Mami (Why I celebrate women's day)

There is a need to write about Mami – my grandmother. I feel writing about her now perhaps because these are also the days that my spirit seems to have been slowly, but undeniably, vaporizing into an assured nothingness that doesn’t give back what it has taken or leave a little piece behind of what it has snatched. I need to write about Mami because I need to remember. I need to be fully alive again what is slowly dying. I need to write about Mami because I am afraid. And I want to cry and melt and dissolve into my basic substance but I cannot. Not right now. Not for now. I need to write about Mami because I am feeling a little lost and I need to find my way back before I disappear completely.

I’ve always said that the reason for a big part of my being today is because I grew up with her. I will always say that I am feminist even though the label is open to so much argument and opens myself up to utmost questioning and excoriation. I will always say that I am feminist for the simple reason that whatever happens, my view of women will always be different (oppositional at times) to how the current world constructs a woman to be. I will always say that I am feminist because of Mami.

But this is no news to people around me.

Still, another expression of my indebtedness to my grandmother has something to do with how I am able to do things. I need to write about Mami because I need to remember. I need to remember that the days I spent with her as a child were the most fruitful and amazing and creative days of my life. And I need to write this down to be able to see my way back. I’ve been getting myself lost in this sinuous present. Most of the time I just wander aimlessly though with a tenacious feeling that I have a goal. Many times the ability to feel that I am still here is weakened by the necessity to live. All too often, that need to live softly snuffs the fire out of me.

The spirit is like fire, I guess. It is the fire that enables one to create. It is the fire that enables one to go on. It is what makes happiness a possibility. It makes me…fireless then to not even have the courage to cry and create tears and go on being happy by feeling sadness.

I needed to write about Mami because I suddenly remembered her. And with that remembrance of her, I also saw myself as a child. Lying on my stomach on the floor, deep in thought and with a pen in hand, constructing the unimaginable on paper. It was way past midnight and all was quiet. Mami was there sound asleep. I am pretty sure that the next day, when she awakes and goes about her daily routine, part of it would be to ready more scratch papers and pens for me. Urging me to do more without imposing. Telling me to create endlessly without reason.

I suddenly remembered Mami tonight and managed to sneak a few words that are officially owned by that which defines me at present – almost lost, almost nothing, almost the disappeared.

I remembered Mami and I am still here. For now.

(QC June 28, 2010 122am)

Flory

Today a good friend died. And I’m so far away I couldn’t even bid my last goodbye. No way of telling her loved ones that things are going to be all right. And they will be. After infinite moments of time spent in oblivious longing. Things are going to be as they should be. They should. There’s no other way of dealing with loss except to try to accept that a permanent hole is left when someone dear to us had breathed its last.

I’m so far away and that’s why the pain is greater. Perhaps, because sorrow finds no consolation in nearby friends who share the same feeling. There is sadness but it couldn’t find a proper venue to be heard. Sadness needs to be heard. It’s the only way to let it go. That’s why it’s more painful to hear one’s own sadness. It just bounces back to where it came from. It never finds rest in someone else’s caring embrace.

Dying is a leaving of the space in the lives of those touched that had always been reserved for that person who passed. That space becomes permanently erased and it is not emptiness that remains, but nothingness. Imagine when so many beloved have moved on in one person’s life, all that will be left of that person who grieves is a disintegrating presence until the nothing fully overcomes. Thank God for memories. The filler of voids that human being’s frailty creates. Mortality is intuitive. It creates imprints of time in one’s head so that nothing completely devours the heart. Not even loss, or sadness, or death.

Missing a colleague, a good friend, a ninang
February 9, 2011
3 AM
AkNZ

Matalino si Rio at nakakalungkot kung minsan

Hindi dahil sa matalino siya kung kaya’t nakakalungkot. Sino ba naman ang hindi matutuwa kung may anak na sa murang edad na dalawa ay kakikitaan na ng isang malalim na persepsiyon at malawak na imahinasyon. Yun na siguro ang isa sa pinakamalaking inaasam ko para sa kanya: ang magkaroon ng isip na kamangha-mangha.

Ang nakakalungkot paminsan, na sa mga araw na nagdaan ay mas napapadalas na, makakaisip siya ng mga bagay na siniseryoso niya kaya’t dapat mo ring seryosohin. Wala sanang problema kung seryoso siya, minsan naman ay seryoso talaga ang tao, kahit na dalawang taon pa lang. Mas partikular kasi ang sinasabi ko sa isang bagay na paulit-ulit niyang sinasabi nitong mga nakaraang araw.

