I Once Wore a Helmet (with an excerpt from an unfinished and barely begun story)

Henry Miller once said, “The best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature.” Actually, Mr. Miller, the best way to get over anything is to turn it into literature. This much I have understood, tried, tested, and proven all these years that I’ve been writing. Of course, this makes me very selfish in my pursuit towards becoming a writer. Then again, life’s harshness often reminds me that I am also human—prone to (A)H1N1, everyday corporate crimes, distress caused by Brilliante Mendoza films, and probably one of the most dangerous: loneliness. I’m quite sure that even the most hardcore writers of revolutionary literature have succumbed to the temptation of transforming shit into 24k-Fred Leighton jewelry. Fiona Apple, though not exactly a “revolutionary,” sang about being an “extraordinary machine.” I want to be one, too. I’ve always found it amazing how some people can transcend human feelings and frailties by making art. It is quite naïve of me considering that I must know that art mirrors nature and thus, may originate from human woes, of course.

I remember when I was madly in love (ugh, that phrase really sucks) with somebody who only called me on the phone when he was drunk, texted me when he was sober. Let’s just call him “the one who sired a child” (don’t ask). He constantly warned me that the number one girl in his life would have to be his daughter despite the fact that I never asked for such a place in his life owing to my strange indifference when it comes to feeling “valued”—my drama’s more like, “If I’m important to you, that’s great. If not, tell me so I can give you the same level of unimportance.” I’m not the clingy type but a friend once said that when I’m in love, I can really be such a hopeless romantic hard ass. I wrote somebody—let’s call him “the crybaby”—a letter more than ten pages long that one of my fingers actually bled. There were times when I felt like I was a character in “Love in the Time of Cholera.” What a sad sucker I was, all because I was socialized to believe that there is true love, and that it conquers everything, and that it is “winged Cupid painted blind (Shakespeare’s fault)”. O.o

Anyhow, to say that my Mother disapproved of my relationship with “the one who sired a child” is an understatement. She actually threatened of disowning me if I did not break up with him. In spite of this, I stayed. For a month. We only got together as a couple for two days—first, when he sat in the little speech class in which I taught for the summer, and second, when we had coffee and hung out before I left for the university (and I paid for that fucking coffee!). The rest of our “in a relationship” days were spent being apart from each other. (NOTE: Keeping a long-distance affair is the stupidest thing to do in your young life, well, except if you’re a missionary on an overseas evangelization mission and your guy’s a eunuch a.k.a. “dead man walking”/castrated/dickless).

One time, I got so depressed and suicidal (hell, no…I hate pain…the closest I got was getting ink on my body) because of my Mother’s harsh reactions to my decision to stay with “the one who sired a child” so I went to the library and hogged as many books as I could. Mostly, they were books of wise, white, dead men’s insights on love—that, that wretched thing. I wrote down all the quotes that I thought could somehow save me from my dejected, desolate state. I can be such a sick-o, y’know. I took notes from Shakespeare, Miller, Addison, Tennyson, Marlowe, and all those miserable guys who did nothing but write about their miseries and fleeting pleasures. What I forgot, though, was that they had penises. I don’t, and so, I was possibly more miserable than they were. O.o

Why am I writing this? Nothing seriously borne out of an epiphany, really. I was just looking for a poem that I wrote last year (probably the only poem that I ever wrote in my life, “so far,” as Homer Simpson would say) and I came across my currently neglected journal in which I wrote all those quotes. “Crazy bitch,” I whispered to myself. LOL. Aside from that, I’ve recently gotten in touch with a few female friends who got back together with their erring boyfriends. I told one that she was driving me nuts and she only gushed that she was driving herself nuts, too. I’m so sorry, honey, I can’t laugh with you on this one. I guess the joke that there are some girls out there who “wear helmets” (dahil hindi sila nauuntog sa katotohanan) is not altogether false. And remembering how much I had invested in a relationship that was barely even one does remind me why I am friends with my female friends—we all had our stupid moments. Honestly, I’m not the kind who’s haunted by ghosts of the past. It’s more like I get haunted by the person I was. I guess most of us are like that, we just don’t acknowledge it much, because the world makes you believe that you have an obligation to remember, that “love’s sweeter the second time around”—a sort of thinking that I believe was invented to primarily oppress women, never mind that he hits you, never mind that he cheated, love conquers all!

I guess these are my favorites--from a guy called Lilly and from a man whose name I can’t possibly pronounce:

“A Heart full of coldness, a sweet full of

Bitterness, a pain full of pleasantness,

Which maketh thoughts have eyes, and hearts ears; bred

By desire nursed by delight,

Weaned by jealousy

Kill’d by dissembling, buried by

Ingratitude;—and this is love.”

