts of emotions; I couldn’t quite tell if I should smile or frown. My father goes back into his room, probably to play another game of Clash of Clans on his phone. It came off to me as insensitive, though I wonder what she thinks of that. Perhaps he’s heard her story countless times that he could recite it all by heart to his co-workers during a party. “It was summer,” she starts. “And you know how summer goes by: full of laughs, smiles, and playing games. Well, not mine, not on that summer at least. See, I was about to enter college when it happened.” As she continues, I pour myself a glass of water. The way her hands move when she is taken aback to distant places far beyond my reach, to places decades ago in her memories, it’s like she’s pulling me into her world. My mind wanders away, imagining my uncles and aunts in their childhood pyjamas, playing patintero, piko, and chinese garter around my grandma’s house. It fills me with a certain feeling, like a nostalgia that rushes through me even though I’ve never actually seen it. A nostalgia borrowed from her eyes. She lends me her eyes for the moment, moving her mouth, her hands, dragging me back 30 years ago. “We were being played.” She breathes out, “Played for fools. We didn’t know anything about the jeepney business, but my father was desperate and stupid enough to try his hand at it.” My mother, Lhani, was suddenly 16 again, and she was lying on a futon in the kitchen; all four of her siblings slept soundly beside her like the grave, but she had one ear awake which, by chance or fate, caused her to eavesdrop on a conversation between her parents in the middle of the night. “How much money do we have left?” she could hear her mother ask. Her father had always tried to dodge the question, but this time he couldn’t. And he answered back, not with words, but with silence. And that’s all they needed to hear to understand the situation. “Sell the jeeps.” Her mother insisted, “before we get into more trouble.” Lhani couldn’t see his expression then, but it must have been sorrowful. For the first time in a long time, he listened. It is no easy feat for a proud man to admit he is wrong. And within the next few days, he sold the jeepneys at a fraction of their costs. It was for the best, she thought. Better pull the cord before it gets worse. Every night thereafter, her mother waited by the living room, staying up late until eventually drifting to sleep. She was still young then, in her late 30’s. But then, the whole place wakes up once her husband comes back, reeking of beer and bad behavior, like he just swam in a brewery. Then the night turns into a metal concert unfit for schedule, with all the shouting and the screaming they do. “How much money do we have left?” Lhani wonders as she studied at the dining table. She peered at her textbooks, words like industry, engineering, and physics lift off from the large texts. She didn’t understand them though, not like the words profit, interest, and survival, words she’d known all
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DAPITAN her life, picking things up from the things other people talk about, what her parents always talk about. Once she heard the lady from the far end of the street whispering about those words, the next day she and her family were gone. Then her mind goes to Angie getting dressed in her high school uniform, Alex playing Patintero with the other kids in their neighborhood, Marianne hanging out with her friends at school, and Michael, eating some fried chicken from KFC and smiling. “What happens to all of that—” Lhani started, “once we run out of money?” Her expression goes dim. It all flashes back to her: her mother’s weary smile, tired and forlorn from taking care of five children, her father’s laughs, wrapping away his problems in a sheet of alcohol. “He’s a kind man, always been; he just wasn’t the same after losing his job.” Her mind exclaimed. “But I can’t just let things fall apart either.” She knows that something has to be done.. Maybe it’s the Panganay duty in her, or some mandate heaven sent, or some otherworldly epiphany, but she didn’t bother too much on that. My mother then talked about how she remembered her first day on the summer job, eyes greeted by the large white spaces of the mall, air-conditioned and public, buzzling with people, with the aroma of perfumes and clothes coming from a nearby department store. “UFC Ketchup! It’s sweet and it’s cheap, buy it now!” She would walk around endorsing different products, persuading some people, annoying others. “How about you, sir? Care to try our new body soap? Buy one now!” It was as if all forms of shame and anxiety had left her, not only when facing strangers but her schoolmates that dropped by as well. But it wasn’t so bad, as long as the pay would put food on the table. She still had vivid images of her father sometimes, showing up before dawn, too drunk to understand that a door frame isn’t a place to sleep on. Whenever that image of him flutters in her mind, her heart goes through various mixed feelings swimming all at once. Was it pity for the poor man? Or anger for abandoning his family? “It’s only up to me now.” She would tell herself, pretending she was strong. “I just need to finish college.” Reality taught her the pain of earning a living, costing her educational focus to suffer. But still, her sideline works at the mall, combined with the family savings, were already enough to get herself through college. However, her duty to her siblings was far from over; after graduating, she’d need to find a good job and start earning real money. Now when my mother says this, I can’t help but wonder what she wanted to be, what her dream was before she got shoved with these responsibilities. She wouldn’t tell me, but I could see in her eyes a future different from this one, an alternate life I would never know. If my mom ever had dreams, to which I’m sure she did, she offered them up to God, expressed her farewells, and let go of them to help her family instead. Those premonitions of an acting career or those visions of performing live on stage—they’re gone. “Is that why she wants to kill herself?” My brain spits out. But the thought that she wants to escape this world kind of frightens me. After finishing college and getting her degree, my mother sought a job with good pay and great benefits. After a month of searching and rummaging over different jobs, she eventually met her Messiah, clutching a radiating sun in green hands: the Philippine Amusement and Gaming Association. Seriously, PAGCOR had everything: a good monthly salary, various healthcare benefits, as well as education scholarships! And that’s also where she met this young man, a casino dealer just like her assigned to the Pai Gow poker section. He was shy but hardworking, with a sense of duty just like her. He made the first “Hello.” And they engaged in small talk, with these being the gist of it: his name is Erwin, he’s from Pampangga, and he’s staying in Manila for his job at PAGCOR. After that, a few conversations about family: Erwin had two siblings and a dying father. Lhani then thought that he might understand her plight. Perhaps that’s how they clicked. Then eventually they hung out often during break times. A few months of that and they started dating.
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INA “So that’s your situation, huh?” Erwin expressed during one of their conversations, but the when of it, Lhani couldn’t remember. “Yeah.” She whispered into the air. “That’s amazing, honestly. I’m sort of in a similar situation, but you clearly have it tougher.” He looked at her eyes, “I’m willing to help.” Those four words surprised her and resonated with her, like a huge boulder was finally off her shoulders. Life had often been unkind to her, mounting upon her shoulders the weight of worlds, the worlds of which her siblings dreamed of, what her parents dreamed of, their futures, hopes, dreams, aspirations. They buried her in the snow, all alone. And yet here was one such individual who was willing to share the burden. She looked at him, with all the respect in the world, and hugged him. She says that’s when she thought “This could be the one,” because other than being a co-worker, or a fun person to be with, Erwin was something that she truly needed then: a friend. Erwin helped a lot with her family. Because of him, Marianne and Alex could go to college and Michael could finish high school. Little by little, they saved up money, and by time, both their families were fine. For the first time in years, Lhani and her family were financially stable. Marianne was advancing third year college, and Michael is almost college. A smile ran across her cheek, seeing her proud siblings now able to attain their goals. “I did not fail.” Lhani finally admitted. They were going to be alright. The smiles in all their faces left a tender warmth in her heart. Her siblings were going to finish school, her mother wouldn’t be so worried all the time. Even her father didn’t go home so late anymore, inebriated by the doorstep. The weight of their worlds finally lifted from her back. For once in her life, after all those duties snaking around her that she had to beat through sheer determination, she felt happy. From here on, everything was going to be alright. Then one day, while at work, she received the call. It was her mother. White spaces stretching to endless corridors, fluorescent lights, the stench of death was lingering in the air. Lhani and Erwin raced all the way across various patients, some were smiling, laughing, and some were doomed with the face of death. “What is he doing in a place like this?” her mind wondered. “He shouldn’t be here.” They paced around the halls, cut through corners, and stopped when they saw her. It was her Mama, sitting by the hall, waiting— painfully waiting. Lhani held her breath. “Wh—“ she was panting. “What happened?” She didn’t want to know. Her mother’s eyes were red, damp and swollen. A trickle of snot came at the tip of her nostrils. They looked into each other’s eyes, and neither could speak. But then came a whisper, soft and gentle. “I woke up in—in the middle of the night.” Her voice was breaking. “He wasn’t— he— he was so cold.” Lhani looked at the door in front of them. It was blue, a single window pane in the middle at head-level. She didn’t want to know what lied beyond that door, whatever reality or fantasy that enveloped the world beyond that door she wanted no part of. It didn’t look like much, but to her, that door was the most terrifying thing she’d ever seen. As if even a step towards it could mean her untimely demise. She turned back to her mother, so weary and forlorn, she was still in her 40’s and yet the stress had aged her, wrinkled her skin. Lhani turned towards Erwin, his face perplexed and fazed by the situation, unable to take it all. She touched her own face, her cheeks were wet. Whatever anger or resentment or pity she felt for that damned fool, that man beyond the door; she knew she still loved him. And now she could never tell him that. Never. The stench of death filled the air and it suffocated her. A woman in white went out of the blue door, what she said, Lhani couldn’t remember. All she could remember was everything after that. Her Mama went inside the room as Erwin ushered her in; a bellow and a whimper came. Lhani stood by the hall, a dozen emotions surfaced and pulled her apart; a hundred voices came shouting in her head. “Fuck.” She went through the door.
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DAPITAN There he was, sleeping in peace. The sleep of eternal dream, of eternal fantasy and night, to some other world we could never know. “Papa…” she wept. Her back went frail, her shoulders stiffened. She could feel the world around her shoulders. She dropped to one knee, clawed to one side of the bed. She kept calling his name. Again and again. But only the cold wind answered, only the soft whimpering of a widow, and the burst of sunlight rising to another day. I took her eyes off, and I’m suddenly back in our kitchen. The cereal’s gone soggy. The murky yellow paste that were once corn flakes matches the mucus dripping from my mother’s nostril. She takes a tissue to blow her nose and wipe her tears. “Sorry, Franz.” She says. “Maybe we can continue this some other time.” She stands up. Did I just make it worse? “But uh—“ she adds; I look at her eyes, “Thank you, for listening to me.” She retreats back into their room and closes the door. I hope my dad would know how to cheer her up. I stand up from the chair to glance around our living room, looking at the pictures of our family together. We look so happy, full of smiles and bright colors. I look at the clock, it’s 6:00 AM. I look out the window, glancing at the rising sun. The twin tower condominium we live in grows taller than the burst of the sun rays. And here, I can see clearly how our house is covered in shadows.
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A Mother’s Journal Aurora Cristina Paguio-Bermudez
Hail Mary, full of grace… To be a mother is to be full of grace, and to be full of grace is to be empty of vainglory. I remember one night coming home exhausted from work but still had to prepare dinner and tidy up the house a little. One by one, members of my household arrived. I told my husband, “Hi Dad, how was your day?” I got a truckload of narratives about his day’s troubles. Next, my daughter arrived, and I said, “Hello, daughter, how was your day?” She just uttered a word, “Tiring!” Then she went straight to her room and shut her door. I could have been full of myself and deliver the classic lines, “Hey, daughter, this is me, your mother talking to you. I carried you in my womb for nine months! Do you know what pain I went through to deliver you to this world? Do you know how much it took for me to put your interests above mine? And now you are just shutting your door?” me.
Instead, I kept my cool and chose not to be offended. I convinced myself, her act was not about Not everything is about me.
Yes, it occurs to me, I’ve been a mother for three decades, and no one in my family has ever asked me how was my day. I have not heard from any one of them, “You are great, Mom!” or “You must be tired…” or “Are you sad?” This realization leaves me with some perplexity. I’m a human being, too, I also get tired, or sad, or anxious. I work during the day and serve the family during the night. Indeed, my husband and my daughter are great help at times, especially when they prefer to cook dinner, or when my husband decides to fix something in the house, or when my daughter gets a sudden streak of obsessive compulsiveness and she rubs all our pots spic and span. But the moon is not blue three hundred sixtyfive days a year. Full moon or half moon, I own the operose chores. Just the constancy of washing
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INA dishes sometimes drives me to the verge of insanity. And here am I feeling just like an element in the family, quietly taking my unfair lot. Unnoticed, I sometimes feel that as a person, I don’t matter much to my world. Matter? Mater. Mother. What am I expecting? A medal for a home well done? A banner of congratulatory remark of how important a person I am? I have to jolt myself to the ground. At home, I am not an employee seeking for a raise or recognition. Motherhood, for me, has been a slow learning process. I persistently have to learn how to be still of my own yearnings, and listen to the baby crying or laughing or uttering the first syllables, to the children’s stories and complaints about bully playmates, to a teenage son’s crying softly in his room because of his first heartbreak, to a teenage daughter’s need for new set of textbooks even while her brother’s books were still usable, to a grown up son’s first heated talk with his father, to a grown up daughter’s one word “Tiring”, and the silence of a shut door. There is no perfection of motherhood, except for Mary, of course. How can she be so full of grace? I can only look at the Mother of God, and make a resolve: I have to be empty of myself to have room for grace.
The Lord is with you… If the Lord is with me, who, what can prevail against me? Motherhood is constantly teaching me not to be afraid. My son was in his first year college when I first felt like I was going to battle. Failing even in just one major course meant that he could be delayed in finishing his program in due time and, of course, some serious additional financial burden for me and my husband. Armed only with a prayer that my son and I would be given some chance, I sought his professor. Nice and cordial, the professor listened to me as I laid down our case. It was so humbling an experience. I brought no justification with me. I could only say that I came as a mother and was asking for any remedy for our situation. In the end, our case was lost. There was no remedy. My son had to repeat that major course at great expense in time and money. My tears fell shamefully as I clutched my son’s arm and left his professor’s office. My son’s fight was my fight, his defeat mine. But through all this, I understand that my prayers are not like magic incantations that shall keep me from breaking. Albeit, prayers have kept me from being broken. I have learned to take the wounds trusting they will heal. As a mother, I have come to realize that my courage is not in braving the unknown for my child. It is in the confidence that this child is given for me to rear, to take care of, to protect, and to promote his best interest. The One who gave me this child certainly shall always be with me, and shall never forsake me. Superwoman though I feel when it comes to nurturing my children, things don’t have to be my way, what I want, or what I dream of for myself or for my children. My voice doesn’t have to be the loudest, or my judgment always the right one. My courage is drawn from trusting in God’s will, His design. Even if many a time there is pain, the balm of the knowledge that God is with me leaves me uncrushed.
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DAPITAN Even Mary, the Mother of God, is not spared of motherly sorrow and defeat. Who am I to make a big deal of my failures? Instead, shouldn’t I be thankful of them because I have had a share in experiencing how it is to be in God’s hand?
Blessed are you among women… There is blessing in the obscurity of motherhood. To feel blessed, I need not be on the stage to decorate my children with medals, nor to say I’m a “proud” mother of two licensed professionals. My son was three, my daughter was almost two. We were riding a bus. I told my daughter, “Anak, you are in charge of our umbrella. Remind me to pick it up so we won’t leave it behind.” When we alighted, I realized that we had just left our umbrella in the bus. My poor baby, realizing she forgot to remind me about it, suddenly burst crying. She could not be consoled, no matter what kind and reassuring words I muttered. Then, her brother said, “Hush, don’t cry, when we get home, I’ll play with you…” My daughter paused, looked up to her brother and asked, “Really, Kuya, you’ll play with me? With my Barbies?” My three-year-old son creased his forehead, Barbie dolls are toys for girls, but hastily declared, “Yes, just stop crying and we’ll play with your Barbie dolls.” Only that, and my son and I wiped my daughter’s tears. Silently, I said to myself, thank you, Lord, for this wonderful blessing of children. They were still very young and innocent, yet, their manifest care for one another made me feel like one great blessed mother. My maternal crown has been bejeweled by witnessing tender moments like this. And there was my son, dancing like a fool and singing a nursery rhyme to his own daughter while we were at a gas station. And there was my daughter, giving me two thousand pesos from her hard earned first income, for your manicure, Mommy, she said with a smile as bright as sunshine. Blessings come in different flavors for different people. I count mine in my children.