Isang buwan na rin nang dumating kami dito sa Auckland. Halos tatlong linggo na kami sa unit dito sa Old Railway Station – ang dating sentral na istasyon ng tren sa lungsod na sa ngayon ay ginawa nang apartment. Nakakamanghang kung paanong pinanatili ang struktura ng istasyon sa labas at sa lobby kaya’t aakalain mong istasyon pa rin ng tren. May mga nakapaskil ngang paunawa na “This is not the train station” sakaling may mga mag-akala pa rin at mag-abang ng tren hanggang sa mamuti na ang buhok. Kung mahilig ka sa kasaysayan, matutuwa ka sa apartment na ito dahil ang kabuuan niya ay testamento sa kanyang pinagmulan. Kung mahilig ka sa arkitektura, maliligayahan ka sa mga detalye sa kisame at dingding pagpasok mo dagdag pa ang malaking orasan sa gitnang-tuktok ng harap ng gusali. Kung mahilig ka sa kultura, walang problema dahil iba’t ibang lahi ang nakatira dito – Indian, Hapon, Chinese,Eurpeo, mga Kiwi. Pero ang totoong dahilan kung bakit kami andito sa ngayon: ito ay mura na, mura pa. 240 dollars bawat linggo kasama ang tubig at kuryente. Wala ka na yatang makikitang mas mura pa diyan sa bahaging ito ng siyudad na malapit sa unibersidad.

Noong kararating pa lang namin, sa isang student hotel kami naglagi hanggang sa matuklasan naming hindi na kami maaaring mag-extend dahil may nauna na sa amin. Kaya’t sa kabutihang-loob ng mga kaibigang ipinakilala ng mas matagal nang kaibigan na nasa ibang bahagi ng bansa, nagkaroon kami ng bubong sa ibabaw ng bumbunan sa loob ng isa pang linggo hanggang sa mahanap namin ang istasyon ng tren na ito. Noong una pa man, lagi nang binabanggit ni Rio na gusto na niyang bumalik sa “Philippines”. Miss na raw niya si tita. Love na raw niya si tita. Na sa pakiwari ko ay representasyon ng lahat ng kanyang pinagmulan – ang pamilyar na mukha, ang pamilyar na tunog, ang kuwarto naming pula ang isang dingding, ang mga laruan niya, ang mga mall, at lahat-lahat. Lahat-lahat. Na pinili naming iwan pansamantala.

At kahit na noong papaalis pa lang kami ay sabik na sabik siya na nakita namin nang ilang oras din kaming naglagi sa eroplano, inasahan na rin naming aasamin niyang bumalik agad. Kahit pa ipinaliwanag namin ilang buwan bago pa kami umalis na “matagal tayo doon, matagal pa tayo babalik, matagal pa bago mo uli makita sina Mama Luz at tita at tito...” Ano ba naman ang alam ng bata sa tunay na haba ng tatlong taon at least. Kaya’t ayun, ikalawa o ikatlong gabi pa lang namin sa bagong bayan, nag-aaya nang umuwi. Ang tatlong taon, akala niya’y singhaba o sing-ikli lang ng tatlong araw.

Hanggang sa medyo nawala na ang pangungulila nang magkaroon ng mga bagong ginagawa at nagkaroon ng mga makakalaro bukod sa amin sa ilang okasyon. Marahil sa ilang araw na pamamalagi namin sa isang kaibigan na may isa ring anak na mas matanda kay Rio ay nagkaroon muli siya ng isang malaking pamilya. Marahil, sa paglipat namin dito’y naituring na rin niyang isang kakatwang bagong tahanan ang dating istasyon ng tren – mahilig din kasi siya sa tren; pangarap nga niya (isa sa mga ito) ang maging “train engineer”.

Ngunit ngayong mga araw, nagbalik na naman ang pag-asam sa sinilangang bayan. Hindi naman yata ito mawawala kahit kailan. Ngunit mas nakalulugkot nitong mga pagkakataong ito dahil, sabi ko nga, matalino siya.