From Lilly

“It is difficult to define love; all we can say is that in the soul, it is a desire to rule; in the mind, it is a sympathy; and in the body, it is a hidden and delicate wish to possess what we love—plus many mysteries.” From La Rochefoucauld

Looking back now, I only laugh at the turn of events. I do not exactly have the reputation for keeping relationships that long (my longest was with “the crybaby:” five months, and we weren’t talking anymore during the last month) but one month is admittedly pathetic. “We’re soulmates, we like the same books, we listen to the same music, he practiced Buddhism, and he also has tattoos!” Yep, I thought like that. Like I never got of high school. I find it hysterical, really. But then, still, I honor my past as I honor my present. It’s the same with my valuing bad grades—so what if I got a four or five? I worked for that five, godammit! I wear my scars as if they were badges in war. And they are. ^^

The father whom I dated for a month (mostly on the phone) has actually inspired a story or two, and I have been better since then. I believe that we are currently in good terms (hopefully, even after he gets to read this, if ever he does). At least I didn’t sleep with him, although I heard that he was good in bed. Hell, he was so good he had a daughter. LOL.

***

“Her fingers hold the stick of cigarette as if it were a paintbrush. She puts it in her mouth and tries to blow a few circles, although she only succeeds at making odd shapes. They ask her if she has ever fallen in love, and if this is the reason she writes so well on the matter.

After a moment of silence and other failed attempts at blowing circles, she replies, “Love? I don’t love anymore. I only like people to such an extent that I tell them I love ‘em.”

“But the way you write about wretched love. It seems so…real,” one naïve reader quips.

“Not really, I’m just wretched. That’s all,” she smiles. “Any more stupid questions?”

They snigger. Her fans love her for that.

On Theses, Fractions, and Knitting

When I was in grade three, we were taught about fractions. Fractions as in ½, 4 ¼, and the like. The stuff was a complete enigma to me. “Why are there miniature numbers and why do they have bars along with them??” I thought. The simple explanation that a fraction is an “expression that indicates the quotient of two quantities” never really sank in me, like it were in a different language altogether. To me, it was as challenging as the question on the meaning of Life. I guess my thoughts were muddled up way too much that I never brought myself to comprehending the logic behind those bars.

My understanding, I admit, is very selective. That’s not to say that it is entirely intended, however. For instance, I’d be watching a classmate in college rhetoric (Speech 130) explain her powerpoint presentation on the early history of rhetoric and I’d be particularly interested in a slide with a picture of Cicero’s bust, and I’d wonder why most of the Greek relics only have heads and separate body parts and why they had so many statues and just how much marble they had reserved for art in the first place. And then I’d think of how Cicero was like during his days, and if he knew Cleopatra, and if she really came rolling out of a smuggled carpet from Egypt just to reach Caesar. From there, my thoughts would go on and on until they reached the lost Pangea and Panthalessa and way, way up to the mystery behind the etymology of the "penal code" and Bob Ong’s real identity.

Once, I raised my hand and asked our then rhetoric professor (now my thesis adviser) why Quintillan was named Quintillan. Was he fifth among his siblings? Did he have a younger brother called Sextillan or Sextus, maybe? I would come to understand a lot more about a man’s works if I knew more about him, wouldn’t I? My professor said it was irrelevant, and my classmates only smirked while one remarked, “Si Lara bibihira na nga magtanong, off pa!” Whoever gave this remark might have also been irrelevant so it is not anymore necessary to mention his name, although I would just like to openly express that it was a moment I cannot forget simply because it was unforgettable and not because I have since harbored a grudge against the comment’s source, a certain Mr. Oscar Serquiña, an intellectual and friend whom I find to be very likeable, despite his incredibly brutal honesty and loud, garrulous nature. He is one of the most vocal critics I know and I am not exempt from his evaluations. He once told my batchmates that I “dozed off” in our rhetoric classes, which is not true, by the way. Well, maybe I was caught “in the process of dozing off” but I never really reached the point of actually being asleep, with all due respect to the former dean of the College of Arts and Letters. O.o Besides, why would I settle for rhetoric as my thesis topic if I couldn’t even keep my eyes open during rhetoric classes in sophomore year? Uh-uh, I am taking this pretty seriously. So damn serious, I now forget to smile. I had to watch Blades of Glory one recent sembreak morning if only to remember how to produce genuine laughter again—the kind of laughter that has no pretensions, the kind that’s not borne out of sarcastic humor (which is usually my cup of tea, to the displeasure of one person who thinks I’m not being funny when I think I am), the kind that doesn’t hide an uneasy squirming feeling about the sort of humor that keeps us laughing nowadays, i. e. Aling Dionisia jokes (Erap jokes are understandable, but Manny’s mother never really plundered the country so why should we not just leave the poor lady out of this circus?), cross-dressing spoiled brats who harass their cross-dressing yayas, twin daughters/heiresses to a tycoon, one a deranged bipolar bitch, the other a pooch-loving, candy-eyed retard, etc. Real laughter, to me, comes hard these days. Sometimes, I wonder whether I’m being way too serious and that something’s wrong with me, or whether there is something wrong with the world and that it’s not taking things seriously.