And blessed is the fruit of your womb Jesus. Mother bears the child. But the mother does not regard the child as her prized possession; the child is his/her own person. My children are all grown ups. My son has married, and now with his own daughter. My new lesson of motherhood with him is in my daughter-in-law mothering my sweet granddaughter. My daughter is hopefully going to get married soon. And she already speaks of her plans of her own motherhood. “Mommy, will you despise me if I’ll stop being a civil engineer?”, my daughter casually asked me one time. She explained that she knows how difficult it was for me and her father to get her the education she had, but she wouldn’t want her own children to experience what she and her brother had. When they were very young, we had a housemaid who would force food into their mouths when
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Ang Manlilikha Aimee Morales
Malaki kaysa karaniwan ang kuwarto ng aking anak noong siya ay lima hanggang sampung taong gulang. Bawat sulok ng kuwartong ito, ang bawat bahagi ng sahig na kahoy, ay puno ng papel na ginupit-gupit, karton, balot ng tsitsirya, scotch tape, maliliit na piraso ng kahoy at tangkay, mga bato, lupa, buhangin, iba’t-ibang kulay ng papel, dahon, sira-sirang laruan, mga parte ng hindi malamang bagay, at marami pang iba. Siya ay nasa gitna ng maliit na bundok ng kalat, payapang naka-Indian sit at hawak ang gunting, pandikit at mga materyales. Lilipas ang dalawa, tatlo hanggang apat na oras pero siya ay tahimik at di natitinag sa kanyang kinalalagyan. Malaki ang problema ng aming katulong noong mga panahong iyon. “Ate, hindi ako makapaglinis sa kwarto ni Bowi.” Sabi ko, “Hayaan mo na, magagalit yon kapag ginalaw mo ang basura niya.” Maririnig ito ng bata at sisigaw: “Hindi yan basura, mama! Materials ko yan!” Lumaki siyang walang interes sa commercial toys. Mabibilang sa daliri ng isang kamay ang mga pagkakataong nagpabili siya ng laruan. Mas type niya ang mga laruang siya mismo ang gumawa. Umaabot sa damit at libro ang hilig niyang lumikha. Marami siyang libro habang siya ay lumalaki at mahilig naman siyang magbasa, pero marami rin siyang libro na siya mismo ang gumawa. Ibig sabihin: nag-isip, nag-drowing, nagsulat at naglimbag. Tuwing may programa sa kanilang eskwelahan at kailangan nilang magsuot ng costume, laging mas gusto niya ang gumawa ng sariling kasuotan. Kung may kaibigan o kamag-anak kaming magdiriwang ng kaarawan, o tuwing darating ang isang okasyon at kailangang mamigay ng mga regalo, kabilin-bilinan ni Bowi sa akin: “Mama, huwag kang bibili, gagawa ako.” Ganoon din pagdating sa mga palamuti o dekorasyon sa bahay. Halos lahat ay likhang-kamay, lalo na noong mas bata pa siya. Mabuti nga naman ito para sa akin bilang magulang na single parent. Napakalaki ng natipid kong pera sa laruan at regalo. At dala-dala ni Bowi hanggang ngayon ang
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DAPITAN ugaling ito. Walang appeal sa kanya ang mga bagay na komersiyal. Hindi rin siya magastos na bata. Bihirang-bihira kaming magpunta sa mall, pero kung mapadaan man kami ay hindi siya nagtuturo ng ipapabili katulad ng ibang bata. Isa ang mall sa mga lugar na ayaw na ayaw niyang puntahan. Para sa isang batang katulad ni Bowi, halos lahat ng oras ay oras ng paglikha. Ang paglikhang ito ay hindi isang chore para sa kanya kundi isang uri ng paglalaro. Maliwanag at kumikinang ang kanyang mga mata, mabilis ang takbo ng isip, sanay at sigurado ang mga daliri sa ginagawa. May ngiti sa labi. Daraan ang ilang oras at siya pa rin ay nakalubog sa daloy ng paglikhang dinaranas. Malalim ang konsentrasyon niya sa kanyang paglalaro at alam kong palaging hindi sapat ang oras para sa gawain. Kung minsan, babanggitin niyang hindi sapat ang kanyang kakayahan. Kung minsan, ang materyales ang kulang. Madaling ipagmalaki sa tao ang pagiging malikhain ng ating mga anak. Mabilis lang magshare sa Facebook ng kanilang gawang-kamay. Marami ang hahanga, may magkokomento. Pero sa aking pagbabahagi, may dalawang bagay na lagi kong naiisip. Una, hindi ko ibinabahagi ang mga ito upang magyabang o sabihing napakagaling ng aking anak. Ang mas totoo para sa akin ay ang pagbibigay sa aking sarili mismo ng katiyakan na maayos kong napapalaki ang aking anak sa kabila ng pagiging single parent. Ikalawa, naiisip ko rin na simple at pulido na ang finished product, musika man ito o artwork o sulatin, na naibabahagi. Ngunit sa likod ng finished product na nakikita ng tao ay nagtatago ang napakahabang backstory kung paano iniluwal ng batang artista ang kanyang ginawa. Karaniwan nang kaugnay ng backstory na ito ang luha, mahahabang gabi na walang tulog, takot, argumento, pagdududa sa sarili, at marami pang ibang krisis sa emosyon na nakakulong lamang kundi sa isip ay sa maliit na espasyo ng silid. Hindi madali ang maging ina ng isang manlilikha. Maraming bagay ang hindi ko pwedeng ikwento dahil kailangang ingatan ang pribadong buhay ng aking anak. Pero may mga bagay kaming pinagdaanan na sa tingin ko ay maaaring ibahagi. Nariyan ang pagharap ko sa isang guro niya sa elementarya na nagsabi sa akin ng ganito: “Masyado po siyang advanced sa art, sa loob ng linya na siya nagkukulay; sa kanyang edad, okay lang na lumagpas sa linya. Hindi po siya nakakasabay sa mga kaklase kaya’t kailangang medyo awatin ang mabilis niyang pagsulong sa sining. Naiiwan po ang mga kaklase niya at ayaw po nating makaramdam sila na sila ay nahuhuli.” Hindi ako makapaniwala sa sinabi ng “teacher” na ito. Tinanggihan din ng gurong ito na magsabit ang bata ng kanyang mga drawing sa isang art exhibit sapagkat masyado raw maganda na ang drowing ni Bowi kaysa sa kanyang mga kasabayan. Concerned sila sa kapakanan ng ibang estudyante pero gusto nilang masiil ang natural na pag-unlad ng isang mag-aaral sa mga sining na kanyang kinahihiligan. Hindi nagtagal ay inalis ko na sa paaralang iyon ang aking anak at inilipat sa ibang eskwelahang mas tumanggap sa kanyang kakayahan at yumakap sa kanyang pagkatao. Ang palaging obserbasyon ng kanyang mga guro ay ito: He always overthinks. Hindi lamang iyan, palagi rin siyang nag-o-over deliver. Ang simpleng asignatura, halimbawa, para gumawa ng isang maikling sanaysay ay nagiging isang illustrated comic book para kay Bowi. Nakaugalian na niyang lumikha ng hindi inaasahan at malayo sa karaniwan. Kung ito ay isang pagpapala o pabigat (para sa kanya) ay hindi ko pa lubos na nauunawaan. Malalim ang sugat na nalikha ng maling pagpigil sa kanyang kakayahan noong siya ay nasa paaralan na una niyang pinasukan. May bakas ng galit sa kanyang tinig tuwing mapag-uusapan namin
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INA ang mga panahong iyon. Kailangang pabayaan ang bawat manlilikha na lumikha hanggang sa ang puso nila ay makuntento. Kailangang hanapin para sa bawat batang manlilikha ang karapat-dapat na mga guro at paaralan upang mabigyan ng tamang pag-gabay at pag-aalaga ang kanilang sensitibong kalooban. Ang papel ko bilang nanay ng isang batang artista ay makinig sa unang bersiyon ng bawat musika, magbigay ng komprehensibo at matalinong komento kahit di ko lubos na nauunawaan ang sining na siyang mundo niya. Hindi uubra ang “Wow, ang ganda, anak!” Lagi niyang hinahanap ang may saysay na obserbasyon, maging musika man ito o sining biswal, o iba pang uri ng sining at paglikha. Responsibilidad ko ring makinig at magpayo sa tuwing siya mismo ay hindi makaintindi sa kanyang sarili o sa kanyang ginagawa. Mahirap ang bagay na ito na kung minsan ay naiisip kong trabaho dapat ng isang psychotherapist. Kagabi sabi niya sa akin: “Mama, I feel unfulfilled. But I know what you’re gonna say. You will say I should meditate, or something equally hard to do.” Natawa ako nang bongga. Tama naman siya dahil iyon nga ang ipapayo ko. Iyon at marami pang iba. Pero sino ba ang nakakaalam kung tama ang mga sinasabi ko sa kanya at ginagawa kong pagpapalaki sa batang ito? Walang nagtuturo kung paano ang maging ina ng isang manlilikha. Hanggang ngayon na siya ay 15 years old na, parang nangangapa pa rin ako sa dilim.
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Dementia Nikko Miguel M. Garcia
Tinitingnan ni Lola ang kaniyang pera sa pitaka gabi-gabi bago matulog. Hindi kailangang mahinuha kung inipon, napulot, ibinigay, hiningi, inutang, at kung ano-ano pa. Ang mahalaga, may nabibilang. Patuloy na nagpapagaling ang pamilya mula sa sakit sa bulsa. Bukod sa sangkatutak niyang tanong, ako’y paulit-ulit sinasalubong ng kaniyang pagbukas-sara ng ilaw sa banyo at pinto sa kusina. Nauulinigan ko rin siyang kinakausap ang mga kagamitan sa bahay at mga retrato ng dinadasalang santo, kundi ang kaniyang sarili. Pare-pareho silang walang kakayahan na dinggin siya, na maaninag ang mga sintomas kahit na halatang-halata. Habang tumatagal, dumarami ang mga gawain niyang kakatwa na tila hindi na nais gunitain ng gunita. Ngunit wala, walang magagawa upang siya’y masawata, maliban sa pagtiyak na nakapitaka ang pasensiya. Na nakapitaka ang pasensiya.
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Sa Hapag Kainan Jecelle Claire B. Dela Rosa
Madalas ay hindi tayo magkaintindihan Sa hapag-kainan; Ilalagay mo ang kutsara sa ibabaw ng pinggan. Ilalagay ko sa tabi— sa sulok. Ilalapag mo ang baso ng tubig sa kanan. Ako naman sa kaliwa Pagkatapos ay ihahain mo ang ulam at kanin Pagsasandukan ang bunsong kapatid, si Tatay, Ako na ang bahala sa sarili. Pupunahin mo isang kutsarang laing sa aking plato. Magagalit ka, tipid na tipid. Katulad ng mga kwentong naiaambag ko sa hapunan; kakaunti at tipid. Hindi naman sa hindi ko gusto ang lasa ng luto: Halatang binantayan, iningatan, pinagplanuhan. Sadyang matagal na akong busog, Napuno ang sikmura sa mga isipin Takot, duda, at pangamba. Hindi naman sa wala akong kwentong nais ibahagi, Hindi ko lang alam kung magugustuhan niyo Ang lasang Maynila: magulong kalye, limpak-limpak na mga papel at mga relasyong nauuwi Madalas sa mapait na hantungan. Pasensya ka na, Ma. Ayoko lang matabunan ng pait at pakla ang gabing ito. Sa susunod na pagsa-salusalo nalang siguro.
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Oda sa Batang Nawawala Jeanne Clarisse P. Grajo
buwanan ang pagdating ng mga sobre sa tirahan na para bang sila ay mga bumibisitang kaibigan subalit hindi katulad ng mga liham ng pag-ibig, hindi mo ibig ang mga ito sa iyong mga bisig. hatid nila ang balitang muling pagdalaw ng dilim mga naglalakihang bayarin, panibagong suliranin. dito mo natutunang suotin ang ngiti bilang uniporme sa umaga suot ang relong naka-posas papasok sa opisinang tila mga selda. alam ng salapi kung paano ka bibihagin at palihim na bibilangguin paliligayahin tuwing kinsenas at katapusan, ganito ka niya paiikutin. kung kakalabitin ka ng kagustuhang kumawala, na muling kumaripas ng takbo tulad ng mga bata sana’y ‘di ka lasunin ng nakasusuklam na sumpa ng pagtanda, at paniwalaing kailangan mong maging bayani bago maging bata. sa panahong iisa-isahin mo ang ‘yong mga rason para bumangon sana’y mahukay mo ang mga mithiing tuluyan mo nang ibinaon siyang musmos na matayog na nangarap, may matang kumikislap dati’y puno ng pagsusumikap, ngayo’y sumusukong mga talukap. natatanaw sa iyong mga balintataw ang naglahong ningning, siyang minsang buong tapang na umibig sa kariktan ng sining. t’wing papasanin mo ang bagaheng ‘sing bigat ng daigdig, tuwing itutulak ka ng mga bayarin papalabas ng silid, mangako kang hindi ka magpapadaig dahil kahit na sanay ka na sa pagtitipid, mararamdaman mo pa rin ang pagkasaid.
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bago ka pa man nasanay, minsan na itong naging “sana ay” sana’y palaging mayroong maihahain na pagkain sa lamesa sana’y maaaring magpahinga at maglaho sa tuwina pero hindi. dito ka na nasanay. sa pag-asam sa tagumpay sa ngalay na mga kamay sa pagtitiis sa kapirasong tinapay sana’y ‘di ka na lang nasanay. ikukubli sa kwarto mula alas otso hanggang alas singko maghapong haharapin ang nagliliwanag na kwadrado, magpapanggap na ang pagtipa ay pagtugtog ng instrumento. ngunit walang awit sa pangangawit, walang himig sa ganitong kahig. nilimot na ng ‘yong kamay ang paghawak sa mga krayolang pudpod, gabi-gabing kinilala ang sigarilyong upos at ang ginhawa ng itong hagod. dito sa malay na paghinga, ito na lamang ang tanging pahinga, ang paglanghap sa usok, at ang pagbuga sa mga pagsubok. hindi mawari kung kanino o saan ihihimlay ang pagkabahala ‘di maipaubaya ang kapalaran sa hanay ng mga tala o sa plano ni bathala kung ’di man ngayon ang pag-ugoy ng duyan, o ang pagtahan sa kanlungan itong upuan ang siyang magsisilbing panandaliang pahingahan. dito ka manahan. habang pinipinili at pinipilit mong labanan nang mag-isa ang tiraniya dahil pinaniwala ka nilang bawal maging mahina sa harap ng pamilya nasanay kami sa hingi habang pinagkakasya mo ang sarili mo sa tingi paulit-ulit nilang ilalapat sa’yong utak na hindi ka sapat at paulit-ulit kang tumaliwas sa konsepto nila ng dapat ’pagkat hindi nasusukat ng pera ang ‘yong angking halaga hindi matutumbasan ng kahit ilang libo o barya sa umaga bumalik ka sa amin. ipahinga ang pusong pagal, ang kadilima’y ‘di rin magtatagal. sa ating pag-ahon, matututunan din nating huminahon, darating ang panahon na makakalaya rin tayo rito sa kahon at sabay nating hihintayin ang pagdating ng dapithapon. bumalik ka sa amin.
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lumaya sa inaakala mong tanikala, ang pagpapahinga ay ‘di pagkakasala maaari pang kumawala sa patibong, maaari pa ang inaasam na pag-usbong bumalik ka sa amin. ako ang saksi sa araw-araw mong pagkayod, ngunit ‘di mo kailangan angkinin ang ‘yong pagod. kung kaya ko lang banatin ang pagitan ng mga segundo iaalay ko ang nawalang oras na ipinagkait sa’yo ng mundo sapagkat walang presyo ang ganitong sakripisyo, hindi mababayaran ng ginto ang pagmamahal na ganito. bumalik ka sa amin. alay namin ang pag-ibig na ‘di mauupos dumating man ang unos. alay namin ang pag-ibig na iyong walang sawang ibinuhos, at siya ring aming hatid sa pagkakataong ikaw na ang ubos. bumalik ka sa amin. ‘di na hahayaan pang magtiis sa kapiraso o madurog nang pira-piraso hindi man kasing gara ng paraiso, malayo man sa pagiging perpekto, manatili tayo rito sa pagitan ng bukas at kahapon muling umawit, tumugtog, umindak sa kabila ng malakas na kulog sapagkat hindi nangangahulugan ng pagsuko itong paghinto buwan-buwan kong ipapadala ang mga sobre sa tirahan na para bang hindi tayo takot sa pagbisita ng kabiguan. at kung dumating man ang araw na dumalaw ang dilim o ang pagsubok na magdidildil na lamang tayo ng asin asahan mo na sa iyong pagdating, mahigpit ka pa ring yayakapin at sabik na babatiing maligayang pagbabalik.
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Kumot Lance Zafe
Tanging tahol ng aso at makina ng tricycle ang pumansin sa ’kin pauwi Ang lakas ng loob kong umuwi ng dis oras ng gabi. Tagos pa naman sa buto ang lamig ngayon at ‘di rin mahulaan ang lansangan. Sumasagi rin naman sa isip mo na baka matutukan ako sa bewang, Hindi rin naman kita masisisi. Malumanay sa balat ang haplos ng amihan sa bintana na sinagot naman ng barubal na tunog ng bentilador. Naroon ka, sa sofa kung saan ka dinatnan ng antok sa kahihintay. Nilalamig ka at nangangatog. Tanging katabi mo’y isang ‘di naubos na baso ng tubig at paracetamol. Inilagay ko na lang ang uwi kong pagkain sa mesa.
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Umaasa sanang matikman ninyo, kung ‘di lang din pagong ang usad sa EDSA. Inilapat ko na lang ang kumot sa’yo. Umaasang magsilbing Yakap ko— Umaasang maging init ng paghanga, ng awa, ng sakripisyo— at yakap namin. Tinago ko ang reseta at pinalit, sa lugar nito, ang grado kong nakuha. Sa gradong umaasa kang Sulit ang kalyo sa kamay. Sana kahit papano, bumuti ang pakiramdam mo. Sana kahit papano, maging sapat ang kumot mo.
