Recently--on March 12, last Thursday, to be precise--I got to watch Ditsi Carolino's (the filmmaker/genius behind "Minsang Lang Sila Bata" and my all-time favorite, "Bunso") latest indie offering: "Lupang Hinarang" in the auditorium of Malcolm Hall (UP Law). The documentary comes in two parts and tells of some Filipino farmers and their battles against their oppressive landowners as well as their woes on the state of national agrarian reform. Specifically, "Lupang Hinarang" recounts the struggles of the Sumilao farmers (walked all the way from Mindanao to Luzon) as well as those of the sugarcane workers from Negros who went on a 29-day hunger strike in front of DAR in protest of their landowners' ongoing oppression. The Negros farmers were able to get their lands back but their victory was cut short when the landowners' armed men killed two of the farmers who participated in the hunger strike not a year later. "Lupang Hinarang" still has that original Carolino touch (no narrator, understated cinematography, realistic presentation of events that is romanticized by a skillful yet honest kind of handling/editing), and perhaps, the best part about the film is that it appeals for the implementation of CARPER (CARP Extension with Reforms), a bill that "pushes to extend what CARP has done and to distribute the remaining 1.3 million hectares of privately owned lands to the farmers who make them productive." (lupanghinarang.com) It must be noted that Carolino's other masterpiece, "Bunso" was also one of the forerunners of the campaign for the approval of the Juvenile Justice Act/RA 9344 in 2006, a law that aims to protect the youth, most particularly those accused of crimes and who are under 18, from further abuse in prison. Carolino's works do not only promote "art for art's sake" but also serve as insightful "social mirrors" that knock on the the society's collective conscience as they present the realities that are present in it, the cancers, the ills that continue to plague what is supposed to be the "Pearl of the Orient," our "Lupang Hinirang."
This move has been brought to Congress and the Senate for some time now and has been ignored until the last 2 days of legislative sessions in 2008. When the legislators gave some attention to CARPER's propositions at last, they came up with an ingenious way of killing it. The Congress and the Senate signed a joint resolution extending CARP but without compulsory acquisition. It means that the program may go on but the landowners may or may not sell their lands. It's the landowners' call. For whom is the program again?
This joint resolution has just plucked CARPER's fangs. It has trimmed and buffed its claws and has taken away the heart of real agrarian reform. Meanwhile landless farmers walk miles to protest and hold weeks of hunger strikes to be heard.
The pseudo-CARPER is effective until June 2009. President Arroyo and the lawmakers have until then to redeem their purpose as representatives of the people. The farmers can still hope and fight for justice. We can still do our part in rewriting our nation's history of poverty and injustice. Speak up, stand up, and show the government that we are fools no more. Let us push for CARPER. Now.
(lupanghinirang.com)
The following is a paper that I had written on the Sumilao farmers' situation almost a year ago. It was a requirement for my Pan Pil 50 under Dr. Apolonio Chua (very respectable man) where we were encouraged to discuss extensively anything that we thought reinforced the essence of being one nation. Here, I insisted that I write in English instead of Filipino which was the language supposedly used in the course. It's a good thing that he conceded ("just as long as you can justify your medium in a preface," I remember him telling me). I couldn't have written it any other way, and even if a year or two have already passed, I still share these same sentiments with our sisters and brothers of the earth.
Preface
I am a Filipino. Proud to be one, too. I am also a Bicolana. That, I am proud of, as well. But it is greatly because of that that I am not accustomed to speaking in Tagalog or in our Lingua Franca herself, Filipino. I hate to make a scapegoat of my heritage every time I insist on writing in English, but I am afraid that—and I am too honest to deny this—I may not be able to write as well if I were to use Filipino. And the Bicol I know is one that is heard on the streets of Legazpi, and not the ornate kind of language read in “Marhay na Bareta” (“The Good News” a. k. a. The Holy Bible) which would have been excellent for formal writing.