This reminds me of my third grade Mathematics teacher whose laughter I don’t remember having heard, although I remember her quite well. Her name was Mrs. Jacob and she had Anna Wintour’s bob, a Spanish nose with freckles on it, and eyes that were so animated you could read emotions from them even if you sat 20 rows of seats away at the back of the classroom. Come to think of it, her eyes might have done all the laughing for her. Well, just when I thought fractions were a force to reckon with, Mrs. Jacob introduced REMAINDERS. Again, she tried explaining that this was another concept that we could encounter following division. A remainder is the “number left over when one integer is divided by another.” If I already knew how to curse back then, I know I would’ve said, “What the motherfucking hell??” Not to mention that up to now, I still can’t quite grasp what on earth an integer is. My brain was still in the process of touching base with remainders when the bell rang and Mrs. Jacob hastily gave us a 100 item-assignment of problems for which we would have to find the remainders, if any. I tried to look for helplessness in my classmates’ faces, tried to use my x-ray mind-vision and see if I could read “DUH?” in their heads as huge and questioning as the one in mine. But I found none. They were all just eager for recess, and so, I figured that I should be feeling as normal, too. Heck, I was a kid, and it was recess! That must have meant salvation to me. To hell with remainders! Life awaited me!

That night, worrying over Mrs. Jacob’s homework at last, I ran to my aunt/second mother, Tita Manay. My brother and I grew up calling her that since Mama and the rest of her sisters refer to her as such because “Manay” means “Ate” in Bicol, and we thought that was her actual name. So, technically, we have been calling her “Tita Ate” all these years. O.o Anyways, she said she already forgot all that Grade Three stuff and got up to ask Mama/biological and first mother who was a statistician then. Mama looked at my notebook in consternation, trying to recall what “remainders” were. After poring over the very few notes that I took—perhaps because I was too busy thinking about the philosophy of remainders and how sad it must be to be mere “leftovers”--she realized that it was just a matter of division. And so, she got out a thin black gadget and taught me how to divide using the calculator. One by one, I solved for all 100 problems and I was looking at the calculator for any sign of a little r which was supposed to stand for “remainder.” Instead of this, though, the answers came with dots like periods, as in 1.21, and I thought that maybe if these signaled separations, then perhaps the digit that comes after the period must be the “leftover.” And so, happily, I clicked away on the calculator and I wrote down all the answers on my notebook, imagining the wide grin on Mrs. Jacob’s face, her eyes widening as if they had a life of their own—a pretty sight, an affirming sight, a sight that could've easily said, “Excellent job, never mind that you flunked the quiz on fractions!”

The day after, Mrs. Jacob wasn’t grinning when she was checking my notebook. No, her eyes were not even showing a smile in progress. They did widen, though, and she said, as if in slo-mo, “Lara, did you do this homework yourself?”

“Uh, yes, Ma’am.”

“Are you sure?”

“Uhm, I got a little help but I worked on th—”

“Got a little help from whom?” she asked quite sternly, but Mrs. Jacob always talked in her stern tone of voice, so it didn’t startle me much. Nevertheless, there’s something about Math teachers that never really registered quite well with me, although I have always known that Mrs. Jacob was, in fact, an awfully kind lady. .

“Mama, uhm, and her calculator,” I confessed.

To this, she summoned my aunt who was always in school to watch over my brother and me. There was a lounging area for parents and guardians in case something happened to the children, like, if his/her lunch was taken by a sixth-grade bully (sixth graders were total zombies to us) or if somebody accidentally peed/pooped in his pants/her skirt (we all have those particular classmates who got to live with this reputation) or if somebody used a calculator for her Math homework (I guess this is as criminal as copy-pasting from Wikipedia in one's homework). My aunt explained that I was having such a hard time, so they tried to make it easier for me but that I was the one who clicked on the calculator and that I wrote my own homework (which was true). Mrs. Jacob was smiling this time—and it did look kind of weird—and explained that I was not doing a homework about remainders and that what I did was on decimals, instead. Decimals. The first time I ever heard that word. What in the friggin’ name of Beelzebub was a decimal??? Of course, I didn’t think like this at that time yet, but I would have if I already had advanced language skills. Well, needless to say, I got a zero out of 100 for that particular homework. But Mrs. Jacob gave me another shot and made a new set of problems that required no use of calculator. I forget when I did learn what remainders were exactly, but I think I did pretty well afterwards since I don’t remember any further “leftover shit.”