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Para Kay Oryang Nina Angela Cruz
Bangungot ang bawat hapong nakatanaw ka sa bintana Inaalala, binabalikan, memorya ng pag-iibigan Tinatanaw ang paglubog ng araw – si Andres Ako naman, nasa tabi, at di mo pinapansin Dalamhati sa iyong mapupungay na mga mata ‘Di ko matitigan, hindi ko maatimPighati ng isang byuda sa yumaong asawa Paano iibsan kung kaibigan ko rin siya? Kaya ko ring mahalin ka, Oryang Kasing tindi at kahit higit pa Susulatan kita ng awit, ng tula Di lang ng mga liham, di tulad niya Wawakasan ang hininga kung kinakailangan Ipipinta ko ang dugo ko sa kalangitan Magbubulagbulagan kahit kitang kita ko na Gagawin ang lahat, sa simple at malalim na dahilang mahal kita. aAt tayo nga’y nagpakasal, nagsumpaan Sa harap ng pulang watawat ng Katipunan Pinakasalan kitang bulag, nang di ako nakikita At tinanggap itong walang alinlangan Masakit ngunit masarap, malungkot pero kaya pa Kahit sa liwanag ay siya at siya lamang Pipikit na lamang at mangangarap Bumisita na ang buwan at saki’y yumakap na Kung sa dilim ay ako lang ang nakikita Masama bang hilingin na di na mag-umaga? Kung ang pagsapit ng buwan ang tangi kong pag-asa, Maaari bang dito na lang tayo at di na gumising pa? Magmamahal sa’yo, magpakailanman, Julio Nakpil
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ASWANG AS YOU LOVE ME pasintabi kay U Z. Eliserio Chuckberry Pascual
Baduy na kung baduy ha, pero alam mo noong unang beses ko siyang makita, naisip ko talaga na, well, una, ang baduy ko pala dahil nakakaramdam ako ng ganito kabaduy na feeling. Ang tagal-tagal ko nang nanghahamak ng mga baduy na tao, tapos kapag pala ako ang na-in love, wala akong ipinagkaiba sa ibang tao. Tao raw. Shet. What a joke. Ulk ulk ulk. Pero seriously, ang shet talaga ng feeling, pero at peace naman ako, so okay lang. Pangalawa, dahil nga na-establish na nating baduy ako, na-realize ko na shet, capable din pala akong magkaroon ng baduy na realization: totoo pala ang love at first sight. Pero in person, ha. Kasi sa photos, keri lang si Cedric. Cute, ganon. Marami na akong na-meet na cute, so hindi naman ako sobrang thirsty. Sapat lang yung thirst ko, alam mo na. Isa pa, alam mo rin naman, I take care of myself. I mean, I have to. Kung ang ibang tao, kalandian lang ang hanap sa dating app, pagkain ang sa akin. At ang come on ko sa kanila ay ang aking looks, ang pangako ng pag-ibig sa isang attractive na nilalang. Sa madaling salita, hindi naman dehado sa akin si Cedric. Dahil kung mukha akong kuko, hindi niya ako imi-meet in the first place, di ba. Walang ganap. Pumunta ako sa meeting place namin—isang cheap motel na katabi ng isang lumang sinehan sa Maynila—nang walang expectations whatsoever. Actually, si Cedric pa nga ang may idea na doon kami magkita the first time. Nakaka-turn off kung normal date, pero dahil kakainin ko lang naman siya, di na ako nagreklamo di ba. Saka sa totoo lang, sa cheap motel ko rin talaga siya aayain. Doon ko naman talaga niyayaya ang mga nami-meet ko sa dating app. Mas convenient kasi. Hindi mausisa ang staff, madaling tumakas sa bintana. Nagkataon lang na naunahan ako ni Cedric. Apparently, isa lang iyon sa mga quirk niya. Nate-turn on daw siya sa amoy ng mga cheap motel. Kadiri di ba? I mean, doon ako lagi nagdadala ng mga lalaki, pero hindi ko sila roon kinakain. Inuuwi ko sila sa bahay namin. Aswang ang nanay ko, pero pinalaki niya kaming malinis ang pamamahay. Pero alam mo, tumilampon lahat ng kalinisan na iyan noong pumasok siya sa kuwarto. Dahil, boom! Hindi lang pala cute si Cedric, nuknukan siya ng guwapo! Moreno, malaki ang dibdib at braso, at puro buhok ang mukha at katawan. Tao siya, pero mukha siyang taong lobo! So my type. Tapos
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INA willing pang makipagkita sa isang cheap motel na katabi ng lumang sinehan sa Maynila. So perfect. Noong tinanong ko kung bakit gusto niyang makipagkita sa akin, ang sabi ba naman, he feels that I’m different from the rest daw. Gusto ko sanang sabihin, ay talagang different ako, dahil different ka rin! Dahil kung hindi ka naging different, pagpasok pa lang natin sa kuwarto, binali ko na ang leeg mo, at isinilid ka sa itim na body bag. Pagkatapos, magta-transform ako na higanteng ibong itim, saka ka ililipad pauwi para ihapunan ng mga magulang ko. E kaso nga, tinamaan ako sa lintek na different-different na iyan. Kaya sa halip na baliin ang leeg ni Cedric, hinalik-halikan ko na lang. Imagine na lang ang restraint ko, di ba? Daig ko pa si Jaclyn Jose na bumubuntong hininga lang habang nanonood ng bahay na nilalamon ng apoy. Nagwawala na ang sikmura ko, pero deadma lang ako. Kiss lang nang kiss, mula smack hanggang wet, sabay hug. Ay talaga naman, lots and lots of hugs! Cuddle na walang katapusan. Palit-palitan kami sa pagiging little spoon, big spoon, fork and spoon! Tapos nagkuwentuhan kami ng likes and dislikes, dreams and ambitions, fears and failures. Noong alas dos na ng madaling araw, nagyaya na akong matulog. Pumikit ako, at nagkunwaring tulog. Pero ang totoo, hindi ko na kaya ang gutom. Kahit hindi ako tumingin sa salamin, alam kong tulad ng kahit na sinong aswang na nagugutom, namumula na ang mga mata ko. Nag-aalala na rin ako sa mga magulang ko. Nagbabaga na rin malamang ang mga mata nila. Kaya nang marinig kong naghihilik si Cedric, tumalilis na ako sa kuwarto. (In fairness, ang bilis niyang nakatulog.) Nakahanap ako ng kakainin sa isang gasolinahan na may nag-iinuman. Nag-abang lang ako ng tatayo. Nang may magkamaling pumunta sa eskinita para umihi, dinagit ko na. Sinaklot ko agad sa leeg, saka hinila pataas hanggang may marinig akong lagutok. Magsasatao pa sana ako para maisilid ang katawan sa body bag, pero sa pagmamadali, lumipad na ako pauwi. Dinatnan ko ang mga magulang ko na naghahanda nang lumabas. Nang makita nilang may dala akong pagkain na wala sa body bag, pulang-pula na ang mga mata nila dahil sa gutom. Pareho silang walang kibo, bad trip sa akin. Medyo na-guilty ako. Kinabukasan, nabalita sa barangay namin na may nakita raw manananggal kagabi. May tinangay raw na isang tambay sa gasolinahan. Mabuti na lang talaga at sinuwerte ako. Malabo ang mata ng kung sinumang nakakita sa akin. Porke lumilipad, manananggal agad. Hah! Nagkataon lang na nagiging ibon ako. Kung alam lang nila na marami sa amin ang nagta-transform sa kung ano-anong hayop, maloloka sila. Hindi na nila kailangang tumingala: may aswang na nagiging palaka, gagamba, aso, pusa, bubuli, daga, ahas, kambing, at kung ano-ano pa. Muntik nang magwala ang nanay ko pagkatapos naming marinig ang balita mula sa isang kapitbahay na tsismosa. Safe naman tayo. Wala silang alam, sabi ko. Mukhang nakumbinsi naman sila, dahil hindi na ako ulit sinita-sita. Pero after two weeks ng patuloy naming pagkikita ni Cedric, at two weeks na ring medyo padalos-dalos ako sa pag-uuwi ng pagkain, nakaamoy na ang mga magulang ko. Sino ang kinakatagpo mo?! Sino?! bulalas ng nanay ko, halos umabot na sa sahig ang dila sa gigil. Nasa gitna kami ng pagkain noon, at may ilang tumalsik na piraso ng nginuyang atay sa mga pisngi ko dahil sa outburst niya.
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I N Asinungaling. Kaya ang isinagot ko, sorry, ‘Nay! Ngayon, aswang nga ako, pero hindi ako Tinubuan ako ng feelings! Gusto ko pa sanang idagdag: ngayon lang ako nagkaganito, kaya technically, si Cedric ang first love ko. At dahil siya pa rin naman ang love ko hanggang ngayon—sorry na po ‘Nay ang baduy, pero eto talaga ang nararamdaman ko—gusto kong maniwala na first love never dies. At dahil siya ang aking first, umaasa akong siya na rin ang aking magiging last, ang aking one and only, ang aking forever. Sabay saboy ng confetti sa hangin. Taray, di ba? Pero wala na akong dinagdag dahil alam kong parehong aswang ang nanay at tatay ko, at ugali talaga nilang manggambala ng buhay ng iba. Kahit pa buhay pag-ibig. Ang sagot ng nanay kong manananggal, kuntodo nanginginig pa ang boses, akala mo kung sinong binalian ng pakpak, anak, paano naman kami? Ang tatay ko namang kantanod, masyadong pinanindigan ang pangangantanod. Hindi nga siya kumibo, pero yung titig naman sa akin, akala mo atay ng kung sinong santo ang nginunguya ko. E in fact, atay lang naman yon ni Jimboy, kung sinong bigotilyong nakilala ko sa Internet. Ni hindi ko nga type si Jimboy—hindi cute ang mukha niya, at kahit ang mga lamanloob niya, hindi cute. maanggo! tomador yata kasi ang isang ito—pero tinyaga ko na lang, dahil kailangan kong maging mabuting anak. Kaya kahit alam kong normally, sumasagot ang mga bida sa mga love story na pinipigilan ng mga magulang, hindi na lang ako sumagot. Kasi nga, abnormally, ang naging usapan sa bahay—take note, usapan na hindi naman pinag-usapan, in-assume na lang without consulting me, ang ganda, di ba?—hindi raw ako dapat ma-in love hangga’t hindi sila namamatay. Nag-asawa na kasi ang lahat ng mga kapatid ko, at bilang ako ang bunso, ako ang nakatokang mag-alaga sa mga magulang. Ang labo, di ba? Ako ang bata, kaya nasa akin ang matatanda. Ilang beses ko na ngang itinanong, bakit hindi iyong ate ko ang nandito, e siya nga ang panganay? Siya dapat ang marunong sa buhay? Ang sagot lang ng mga magulang ko, kung ate ko raw ang kasama nila, baka mamatay sila sa gutom. May kahinaan kasing maghanap ng pagkain ang ate ko. E ako raw, magaling. Tanong ko ulit, paano yung iba kong kapatid, bakit hindi sila ang mag-alaga sa inyo? Ang sagot, mas magaling ka rin sa kanila. Ikaw talaga ang pinakamagaling naming anak. Ikaw lang ang makakapag-alaga sa amin nang mabuti. Inuto pa ako! At hindi lang iyan, ang sabi ng parents ko, hindi raw ako dapat ma-in love sa tao. Wala raw magkakagusto sa aking tao. At kung meron man daw magkamali, ang ending rin daw non, susunugin ako ng mga taumbayan. Nakasulat na raw iyan sa history book ng mga aswang. Ang sagot ko, sino ba ang nagsulat ng history book na yan, walang imagination! Hindi ba puwedeng magkaroon ng taumbayan na may utak…at puso? Hindi ba puwedeng magkaroon ng ibang kuwento ang ugnayan ng tao at aswang? Sabi ko, ipakita nga nila sa akin ang lintek na history book na yan, susunugin ko. Iyan lang ang sinabi ko, kahit na ang totoo, gusto ko nang budburan ng asin ang mga bituka ng nanay ko at sabuyan ng katas ng bawang ang pagmumukha ng tatay ko. Para mawala na sila sa eksena, at puwede na akong ma-in love! Pero ginawa ko ba? Hindi. Tumingin lang ako sa sahig, saka ipinagpatuloy ang pagnguya sa atay ni Jimboy. Pero wait, wait. Lilinawin ko lang: hindi naman talaga ako nagalit sa mga magulang ko, to the extent na gusto ko silang patayin. Ang extreme naman kasi non. Hindi naman ako parang taumbayan na galit sa mga aswang. Ito yung mga taumbayan sa sinasabing history book ng mga magulang ko. Ito yung kapag dine-describe, laging may dala-dalang mga sulo, sugod lang nang sugod. Ni hindi man lang inaalam ang konteksto ng mga aswang. O for that matter, ang konteksto ng mundo! Hindi
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lang tao at hayop ang may karapatang mabuhay. Meron ding mga taong nagiging hayop. Pero no, never pumasok sa isip nila yan. Feeling nila, sila ang iniikutan ng mundo, kaya lahat ng hindi nila katulad, masama. Feeling ko nga minsan, ang translation dapat ng taumbayan sa Ingles, sheep! O kaya naman, lemmings! Mga walang jutak, sunod lang nang sunod, kesehodang mahulog sa bangin. Anyway, ang point ko is nagtampo lang ako. Alam ko naman kung gaano kalaki ang naging sakripisyo ng mga magulang ko para sa amin. Alam ko kung gaano kahirap maghanap ng pagkain para sa aming magkakapatid noon. Naaalala ko pa nga yung isang eleksiyon, umuwi ang nanay ko na may sugat sa tagiliran. Nakipagsapalaran siyang lumabas kahit na mainit ang mata ng mga tao sa mga manananggal. Nakakuha naman siya ng isang babaeng nagsasampay ng mga damit. Dinagit niya, saka sinaksak agad ng kuko sa leeg. Alam mo na, para hindi na makasigaw. E kaso mo, may kapitbahay pala yong babae na nagsasampay rin ng damit noong gabing iyon—ewan ko ba naman kung bakit mahilig maglaba at magsampay sa gabi ang mga tao sa punyetang barangay na yon—at natuluan ng dugo ang sinampay niya. Ayun, nagsisigaw. Narinig ng mga rumorondang barangay tanod. Hinagad ng mga tanod ang nanay ko, pinagpupukol ng kung ano-ano. Mabuti na lang, hindi tinamaan ang mga pakpak niya. Pero may kung sinong tanod na nakaisip na mandutdot ng mga manananggal, kaya nagurlisan ang nanay ko sa tagiliran ng kutsilyong itinali sa dulo ng mahabang kawayan. Nakauwi pa rin naman siya at inihain sa amin ang katawan ng babaeng nagsasampay. Tagaktak ang luha naming magkakapatid habang kumakain. Nagbingi-bingihan kami sa pigil na iyak ng nanay ko habang ginagamot ng tatay ang sugat niya. Kumain lang kayo, mga anak, sabi pa niya ko habang nanginginig ang boses. Ang drama, di ba? Sikat na sikat kasi noon sa media ang mga manananggal, kesyo naglipana raw ang mga manananggal sa iba’t ibang parte ng Metro Manila. Na isang malaking katarantaduhan, sa totoo lang. Dahil may usapan rin ang mga aswang sa Metro Manila—usapan rin na hindi naman pinag-usapan, in-assume na lang ng lahat na in effect without consulting lahat ng mga aswang na involved—na hindi dapat magkaroon ng traffic sa daan o sa himpapawid. Ibig sabihin, kapag may nakita ang isang manananggal na isa pang manananggal, lilipad na siya palayo. Hanap na siya ng ibang teritoryo for the night. Ang puwede lang magsama sa iisang teritoryo, iyong magkaibang klase ng aswang. So, kung meron nang manananggal, puwede pa namang magkaroon ng ibang aswang. Pero dapat, hindi na lumilipad, tulad nung mga nagiging aso, nagiging baboy, ganyan. So far, nagwo-work naman sa amin ang sistemang iyan. Pero minsan talaga, may mga aksidenteng nangyayari. Like once, may isang manananggal na masyadong bumaba ang lipad, napagkamalang lumilipad na sex worker ng isang lasing. Hindi raw kasi naka-bra, at maluwag ang suot na blouse. Ayon, nilapitan nung lasing, saka dinakma ang suso. Nagalit si manananggal, siyempre. Aba, masamang mang-harass, ke aswang o hindi ang hina-harass, ano? Kaya si manananggal na walang bra, nakalimutan maging discreet. Nilapa right then and there yung nanghipo sa kanya. E marami palang nakakita. Ayun, mega-kalat agad ang tsismis. Nagkataon naman, eleksiyon noon. So ang gobyerno, use me in a sentence agad ang issue. Kesyo naglipana raw ang mga manananggal, kesyo marami na raw na-report na mga kaso ng paglamon ng mga manananggal, ganyan. Nagtagumpay naman sila. Lumigpit agad ang mga tao sa bahay nang gabi, at naging mas madali ang mga pandaraya sa eleksiyon. Ang nakakatawa nga, dahil nga halos walang tao sa mga kalsada kapag gabi, kitang-kita ng mga manananggal at iba pang mga aswang ang mga naglilipat ng balota. Sila tuloy ang pinagkakain ng mga aswang. Hindi rin sila makapalag, dahil napapatunayan lang na totoo ang mga sinasabi nila sa media. Ang ending, tinotoo rin nila ang pagpapakalat ng mga pulis at mga aswang buster kuno. Kaya humirap pang lalo ang buhay ng mga aswang. Aba, mahirap na nga ang pakikipagsapalaran para sa pagkain gabi-gabi, paano pa yung may aktibong kumakalaban sa iyo? Kahit nga ang tatay ko na simpleng kantanod lang, muntik nang mahuli noong panahong iyon. (Simple lang talaga ang tatay ko, dahil mga bahay ampunan lang ang tinatarget niya. May narinig ka na bang mga nagreklamong
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DAPITAN bahay ampunan tungkol sa pagkawala ng mga bata? Wala, di ba? Hula nga namin, may alam na rin yang mga nagpapatakbo ng mga ampunan. Aba, serbisyo publiko nga ang ginagawa ng tatay ko, kung tutuusin.) Pero dahil sa nangyari sa eleksiyon, pinagmukha na naman kaming masama, at mas humirap ang buhay ng lahat. (Hindi lang ng mga aswang, ha. Nanalo kasi yung hindi dapat manalo. Alam mo na.) Anyway, ang point ko is, kung ganyan ang pinagdaanan ng mga magulang ko noon para lang mapakain kami, paano naman ako sasagot sa kanila? Kapal ko naman, di ba? Kapag ginawa ko yan baka in the next lifetime maging aswang na nagiging uod na ako. Saka sa totoo lang, ano ba ang isasagot ko? Mamahalin po ako ni Cedric! Ganyan? E kita mo nga, dalawang linggo na kaming nagkikita nang palihim, pero kapag iniisip ko kung paano ipagtatapat sa kanya na aswang ako, nangangatog ako sa takot. Deep inside, naniniwala yata akong tama ang mga magulang ko. In my heart of hearts, naniniwala yata akong hindi ako deserve na mahalin, dahil pasaway akong anak. Mas pinipili ko pa ang manglalaki kaysa mag-alaga ng mga magulang. Pero can’t I have both? Sino ba ang bitter na nagpauso ng either or situation na yan? At kung magpapakabait ako, kailan ko pa mararananan ang makipagrelasyon? Ang lulusog pa ng mga magulang ko. Kapag sa wakas e nawala sila, baka kumupas na ang ganda ko. At higit sa lahat, bakit pa ako aasang mahalin ng aswang na hindi ko pa nakikilala, samantalang narito na si Cedric, ang aking first and hopefully, last love? Tao nga siya, pero goodness naman, he loves me back! So, nag-decide akong umamin na kay Cedric. Nagkita kami sa naging usual haunt namin the past two weeks, iyon ngang cheap motel na katabi ng isang lumang sinehan sa Maynila. Pagpasok pa lang sa kuwarto, pinapapak na niya ang leeg ko. Parang hayok na hayok ang loko. Sabi ko, teka lang, honey ko, teka lang. Pero hindi siya nakikinig sa akin. Gutom na raw kasi siya, pero gusto muna niyang makipaglambingan sa akin bago kumain. Ang sabi ko, e di kumain ka na muna. Mamaya na raw siya kakain, unahin na raw muna niya ako. Nakakakilig, di ba? Ang sarap lalo makipaglambutsingan. Pero inuna ko na muna ang pakay ko. Dahil ang totoo, medyo nagugutom na rin ako. So ang sabi ko, Cedric, honey ko, may sasabihin muna ako sa iyong importante. Kapag narinig mo na ako, puwede mo na akong papakin hanggang gusto mo. Iyon e kung gugustuhin mo pa nga akong papakin, pagkatapos ng sasabihin ko. Tumigil si Cedric sandali, at tiningnan ako nang diretso sa mga mata. Noon ko lang napansin na namumula pala ang mga mata niya. Parang nagliliyab. Ano ba iyon? angil niya. May sore eyes ka ba, tanong ko. Mukha napahiya si Cedric, umiwas ng tingin sa akin. Oo, nahawa kasi ako sa kapitbahay namin. Saka ikaw, bakit namumula rin yang mga mata mo? Natahimik ako. Saka ko lang na-realize na hindi lang ako baduy, tanga pa ako. Naturingang aswang, pero ang hina ng pick-up ko. Aba, two weeks na pala kaming naglolokohan dito sa cheap motel na katabi ng isang lumang sinehan sa Maynila. So, sumagot ako: kasi gutom na rin ako, gago. Saka ko siya hinalikan.