If I were to be asked if my conscience was ever bothered by Jose Rizal’s oft-quoted “Ang hindi magmahal sa sariling wika, daig pa ang hayop at malansang isda,” my answer would be “yes and no.” I was a little troubled back then (in elementary and high school, to be specific) because my classmates kept on teasing me that I was being too “sosyal” for their own good taste, which might explain why I never really had many friends. But they were wrong. Our family is of middle socio-economic status. I have not stepped out of the country, we do not even own a car, and up to now, our supposed 2-storey house still has one more floor to go, perhaps due to the fact that there are already two of us being sent to college, plus, my brother wasn’t fortunate enough to steer clear of the damned Tuition and Other Fees Increase or what is more famously—or infamously—known as TOFI (which was curiously implemented just in time for the “carnival-esque” U.P. Centennial Celebration, hmmm). I am NOT sosyal. Otherwise, I would not have gone to the Premier State University in the first place, well, as part of the pre-TOFI batch, of course. Besides, does speaking in English really make a person “sosyal?”
Believing that one’s mastery in English elevates him/her to a higher level of prestige is tantamount to promoting colonialism. My English is not a product of “high-end” living satiated with isteytsayd brands, Philip Stein Teslar watches, Yves Saint Laurent purses, Häagen-dazs ice cream, or those awfully ugly Crocs. My English was borne of rented “Archie’s” comic books, borrowed paperback copies of children’s classics (which have yet to be returned) and hard-earned J. K. Rowling and Jostein Gaarder books (which have yet to be classics), a set of Jessica Zafra’s “Twisted” series and an entire shelf devoted to secondhand Reader’s Digest magazines and “digested” Sunday issues of Philippine Daily Inquirer, and many other literary pieces that I have happily buried myself in as I’ve grown through the years. We did not drive around in a Mercedes but our treasures at home were more than enough to give me a prosperous childhood. And now that I am already an adult, a 10-hour bus ride away from home, I am entitled to starting my personal “library” whose earliest pieces are those of Joyce Carol Oates and Shakespeare as well as those of Filipino writers, Katrina Tuvera and Sheryl Raros. At this point, I plan to save up and select an F. Sionil Jose from the nearest National Bookstore or if I get lucky, from the nearest Booksale which will definitely help me conserve a few bucks. See? Hindi ako sosyal.
I am a Filipino. I can speak the language. I can write in it. But I can express myself better in English and that does not make me less of a Filipino. Of course, I am not saying that I am the best Filipino citizen that I can be—nobly patriotic, passionately nationalistic, and all that. No. I can be better. And that is why I have written this paper. I considered all the news clippings and notes on the Sumilao farmers that I had accumulated late last year, and decided that, despite my materials’ need to be updated, I must write about our farmers’ plight. I do not know how I am going to elaborate on this topic and paint a much larger picture, say, “being a nation.” But I feel very strongly for our fellow Filipinos who are the ones responsible for every grain of rice—the Filipino staple food—in our stomachs. At the end of the day, they are the ones who basically feed us and yet, while we slept soundly or took on the graveyard shift in our little cubicles, armed with headphones and our best impressions of the American accent, some 55 farmers spent their cold December nights outside the gates of the Department of Agrarian Reform (DAR), begging to have their lands back.
I wish I was able to march along with them even for just a few miles. We all have our roles to play. Even Shakespeare said that one time too many. I have written this not only for the farmers of Sumilao, but for all those who already have their brown backs hunched over the earth before daybreak. This is for the Children of the Sun whose voices are those that have yet to be heard. We are one with them as we are one with the earth. And so, I speak for them, albeit in English, because I refuse to be apathetic. And this desire to actually do my part, I believe, gives me more conviction when I say, “Yes, I am a Filipino.”
Lara Sinson Mendizabal
25 March 2008
Pigs Over People: A Peek at the Plight of the Sumilao Farmers
“Te, kumain na po muna kayo,” I said, handing her my little offering of Gardenia sliced bread (I made sure that it’s not a product of San Miguel Foods, Inc.).
“Salamat ha…pero hindi namin magawang kumain, ineng. Kahit maraming nagbibigay sa amin ng pagkain. Masyado kasing masakit sa puso ang mga pangyayari,” Aling Tess answered in her rough accent, setting my little offering aside and taking my hand, stroking it against her own.