The next big thing I had to hurdle then was knitting. In fourth grade for EPP (I forget what it stands for but it’s equivalent to home economics class). To my horror, I found out that it was, again, as arduous as answering the question on the meaning of Life. First, I tried making a table placemat. Realizing that it would take me as long as reading a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel, I resorted to making a cup-and-saucer mat, instead. After a day’s work, I found myself looking at almost a "piece of nothing" what with the threads gone warped and haywire without making any sense at all. The project’s deadline was already nearing and I was panicking like the grade-conscious not-so-little pupil that I admittedly was (I was always at the back of the girls’ line during flag ceremonies). I then started making wristbands/bracelets, stuff that wouldn’t look as structured and could pass for “knitwear.” Inches and inches of threads, and pounds and pounds of effort later, I found myself surveying another piece of crap, crappy enough to be called “crappy” because it didn't even look like it was worthy to serve any kind of function at all. In fact, it wouldn't even pass for an abstract art exhibit. By this time, I wasn’t panicking anymore. I was already bawling, running to my Mother for help. The deadline was the next day, and I hadn’t knitted something decent. Mama, being the resourceful and intelligent mother that she is, did not know how to knit, and so, brought me to all the stores in Legazpi City that sold knitted products but which did not have to look as if they were “sold knitted products.” Unfortunately--considering the standards on quality that most laborers in the capitalist industry have to abide by just so they can earn their wages which are, apparently, unjust abstractions of exploitation and oppression--none of the knitted cellphone holders, bags, placemats, etc. on sale looked as if they could be done by a panicky grade-conscious not-so-little fourth grader. I was devastated. Mama was angry at me for not telling her early enough and for not paying close attention during the knitting lessons (I hated home economics!). I was ready to accept a 70 (it was as dreaded as sinco) the following day when to my surprise, I woke up finding a knitted green purse at the foot of my bed. I ran to Mama showing her the miracle that God must’ve granted me (the previous night, I’d been praying like a hermit nun, promising and swearing “If-You-do-this-for-me-I-won’t-ever-ever” kind of stuff.) Mama stared at me and told me as-a-matter-of-factly that she had the purse knitted by an officemate of hers way, way before the deadline and requested that the knitting job should look “amateur,” and that she didn’t tell me previously because she wanted me to learn my lesson. I pretty much ignored the moral of the story and just marveled at how her officemate came up with a "perfect" green, little purse--perfect, because it had enough flaws and entangled threads to seem like I made it myself. I carried it proudly to school that day, thanking God for making Mama my mother and praying hard that my EPP teacher would not let me demonstrate my knitting knowhow just to check if it was indeed my work.

*Sigh* Those were the days of panic and tears. And it really bugs that I am presently going through such days again. I am dealing with thesis work, and I got an “incomplete” for 199 (the first part) last semester, which disables me to take up 200 (the second part) this semester, which may eventually lead to my extending for another semester!

*knocks on wood, slaps face, knocks on wood again*

Whenever someone asks about or gushes at my "graduating" status, I automatically say, "Ginagawan pa po ng paraan." Suddenly, it does feel like those days of fractions, remainders, decimals, and knitting all over again. The only difference now is that 1) this cannot be solved by a calculator; 2) I can’t ask my Mother or her officemate to “make me a thesis”; and 3) I have stopped promising and swearing to God anything since the day I learned about Humanism in Psychology and unlearned over-dependence on faith brought about by the false consciousness that God will somehow decide one day to bring peace to the world at last. No, constant praying will not directly stop human rights violations, budget cuts and misuse of public funds, the age-old war between Palestines and Israelites, and neither will it bring justice to the peasants who died in the Hacienda Luisita Massacre, although, apparently, Cory Aquino thought otherwise, what with her saying "Let us just pray for their souls" or something that eerily sounded like that.

I am now 20, and am on my own. No calculators or any sort of shortcuts, no proxies and subs, no God, nothing. Just will and determination. So often heard. So easily said. And yet, I am my own enemy. Aw, damn it. It’s almost sunrise and I have resorted to blogging, instead. Again. Oh well, I shall go fight myself now. It’s thesis time, and I wish I’m knitting instead.

Not Me

This is the self-reflective essay that accompanied my two story-portfolio in Creative Writing 111. Thanks to Doc and my classmates and fellow "writing persons" for the evolution of "When Angels Spoke to Margaret (final)" and "The Strange Yet Not So Fictional Adventures of El Diablo" and for a really neat final grade *winks* It's just a shame that I can't do as well in my majors *tears up* Oh well, this doesn't really have to be about me, so fuck it.

“Igiit man ng ilang manunulat na hiwalay ang sining sa politika, ang hindi paglalatag ng politika sa mga akda’y poltika ring maituturing.”

(“Even if some writers insist that art is a separate entity from politics, the mere act of not putting in politics in their pieces is still a political act in itself.”)