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Bilugan ang Hugis ng Hinagpis Kisha Aleena H. Abuda
Madalas na asar sa’min na sa pwet daw kami inire ng mga nanay namin. Na kesyo dahil kasabay raw namin ang tae nang iluwal kami, marumi kami dahil dumi ang kasabay naming lumabas sa mundo. Puwede na nga rin kaming matawag na kakambal ng tae, pero syempre hinahayaan lang namin. Hindi rin naman kami naiiba sa mga iba pang anak ng pawis at dumi. Balita ko, mas masahol pa raw ang trato ng mga Nakatatanda sa iba pang anak ng dumi. Mas malakas ang hagulgol nila kaysa sa amin. At nang minsang makita ko ang mga mata ng isang ina mula sa hanay nila, alam kong isang araw ay ganoon rin ang kahihinatnan ko. Pangangatog ang takda ng aming pagkahulog. ‘Di mapigilang pangangatog ng mga binti. Hindi mo ito mapapansin sa una. Maraming nagaganap sa aming lugar na mas dapat binibigyang-pansin: kapanganakan ng mga bagong supling, pagka-aligaga ng mga nanay, unahan sa pagkain. Sa liit ng espasyong tirahan ng bawat isa, hindi mo rin agad mahahalata ang pagewang-gewang na hakbang ng mga nagsisimula nang mangatog. Nahihirapan silang huminga, mamumugto ang kanilang mga mata, malalagas ang balahibo’t unti-unting mapapanot. Siguro, alam na rin nila ang kasunod ng pagkakaroon ng mahinang binti, kung kaya’t inuugali nilang dumantay sa mga malalamig na pader ng kani-kaniyang bahay. Walang makapapansin sa bigla nilang pagkahulog kundi ang mga kapitbahay na wala rin namang ibang magagawa kundi tumitig at umiling. At kahit pa tangkain nilang tumayo, walang lunas sa pagkapilay at walang takas ang sinumang makakaranas nito. Mga nanay ang kadalasang tinatamaan ng pagka-pilay. Marahil sa hirap ng buhay at ilang beses na panganganak, hindi namin alam kung anong sanhi ng pagbigay ng kanilang mga binti. Sa masikip na bahay, unti-unting mangangayayat ang kanilang mga katawan hanggang sa manliit sila sa loob ng kuwadradong espasyo. Hindi nila maalagaan ang mga supling na nangangailangan ng maligamgam na aruga. Sa maghapong nakatayo, lalawlaw ang kanilang mga balat, lalo na ang kanilang dibdib. Masusubsob sila sa pintuang
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DAPITAN hindi binubuksan ng matagal nang panahon. At sa ‘di matinag na pangangatog ng binti, malalaman nilang hindi na nila kaya pang manganak at magparami. Bago pa man matanto ang ganitong katotohanan, mapapansin ng isa sa mga Nakatatanda ang pilay na inahin. Dadaan ito sa harap ng bahay ng pilay at bubuksan ang pinto nito. Pagtapos, hindi na muli namin makikita ang kapitbahay. Mabuti na rin siguro na may sumusuporta sa mga nanay kahit mahirap ang kanilang buhay. Ang mga Nakatatanda ay hindi namin kamukha at sa ami’y ibang-iba maliban sa kanilang dalawang pirasong mata. Palagi na silang nandiyan: araw-araw silang nagbibigay ng pagkain sa amin at tubig na pampatid sa mga uhaw naming lalamunan. ‘Yon nga lang, may sabi sabi rito sa amin na sila raw ang nangunguha ng mga bagong panganak na supling sa aming lugar. Iilang nanay na nagsabing nakita nila ang ilang Nakatatanda na kinukupit ang mga anak nilang kaluluwal pa lamang. Ang iba ay sinubukang itago ang mga supling, ngunit makalipas ang ilang araw ay matatagpuan rin ang mga ito’t kukunin. Hindi na ito bago, maraming nawawalan ng mga anak dito sa amin. Kung hindi na mabilang ang panganganak ng mga inahin rito, ay ‘di na rin mabilang kung ilang anak ang nawala at kinuha ng mga Nakatatanda. Masuwerte na nga raw ako at nabuhay ako, sabi ng mga nakatatandang inahin, dahil hindi na estranghero ang kamatayan ng mga bagong panganak. ‘Yong ibang kinayang mabuhay tulad ko, kung saan saan na raw napadpad. Walang kasiguraduhan bukod sa ibinenta silang lahat at pinagkakitaan. Marami ang pinahiran raw ng koloreteng bughaw, pula, at luntian, at pinaglaruan bago iwan sa kalsada para tapak-tapakan. Karamihan ay namatay matapos busugin. Hindi ko alam ang pakiramdam ng mabusog, o siguro hindi ko lang maalala, basta. Mabuti na sigurong hindi ko malaman. Malayo sa kuwento-kuwento ang kinahinatnan ng mga ate at kuya ko. Akala ko noong una, sabi sabi lang. May mga kasama raw ang ilang Nakatatanda na pumupunta dito sa may sa’min na naghahanap ng mga bagong panganak. Sa hirap ng buhay at sa kawalangkakayahan, ipinagbenta ang mga supling na wala pang muwang. Syempre, walang magawa ang mga nanay kundi ipagparaya sa kamay ng mga may kaya ang buhay ng mga supling, dahil ang mga natira ay dapat ring buhayin at itawid sa pang-araw araw. Isang kayod, isang tuka. Mapalad na ako na kasama ko’t nasisilayan ko pa ang Mama ko ngayon kahit masikip at maingay rito. Dumarami ang mga kapitbahay. Araw-araw ay pasikip nang pasikip ang aming kinalalagyan. Mahal na mahal ako ng Mama ko. Hindi lang dugo at pawis ang ibinuhos niya para lang madala ako sa mundo, kundi takot at hinagpis. Dito na mismo ako ipinanganak, kasabay ang mga kapatid kong matagal nang binawian ng buhay. Pinaliligiran ng alambre at bakal ang lugar namin. Isang tingkayad ko lang ay maabot ko na ang bubong ng bahay ko. Tabi-tabi ang mga masisipag ngunit pagod na nanay, laging may panibagong supling na iniluluwal sa bawat sulok ng aming buhay. Ang pagkahulog nila sa malamig na yero ang sasalubong sa bawat patintero ng araw at gabi. Tirik at nanlalaki ang mata ng mga nanay na hindi na alam kung paano pagkakasyahin ang puso sa mga anak na ‘di na kaya pang mahalin tulad ng mga nauna. Sa pagsikip ng bawat bahay ay pagsuko ng mga inahin para
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ang mga naglalagas at napapanot na mga inahin. Inoobserbahan nila ang mga paa at binti namin. Ang lahat ng mga kinuha ay mga pilay at kulubot ang balat. Tahimik na sumama ang mga napiling nanay sa mga Nakatatanda. Sa patuloy kong pagtingin sa paligid ay nakita ko rin si Mama. Nasa bandang tapat lang pala siya ng bagong bahay ko. Mukhang nanghihina siya at nakadantay sa gilid ng kanyang bahay. Mabuti na lang ay malakas pa ring kumain ang Mama. Nauubos niya ang rasyon ng pagkain at tubig na ibinibigay sa kanya. Araw-araw ay paluwang ng paluwang ang bahay ni Mama. Tumigil na rin siya sa panganganak. ‘ Di nagtagal ay napansin kong nangangatog si Mama. Hindi naman malamig sa lugar namin kaya nagtataka ako kung bakit siya nanginginig. ‘Di rin naman sakitin si Mama. Malakas siya at kaya niyang lampasan ang kahit anong pagsubok. Sa paglipas ng oras ay napansin ko ang kanyang mga binti. Ang mapapayat niyang binti. Gume-gewang sila nang mag-isa. Mahina lang noong una, ngunit sa mga nagdaang araw ay padalas ng padalas ang pangangatog ng kanyang binti. Kinakabahan ako para kay Mama. Parang hindi ako makahinga sa aking bahay. Sa pagsapit ng gabi ay walang tulog ang dumalaw sa akin. Naramdaman ko ang kakaibang igit sa kaibuturan ng aking tiyan. Gusto kong puntahan ang Mama ko. Nang sumilip ang liwanag, agad kong tinignan ang bahay ni Mama. Nanganak nanaman uli si Mama kagabi, ngunit isang supling na lamang ang kaya niyang ilabas. Maputi ang bilog nitong ulo sa malabnaw na sikat ng araw. May kaunti itong biyak. Mayamaya ay dumating na ang isang Nakatatanda. Tumikwas ang ulo ni Mama sa nasa harap niya at saka niya ako tinignan. Sa isang saglit ay bumukas ang pinto ng bahay ni Mama at saka siya kinuha ng Nakatatanda. Hindi maalis ang tingin ko kay Mama. Lumawlaw ang pakpak niyang hindi ko na muling mapagtataguan. At habang naglalakad palayo ang kumuha kay Mama, naramdaman ko ang paglabas ng mabilog at matigas na bagay sa aking puwitan. Ganito pala ang pakiramdam.
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Ulam Shania Allyson T. Villanueva
Halos sampung taon na rin nang may mamataan na aswang sa bayan ng Oblik. Una kong narinig ang salitang “aswang” mula sa aming mga kapitbahay. Ramdam sa kanilang mga boses ang takot habang nagsasalaysay ng kanilang sari-sariling karanasan tungkol sa pag-iral ng aswang. Kaya puspusan na lamang ang pagpapaalala ng aking ina na huwag lalabas ng aming bahay tuwing sasapit na ang gabi o huwag papaabot ng gabi sa labas. Mahirap na. Baka ang susunod na hapunan ng aswang ay ang aking mga laman-loob. Mas malaman pa ata ‘yung mga aso sa kalye kaysa sa akin. Gayunpaman, sinusunod ko na lamang ang bilin ni Inay. Tuwing sasapit na ang alas singko ng hapon, kumakaripas na ako pauwi sa aming bahay at tuluyang iiwan ang aking mga kalaro at kaklase. Siguro dahil sa takot na baka ako ay mapagdiskitahang gawing hapunan ng aswang gumagala o dahil baka ako ay mapagalitan ni Inay. Kung maari lamang, hindi niya talaga ako pinapalabas ng bahay lalo na kung siya ay nasa trabaho. Gusto niya na lagi akong nasa bahay tuwing siya ay papasok sa trabaho dahil sa ganitong paraan, mapapalagay ang kanyang loob. Ngunit ako naman ang nag-aalala kay Inay. Tuwing gabi kasi siya umaalis ng bahay. Sa isang karinderya siya namamasukan; karinderyang pagmamay-ari ni Aling Mercy. May pagkamasungit si Aling Mercy. Lagi niyang sinisigawan ang kanyang mga trabahador. Sa gabi lamang sila bukas dahil nahihirapang makatulog nang maayos si Aling Mercy. Kaya tuwing hapunan, magagambala na ang mga tao sa: “Ano ba naman yan, Darwin?! Bilisan mo ang kilos, Lisa! Ang kupad-kupad mo naman! Dumarami na ang mga gustong kumain!” nakakarinding boses ni Aling Mercy na parang sirang plaka. Kahit na ubod ng sungit si Aling Mercy, hindi pa rin siya nawalan ng mga suki dahil siya lamang ang may lakas ng loob na magbukas ng karinderya sa gabi. Hindi ata siya naniniwala sa aswang. Noong tinanong ko siya tungkol dito, sinigawan niya lamang ako at sinabing: “Anong aswang pinagsasabi mo?! Dapat nga mas matakot pa mga tao sa kapwa nila tao eh! Hindi ‘yung mga nilalang na gawa-gawa lamang! Tinatakot niyo mga sarili niyo.” Hindi na ako nakipagtalo. Una, kinakailangan galangin ang mga nakakatanda. Pangalawa, totoo naman. Aswang nga ba talaga
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ang nakita ng mga tao sampung taon na ang nakakaraan? Kahit ako, hindi ko pa nakikita ang aswang na pinag-uusapan ng mga kapitbahay. Ang alam ko lamang buhay pa naman ako at kumpleto pa ang mga laman-loob ko. Gayunpaman, may batid na takot pa rin ang kaisipan na totoo ang mga aswang. Mas nakakatakot pa rin na natatakot ang mga tao sa nilalang na hindi pa nila nakikita at nanginginig na sila kahit ito ay pinag-uusapan pa lamang. Ano na lang kaya magiging reaksyon nila kung makita na nila ito? Baka bigla nilang pagsisihan na pinag-usapan nila ang aswang. Nakuwento sa akin ni Inay dati na ang mga aswang daw ay hindi umaatake sa kanilang bayan na tinirahan. Halimbawa, kung aatake sila dito sa Oblik, alam na kagaad na hindi sila taga-rito. Kumbaga dumarayo sila upang malagyan ng laman ang kanilang mga sikmura. Dahil sa ganitong paraan, hindi sila matutunton ng mga tao at mahahanap ang kanilang lungga. Delikado ‘yun para sa kanila at sa kanilang uri. Ibig sabihin, may posibilidad na ang araw-araw na nakakasalamuha ng indibidwal ay maaring isang aswang. Hindi paghihinalaan ng mga tao na siya ay aswang kung hindi siya nambibiktima ng kanyang kapwa mamamayan sa bayan ng Oblik. Kaya kahit sino sa aming mga kapitbahay ay maaring isang aswang pala. Hala! Paano kung... Paano kung isa pa lang aswang si Aling Mercy? Hindi mo rin siya masisisi na kaya siya lamang ang may-ari ng nag-iisang karinderyang nagbubukas tuwing gabi dahil sa gabi lamang siya buhay na buhay. Ngunit hindi dahil masungit siya at gising sa gabi, isa na siyang aswang. Sige, hindi ko na siya pag-iisipan nang masama. Baka naman hindi lamang siya nakakatulog talaga nang maayos kaya mas gusto niya na magtinda tuwing gabi. Ang laking tulong din nito sa mga traysikel drayber na kumakayod hanggang gabi at sa mga baranggay tanod na nag-iikot para sa kaligtasan ng mga mamamayan sa Oblik. Kung nais nilang maghapunan, nandyan lamang ang karinderya ni Aling Mercy. Hindi ko na talaga pag-iisipan ng masama ang mga tao dahil baka mangyari na naman ang isa pang naikuwento ni Inay. May matandang babaeng pinaghihinalaan sa bayan ng Oblik na isang aswang. Kumalat ang kuwento at nagkaroon ng baryasyon habang ito ay naipasa-pasa na. Ang kinahinatnan ay kamatayan ng matandang babae. Nilusob siya ng mga tao at idinala sa plaza upang doon sunugin. Nakakapanlumo ang kanyang kinahinatnan. Sa nagbabagang apoy natapos ang kanyang buhay. Napatunayan ba na siya ay isang aswang? Hindi ko rin alam. Ang sabi nila may nakitang baboy na wakwak ang tiyan at labas ang laman-loob. Duguan ang bahay ng matanda pati na rin ang kanyang bunganga. Kaya napagkasunduan ng mga tao na siya ay hatulan ng kamatayan. Sa katunayan hindi ko rin alam kung saan nila inilibing ang kanyang katawan. Ang ninanais ko lamang ay nawa’y payapa ang kanyang kaluluwa. Kung iisipin, siya ay pinatay dahil lamang nakita siya na kumakain ng baboy. Nagalit ba ang mga tao dahil ang baboy na iyon ay alaga ni Mang Fel? O dahil hindi kaaya-aya ang sinapit ng baboy dahil sa wakwak nitong tiyan? Ito ba ay bayolente sa kanilang paningin? Ngunit maari siyang ihalintulad sa paghahanap at pagkain ng isang mabangis na hayop. Kinakailangan nilang kumain upang mabuhay kaya maghahanap sila ng makakain. “Ineng, kain na!” sigaw ni Inay habang ako ay nalulunod sa aking mga iniisip. Nakauwi na pala siya. Tapos na siguro ang kanyang trabaho at nahugasan na niya lahat ng pinggan sa karinderya ni Aling Mercy. Tahimik lamang si Inay. Laging nakayuko kapag maglalakad. Minsan nag-aalala ako dahil baka hindi niya na nakikita ang kanyang dinaraanan at siya ay mapatid. “Paborito mo ang ulam natin ngayon.” nakangiting sinabi ni Inay sa akin habang binubuksan ang supot kung saan nakalagay ang aming hapunan. Kilalang-kilala talaga ako ni Inay. Alam niya na ginaga-
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nahan ako at napaparami ang kain ng kanin kapag bopis ang aming ulam. Kung anong isinungit ni Aling Mercy ay kabaliktaran sa kung anong ikinasarap ng kanyang mga putahe. May mga pagkakataon na ako ay naaawa kay Inay tuwing siya ay nasisigawan ni Aling Mercy. Hindi rin namin magawang magalit kay Aling Mercy dahil siya ang nagpapasuweldo kay Inay. Wala kaming pang tustos sa araw-araw kung hindi siya magtatrabaho. Kaya ipinangako ko na kapag ako ay nakapagtapos sa pag-aaral, gagawin ko ang lahat upang mabigyan ng magandang buhay si Inay. Anong oras na?! Alas singko na ba ulit? Kailangan ko nang umuwi. Dapat mauna ako makauwi kaysa kay Inay dahil siguradong lagot ako kapag nakauwi na siya nang ako ay wala pa sa bahay. Iniwan ko na ang mga kaklase ko pagkatapos ng klase. Dali-dali akong naglakad patungo sa aming bahay. Sa wakas, naunahan ko si Inay. Nakahinga ako nang malalim at nawala na ang aking kaba. Hindi ako mapapagalitan ngayong araw. Ngayon, aantayin ko na lamang si Inay para sabay kaming kumain pagkatapos ng kanyang trabaho sa karinderya. At tuluyang lumipas ang gabi. Nalipasan na rin ako ng gutom kakahintay sa kanya. Naligaw ba siya? O baka ang pinakamalala na maaring mangyari, inatake na ba siya ng aswang? Ngunit hindi pa rin tayo nakasisiguro kung totoo ba ang mga ganung nilalang. Dapat ko na ata siyang puntahan kila Aling Mercy. Hindi bale na masigawan ako nina Aling Mercy at Inay basta malaman ko lamang na ligtas siya, mapapalagay na ang aking loob. Malalim na ang gabi at buhay na buhay ang buwan. Maraming bagay na ang pinanggagalingan ng aking takot. Natatakot ako dahil baka makasalubong ko ang aswang na gumagala tuwing gabi. Natatakot din ako na baka kung ano na ang nangyari kay Inay. “Ilabas mo siya, Mercy!” sigaw ng isa sa aming mga kapitbahay. Nagsimulang magkalampagan ang mga kaldero’t kawali sa karinderya ni Aling Mercy. Ano na naman kaya ang kanilang pinag-aawayan? Sanay na ang lahat tuwing may magbabatuhan ng gamit. Gabi-gabi ba naman kasi. Marami kasing nakakabangga si Aling Mercy kaya hindi na bago ang kaguluhan sa kanyang karinderya. Inoobserbahan ko lamang sila dahil gusto ko rin malaman kung ano ang kanilang pinag-aawayan. Ngunit nang magkasalubong kami ng tingin ni Aling Mercy, bigla niya akong sinigawan, “Umalis ka na rito! Tumakbo ka, Ineng!” Kahit na pasigaw niyang sinabi, ramdam ko ang pag-aalala niya. Hindi ko na alam ang nangyayari. Kahit pinapatakbo at pinapalayo na niya ako, mas lumapit ako at nakita ko si Inay. Bakit nasa likod ni Aling Mercy si Inay na para bang pinoprotektahan niya ang takot kong nanay? Bakit may dugo sa bibig at kamay si Inay? Bakit may baboy na wakwak ang tiyan at labas ang laman-loob? Isa ba siyang… “Ayun! Anak niya ‘yan!” nagulat na sinabi ng isa naming kapitbahay habang nakaturo sa akin. Papalapit na sila sa akin. Parehong sumisigaw ang mga tao at si Aling Mercy. Ang tanging ginawa ko na lamang ay tumakbo. Tumakbo ako nang tumakbo. Kung isang aswang si Inay, isa rin ba ako sa kanila? Biglang kumulo tiyan ko. Ano kaya ang pwede kainin?