As a matter of fact, there was enough food in their tent in front of DAR to get them by (55 farmers in total), thanks to hearts that were kind enough to send some help such as those of San Jose Seminary and Mary, Mirror of Justice Parish in Makati City (both had been visiting the farmers and serving them meals for lunch and dinner). But Aling Tess, true to her words, would not eat until after one in the afternoon, considering that they were engaged in another protest rally all morning, screaming at the top of their lungs, “Ilang milya pa bang kailangan naming lakarin para lang kami’y inyong dinggin?” and many other sentiments that only the most deprived can articulate with as much passion as a seasoned rhetor. The Sumilao farmers of the indigenous Higaonon tribes, who left their idyllic land (if at all it is indeed theirs) in Bukidnon for the hustle and bustle of Metro Manila, are not your ordinary megaphone-toting “tibak”. I mean, sure, we all have a cause when we take our crusade on the streets but the Sumilao farmers, despite their small number, are fighting a much larger battle.
Just how much fervor does it take for one to march 1 700 kilometers, against all odds, if only to reach deaf ears? Those one thousand and seven hundred kilometers (a march called the “Lakaw Sumilao” which literally translates to “Lakad Sumilao” in Filipino), for a clearer illustration, started from Bukidnon in Mindanao, through the San Juanico Bridge that connects Samar and Leyte, to the National Capital Region, the heart of Luzon. Those one thousand and seven hundred kilometers, they walked entirely (except when they had to board a ferry boat from Lipata, Surigao to Liloan, Leyte for the mere reason that there was not any land to tread on but vast waters that did not daunt them still), their backs to their parents, spouses, and children, if only to face suit-and-tie-clad strangers, hoping against hope that those in power will listen to their woes and address their problems. Those one thousand and seven hundred kilometers of heat and rain and cold, which have wrecked their modest slippers and sandals, and have soiled their shirts of thin cotton, they traveled for two whole months (they began their trek on October 10, 2007 and arrived in Manila on December 6 that same year). And when they marched further to the gates of Malacañang, nobody would meet them, not even Executive Secretary Eduardo Ermita, who would later comment, “We understand that anytime they can be seen probably in Quezon City, in the general area of DAR. Of course, they want to dramatize their march, saying they will go to Malacañang” (qtd. in “The Long March”). Words of a foul fool. The Lakaw Sumilao did, in fact, declare the Presidential Palace as its primary destination, not DAR. There was no need for “dramatization.” Walking all the way from their humble homes and corn plantation (from which they were barred by the current landowner) in Mindanao through three major islands, as if their sun-beaten backs have not suffered enough, was beyond “dramatic.” The Lakaw Sumilao is, more than anything else, real. And I believe that nothing quite like it has ever happened before, at least in my limited memory. In the whole post-American Philippine history, the Lakaw Sumilao was the most incredible act of bayanihan after EDSA I and II. To believe that it was mere theatrics in desperate need of attention is wishful thinking. If anything, these apathetic power dressers should fear the tired and slovenly. “We’ve walked this far, and the issue still hangs in the air” as the farmers’ leader, Napoleon “Kuya Yoyong” Merida Jr., would say (qtd. in Burgonio). Indeed, they had come this far. Far enough, in fact. And I believe that theirs is a story that the world must hear.
The Higaonon Indigenous Cultural Communities were the early settlers of a piece of ancestral land in Sumilao, Bukidnon. In the 1940s, the Angeles came and evicted the Higaonons from a 243.8551-hectare portion of their ancestral land and converted it into a cattle ranch. The land was later transferred to the Ilagans. In the 70s, the ancestral land was then divided between two landowners: 99.8551 hectares to Salvador Carlos while the 144 hectares were transferred to Norberto Quisumbing. The ancestral land was eventually leased to Del Monte Philippines, Inc. (DMPI) for 10 years until 1994. At that time, the Higaonons became farm workers of the land that they once owned.
With the advent of the Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Law (CARL) in 1988, the 144-hectare ancestral land was covered for distribution to 137 farmers, all of Higaonon lineage. Certificate of Land Ownership Award (CLOA) was subsequently issued to them, hence, recognizing their ownership of the 144-ancestral land which rightfully belongs to them. What followed next was a controversial legal battle which sparked national interest involving the sad state of agrarian reform in the country (Multiply.com).