- Louise Amante, Philippine Collegian, Sept. 11 2009 issue

Not Me

Creative Writing, for me, has been a welcome break from my being a Speech Major and technically, “Theatre Minor,” as we are required to take some units in performance arts as well. Along with courses on Fiction—I have taken only two, Fiction 1 and Fiction 2, so far—I have also invested on non-Speech and non-Theatre electives that I feel will give me more breathing space in terms of my personal artistic pursuits. Courses like Panitikang Pilipino and other Filipino subjects, have also brought me closer to my native tongue and the body of literature in which it is written that never fails to amaze me.

Speech Communication is a discipline that imposes strict—to me, I guess—rules on the ethics of communication, the importance of “how” one says it, and not exactly “what” one says, the many financial opportunities that would be available if one were to be an expert of communication, etc. As Speech Majors, we are trained to be call center agents, human resource personnel, salespersons, marketing and events leaders, TV and radio personalities, and many more eclectic choices that all involve communication in one way or another. I guess this is the reason we have been touted in the College of Arts and Letters as the “Jacks of all trades, masters of none.” Except for a few who opt to stay in the academe to further the discipline through teaching, most of us graduate and hold jobs that are defined by the material conditions of a capitalist society and a “globalizing” world. If it were not for my electives and other non-Speech courses such as CW 111: Fiction 2, I would not have realized how much I personally abhor my degree program. It is now too late, however, for me to decide to shift to a much more fulfilling academic program. And I am currently starting/finishing (for the process is indeed very erratic) my thesis just so I can finally graduate and hopefully deviate from the usual paths that Speech Majors take. Well, there is no telling whether I will decide to write, speak for a living, or even work for a human rights group, really. Just the same, I know that whatever it is that I will end up doing, I am certain that courses like CW 111 will always arm me with the alternative knowledge that I will need in my endeavors as an individual and as member of the larger society as a whole.

As a “writing person” (I do believe that I cannot call myself a writer yet, unless I get published someday, just like the narrator in one of my stories in this portfolio), I believe that I have somehow progressed from the shy, “I haven’t written any piece of fiction in my entire life, so please pardon my writing inexperience” kind of junior that I was last year when I first took up CW 110: Fiction 1. I remember one classmate then—a CW postgraduate student—telling me, “Well, welcome to the dark side.” He was referring to fiction, itself. Based on my limited experience in doing fiction, I cannot help but agree with that classmate of mine. It is the dark side of literature, but then there remains the other, even darker side of it: life. Life in its most accurate realities, life without art mirroring what is seen and unseen. Being a student of the University of the Philippines for four years now (and I hope it will stop at only that) has since taught me that charity is trivial, that merely having knowledge is futile, that writing for one’s own sake is masturbatory and does not contribute any good whatsoever to the society—not even aesthetics or beauty is useful in times like these and in a society such as ours. If there was any development in the practice of this craft—this blessed craft that is writing—that I have accomplished, it is this, and only this: practice.

I have not exactly reached the level that Philippine National Artists such as Virgilio Almario (Rio Alma) and Bienvenido Lumbera (Ka Bien) have, but I am satisfied with my current disposition as a struggling writing person with regard to my fictional themes and proposed ideologies. If I were to examine my “skills,” though, I know very well that mine are still raw and are of an amateur, for I believe that one never really stops growing in literature even if one were to achieve Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s status. What I am happy with is my awareness of my own preference of readership. Although I intend to write for the general masses, I still want to write for those who think, for those who believe that literature is not absolute and that it is not defined by guide questions or pointing out of morals. The reader is a very intelligent reader. One makes his/her own perceptions and interpretations on the piece that he/she reads. In this way, the reader not only “reads” literature but “rewrites” stories, poems, and what have you. This much I have come to learn from Creative Writing, not only from writing my own pieces but more importantly, from reading exceptional pieces from writers—both classic and contemporary, both familiar and unknown. Aside from knowing the people for whom I want to be a genuine writer, I am also glad that I finally know what “art for art’s sake” means and how to break the walls of this particular box. An artist may not exactly know one’s purpose in his/her piece before the work even begins, but prominent Filipino writer, Ricky Lee, could not have said it better: “You should at least know where you stand, whether you are meant to follow the status quo, or whether you are meant to disturb.” I personally want to do the latter, although I know that I still have much to learn from mainstream art/literature before I even go far from this part of the spectrum. Again, I quote Lee when I say that “in order for you to break the rules, you must first know the rules by heart.” At present, I do not aim to stray right away. I am a Speech Major who will graduate with little experience on writing and with no books yet to my name. I am one of those nameless, faceless struggling writing persons who will want to either make a change or stay in the box.