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Luz Benjo Gutierrez
Taimtim na sinasakal ni Aling Luz ang bawat bulitas ng kanyang rosaryo habang nalulunod sa dasal ng mga kapwa niyang nawalan. Kabi-kabila ang paghingi ng kasagutan sa santong walang mukha. Bumabanda ang bawat pagsusumamo sa bawat kanto ng simbahan ng San Miguel, pinagdarasal na bigyan ng liwanag ang Hagonoy. Galit ang liwanag sa Hagonoy—tatlong linggo nang walang bukang-liwayway. Sanay na sa panay kapa ang mga residente. Walang ilaw, walang kandila o kahit lighter man lang sa lugar. Ipinagbabawal nila. Ani mo’y nagtitinikling ang mga taga-Hagonoy sa kalsada sa tuwing lalabas para gawin ang kung ano mang dapat nilang gawin sa araw-araw: pagbili sa tindahan, pagpasok sa eskwela, pagtawid sa kalsada. Kaya noong unang linggo nang kawalan ng liwanag, namamagang mga bukong-bukong lamang ang maliwanag na mayroon sila dahil sa panay na tapilok. “Anak,” dasal ni Aling Luz sa gitna ng kadiliman “kung nasaan ka man, umuwi ka na. Miss na miss ka na ng nanay,” sabay sundot ng “Punyeta kang damuho ka, walang gumagawa ng gawaing bahay!” Napatigil sa pagdarasal ang mga tao sa simbahan sa alas ng kaniyang dila. Pati ang santong walang mukha, siguradong tumaas ang kilay. Sampung minutong umalingawngaw ang katahimikan sa simbahan. Sa mga oras na iyon, inakala ni Aling Luz na baka pati ang tunog, binawi na ng Diyos kaya gumawa siya ng isang tunog na alam niyang gagalaw ang mga nasa upuan: umutot siya nang napagkalakas at napagkabaho. Nagtayuan na ang mga tao sa simbahan at nagsimulang ngumawngaw. Mula sa “Aling Luz, ano ba naman ‘yan! Walang pinipili ang pagrerebolusyon ng tiyan mo!” papunta sa “Huy! Itae mo na ‘yan!” hanggang sa “Kaya ka iniwan ng anak mo, e! Iskandalosa ka talaga!” Nagpantig ang taenga niya. Ang huling hirit sa kanya ang dumikit sa kaniyang taenga, papunta sa kaniyang puso. Paulit-ulit na lumabas-pasok sa kaniyang taenga, hinawi ang mga
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DAPITAN tutuli: kaya ka iniwan ng anak mo, e! Ang sakit-sakit. Daig pa ang pagpako sa palad ng Diyos. Walang mukha ang nagsabi, walang bibig, walang dila, pero punong-puno ng laman ang binitawan. Bumanda ang alingawngaw sa bawat kanto ng simbahan na para bang may basbas ng espada ni San Miguel ang boses na iyon na dahan-dahang humiwa sa kaniya. Walang mukha at walang pasintabi sa kaniyang pagka-ina. Kasabay ng pagkawala ng liwanag sa Hagonoy ang pagkawala ng kaniyang anak. Walang pasabi; ‘ni ha, ‘ni ho, wala. Ang pagkawala na mismo ang naging paalam. Ang sabi-sabi, naglayas daw si Boy dahil sa pagkakait ng ina. Hindi binigyan ng pagkakatong makapag-aral ni Aling Luz si Boy. Sa hirap ng buhay sa Hagonoy, pinagkalakal na lang niya si Boy para makatulong sa pang-araw-araw na gastusin: pambili ng kahoy na pangsiga noong pinapayagan pa ng Diyos ang liwanag, dalawang noodles sa tindahan para sa buong araw, asin, at bigas. Sabi ng ibang residente, kagagawan ni Aling Luz ang pagkawala ng liwanag noong isang beses na sinagot niya sila sa isang diskusyunan. Kinatok kasi nila ang bahay ni Aling Luz, nasaan daw si Boy at kakausapin. Sabi niya, sino ba sila at bakit kakausapin ang anak niya. May hinahanap daw kasi silang ‘Boy’ ang pangalan na tulak daw. “Kung may itutulak man ang anak ko” diin niya “ang paghahanap-buhay ‘yon para sa amin.” Umalis sila at kinabukasan, kasabay nawala ang kaniyang anak at ang araw. Sinisi siya ng mga taga-Hagonoy, kesyo bakit pa raw siya sumagot, kesyo dapat daw ipinakita na niya si Boy. “Parang di niyo naman sila kilala,” sagot niya. Ginalit mo ang Diyos. Matapos tarakan ng masasakit na salita, lumabas ng simbahan si Aling Luz nang dahan-dahan hindi dahil sa hiya ng mabahong utot na inilabas niya, kung hindi dahil sumingaw na ang pinakakinikimkim niyang katotohanang hindi matanggap. Dumaan sa kaniyang kulubot na pisngi ang luha na ang Diyos at dilim lamang ang nakaalam. Humikbi siya ng tahimik. Humiling kay San Miguel na sana, magkaroon na ng liwanag para mahanap na niya ang kaniyang anak. Unang-una, walang kasiguraduhan sa kadiliman: hindi mo alam kung mahuhulog ka na sa bukas na imburnal o mababagsakan ng kung ano man sa ulo. At isa pa, nananakit ang kadiliman. Mas madami pa ang bilang na natapilok ang mga residente kaysa pagkain nila sa isang araw. Pagkatapos niya silang sagut-sagotin, napuno ng mga umbok ang mga kalsada nang biglaan na parang mga kabute tatlong linggo na ang nakalipas. Walang may alam, o baka sila, kung bakit biglang nagkaroon ng napakaraming humps sa kalsada. Mula noong nawalan ng ilaw, halos araw-araw, nakakapa ng mga taga-Hagonoy ang mga humps gamit ang kanilang mga tungkod na sila ang may bigay. “Puwede niyo pong ipangtukod ‘yan kapag bigla kayong nawala sa balanse, pero pangkapa niyo po ‘yan sa dilim,” sabi nila. “Pinapahalagahan po namin ang inyong seguridad. Nandito po kami para pagsilbihan at protektahan kayo sa ano mang peligro,” pangako nila. “Basta sumunod lang po kayo sa
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INA amin. Palagi.” Iika-ikang naglakad si Aling Luz palabas ng simbahan. Naroon sila, nakatitig sa matanda. Inaabangan ang bawat galaw, ang bawat hakbang, ang bawat palo ng kaniyang patpat sa lupa. Nakakakita sila sa dilim, hindi tulad ng mga taga-Hagonoy. O baka sila ang dilim. “Saan po kayo pupunta?” tanong ng isa mula sa kanila. “Uuwi na ako, baka nakauwi na ang anak ko,” sagot ni Aling Luz. “Sino pong anak ninyo?” usisa niya, “si Boy po ba?” Nagulat ang matanda nang panandalian pero hindi na nagtaka dahil halos lahat ng kabataan sa Hagonoy ay may palayaw na Boy. Kinutuban si Aling Luz at saka lumakad papalayo sa kanila. Lahat ng nawawala sa lugar sa Hagonoy ay may palayaw na Boy. Habang iika-ika siyang naglalakad palayo dahil sa namamagang bukong-bokong, nakasunod sila ng tingin. Sa paglalakad ni Aling Luz, umihip ang hangin at dala nito ang mabahong amoy. Hindi lang ito basta amoy ng imbornal o ng utot: amoy ito ng nabubulok na laman. Nakakasulasok, napapaduwal siya sa bawat arangkada. Kasabay nang pagbilis ng kaniyang lakad ay ang pagbilis ng tibok ng kaniyang puso at hininga, dagdag pa ang malamig na pawis ng matanda. Kilala niya na sila, at alam niya na ang sadya ng mga ito. Nakaramdam sila na alam ng matanda ang kanilang pagkakakilanlan kaya sinundan nila ito na parang mga buwitreng naghihintay sa pagkadapa ni Aling Luz. Alam nilang madadapa ang matanda sa dami ng humps sa lugar. At nangyari na nga: natisod sa kakamadali si Aling Luz at humalik ang kaniyang mukha sa lupa. Naduwal siya sa tapang ng amoy ng mga humps. Sinubukan niyang tumayo pero dahil sa pamamaga ng kaniyang mga paa, hindi na niya nagawa pang muli. Kakapain niya sana ang humps nang bigla silang magsalita: Aling Luz, huwag mong hahawakan ‘yang humps. Matigas na ‘yan. Akmang hahawakan ni Aling Luz ang humps, sumigaw sila nang may gigil: Putang ina naman, sinabi nang huwag mong hahawakan, ang kulit mong putang inang matanda ka! Nayanig si Aling Luz. Ang nangakong pagsisilbihan at poprotektahan sila, sinisigawan siya sa mukha. Pasensiya na, Aling Luz. Nasobrahan ako sa kape, e. Wala pa akong tulog. Gusto mo bang hawakan ‘yang humps? ‘Di ba, nawawala ang anak mong si Boy? Pasensiya na ha, sige ho, hawakan niyo na. Pero kapag hinawakan niyo, pakisindihan na lang po ‘tong sigarilyo ko. Binigay niya ang lighter kay Aling Luz, at saka inutusang sindihan ang sigarilyo habang nakakapit sa humps ang matanda. Pagbukas ng matanda, nakita niya ang nagkikinangang chapa nila at ang kaniyang inaagnas na anak.
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DAPITAN
Lata ng Sardinas Abigail M. Adriatico
Kung ikaw ay papunta ng Intramuros mula sa Lawton, hindi mo maiiwasang dumaan sa underpass na karaniwang puno ng mga nagbebenta ng kendi, panlamig, at kung ano-ano pa. Kalimitan ay maputik at madumi ang sahig doon lalo na’t nagsimula na ang tag-ulan. Marumi ang mga pader dahil sa alikabok na dumikit na mismo sa dingding nito. Nagkalat ang mga graffiti na nagpapatungkol sa pagbabago na pilit na hinahanap ng mga organisasyong may adbokasiyang nais na makamtan. Sa underpass na ito - kung saan ang mga taong nag-aabalang makarating sa kanilang pinaroroonan ay nakikipaggitgitan sa kapwa nilang nagmamadaling makisilong sa biglaang pagbuhos ng ulan - ay may isang pulubing tahimik na nakasandal sa pader sa gilid ng daanan ng tao. Sa harap niya ay isang latang makalawang na minsan ay naging lalagyan ng mumurahing sardinas. Sa kasalukuyan, may laman na lamang ito na kaunting barya mula sa mga taong siya’y nadaanan at kinaawaan. Mayroong pang ibang mga naghulog ng ilang piso sa latang ito ngunit tulala na lamang siyang nakatingin sa paa ng mga dumadaan na tao. Walang bahid ng emosyon ang natira sa kanyang madungis na mukha. Kasabay ng maraming naglakakad sa underpass na iyon ay isang mag-ina na sa kasamaang palad ay naabutan ng malakas na buhos ng ulan. Mukhang alisto ang itsura ng ina sa kanyang mga nakakasalubong habang mahigpit na hawak niya ang kamay ng kanyang anak samantalang ang batang babae naman ay magiliw na tumitingin sa kanyang paligid. Natanaw ng mga inosenteng mata nito ang pulubi sa tabi. Agad siyang napuno ng kuryosidad. “Mommy, ano po ulit yung tawag dun?” Masaya nitong tinanong habang itinaas ang kamay upang ituro ang lata sa harap ng nakatulalang babae. Hinila naman ng kanyang ina ang braso niya ng mahigpit at pinatigil ito sa paglalakad. “Hindi ba’t sinabi ko sayo na ‘wag kang bigla-biglang manunuro sa mga tao?” Galit na sinabi nito sa kanya. Nanlambot naman ang ekspresyon nito nang makita ang kahihiyan sa mukha ng bata. Napasulyap siya muli sa pulubi. Walang imik naman itong nagpatuloy sa pagtingin sa kawalan.
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INA
“Hindi naman po siya yung tinutukoy ko eh.” Mahinang sagot ng batang pinagalitan. “Nakita ko na po kasi sa bahay yung nasa may harap niya. Nakalimutan ko lang po yung tawag.” Napansin naman ng ina ang lata ng sardinas sa harap ng pulubi na tinutukoy ng kanyang anak. “Diba po yan yung gusting-gusto ni kuya? Pwede po ba tayong bumili niyan mamaya? Damihan na rin po natin kasi baka ubusan niya ako ulit.” Nagpatuloy ang bata sa pagsasalita. Tumango na lamang ang kanyang ina habang nakatingin sa pulubi. Wala na siyang iba pang sinabi kung kaya’t nangamba ang bata na baka mayroon siyang maling nasambit muli. “Mommy?” Nakatingin pa rin ang nanay niya sa pulubi. Napansin ng bata na unti-unting namumutla ang mukha nito. Humigpit na rin ang hawak niya sa kanyang kamay. Agad siyang hinila nito at kanilang dinaanan ang kinauupuan ng pulubi. Binuksan ng ina ang kanyang pitaka at ihinulog ang lahat ng barya na laman nito sa lata. Dinig sa buong underpass ang pagbagsak ng mga piso sa lalagyan at agaran naman ang pagpuno nito. Hindi na inantay ng nanay na magtanong muli ang bata kung kaya’t hinila na niya ito patungo sa kanilang paroroonan. Sa kanilang mabilis na pag-lisan, mayroon silang nakasalubong na isang batang dahan-dahan ang pababa ng hagdan habang may dala na isang plastic na puno ng mga lata. “Ma! Gising na! Dala ko na yung pinabili mong sardinas!” Umalingaw-ngaw ang matining na boses nito sa buong underpass. Sumunod naman ang tunog ng kanyang mga nagmamadaling paa. Sa paghinto nito, agad na napalitan ng panandaliang katahimikan ang maingay na pagbagsak ng mga lata ng sardinas sa maruming sahig kasabay ang tagaktak ng luha mula sa mata ng batang iyon. “Ma? Mama? Gising na oh. Ma?” Wala siyang sagot na natanggap mula sa kanyang ina maliban na lamang sa pagyapak ng mga naglalakad sa kanyang paligid at ang patuloy na pagbuhos ng hindi mapagpatawad na ulan.
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Bagong anyo
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Kasingkahulugan ng Pag-ibig Alexandra G. Pelonia
Monday 4:30PM ma, may tatapusin lang po akong project dito sa school. ocge ano oras ka uwe? di ko po sure. text na lang po ako pag pauwi na ko. ingat pauwi Monday 6:30PM san k na? nagluto akong adobo d2 ka ba kaen Monday 7:00PM san k na? bat d mo sagot tawag ko Monday 8:30PM san ka na nak? gabi na Monday 8:35PM san k na? Monday 8:50PM san k na? Monday 9:15PM pauwi na po ako ma. sorry po nalowbat ako. buti naman kumain ka na? tinapay lang po. nako bat yan lang cge na ingat ka sabay tau kaen paguwi mo
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INA
Dulang may isang yugto
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INA
Ma
Reena Joyce D. Medina
MGA TAUHAN MARTHA – 45, theater actress MAIA – 19, college student MAMA – 48, ina ni Maia TAGPUAN AT PANAHON Labas ng dressing room ng isang tanghalan, ika-10 ng gabi, kasalukuyan TALA Ang gaganap na MAMA ay siya ring gaganap bilang aktres at lady guard. Ang entablado ay maaaring mahati sa dressing room at isang maliit na espasyo para kay MAMA.
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DAPITAN ANG DULA
(Magbebeso at magpapaalam si Martha sa mga kapwa aktres.)
MARTHA Bye! ‘Di pa ako tapos magligpit ng gamit. Hahabol ako sa cast party. (Maiiwan siya sa dressing room habang nagliligpit at nagtatanggal ng make-up gamit ang baby oil.) AKTRES (offstage) Martha! May bagets na fan na gusto kang makausap. ‘Maryosep, hindi ka na yata mahintay na makalabas ulit sa lobby. Bagets ba? Bagets na bagets!
MARTHA AKTRES (offstage)
MARTHA Ay, baka si Maia. Pagbigyan niyo na ‘yung bata. Sige, papasukin niyo. (Nag-aalis ng makeup si MARTHA gamit ang cotton ball na may baby oil. Magaalangan si MAIA na pumasok. Nahihiya. Bitbit niya ang tote bag ng merchandise ng dula ni MARTHA. May hawak din siyang malaking bouquet.) MAIA Ms. Martha! Congrats po! Paborito ko pong performance niyo po ‘yun! MARTHA Lahat naman ata ng performances ko favorite mo! Pero promise ito na po talaga favorite ko.
MAIA
MARTHA Naku, salamat! Pinakyaw mo lahat ng merch, ah!