Fast forward to 2008. None of these Higaonons own the land. Even worse is the fact that Quisumbing has already sold all 144, 000 hectares to San Miguel Foods Inc. five years ago (Monsod). The land that was supposed to be converted from agricultural into industrial use remains idle and uncultivated. Not one of the proposals given by Quisumbing ever materialized. The “promises” of economic vitality, employment and increase in income, leaves much to be desired as everything was a “castle in the air” (Multiply.com). Under the rule, the successor in interest to the property is bound by the terms of the approved conversion. SMFI plans to put up a piggery with 162 buildings to house 4, 400 female pigs and 44, 000 piglets and also to put up a slaughterhouse. Compare this SMFI project with the originally approved conversion plan. The former was people’s welfare-oriented; now it is pig-oriented (Bernas)! In fact, they are also considering to provide air conditioning units for the animals because they are purportedly “not used to the tropics,” since they are to be imported from China. “Pinagpalit kami sa mga baboy,” was how it was perfectly put by one Sumilao farmer (Alfonso).
A large part of total income is sourced from farming. However, the share of farm income has declined from 1990 to 2000. Still, more than half of total income...come from farming...The Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Program (CARP) was a response to the people’s clamor and expectations of a more effective land reform program that would supposedly correct the many flaws that plagued the previous land reform programs (Reyes). Judging from the recent “developments,” who has been benefitting? On the eve of Human Rights Day, when the Sumilao farmers first sought audience from DAR Secretary Nasser Pangandaman, their fellow Mindanaoan, the official would not let them in. And as if to add more irony to the turn of events, all this was happening while Gloria was being awarded a medal for human rights in Spain. Perhaps they should have reconsidered granting that award and changed it into “animal rights” instead, those of the hogs to be specific. I am not bayani material. But I believe that the blood that runs through my veins is also that of the Higaonons (for whom my heart bleeds), and that of the incumbent president as well (for whom my heart rages). Norberto Quisumbing is also a Filipino, I presume. And yet, the pigs seem more like family to us than our lowly farmers. That question nags at me: For whom indeed is the Filipino Nation? If She cannot be for those who provide us our food, then who does She nourish?
On Human Rights Day in 2007, Aling Tess was holding my hand, a tear slowly drying on her cheek. My gaze landed on the hall across the DAR grounds. It said “Bahay ng mga Magsasaka.” How dare I think that the only thing I can do for them is to bring them sliced bread! They do not want food. They do not need your money. They do not even deserve your pity. They want action. They need their lands, their lives back. They deserve Justice. They’ve walked this far. There is no need for them to walk any further. It is us, the people they feed by tilling threir lands from sunrise to sunset, who must continue the walk for them. One of my favorite columnists could not have said it better:
...[We must] put the images of Trillanes and Lim’s revolt and the Sumilao farmers’ march side by side, one an extra-constitutional and violent means of solving things and the other a perfectly legal and peaceable way of doing so; one an impatient rush to change things and the other a patient way to do so (De Quiros).
The coup, the quiet march…they all speak of change.
28 March 2008
Works Cited
Alfonso, Nono, S.J. “The Shepherd Finds His Voice.” Philippine Daily Inquirer. 12 Dec.
2007: A15.
Bernas, Joaquin G., S.J. “What Is The DAR Secretary Waiting For?” Philippine Daily
Inquirer. 10 Dec. 2007: A15.
Burgonio, T.J. “Sumilao Farmers Hit DAR Inaction.” Philippine Daily Inquirer. 6 Dec.
Monsod, Solita Collas. “Injustice in snail-paced CARP Implementation.” Philippine
Daily Inquirer. 8 Dec. 2007: A12.
Multiply.com. “Sumilao March.” Multiply.com. Online. Internet. 2007-2008. Available URL:
http://sumilaomarch.multiply.com/.
Reyes, Celia M. Impact of Agrarian Reform on Poverty. Philippine Institute for
Development Studies, Makati, Philippines: January 2002.
“The Long March.” Philippine Daily Inquirer. 10 Dec. 2007: A14.