It is my hope that I will transcend this current disposition of mine. With the two stories attached herein with this essay, I aim to ask my readers what exactly are the things that matter—aside from giving characters their full shape, their desires that are either satiated or thwarted, enough motives to justify their actions, and the changes that they have to go through in order to tell a “complete” story. Although these stories—“When Angels Spoke to Margaret” and “The Strange Yet Not So Fictional Adventures of El Diablo”—were both written from a tradionalist point of view (or so I assume), I want readers to question the status quo. “When Angels” is not just a story about a U. P. dormitory urban legend. As much as it is about a story on friendship, it is also a story about the crippling effects of patriarchy and religion as parts of the general ideological construct that has been built and tolerated in Philippine society in particular (and perhaps these themes can also be related to other societies as well). Meanwhile “The Strange Yet” is a story inspired by real-life events concerning Nicole, the Filipino victim who has been brought to international spotlight—although her identity was kept in privacy up to the time that the controversy just “died down”—by pressing rape charges against a certain Daniel Smith and company, who happened to be American soldiers assigned in the Philippines under the Visiting Forces Agreement. The issue regarding the country’s imperialist ties with the U. S. still remains fresh, especially recently that Filipinos have been reported to be shot dead by these soldiers even if the VFA clearly prohibits them from partaking in any combat while stationed in the country. I have nothing against Americans, with all due respect. I have something against the overall system, though—the overly dependent developing country that my nation has been reduced to. And I wish to make this manifest in my writings as a young artist.

In the future, I can only hope that a certain question will always guide me in my growth as an artist and in my journey towards becoming a writer. This question will remind me of who I am, who I will be, and what my particular “desires” are —say as a “character” of this bigger “story” that is the society—which primarily concern genuine social change: Para Kanino? For whom? And clearly, ideally, I will know that the answer is not me.

The Strange Yet Not So Fictional Adventures of El Diablo (fiction)

This is a revision of a previous story that I wrote, "Meet. April." Alright, I didn't know this was "metafiction" until I wrote it for a workshop. I hate genres--because they usually keep us in boxes--but I really like this one. ^^

The Strange Yet Not So Fictional Adventures of El Diablo

Introductions. All things begin with introductions. Usually. And because I, a struggling “writing person”—for I cannot find the guts to call myself a “writer” unless I am published at the very least, and even published writers still do struggle in a world that starves them unless they please the mainstream crowd: those witchcraft-loving muggles who buy dubious books that only have “The Secret” printed on the cover and are content with meeting only five people in heaven—do not feel extra-deviant today, I am starting with one.

My subject will now walk into the room and stand in front of you, dear readers. Picture yourselves sitting in the same room, clad in your best outfits, or even nothing at all, whichever you prefer. Her name is April, and she is clueless about this whole piece of fiction which we will base on her present so-so life. Clueless about writing, in fact. She thinks writing is for the indolent (some of you who write squint) and prefers running around kicking balls (the men automatically motion to hold onto their gonads). She is a soccer varsity player—“Soccer” as the Americans call it, “Football” for the Limeys, and “Kickball” as I call it.

She trains every day and runs the length of the football field before six and after five, every drop of her sweat being a taste of her own life. Yes, she tastes her own sweat, and to give you a piece of trivia: for athletes, believe it or not, their sweat becomes a little sweet because of all their training. Yum, April thinks, for she can hear what I am saying, but is not aware that we can actually hear her own thoughts. Don’t ask me why, though. We just can. And no matter how much April will want to react verbally to our discussion, she cannot, unless I let her. Again, don’t ask me why.

During matches, April makes Beckham look even more gay than he is whenever he goes out in skirts (look it up, he really does) as opposed to his deceivingly hawt Calvin Klein underwear ads with his baggage deliberately teasing the consumerist world and his washboard abs wanting to be touched, grabbed onto, and whichever you prefer doing with it, really. At this point, some gay men—both “out” and “still in the closet”—subconsciously bite their lips and some women feel their clits contract, making them blush secretly. And instead of yelling, “Goal!” (this is April, by the way, so do forget about Beckham now) she grins, baring her teeth, and screams at the top of her lungs, “That’s soccer for you, suckers!” before spitting something on the ground: the spearmint gum that she never spits out until game’s over and that has already been chewed mercilessly, now tasteless and grimy after an entire two hours—or even more—of kicking, bruising, falling facedown on the mud, standing and kicking again, taking advantage of the legality of causing injuries in the game, spilling out the nastiest profanities, rejoicing in the moniker that the football folks have baptized her with: El Diablo. Rough and hard. That’s how she plays her game.