Marahil ay matagal niya na ring pinag-iisipan kung paano siya makaaalis dito at makababalik sa dating tahanan. Ilang ulit na rin sigurong naglalaro sa isip niya ang mga paraan para maisagawa iyon. Baka nagkaroon siya ng ideya mula ng mga pinanonood na anime at mga pinagkakaabalahang laro. Nahihilig kasi ang bata sa baril-barilan (kahit ayaw namin), mga espada (ilan na nga ba ang meron siya), construction (alam niyang lahat ang tawag sa malalaking makinang panggawa). Isang araw nitong nakaraang linggo, habang papunta na muli siya sa nakagawiang kalungkutang dulot ng pangungulila tuwing papatapos na ang araw, tangan ang isa sa kanyang mga espada, sinabi niya sa isang monotonong tinig: “sisirain ko na ‘to…” Pinukpok niya ang sofa. “Papaluin ko na ‘to…” hinagupit ang mesa. “Sisirain ko na ‘to…” pinukpok ang pader.

“Bakit naman? Hindi naman sa atin ito?”

“Hindi ko na ‘to love. Ayoko na dito.”

“E, bakit mo pinapalo? Baka masira, magbayad pa tayo,” medyo may inis na rin kami.

“Para masira na ‘tong house natin dito. Para wala na tayong house dito. Para babalik na tayo sa Philippines.”

Melankolya ang akmang salita. At sa tuwing aasamin niyang gibain ang silid namin ngayon, sa totoo’y ako ang nadudurog.


Auckland, NZ
November 9, 2010
735PM

The Unbearable Lightness of Dreaming (with apologies to Milan Kundera)

13 March 2009

Friday. This should be a happy day.

As usual, I pick Rio up from school at 11:30. I always find myself rushing out of the building to get to the Psych department (where we stay till after lunch) as fast as I could just so we would avoid the blistering and oppressive mid-afternoon heat. But, as always, I end up taking the umbrella out since the sun proves to be a stickler when it comes to keeping schedules.

As usual, I carry Rio with my left arm from which also his baby bag hangs down. I hold the umbrella over our heads with my right hand, which also happens to get hold of a stuffed toy cat that the little man just recently decided to keep as pet, and lug along to school.

Everything is just as it should be. We (I) walk to his nanay’s office where he usually spends at least an hour of dreaming. That is, if his parents lucked out to find the chance to enjoy lunch together. Which rarely happens. Because what usually happens is that he stirs just when his parents are about to start their mid-day meal. So, he, lunching with them is what usually happens. Which is not at all a bad idea save for the fact that one parent usually has to wait till he is done before that parent could begin eating.

But this time, it’s quite different since Rio’s nanay flew to another continent and will be gone for a few days. So, we perform the usual routine and tread the usual route knowing full well that the usual end of the walk wouldn’t be as “usual” as it usually is. Perhaps, Rio is aware of this (sad) truth so he decides to snooze even before we set foot on his usual resting place.

This time, it’s also quite different because Rio seems to be a lot heavier. Discounting the fact that there’s the bag that dangles from the arm that also props him up; that there’s the umbrella being gripped by the hand that also awkwardly grasps his pet, he actually put on a bit more weight, to my estimation. More weight than I had been accustomed to.

Perhaps, because this time he is surrendering his entire being to whatever buttress my arm affords him. Perhaps, because this time his massive head is resting on my chest so that I am forced to lean back while walking. Perhaps, because this time he sleeps in frustration and agony that his nanay won’t be where she usually eagerly awaits his return – imagine the emotional baggage that he has to bear. Perhaps, because this time he is dreaming while I carry him, as we walk the usual path, attempting the usual routine.

Maybe he is dreaming of a place where his nanay is expecting him – with soft arms that embrace and ample bosoms that nourish. Maybe he is dreaming of bubbles endlessly appearing and vanishing. Maybe he is dreaming of his classmates whom he finds such “babies”! Maybe he is dreaming of dreams that make him smile unwittingly while he slumbers. Dreams that scrunch up his face in anger or sadness or concentration. The endless possibilities, unbound fantasies, undisguised emotions, unfathomable visions. Dreams that I wouldn’t even be sure of though I may hazard a guess or two.

This time, this little man in my arms is heavier than usual.

I hope these arms are strong enough to carry him through.

Err...

I thought all along that my multiply blog posts are subsequently reposted here. Obviously, I was wrong. Boo.

As much as I desire to see here the aforementioned entries, I just can't do it tonight. Still nursing a flu. Or, some similar virus. Not the "fringe" kind of virus.

Gosh. Miss the big cold viruses (literally) that rip their way out of a victim's throat, haha! Fun Fun.

Fringe. Oooh.