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INA MAIA Syempre po! Mahaba-habang hangover po ang dadanasin ko sa dulang ‘to. Sana po ay magkaroon ng rerun. MARTHA Ay! Sana nga’t magdilang anghel ka. Doon nga sa huling play ko, ‘yung ginawan mo ng Twitter thread, nag-spike ‘yung sales namin sa mga sumunod na show. Ginawan mo pa ako ng hashtag #MarthaisArt tapos yung ginawa niyong fandom nung kaibigan mo, #Marthists / Martyrs for Martha fan group. ‘Di ko masabayan ang energy niyo ha! Pero nakakatuwa talaga makita ang enthusiasm niyo sa panonood. MAIA Sino ba naman po kasing hindi hahanga sa inyo? Kahit ano pong role gampanan niyo ay napu- pull off niyo pa rin. MARTHA Thank you thank you sa support! Gabing-gabi na, ah. Hindi ka pa ba hinahanap ng Mama mo? MAIA ‘Wag po kayong mag-alala hindi pa naman ako hinahanap. Tsaka, matanda na po ako. Ilang taon ka na ba? 19 po.
MARTHA MAIA
MARTHA Kung sa bagay, lampas legal age na rin naman. Pero nagpaalam ka bang gagabihin ka? MAIA Hindi rin po. Basta maunahan ko siya sa pag-uwi, okay na ‘yun. MARTHA Sabi mo yan, ah. Mahirap na baka ma-grounded ka pa! MAIA (Matatawa.) Ms. Martha naman. Hindi naman po ako super underage para ma-grounded. MARTHA Naninigurado lang. Ayokong sugurin ako ng parent na nagrereklamong ginagabi ang anak niya kakanood ng plays. Ay, ‘di ako prepared para diyan.
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DAPITAN MAIA Intense naman po ang imagination niyo. ‘Di po yan mangyayari. Kilala ko po ang Mama ko. Wala po ‘yung pakialam. MARTHA Grabe ka naman magsalita sa Mama mo. Tandaan mo, Mama mo pa rin ‘yun. MAIA (Pilit na ngingiti.) Ms. Martha talaga, napakabuti niyo po talaga. Binibigyan niyo ang lahat ng benefit of the doubt. A real mother material, I must say. MARTHA Talaga? I’m so flattered. Thank you. Thank you. Patuloy na magbubuhos ng baby oil sa panibagong cotton ball si MARTHA. Mapapansin ni MAIA ang tatlong bote sa table. Sa buong prod po yang baby oil? Ay, hinde. Akin lang. Seryoso po?
MAIA MARTHA MAIA
MARTHA Nakakahiya mang aminin pero oo. Madalas kasing ako makaubos ng baby oil na para sa buong cast. Kaya magmula nu’n pinagsabihan ako ng production manager na magdala na lang ako ng para sa sarili ko. (Matatawa.) Huy, off record ‘yung tungkol sa PM ah. Kaya lang napasobra pala ang bili ko. Takot kasi akong maubusan dahil alam kong wala akong oras dumaan sa convenience store o supermarket. Kapag show dates na kasi ay bahay at teatro lang ang destination ko. Nakatitig lang si MAIA sa baby oil. Mahilig po ba kayo sa baby…oil?
MAIA
MARTHA Oo, marami kasing gamit ‘yan - pampadulas, pampalambot, at marami pang iba. Pwede na nga ako maging baby oil advocate! Kaya pala po baby-faced pa rin kayo?
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MAIA
INA
Well, that is the goal.
MARTHA
MAIA Mukhang na-achieve niyo naman po ang goal. MARTHA Gumagamit ka rin ba ng baby oil? Dapat habang bagets ka pa lang ay simulan mo na. ‘Wag mong pababayaan ang balat mo. Dapat kasing kinis pa rin ‘yan ng baby. Sasalatin ni MAIA ang kaniyang mukha. MAIA ‘Di po ako mahilig magskincare eh. Si Ella po ang mahilig. Babanggitin ko po sa kanya ang payo mo. MARTHA Kaya ngayon alam mo na ‘yan ang must-have sa kikay kit ko. Ayan, may bago kang mailalagay kapag may gusto kang isulat na article tungkol sa favorite actress mo. MAIA Pwede po! Parang Unofficial backstage pass feature, tapos yung title, “Martha and her secret babies.” Mapapatigil si MARTHA. Pilit na tatawa. Secret babies. Naku, ang click bait po pala ng dating.
MARTHA MAIA
MARTHA Hayaan mo na. It makes sense naman at may higher chances ka pa of more views. Secret babies naman maituring ang baby oils ko. (Yayakapin ang tatlong baby oil.) Sa sobrang precious nila sa akin ayokong pinamimigay ‘to sa iba. Ang damot ko nga raw, eh. Galing naman kasi sa sariling bulsa ko ang pinambili rito. MAIA Kung sa bagay, investment nga po ‘yang mga baby oil para sa image niyo. (Ililipat ni MAIA ang bouquet sa kabilang bisig. Mapapansin ni MARTHA na nangangawit na si MAIA.)
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DAPITAN MARTHA Mukhang nabibigatan ka dyan sa mga dala mo. Ilapag mo muna sa ‘yan sa mesa. MAIA Para po sa inyo itong bouquet. Congratulations po ulit! Napakuhusay niyo talaga. Nakakataba naman ng puso! Okay lang po ba kung papirma? No problem!
MARTHA MAIA MARTHA (Pipipirmahan ni MARTHA ang mga merchandise. Pinapanood lang siya ni MAIA habang labis na kinikilig.)
MARTHA Ikatlong beses mo na ata panoorin ito, ano? Bilang na bilang niyo po? Matalas ‘tong memorya ko!
MAIA MARTHA
MAIA (Papalakpak.) Pakiramdam ko nga po ay maning-mani sa inyo ang pagkabisa ng 30-minute monologue niyo kanina! MARTHA (Mangingiti lang si Martha at ipagpapatuloy ang pagpirma.) Teka, bakit mag-isa ka lang ngayon? ‘Di ba’t lagi kang may ka-tag team kapag nanonood? MAIA May aasikasuhin po kasi siya kasi ngayon. May orals po siya bukas. Eh, ikaw wala?
MARTHA
MAIA Hindi po kasi kami magkaklase sa subject na ‘yun.
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INA MARTHA Speaking of studies, kumusta na ang thesis niyo ni Ella? Nasa RRL na po.
MAIA
MARTHA Half-way na! Excited na talaga ako sa final output. Biruin mo, bukod sa ikocover niyan ang women in Philippine theater, makakasama pa ako sa isang scholarly endeavor. MAIA ‘Wag po kayong magalala. Tatapusin ko po ‘yun kaagad. Ginusto ko naman ‘tong topic na ‘to. MARTHA Mabuti at mula sa thesis hanggang sa panonood ng play ay kasundo mo si Ella, ano? MAIA Ang swerte ko po sa kaniya. ‘Di ko akalain na makakahanap pa ako ng kagaya niya. MARTHA ‘Di bale, may kasama mo naman siya siguro ulit sa susunod. ‘Di ba’t mas masaya kapag may kasamang manood? MAIA Opo pero nung nagpeperform kayo kanina, tumigil na po ang mundo ko at hindi ko na napansin na mag-isa lang ako kanina. MARTHA Si Maia talaga, oh! Binobola na naman ako! Kayo ni Ella talaga ‘yung mga paborito kong bagets na audience eh (pipisilin ang pisngi ni Maia). Salamat talaga sa suporta ah, ‘yung mga rave review at twitter thread niyo, nakatulong talaga sa mileage naming sa mga kabataang tulad niyo! Saktong-sakto sa 30th anniversary ko sa teatro. Who would have thought na magiging big name ako kung kailan tumanda na ‘ko. Kaliwa’t kanan ang offers kahit na typecasted pa. Sa susunod, bibigyan ko na kayo ng ng compli bilang pasasalamat! MAIA Kahit hindi na po. Hayaan niyo na pong ang pagiging paying at active audience member ko ang maiambag kong suporta para inyo. MARTHA (Yayakapin si MAIA.) Ikaw, bata ka. Pinapaiyak mo naman ako niyan. Akala ko naubos na luha ko kanina. Kung ayaw mo ng compli, basta kahit anong hilingin mong pabor sa akin, mapapag- usapan natin ‘yan.
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INA Talaga po? Bakit hindi?
MAIA MARTHA (Iaabot ni MARTHA ang mga napirmahang merchandise kay MAIA. Kukunin ito ni MAIA at yayakapin niya ang bag.)
MARTHA Uy, okay ka lang ba? Gusto mo ba magpa-picture para sa memorabilia mo? Tara, selfie tayo! (Lalapit si Maia. Ngingiti.) Oh, isa pa! Mag-leave tayo ng space sa gitna para kunwari kasama si Ella. (Pilit na matatawa si MAIA.) O, iphotoshop mo na lang si Ella sa picture natin ah! Baka sabihin niya na nakalimutan ko na siya eh. Wow! Alam niyo po ang photoshop?
MAIA
MARTHA Aba, siyempre! Nakikiusisa ako sa publicity and promotions team parati. Kaya alam na alam ko ‘yang edit-edit na ‘yan. Basta ah “insert Ella here” na lang ang ilagay mo d’yan. MAIA Thank you po. (Patlang.) Ikukwento ko po ‘yan kay Ella. (Pagmamasdan siya ni MARTHA at mapapansin na iba ang kilos nito.) MARTHA Naku, Maia. Nababahala na ako. Parang ‘di ka ok ngayon. Nahihiya ka ba? Ikaw naman parang pansampung beses mo na nakasama nakausap ka. Don’t tell me nasa-starstruck ka pa rin. (Hindi iimik si MAIA.) May gusto ka bang sabihin? (Iiling lang si MAIA.) Interview? Photoshoot with the souvenir program? (Kukunin niya ang bouquet.) Kayo talaga ni Ella. Kinabisado niyo talaga lahat ng paborito ko pati favorite flowers ko na tulips. Thank you dito. Hindi lang supporter ang turing ko sa inyo. Napalapit na talaga kayo sa akin. (Kukunin ni MARTHA ang isang bulaklak sa bungkos at iipit ito sa tainga ni MAIA.) Sabi ko naman sa iyo no need to fangirl so much kapag kaharap mo ako. Hindi lang naman fan ang tingin ko sa iyo. (Hindi pa rin iimik si MAIA.) Uy, nagmo- monologue na ako rito. Ano na? (Magtatawanan sila.) MAIA Pasensya na po may naisip lang po ako. Sorry po nadelay po ang pagsunod niyo sa prod party kasi nandito pa ako.
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DAPITAN MARTHA Tama ka at 11pm na. Naku, Monday bukas at dapat umuwi--MAIA P-p-pwede… pwede po ba kayong maging ina ng anak ko? Ha? Maia?
MARTHA Katahimikan. Ibababa ni MAIA ang merchandise sa mesa.
MAIA I mean… pwede po bang kayo ang tumayong ina ng anak ko? Maglalabas ng white flower ointment si MARTHA. MARTHA Iha, masakit ba ang ulo mo? O nahihilo ka lang? Ano ba ‘yang pinagsasabi mo? Teka, saan banda ba masakit? (Mamasahiin ang ulo ni MAIA.) Baka epekto yan nung lighting design kanina? Masyado bang nakakahilo ‘yung papalit-palit ng ilaw? Pasensya na ha. Hindi po ako nahihilo.
MAIA
MARTHA Ay, ganun ba? Naku, sayang naman ‘tong white flower ko. Paubos pa man din. Sige bibili na lang ako bukas. Iuwi mo na lang ito. MAIA Thank you po. (Ibubulsa niya ang white flower ointment.) MARTHA Baka naman nagugutom ka lang? Ito, ‘di ko naman nagalaw tong pameryenda nila sa amin kanina. Ito oh, empanada. Baka wala pang laman ‘yang tiyan mo. Dapat nagbabaon ka para nakakain ka man lang nung intermission. MAIA Di naman po ako masyado gutom. Pero, salamat po rito. (Kakainin niya ang empanada.) Hahalughugin ni MARTHA ang maleta niya.
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DAPITAN MARTHA Ito, may tubig pa sa tumbler ko. ‘Di ka naman siguro LC? Ano po?
MAIA
MARTHA Laway conscious! Oha! ’Kala niyo kayong bagets lang may alam dun ah. (Matatawa si MAIA at tila mabibilaukan.) Ito, uminom ka na ng tubig. Sa susunod huwag ka na magpapagutom ah, kung anu-ano tuloy ‘yang nasasabi mo. Pinapakabamo naman ako niyan. Alam mo, tanggap ko naman lahat ng kawirduhan eh. Puro kami wirdo rito sa teatro. Obsessed sa maraming bagay. Obsessed sa art. Obsessed sa mgapaborito naming artista. Ako rin naman, nagfa-fangirl din. MAIA Pero seryoso po ako dun sa sinasabi ko. Please po. Teka, papaano?
MARTHA
MAIA 2 months na po kasi akong buntis. At ayoko pong maging ina sa batang ‘to. Maia, nabibigla ka lang.
MARTHA
MAIA Sa tuwing pinapanood ko po kayo sa entablado bilang Maria, Marites, Teresa, nanay na naubusan ng anak sa gera, nanay na nagtatrabaho sa ibang bansa, nanay na hindi na makilala ng mga anak, at nanay na nabaliw; palagi kong iniisip paano kung ikaw na lang ang naging ina ko. (Iiling.) Maia…
MARTHA
MAIA Sa totoo lang, lalo pong na-validate ang desisyon ko na kayo po dapat ang maging ina ng baby sa t’yan ko nu’ng naramadaman at nakita ko kung gaano niyo kamahal ang anak niyong nahiwalay sa inyo nang isang dekada. Pulang-pula po kayo kanina. Natunghayan ko po kung gaano niyo pinigilan ang mga luha niyo. Sabi ko sa sarili ko, si Ms. Martha nga ang pinakananay sa lahat ng nanay sa mundo. MARTHA (Pabulong) Oh, God. (Patlang.) Suki ako sa mother roles at halos lahat ng klaseng ina nagampanan ko na. I think you need help but I’m sure that I’m not the most capable person
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INA to give it. MAIA Sure na sure po ako rito. ‘Di ba nga sabi nga nila “No mama like Martha!” MARTHA Maia, sa entablado lang ‘yun. Sarili mong dugo ang batang ‘yan. Kung ayaw mong palakihin ang bata dahil sa tingin mo sagabal sa pag-aaral mo, pwede naman sigurong Mama mo ang mag- alaga. At least masusubaybayan mo ang paglaki ng anak mo. MAIA Sa November po ang due date ng bata. Alam ko pong may play kayo nun sa RCBC Theatre. Hihintayin ko po ang last day ng play niyo para naman po hindi hassle. MARTHA (Tatakpan ni Martha ang mukha niya at iiling.) Diyos ko! Kabisadong-kabisado mo pati ang mga schedule ng plays ko. Maswerte talaga ako sa mga supporters ko pero feeling ko nasobrahan ka na sa pagtingala sa akin. Ibang usapan na ‘yang pagiging nanay sa anak mo. MAIA Naka-avail pa nga po ako ng early bird discount kasi ako po ang unang-unang bumili ng ticket. Nung in-IG story niyo pa lang po yung photoshoot niyo for your newest play. Nakaabang na ako agad. Unang teaser pa lang, hyped up na agad ako. Mas mabuti po siguro kung mapanood ko ‘yung play niyo bago ako mag-labor. Kasi sumasaya po ako kapag napapanood kayo. MARTHA (Ilalabas ang phone.) Ibig sabihin makikita ko kayo ulit ni Ella! (Iiling si MAIA.) Iba na ba ang kasama mo? Siguro po.
MAIA
MARTHA Ah! So makikita ko ba yung daddy nung baby? MAIA Hindi po. Hindi na rin po kami nagkikita nun. Tinder date lang po ‘yun. MARTHA Eh ‘di sino na ang kasama mo niyan? (Magtetext siya habang nagsasalita si MAIA.)
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DAPITAN MAIA ‘Di pa po ako nakakahanap ng kasama pero basta 2 ticket na. Para may 2 sold seats na po ang opening night niyo sa November 17. MARTHA Ah, salamat. (Patlang.) Alam na ba ‘yan ng nanay mo? MAIA ‘Di ko na po kailangan sabihin. Malalaman din naman niya eventually. Kapag malaki na ang tiyan mo?
MARTHA
MAIA Ganun na nga po. Ano kaya kung Martha rin ang ipangalan ko sa bata? MARTHA Ayoko. ‘Wag mo siya ipangalan sa akin. MAIA Kung Maritess kaya? Oo, tama ‘yung Maritess: the two-hour one woman show and solo musical. MARTHA Kakatapos lang nun two months ago. Teka, ‘di ba’t parang may tampuhan kayo ni Ella nung magkasama kayong nanood nun? ‘Yun lang ‘yung time na wala pang five minutes ang chikahan natin after the play. Kahit pagod na pagod ako after ng run ng Maritess, ’di ko kayang ‘di kayo pasalamatan nang personal. Tapos sabukot ang mukha ni Ella. Parang inip na inip at napipilitan lang na ngumiti. MAIA Opo, ‘di po kami okay ni Ella nung nanood kami ng Maritess. Sandali, parang ayoko ng ipangalan ‘yun. Bad memories. The next day, dinrop na niya ang thesis subject. Next sem na lang daw niya kukunin. Teka, pano na ang thesis niyo?
MARTHA
MAIA Kakayanin ko naman pong matapos ‘yun ng mag-isa. MARTHA Hindi pwedeng hindi ‘yun matapos! (Magbubuntong-hininga. Hahawakan ang balikat ni MAIA.) Naniniwala akong kaya mo ‘yan kahit na mag-isa ka pa. Tandaan mo, importante ‘yun. Importante ang pag-aaral na ‘yun.
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INA MAIA Salamat po sa motivation. Kayo lang po ang naniniwala sa kakayahan ko. MARTHA I’m so sorry to hear everything that happened but I hope it gets finished by the end of this year. MAIA Kaya po ‘yan. Sana. I remember the first time na piniprimahan ko ang published article ko about you. Sinubmit ko ‘yun sa school paper tapos hindi ko maipaliwanag ‘yung pagkahigh na naramdaman ko dahil sa validation na natanggap ko nung pinasalamatan niyo ako. Never ko naramdaman kay Mama. MARTHA Baka naman ‘di niyo lang napag-uusapan? MAIA Kahit kailan naman wala kaming sense of communication. Kahit nung bata ako lagi ‘yun may kausap sa phone pero ni minsan ‘di ako kinumusta. Samantalang kayo, kinukumusta niyo po ako out of the blue sa messenger. I remember one time kiinumusta niyo ako bigla. ‘Yun yung araw na nalaman kong kailangan ko i-retake ‘yung isang major subject ko. Pero biglang gumaan pakiramdam ko dahil sa message niyo. Doon ko naisip na siguro may maternal instinct talaga kayo kahit na hindi niyo ako kadugo. MARTHA I’m sorry to burst your bubble but on that day, kaya kita minessage talaga ay para magpaalam kung pwede kong gamitin ang photographs para gamitin kong pampromote. Ang ganda ko kasi dun sa picture e kahit na nagunauthorized photography ka pa. MAIA Ah, ganun po ba. Kahit na iba pa po ang intention niyo, that question meant everything to me. (Magbubuntung-hininga.) Kayo na lang din po mag-decide ng pangalan. May 7 months pa naman po kayo para makapag-isip. MARTHA Teka lang, Maia! Sa tingin mo ba talaga ay papayag ako? MAIA Sabi niyo kanina kahit anong hingin kong pabor… MARTHA My goodness naman! Hindi naman yung pabor na pati buhay ko kailangan kong isakripisyo. Hindi ko kaya maging ina!