At present, however, there seems to be not a trace of that El Diablo anywhere. Her hair, cropped like a little boy’s, is neatly combed in place, her plain white tee under her orange polo shirt is immaculate, her khaki shorts look ironed—oh, but then again, her Nike Total Shift 90s are as filthy as hell. When asked about her name, she speaks in her deep voice—an affected habitual pitch that she has struggled to master all these years, an achievement that echoes far from her real optimum pitch—

“It’s April. Er, full name?” she says before clearing her throat and coughing out a hasty “April Rose Marie Mauricio.” Of course, a name that long can’t be too hasty for anyone to miss without trying hard not to snigger. It’s really not such a bad name. It is a common girl’s name and apparently, that is the problem.

“Uh-huh, it’s a girl’s name,” April mutters inside her head after the dreaded full-name introduction. Why can’t she be like Madonna? Nah, fuck Madonna, why not Seal? And why the hell not Prince? If some of them can get away with only singular names while giving the concert audience the finger after performing a not-so-wonderful-yet-very-danceable pop song, then why can’t she? She runs her hand through her hair before she takes her seat across from yours, pulling up her shorts so her knees can breathe. You notice that her knees have bruises here and there, and you understand that she got them from kickball matches and you deduce that she doesn’t go to Church because she hates how kneeling hurts. “I should’ve brought some gum,” she wishes silently, thinking that that might make her look cooler, more astig.

Obviously, one’s IQ may be determined by making him/her guess which month April was born in. Her second name, however, does not say anything about her. Her parents, Lyn and Johnny, only thought that a flower would be a cute name for a little girl. The “Marie,” on the other hand, says everything about her nationality. It appears that Filipinos have this undying love affair with naming girls “Maria.” Most Filipinas have it preceding Spanish ancient-sounding names like Rosario and Josefina, or long names after flowers such as Magnolia and Rosalinda. Sometimes it’s spelled out while other times, it’s plainly “Ma” with the dot. Some parents like the English version, “Mary,” while some feel extra-Francaise come Baptism Day and name their daughters “Marie.” In April’s case, Lyn and Johnny seem to have gone through the latter, especially because it is Lyn’s life-long dream to go to Paris but we already know—because we are supposed to be all-knowing readers—that she will die without having gone to see the Eiffel Tower at all (“Awww,” some of you say). This means that giving April a French name might have not been in vain. At least, she may have the opportunity to continue her mother’s “legacy” and go to Paris on her behalf, whatever kind of reason there might be that may attract a dike to go there (some feminists let out some expletives). Just the same, we still know that April will never really forgive her parents for naming her that way.

“April” is already a bad enough name. If she was named “Georgina,” she could’ve lived with “George,” not “Ape.” If she was “Roseanne Joy”—like her teammate is—she could’ve gotten away with “R. J.,” and not “A. R. M.” But since her three names happen to be her names and hers alone, she has since decided to make do with “April” because she’d rather die than be called “Rose” and she’s always hated how Lyn calls her “Marrrrrrrr-eeeeeeeeeeee!” when her daughter has done something worth reprimanding. Oh, and she doesn’t have a mind capable enough to think of more creative nicknames, like “Ril” for instance, or her last name even, “Mauricio” or “Mau” for short, even “Maurice” (but then again, that still is French). “April” is already a bad enough name, but not too bad, I guess, April thinks.

There are only two things that she cannot seem to live with, though: her breasts and her vagina. She hates wearing the bra (the feminists say, “Hear ye! Hear ye!”) but she needs the support since she’s a 36 (I whisper “C” to keep April from hearing, but the straight men easily catch it and whistle and nod as they narrow their eyes and carefully study April’s chest, making the feminists angry, of course, and the non-feminists squirm, feeling inferior about their A’ and B’s). She couldn’t care less about the right fit of underwear while the other girls go crazy over sizes and external clothing, perhaps willing enough to not wear anything underneath than go to hell because of committing the ultimate fashion sin: showing “panty lines.” She doesn’t like having to sit in order to pee, although she hasn’t got much choice, really. She detests having to wash with icky liquid from pink bottles that say “Your partner’s best friend” instead of merely using soap. And she totally abhors hassling over cramps and changing napkins for that “monthly thing” since she doesn’t like saying “period” or “menstruation,” either.

Ask her if she hates girls and she’ll answer, “Naw, not at all.” Well, at least not all of them. April has fallen in love once. Her name was Emily. I allow April to hear this particular name-dropping and she blushes, her eyebrows meeting, her legs doing a very masculine de kwatro. Emily was her former roommate in Waling waling Women’s Residence Hall. Some mouths in the dorm would even spread rumors about Emily and “April Boy.”

Mouth #1: I once knocked on their door and I thought it was okay so I opened it, and they were sleeping snugly beside each other—and there were three vacant beds ha!

Mouth #2: That’s nothing, I saw them kissing at the lobby once, (whispers) and I swear there was a lot of tongue.”

Mouth #3: No kidding, I bet they even take a bath together!”