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DAPITAN MAIA Hindi po ‘yan totoo. Kayang-kaya niyo po. MARTHA Where’s your mom? You know what, maybe, I should speak to her. (Iaabot niya ang kaniyang phone.) Paki-dial naman ng number ng nanay mo rito. MAIA Please don’t do this po. Please. (Titingnan lang siya ni MARTHA.) Ms. Martha, I want you to be my mom. I want you to be her mom. (Kukunin ni MAIA ang kabilang kamay ni MARTHA at ilalapit ito sa kaniyang tiyan. Pipiglas si MARTHA.) No. Sorry. Please dial your mom’s number. ‘Di ko po alam.
MARTHA MAIA MARTHA MAIA
MARTHA Ok, ganito na lang. Pahiram na lang ng phone mo. (Tatalikuran siya ni MAIA.) Maia, ang sabi ko pahiram ng phone mo. (Haharap si Maia pero iiling lang siya.) Maia! Pwede ba? (Ibibigay ni MAIA ang phone niya.) Ano ‘to? 30 missed calls? (Aagawin ni MAIA ang phone.) MAIA Hindi naman po ‘yan importante. Mas importante po ang pag-uusap natin ngayon. (Magriring ang phone.) Sinong tumatawag?
MARTHA Ika-cancel ni MAIA ang tawag. Magriring muli ang phone. Aagawin ni MARTHA ang phone at sasagutin ang tawag. Pipindutin niya ang loudspeaker sa phone. Magbabago ang ilaw ng entablado.
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INA MAMA Hayop ka, Maia! Walang hiya kang bata ka! Sinasayang mo kinabukasan mo! Sa sobrang burara mo, pati lintek na pregnancy test kit mo pakalat-kalat sa CR. Akala mo hindi ko makikita? Kahit saan mo isiksik ang kalat mo makikita ko. Isang sem ka na lang, nagpabuntis ka pa! Ni wala ka ngang boyfriend!? ‘Wag mo sabihing nabuntis ka ni Ella?! Punyeta ka. Umuwi ka na rito! Baka kung sinong lalaki na naman ang kasama mo. Hello? Hello? Nasaan ka na naman ba? Nanood na naman ng play? Inuubos mo allowance mo dyan sa cheter-cheter na ‘yan. Aksaya sa pera! Hello? Ano, ‘di ka makasagot d’yan? Maia! Uubo si MARTHA at tila bumubwelo bago magsalita. Ang tanda-tanda mo na, tatanga-tanga ka pa rin! Kapag ‘di ka pa umuwi, itatapon ko na lahat ng gamit mo! Ibababa ni MAMA ang phone. Magbubuntong- hininga si MARTHA. Uubusin ang natitirang tubig sa tumbler. Babalik sa dati ang ilaw ng entablado. Ganyan po si Mama.
MAIA
MARTHA Kaya ba ayaw mo uwian ang nanay mo? MAIA Halata naman pong mas matino kayo sa Mama ko at naniniwala akong mas magiging mas maayos pa kayong Mama sa anak ko. Buong buhay ko wala na siyang ibang pinamukha sa akin kundi, mali na itonuloy pa niya ang pagbubuntis sa akin. Akala niya kasi siya ang pipiliin ng papa ko kung itutuloy niya ang pagbubuntis. It turns put mahilig lang pala sa bata ang papa ko pero hindi kaya pumasan ng responsibilidad. Mag-isa niya akong tinaguyod. Nangako ako sa sarili ko na hindi ko hahayaan na may bata pang makakaramdam na pabigat sila. MARTHA Alam mo, you’re the best supporter that an actress could ever have. Matapos mo akong gawan ng article na The Philippine Theater’s Resident Mama: Martha Tolosa, sabi ko sa loob-loob ko, probably I’ve finally done something good in my art. You deserve all the support, Ms. Martha.
MAIA
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DAPITAN MARTHA Masyado mo akong nialalgay sa pedestal. Tao rin ako. MAIA Nothing can tarnish your image. I’ve seen enough plays. MARTHA Ayaw mo lang bang makasama sa panood ng dula ang anak mo? MAIA ‘Di ko po pinangarap magbitbit ng anak sa panonood ko. MARTHA You are thinking too much. Nasa loob pa lang ang bata kaya mo ‘yan nasasasabi ‘yan. Iba kapag nasa labas na. MAIA This baby is a mistake. Ella is my girlfriend. After ng Maritess, nag-away kami nang malala. Then, I made that mistake. I don’t think na babalikan pa ako ni Ella. I can’t imagine myself having this child instead of her. Ms. Martha, please accept my child. MARTHA Like you, I also made choices in life. Nagkaroon ako ng anak-anakan sa mga bagets na kagaya mo pero iba pa rin ang pagkakaroon ng sariling anak. Hindi ko pinipiling maging ina. MAIA Kaya niyo po ‘yun. ‘Di niyo po ba tinatry mag-method acting sa pagiging ina. MARTHA ‘Di ako method actor eh. Sa tuwing pumapalya ang mga birth control methods, pinapalaglag ko agad. (Titingin siya kay MAIA.) MAIA Huwag po kayong ganyan please. Stop telling lies. MARTHA Sumosobra ka na. Make sure that this is off record. Do you want me to go on? Iiling si MAIA at tatakpan niya ang kaniyang tainga. Um-oo ka man o hindi, itutuloy ko since you’ve been testing my patience. (Patlang.) I can’t believe this has to happen on my 30th anniversary, kung kailan I’m finally getting this status
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INA that I’ve always wanted. I remember when I was at your age, I badly wanted to get my big break but since I’m not attractive at hindi ako leading lady material, I never got casted for roles that are meant for me. Rejections after rejections. One time, I was so desperate I had to sleep with a director para lang i-precast nya ako. Malay ko bang mabubuntis ako? All I wanted was the role pero hindi ko alam kung anong gagawin sa bata sa sinapupunan ko. So, pinalaglag ko. Nung una na-guilty ako. Tinanong ko ang sarili ko, ‘di ko naman pinangarap maging ina ‘di ba? So there is nothing to lose. Kaya naging ganun na ang gawi ko. Kahit ilang beses, wala na akong nararamdaman na any hint of guilt. MAIA (Nakatakip pa rin ang tainga.) Tapos na po ba kayo? MARTHA Nagbago na ba ng tingin mo sa akin? Well, ganun talaga eh. Wala kasi talaga akong amor sa mga bata, kahit sa namumuong bata sa sinapupunan ko. (Patlang.) Bagay pa ba ang “No Mama like Martha?” para sa akin? MAIA Naaalala ko po ‘yung unang play kung saan ko kayo nakilala. Ayaw ko pang umuwi sa bahay kasi ayokong makita si Mama. Kaya nanood na lang ako ng play na malapit sa school. Bumili ako ng playbill para lang makilala kayo. Magmula noon, parati ko na kayo gusto mapanood. MARTHA Sigurado akong na-disappoint ka sa nalaman mo. (Patlang.) ‘Di ba fan kita? ‘Wag mong ikukwento kahit kanino ang mga sinabi ko. MAIA Sure, Ms. Martha Tolosa, Philippine Theater’s Resident Mama. MARTHA Stop idolizing me. Hindi ako ang ideal mom na nasa isip mo. MAIA Sinasabi niyo lang po ito dahil nabibigla kayo sa hinihiling ko. MARTHA (Magbubuntung-hininga.) I can’t stand this anymore. Hindi mo ba napapansin na hindi na ako komportable? Hindi na ako komportable sa pag-uusap na ‘to! Manhid ka ba? Kung mawalan ako ng supporter, then so be it! Kanina pa kita tinitiis pero hindi ka talaga marunong umintindi ng hindi, ano? (Magriring muli ang phone. Titingnan lang nila ito. Sasagutin ni MARTHA ang tawag. Magbabago ang ilaw ng entablado.)
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DAPITAN MAMA (Humihikbi.) ‘Nak, pasensya na nabigla lang ako kanina. Pasensya na sa mga nasabi ko. Uwi ka na. Delikado na sa daan. ‘Dis oras na ng gabi. Pwede naman natin pag-usapan kung paano palalakihin ang bata. ‘Di naman kailangan na gumraduate ka sa oras basta tanggap ka pa rin ni Mama ah? ‘Nak, sorry na. Babalik sa dati ang ilaw ng entablado. Sesenyas si Maia na ibaba ang phone. Iiling si MARTHA. Aagawin ni MAIA ang phone. MAIA Talagang ‘di na ako babalik d’yan. Hindi na ako ulit magpapakontrol sa iyo. Buhay ko ‘to. Anak ko ‘to. Maia!
MARTHA
MAMA (OFFSTAGE) Hello? Hello! Sino ka? Pwede bang pauwiin mo na ‘yung anak ko? Ibaba ni MAIA ang phone. MARTHA Mama mo pa rin ‘yun. Pasalamat ka at may Mama ka. MAIA Hindi naman lahat ng ina kayang mahalin ang anak nila. MARTHA Binuhay ka pa rin ng mama mo at kahit ako hindi ko pa rin alam kung kaya ko ba gawin ‘yun. Tandaan mo ‘yan. MAIA Ibig bang sabihin kaya niyo po ‘tong gawin in the future? Maybe, you just need some time po? Iiling si MARTHA. Kakatok ang guard sa dressing room. MARTHA Hindi ko man kaya maging mabuting ina, mas kaya ko naman subukan maging mabuting tao. Iaabot ni MARTHA ang dalawang baby oil kay MAIA. Dahan-dahan ‘tong kukunin ni MAIA.
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INA LADY GUARD (OFFSTAGE) Ma’am, magla-lights out na po rito sa building. MARTHA Ok. Lalabas na po kami. Sorry po kung natagalan. I have to go. Gabi na at may cast party pa kami. MAIA
Sige po. Mauna na ako.
MARTHA
Hindi, sasama ka sa akin. San po tayo pupunta? Sa prod party? No. May dadaanan muna ako. San po? Sa inyo.
MAIA MARTHA MAIA MARTHA
Titingin si MAIA at mag-aalangan. Kakapit sa bisig ni MARTHA. Unti-unting magdidilim ang entablado TELON.
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DAPITAN
CONTRIBUTORS Si Kisha Aleena Abuda ay kasalukuyang kumukuha ng M.A. sa Creative Writing sa UST. Nakuha niya ang kanyang undergraduate degree sa Literature sa parehong unibersidad. Kabilang siya sa mga napiling fellows noong nakaraang UST National Writer’s Workshop na ginanap sa Baguio. Nabingwit niya rin ang ikalawang gantimpala sa Katha sa ika-34 na Gawad USTETIKA. Isa siyang nagsisimulang manunulat na nais ikuwento ang karanasan ng mga hayop sa iba’t ibang larangan sa mundo, kung kaya’t sinusubukan niyang bumuo ng katipunan ng mga maikling kwento patungkol sa mga hayop o makabagong pabula. Kapag hindi nagsusulat, mahilig siyang manood ng mga palabas sa Netflix at matulog. Abigail Adriatico is a first-year Communication student with a lot of interests. She’s always been particularly fond of writing and uses it as a way to vocalize her musings creatively. Though she doesn’t get much of it, her free time is usually spent on either writing something - be it a song or a poem for someone - or reading whatever novel or manga she might stumble upon for the day. In the future, she’d like to be a famous writer and publish a few books or any other literary pieces of her own. Christine Andas is currently residing in Manila, Philippines where she spends her days browsing the internet to read and watch about her favorite fictional characters online. Her current project encompasses the era of social media and its influence on young women. She was a fellow in the 2019 UST National Writer’s Workshop and won first place in the Fiction category in the Gawad Ustetika in 2019. Von Zyron Alimorong, known by his pen name V. V. Childwright, is a poet, novelist, and shortstory writer whose style is heavily influenced by literary classics, as well as by the teachings and values of both his Thomasian and Tamaraw roots. He began writing at the age of seven years old, with his very first unpublished novel, Vampire Castle. Over the years, he had continuously developed his craft with extreme passion, something of which had paid off in his second unpublished novel, Dead Man’s Trail – a work that is the culmination of six years’ worth of honing his writing skill. In the recent two years, he had tirelessly developed his skills again and produced ten short stories, two novelettes, and 257 poems, as well as five non-fictions, with one essay that made him a finalist in the Don Angel C. Palanca Peace Essay Writing Contest back in 2017. Aside from his creative works, Von Zyron is also an editorial writer, competing in various contests since he was in grade school. He won first place on Editorial Writing in the 2016 Regional Schools Press Conference. He was also the Associate Editor-in-Chief in the official school publication of FEU High School. These are the small steps that shall propel him towards his dream of becoming one of the greatest writers – a laughable dream for many, a plausible one in his mind’s eye. He is currently taking AB Literature in the University of Santo Tomas. Due to the mercy of Bathala, Jazmeen Banzuela has successfully survived the four-year journey through the halls of the Faculty of Arts and Letters trying to decipher the mind-boggling jargon
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INA and the discipline of Political Science. She is currently preoccupied with freelance work as an illustrator and continuously improving on her craft. Her art mostly tackles the glory and grit of the human experience as well as reflecting her stances on socio-political issues. As an advocate for mental health, she also employs her illustrations as a way to spread awareness and deter the stigma surrounding mental health. YAÓNG pangalan niya ay Marlou, isang estudiante en Universidad Santo Tomas na pinamumunuan ng mga Dominicong fraile. ¿Sino ba siya? Mabait? Maaari. Guapo? Mahirap na macacapagsasabi. Gaya ng canyáng kasipagan—nakapagsusulat siya, si, alang-alang sa kursong agham pampulitika. Ngunit sa cabila nito, sinasagad niya canyang oras hanggang sumapit ang araw buhat ng pagpupuyat sa walang cabuluhang mga bagay. Yaón ba ang kasipagan? Walang macacapagsabi. Yaman din lamang na pinaguusapan natin ang canyang katauhan, ¿ano baga siya bilang catoto, o di kaya’y caaway? Hindi mahilig makipag away ang batang yaon, hangga’t nasa katuiran hindi niya subok na pamugaran ng galit o sindak ang isang tao. Bilang caibigan—¡ay!—boong puso ang canyang pakikinig at bucal sa puso ang canyang pakikiramay. Malabo ang canyang paninguin. Kung ikaw ay makikipagkita sa kanya ay una mong makikita ang napakalaki niyang anteohos. Maitim ang kutis niya, tulad ng capwa niya Indio. ¡Ay! No es Indio, isa siyang kagalang galang na Filipino. Siyang tunay, ang batang ito ay labis labis ang pagmamahal sa kanyang bayan. Hindi lamang sa Islas Filipinas, maging sa lahat ng tao sa daigdig, lalung lalo na sa mga pobre, pesanteng obrero, y trabajante na pawang ginagauang ulol at patuloy na nilulugmok sa lalong kahirapan. Sa munting pamamaraan, canyang minumulat ang tao sa kanilang tunay na kalagayan. Bilang panapos, pinapaalala niya ang canyang sarili at ang capwa niya kabataan—maniwala at matutong kumilala ng pag-ibig. Dapatwa’t duon tayo manganga kilala ng tunay na karunungan, at duon tayo manganga cuha ng tunay na kaligayahan. Tcheky Cabrera is an artist of The Flame. She likes sharing memes, watching Brooklyn 99, and saving the Earth (#ecofriendly #EARTHero). She longs to be the next DaVinci through her next magnus opus. The way to her heart is through food, so always offer her snacks. Shana is a former struggling journalism student of the Faculty of Arts and Letters; previous Photography Editor of the Flame. If not on covers, she likes to do street photography - from cats to towering buildings. Despite getting lost in life, she likes getting lost in all forms of art and in museums, literally. Si Nina Angela Mikaela Cruz ay isang estudyanteng grade-conscious pero antukin at puro tawa lang. Pero kahit ganoon ay may mga pangarap naman siya sa buhay. Gusto niyang maging isang responsableng mamamahayag na humahakot ng Pulitzer Awards. Kung hindi naman ito matupad, gusto rin niyang maging sikat na artista. Kung hindi pa rin ito matupad, gusto niyang maging showbiz reporter tutal ay mahilig naman siya sa mga chika. At kung hindi pa rin ito magkatotoo, siguro pwede na rin sa kanyang maging non-showbiz girlfriend ng isang sikat, gwapo, at mayamang actor. Bagaman siya ay maraming kakaibang pangarap, seryoso siya sa kanyang buhay. Nag-aaral siyang mabuti para masuklian ang sakripisyo ng kanyang pamilya. Siya ay kasalukuyang 2nd year college sa kursong Journalism sa Unibersidad ng Santo Tomas.