And the tongues wagged on and on and on, while the two happily breezed through their little affair hidden under the monikers “roommates,” “friends,” and “fellow girls” even. The dorm manager who was a gossip herself—as all dorm managers are, as you might notice—eventually found out about this little secret, and by next semester, took off April Rose Marie off Waling waling, and transferred her to another women’s dormitory with another flower’s name. The distance broke her heart and Emily, last she heard, is now going out with another varsity player from the swimming team. His name is Lee. April realized then that Emily was not exactly a raging homo as herself (again, the feminists react quite negatively) and that perhaps, she only has this thing for varsity athletes, after all. As I drawl on about this, April has that far-off look, her face expressionless, before she fixes her composure and mentally wishes that she was chewing gum instead. What the fuck am I doing here? she asks herself.

Conclusions. Things like this have to have endings. However, as a struggling writing person, I am not exactly in the position to end such a story. Why, the readers have to decide for themselves! After all, for whom do writers write? Perhaps we’ll meet April again in a longer story, something that goes according to your wishes. The following are the options:

A) Should it be a post-Emily love story? Or even better, April experiments with a guy sexually and discovers that orgasm caused by a penis is a much more fulfilling experience. Turn to page five; or

B) About her being queen/king of the football field? This is quite boring, I must say, but sports fans might have a swing at it, so please turn to page six; or

C) Something like a coming-of-age story about being lesbian? Yes, this is too clichéd, but heck, there is a reason clichés are clichés: people just love ‘em too much! Turn to page seven; or

D) How much she hates having a vagina and does everything in her capacity to get rid of the damned pussy?? Now, there’s promise in that! Skip on to page eight.

Meanwhile, I’ll leave this one hanging. “Thank you, April. You may now go ahead to your kickball practice,” I bow to my gracious, intentionally yet strangely passive subject. El Diablo runs her hand through her hair and pulls her shorts up again, stands, and never looks back, muttering under her breath, It’s soccer, suckers.

A) There is no story here. Go watch some porn.

B) Sorry, but as much as I am struggling to be a “genuine writer,” the only sport I know is Quidditch, so I’m afraid I cannot write on this one.

C) I don’t like clichés, personally, so I am not eager to give you this “coming-of-age” story. You may check out some interesting Disney titles, though, as they do this kind of thing quite often. But if you want a more mature, less fluffy sort of theme, then I recommend the endearing yet troubling “Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros,” or you may go for “Y Tu Mama Tambien” for more sexually exciting scenes.

However, I can give you the ending, which is that, April Rose Marie Mauricio a. k. a. El Diablo will never really get a happy ending, because: 1) same-sex marriages are cursed upon in her own country (specifically, by the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines, which is also fighting tooth and nail to debunk the proposed Reproductive Health Bill); and unfortunately, 2) she will never get to Paris, either, or to any other place beyond Philippine shores to at least marry her own kind; because 3) she will get raped in her 20s and in her panty briefs because a group of drunken men—whom she will randomly meet at a bar while drinking, herself, after another woman will break her heart by leaving her and settling for a straight male athlete—will “try to teach her a lesson” as if being a lesbian is a sin that is worth punishing. And since El Diablo is physically strong and will try to fight off the men with all her might, one of them will take it upon himself to hold her down by grabbing her throat, not let her go, until he accidentally kills her. Yes, April dies and all the rapists will get away with it because—surprise, surprise!—they are a bunch of handsome American soldiers who are stationed in the Philippines under the Visiting Forces Agreement. They will even have Filipino fans’ clubs—because Filipinos can’t resist good Caucasian, Brad Pitt-like features—during the court proceedings which will never get anywhere, anyway. April will be considered pariwara and malandi for even going to the bar and drinking by her lonesome that night that she got raped. She will not be the victim. “Nope, she brought her death upon herself,” Raul Gonzalez will confirm this during his fifth stint as “Justice Secretary.”

As a result, Filipinos will always live under the false premise that they are, indeed, free and April, sadly, will never get to Paris.

D) The El Diablo does try everything to get rid of her vagina, but her middle-class socioeconomic status will not allow her to avail the sexual glories of science and technology. Therefore, she just settles for her affected masculinity and “imagines” that she has a dick, instead. Nevertheless, any sexual intercourse sadly reminds her that this is not so, which is why apart from having great leg power because of all that kickball training in the past, she will also develop very masterful hands that will know every dip and stroke of pleasure. Sadly, though, the last thing that those hands will do is to shield the very organ that she has fought and “thought” hard to rid herself, from the blue, green, and brown-eyed blonde soldiers who will pin her hands down and restrain her entire body inside a cramped van. They will violate her and eventually kill her. April will taste her own sweat which will now be a salty concoction of her own and of the drunken men’s fluids. And as if to betray the only nickname that she ever liked, El Diablo's last words will be, “Mga demonyo kayo! Putang ina n’yo!”