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Paboritong bulkan ni Jecelie ang Mayon, hindi lamang dahil sa ito ang nagpasikat pinagmulan ng kanyang ina, kundi dahil nakikita niya ang sarili niya dito. Higante ang bulkan, kung minsan nakakapanira sa mga bagay, ang mga pinsalang dulot nito ay ipinagpapatawad ng mga tao. Kasi nga, maganda. Pero pagdating sa kanya, walang kapatawaran ang mga pagkakamali. Ikinasusuklam ng mga tao ang kanyang kalakihan sa hita, tiyan, at braso. Paulit-ulit na pinapapaalala ang pinggang nabagsak, at ang kawaling nagasgas kaka i-skratchbrayt. Ano naman ngayon, ika nga niya. Kasing ganda naman ng mga pagtatanghal ng mga abo sa langit pagtatanghal ng mga titik sa kanyang papel. Kasing init naman ng lava na lumalabas sa pagsabog ng bulkan ang pagmamahal na nagmumula sa kanya. Nagsusulat si Jecelie dahil nais nyang tulad ng Mayon, mas maalala ng mga tao ang mga kagandahan na kanyang taglay, sa kabila ng lahat ng mga pinsala. There are two kinds of people: those who sleep and wake early, and those who sleep at 3 AM and wake up 3 in the afternoon. But Franz De Mesa is neither. He sleeps so late that he can hear roosters crowing as the sun rises, yet he wakes up just in time for breakfast, full of energy. It isn’t healthy at all, but he never learns. Well, one could say he is a master of managing his time, and one would be horribly wrong. He procrastinates all the time, dragging his projects to the last minute, stressing over completing four assignments all due the following day. “That’s for future Franz to worry about,” he often says, while future Franz, who is buried in school works, curses his past self for letting it drag this long. Yet still, he never learns. But with regards to art, history, science, and philosophy, Franz is always eager to learn. To the things that matter, to the things that he is passionate about, he is starved to consume new knowledge and to try new things. All his hobbies are geared towards this desire to learn more, whether it would be trying out new styles of drawing, reading anything his eyes could read, or playing all kinds of video games. He is in love with the things that people’s minds can create, the passion, the ideas, the aspirations. With his own writing and art, he too can give back something to the world. George Deoso graduated magna cum laude from the University of Santo Tomas (AB Literature). He has won eleven times in the GawadUSTetika for his fiction, poetry, and essays. His works appeared in such publications as Sustaining the Archipelago: An Anthology of Philippine Ecopoetry, Liwayway Magazine, Dapitan, Philippine Panorama, Philippines Graphic, Philippine Daily Inquirer, and The Sunday Times Magazine, among others. He was also a fellow for poetry in the national writers workshops of UST, De La Salle University, and Silliman University. At present, he lives in Quezon City with his family and dogs named Kidlat and Hi-Ho.
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INA Ej Encinas is a photographer of the Flame, and a time-displaced filmmaker. Born in the late 90’s, this extroverted young lad didn’t just feel like he was in the 21th century, but also in the eras where the greatest films ever lived. He may have been one generation late, since he would be a natural tandem with Spielberg, Scorsese, Coppola, Leone or Kurosawa. It’s too bad Christopher Nolan beat him to it, and even the notorious Tommy Wiseau who made the Room. If it was Ej, then that movie would be so much better for it. He currently describes his new project, as a serious version of the Room which could become a blockbuster beating Marvel. Like the five old men mentioned above, there is quality in both the story and the picture in a movie. He believes that photographs are level one motion pictures, which is why it is always essential to master the picture. Not just going around copy and pasting from theme park rides like most blockbusters today. This belief sprang from apparent less exposure to Star City and Enchanted Kingdom. Instead, his stories would like “to suck the fun out of everyone”. In a good way. Suck, in this case, means to bring out in the midst of an introspective atmosphere. As long as you have meaning in what you’re seeing. This 2020, he just accepted he may be just a butterfly like Wiseau or Spielberg, but one who hasn’t yet learned to fly. Still capturing amazing moments. Djulienne Flor V. Foster is a creative writing major who renders work hours at Miguel de Benavides Library. Originally applying for the Journalism program, she decided to pursue creative writing to fulfill her dream of becoming a writer. When she isn’t on duty, she can be found in the Humanities or Filipiniana section of the library, typing away at her sticker-covered laptop, procrastinating till the last minute. She also lives and thrives on cup noodles and coffee. She was a Faces staffer and Letters writer for The Flame. Rommel Bong R. Fuertes Jr. is a second year Journalism student studying in the University of Sto. Tomas, Manila. His literary work “Click Tick” garnered praise after winning best short story for the 2018 Muralla Literary Folio of Colegio de San Juan de Letran. He has also participated in the 2019 Gawad Ustetika, passing works in the Katha, Short Story, and One-Act Play categories. He also became a Features writer for The Flame in his first year as an Artlet. Rommel is currently a Sports writer for The Varsitarian, UST’s official publication. Jeanne Clarisse Grajo is a second year Communication student of the University of Santo Tomas. She delves into the broad spectrum of art from literature, theater, photography, painting, and film, but she always goes back to her undying love for writing. In 2019, she became one of the writing fellows in UST Literary Society Haraya Manawari Creative Writing Workshop for Katha/ Fiction. Si Nikko Miguel M. Garcia ay isang Manila boy na nagtatrabaho sa Mandaluyong. Kung hindi nagsusulat, nagyoyosi sa labas ng bahay si Benjo Gutierrez, doon sa kalsada ng Hagonoy tuwing gabi. Nagmamasid, nakiki-usyoso, nag-iisip-isip. Nais niyang imarka sa mapa ng panitikan ang Hagonoy sa Taguig. Kung minsan rapper, kung minsan alipin ng korporasyon, pero madalas alipin ng aso niyang si Ginbu. Nagpapatuloy siya ngayon Malikhaing Pagsulat sa paaralang gwadrado. Lagi’t laging para sa bayan. At sining, siempre. Frances Ignalaga is a photographer of The Flame, she likes to take naps in random places and sharing memes on Facebook.
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After eight long years, Philip Jamilla finally left this university last 2019 with a bachelor’s degree in Literature. He is currently in a university somewhere in Diliman, taking his master’s degree in Philippine Studies. When he’s not busy writing press releases for a human rights organization, cramming papers for his classes in graduate school, or wasting hours on Twitter, Philip tries to write a few poems here and there. Thea is an aspiring writer that barely sleeps at night. She currently works for a publishing company and is struggling with the debilitating pressure of adulthood. But she is not one to quit. She believes in the power of stubbornness, determination, perseverance, and an occasional dose of procrastination. Every time she hits the daily word count, she convinces herself that she deserves a slice of cheesecake. She likes hoarding books, then leaving them untouched and dusty on the shelf for a year. Thea lives for tropes like enemies to lovers, drunken confessions, and slow-burn fake dating that eventually blossoms into real, intense romance. She loves Sidney Sheldon. John Patrick A. Magno Ranara is journalism student and an aspiring novelist who has been a member of The Flame as a culture writer and the UST Journalism Society as a photographer. Born under the Taurus sign, he is a lover of animals and a hater of equations, both scientific and mathematical. Along with books, he enjoys scenic photo shoots and films fluctuating from gory to childish degrees. Too bad he cannot use his “Irregular nth Year in 4thYear originally in Journalism, but later on become BA in AB” intro anymore. Nonetheless, Hans Lawrence V. Malgapu is now with the Communications Bureau since 2018 as their staff writer and official photographer. He is still selling books tho. Sa apat na taon ni Reena Medina sa kolehiyo, apat na beses din siyang kumuha ng application form para sa Dapitan Literary Folio ngunit nabigong makapagsumite. Kagaya ng panghihinayang na ‘to, marami pa siyang pangarap na gustong balikan matapos pansamantalang natigil habang hinahanap ang kaniyang maliit na espasyo sa corporate world. Malayo man sa liwanag ng entablado ang kaniyang pang-araw-araw na buhay ngayon, kinasasabikan pa rin niya ang pagdilig sa kaniyang halamang si Luisito Pesto at iba pang mga tanim. Siya ay miyembro ng Teatro Tomasino at nagtapos ng AB Communication Arts noong 2016. Ella Marie Mercado, or Mel to her friends, is a Journalism student relearning how to be a literary writer. She joined other organizations as a graphic artist while trying to overcome her writer’s block. At the moment, Mel is enjoying and struggling with learning Adobe apps on the spot and barre chords on the guitar. Mula sa probinsya ng Ilocos Norte, si Patrick “Patrix” Miguel ay kasalukuyang nag-aaral ngayon sa Unibersidad ng Santo Tomas. Wala siyang gustong gawin sa buhay kundi magsulat at magbasa lamang para sa bayan, kaya siya kumukuha ngayon ng AB Literature at nagsusulat ng kung ano-ano sa The Flame (heart emoji). Mahahanap niyo lang siya sa kalye ng Antonio kapag wala siyang klase upang makalanghap ng preskong hangin, pero minsan ay nasa Library din para kunwari ay nag-aaral talaga siya. Isa rin siyang Aries.
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INA Aimee Morales is a freelance writer, editor and writing mentor. She graduated from the University of Santo Tomas then enrolled in the MA English program in UP Diliman where she studied Poetry. Aimee is the founding president of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP), a workers’ association she started in 2011. When she is not writing, Aimee creates prayer beads (japa mala) upon request. She has, in fact, started a gratitude project (The Santosha Project) around the gratitude necklaces that she customizes for people. Her Santosha gratitude beads have reached foreign shores like Singapore, Malaysia, USA, and Europe. Aimee is also an avid tai chi and qigong practitioner who has been practicing the art for more than two decades. Recently, in 2017, she started practicing eskrima (arnis) under the tutelage of the founder of Eskrima de Campo JDC-IO, Prof. Eric Olavides. She edited and helped to publish the book written by Prof. Olavides, Out of the Shadows (2019), the only book ever written about Eskrima de Campo JDC-IO. Aimee is a single parent. She has a 15-year old son, Gillermo Santino, who is a budding musician and visual artist. They live in Quezon City. Juan Carlos Montenegro struggles with three things: (1) learning how to become independent from caffeine, (2) convincing people he does not own a farm, and (3) coming up with clever selfdescriptions. Aurora Cristina Paguio-Bermudez, Christine as she likes to be called, hails from Manila. She is the eldest of seven sisters, a daughter of a high school teacher and an artist. Married at age 25, and now at 55, Christine has two children, a daughter-in-law and a granddaughter. She teaches Economics at the UST Faculty of Arts and Letters, and regards her students as her youngest children. Aljon Guanzon Pangan is a graduate of AB Political Science Batch 2015. Aljon or “AJ” for his close friends, is currently working in an American business consultancy firm as a research associate. AJ is also pursuing his master’s degree in Development Policy at DLSU Manila. He will always say that he is a “Man of Few Words”, but most of his friends will surely beg to differ. Traveling is one of AJ’s avenues to escape the stress and problems brought by the cruel world. He loves taking photographs of places and people. As a photography enthusiast, AJ lives with the mantra of “Seize the Moment, Freeze the Moment”. Si Chuckberry J. Pascual ang awtor ng Kumpisal at Ang Nawawala. Nagtuturo siya sa Faculty of Arts and Letters. Ada Pelonia is a Bachelor of Arts in Journalism student in the University. She was a fellow for the Varsitarian’s Creative Writing Workshop (2019). She won second place in Kalatas: Press Conference under the English division of the short story category last February 2018. When she’s not writing, she enjoys wandering around museums and binge-watching anything within the spectrum of speculative fiction.
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DAPITAN Kyle Francis Pingol is a student of University of Santo Tomas where he is currently taking up his Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing. He aspires to be a renowned author someday. A novice in the knowledge of fountain pens, he is always on the hunt for the next stationery products and thriving on the smell of old books. Whenever he is not writing, he puts down the pen and picks up a paintbrush, usually painting around patterns, ideas, or creates bookmarks for himself and his friends Coleen Shane Quiambao, or Cols for short, is a sophomore under the Creative Writing Program here in AB. She was the previous video editor and assistant editor under the photography department of The Flame. The first time she joined this organization, her photography portfolio was full of sunset pictures. She believes that not only is it just visually appealing, it also symbolizes a lot of things: hope, passion, ups and downs, creativity, and at the same time, balance. These virtues were also applied during her time in The Flame. She could call herself or her orgmates the people who have their one hand on the sun and moon on the other. She creates and produces with all their hues. Pamela Reyes prefers to keep to herself and hide inside the safety of her bedroom where she plays video games and write about the wonders of her imaginations. At the same time, she’s trying to survive the reality of university and her responsibilities. Winona S. Sadia is a journalism graduate of the University of Santo Tomas. She is currently taking MA in Creative Writing at UP Diliman. She is also an aspiring filmmaker. #StopTheKillings #SaveRiceFarmers #DutertePanget Theriz Lizel R. Silvano is an aspiring novelist. She is currently working on a series of nature poems and will soon write a screenplay. Her deep admiration for magical realism reflects on her literary pieces. It led her to highly believe that magic should be constantly taught to children so they can believe that anything is achievable. Aside from reading fiction, listening to Taylor Swift and watching horror and romcom movies are her preferred pastimes. She also wishes to be competent in cooking and acting, for she believes that these activities are ways of escaping from the actual world. When a person cooks and acts, it shifts them to a world where time is discreet. It moves them to an experience where they will search for something new, like a secret ingredient or playing different roles to pass over their true personality. Theriz believes this is similar to reading books, as books shift a reader to an unlike world where their discovery and curiosity can be practiced. Theriz is recently studying AB Journalism in University of Santo Tomas. LF: Minivan w/ 10 pax capacity PU: UST Dapitan Gate, España, Manila DP: 1375 E Buena Vista Dr, Orlando, FL 32830 Contact person: Lorraine Suarez It was a stormy night in the last day of September in 1995 and the sound of rain filled the atmosphere. Minutes later, a woman’s scream pierced through and for a moment there was a silence. The rain momentarily stopped for the woman as she heard a response; a child’s cry. That child’s cry was their little piece of raindrop.
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INA A rain child was born-that child was named Denisse. The child was destined to be something great, although she had troubles in nourishing her given talents. With the help of her parents and the people surrounding her, she eventually grew up to be a woman who never stopped appreciating the rain and instead learned how to dance under it. Every day she still grow in ways more than one, she believes that despite being born with the rain she could be as bright as the sun. Jeanne Pauline Tecson is a Literature student who buys books more often than she reads them. Makes a mean Korean egg fried rice. Likes to vibe. Is slightly terrified of everyone and everything all the time, but only slightly. Has four cats. Two of them need three hands each for petting. Blood stream is probably 80% caffeine by this point. Eat the rich. Will also sometimes draw. Ana Veron is a literary writer for The Flame. She likes to stay up late and to take naps, but not at the same time. Someday, she longs for the chance to travel in the TARDIS and get sorted into Hufflepuff. She loves cute things. Si Shania Allyson Tobias Villanueva ay nakapagkamit ng digri sa Batsilyer ng Sining sa Panitikan. Siya ay kasalukuyang empleyado sa isang kumpanya sa Taguig na naglalathala ng mga libro na naglalaman ng mga anotasyon ukol sa batas. Sa pang-araw-araw na kaganapan, madalas siyang naguguluhan sa tunay na konsepto ng tahanan. Dahil dito, naging sandigan niya ang bawat pahina sa kanyang mga binabasa. Si Lance ay kadalasang matatagpuan sa mga sumusunod: nakatambay sa Al Jograts (kahit na masakit sa ugat ang presyo), naglilibot-libot sa Dapitan at naghahanap ng malalapang, at malimit ding nasa may estribo ng bus sa may EDSA. Minsan tulog din.
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ART AND PHOTO INDEX 01 Front cover 02 Copyright 10-11 Ina Spread 14 Filler 15 Poetry 16-17 The Potter 18-19 Growing Apart 20 Silk Tongue 22-25 Their Unswerving Stride 28-29 Password 30-31 My Mother is a Shapeshifter 33 It Comes Home 35 Resistance to Light 37 My Mother is an Estrie 39 The Ghost of Routine 41 At the Cloth Shop 42 Filler 43 Prose 44 That Bright Light 54-55 A SECOND SON 61 A Message of Regret 64 Who I Cradled 66 Filler 67 Flash Fiction
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Frances Marie G. Ignalaga Aljon Guanzon Pangan Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Shana Angela S. Cervania Ella Marie M. Mercado Jeanne Marie F. Tecson Frances Marie G. Ignalaga Lorraine C. Suarez Ella Marie M. Mercado Jeanne Marie F. Tecson Marlou Joseph B. Bon-ao Lorraine C. Suarez Shana Angela S. Cervania Jazmeen E. Banzuela Elijah John M. Encinas Lorraine C. Suarez Coleen Shane O. Quiambao Ella Marie M. Mercado Coleen Shane O. Quiambao Franz Austin V. De Mesa Jeanne Marie F. Tecson Ella Marie M. Mercado Frances Marie G. Ignalaga Ella Marie M. Mercado
INA 70 72-73 74 75 77 80
Fated A Truer Sleep Filler Creative Non-Fiction Iba’t Ibang Mukha ng Parihaba Even Dawn Casts Shadows: A Memoir 86 A Mother’s Journal 91 Ang Manlilikha 94 Filler 95 Tula 96-97 Dementia 99 Sa Hapag Kainan 100-101 Oda sa Batang Nawawala 104-105 Kumot 107 Para Kay Oryang 108 Filler 109 Katha 112;115 Aswang as You Love Me 121 Bilugan ang Hugis ng Hinagpis 123 Ulam 127 Luz 131 Lata ng Sardinas 132 Filler 133 Bagong Anyo 135 Kasing Kahulugan ng Pag-ibig 136 Filler 137 Dulang May Isang Yugto 138-159 Ma 173 Filler 10-11
Art Spread
Jazmeen E. Banzuela Shana Angela S. Cervania Marlou Joseph B. Bon-ao Ella Marie M. Mercado Lorraine C. Suarez Marlou Joseph B. Bon-ao Kyle Francis Pingol Aimee Morales Shana Angela S. Cervania Ella Marie M. Mercado Maria Pamela R. Reyes Jeanne Marie F. Tecson Elijah John M. Encinas Frances Marie G. Ignalaga Denisse Shawntel N. Tan Coleen Shane O. Quiambao Ella Marie M. Mercado Coleen Shane O. Quiambao Frances Marie G. Ignalaga Coleen Shane O. Quiambao Shana Angela S. Cervania Jeanne Marie F. Tecson Frances Marie G. Ignalaga Ella Marie M. Mercado Lorraine C. Suarez Aljon Guanzon Pangan Ella Marie M. Mercado Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The Dapitan team would like to thank the following: The University of Santo Tomas Faculty of Arts and Letters Dean Marilu R. Madrunio, Ph.D. The restless, literary, and artistic students in the Artlet community Faculty members with their generous contributions Artlet alumni contributors Our Guest Literary Editors Ms. Beverly Siy and Mr. Joselito De Los Reyes Our dear publications adviser, Mr. Leo O. Laparan II The Flame Editorial Staff And the Almighty for granting us vision, talent, and the ability to create.
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DAPITAN STAFF Lorraine C. Suarez Editor-in-Chief Beverly Wico Siy Joselito D. De Los Reyes Guest Literary Editors Isabell Andrea M. Pine Managing Editor Djulienne Flor V. Foster Patrick V. Miguel Assistant Editors for Poetry Maria Pamela R. Reyes Ana Muriel R. Veron Assistant Editors for Fiction Mheryll Giffen L. Alforte Assistant Editor for Creative Non-fiction Denisse P. Tabor Assistant Editor for Filipino Entries Ella Marie M. Mercado Layout Artist Leo O. Laparan II Publications Adviser Tcheky Nicole D. Cabrera Jeanne Pauline G. Tecson Artists
Marlou Joseph B. Bon-ao Elijah M. Encinas Frances Marie G. Ignalaga Photographers
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