P.S.: The author currently regrets having written this Spoonful. The essay above that was submitted as a course requirement still articulates the same sentiments that she has at present. However, the author now understands that the only way towards genuine agrarian reform is the GENUINE AGRARIAN REFORM BILL (GARB), because it truly chooses the side of the farmers. Ditsi Carolino is a wonderful filmmaker, has an eye for awesome shots and a gift for visual storytelling. And yet, the author feels uncomfortable that the deaths of these Sumilao farmers were only "documented," and that no "real change" was lobbied for. CARPER is highly deceiving, and only "extends" the pro-landowner and manipulative aims of Corazon Aquino's CARP. One good example of CARP and CARPER's futility is the ongoing struggle of the Hacienda Luisita farmers and farm workers. The author also mourns over the exploitation of the Sumilao farmers by some landowners and liberal upper-middle-class so-called "leftists" who claim to be friends of the impoverished. Nonetheless, the author does not wish to delete or edit this post--well, aside from this postscript--in order to retain the openness and honesty of these Spoonfuls. Also, she is humbled by seeing how far she's gone and how much knowledge and understanding she has gained through the years of reading and writing. Still, the author takes pride in her mistakes, simply because she recognizes these mistakes and wishes to correct them, altogether, if the need arises. This Spoonful is only one of the products of misinformation and the liberal culture that still exists in modern Philippine society. Such a culture still wants most Filipinos to believe that reform is the only way to better our lives, if only to feed these liberals' own interests. Carolino is hardly a talentless artist. However, her art and liberal political stand pose a threat not only to the dignity of her subjects, but also to their well-being and overall morale. The poor and oppressed should be empowered, NOT pitied on or earned from by making a spectacle out of them. "The artist is becoming a participant.... For it is the supreme duty of the artist to investigate the truth no matter what forces attempt to hide it. And then to report this truth to the people, to confront them with it. Like a whiplash it will cause wounds but will free the mind from the various fantasies and escapist fares with which "the establishment" pollutes our minds," as perfectly said by Lino Brocka.
Forgive me, O Lord, for I have sinned.
Lord of Heaven and Earth, I confess to Thee.
Therefore I beseech Thee,
the righteous and compassionate Judge,
grant me forgiveness and grace to sin no more.
“St. Margaret.” Everybody called her that. Maybe except me. I’m not saying that she was a horrible person. Margaret was almost perfect (everything I wasn’t). And I loved her—no, I still do. Our friendship was and always will be one of the most beautiful things that ever happened to me. And I guess—no, I hope—she felt the same way. There’s really no telling how anyone could possibly understand what went on in Margaret’s mind. But I’d like to believe that I knew her (or I wish I did). I love her. And I’d like to believe that she loved me, too.
I remember it was a Friday. One of the busiest Fridays of that schoolyear. It’d already been half an hour after my midterms but the exam was still fresh, rattling my brain until I could almost see double. It was August 11th, a day away from my 18th birthday. Margie (only I called her that) and I shared a room in St. Rosalia Ladies’ Dormitory. I remember, I was up in that room—room 302—as the last of the day’s sun was freely pouring into the small windows. I was going over my baggage for the last time, all the while crossing out the already packed necessities in my head. It was the eve of my debut and I was beyond ecstatic. The previous night, I made sure that everything had already been taken care of, that the only thing I needed to do after my 2-4:30 pm exam that Friday (that fateful August day) was to haul my bags and take the double-trip to Turbina and catch the 7 pm-bus to Naga City. Back in the province, everything was ready, Mamay had said: the dress, the invites, the program, and Papay himself was already on his way home, too. He’d only be two hours away from Philippine shores as I was rechecking my baggage for the last time. It was probably the best thing that could happen on my debut: after four years of his being away in the UAE, Papay and I were heading home together. Everything was going really well—except for me and Margie.
I caught glance of my Winnie the Pooh alarm clock on my bedside study table: 5:10.
“Better hurry!” I thought. It was, after all, a Friday, and I was certain that people were rushing to their own homes as well. Heavy traffic would soon await me and this meant that my bus trip could stretch out even longer. A baby’s excited laughter resonated in the silent, little room. It was my phone’s message alert tone.
“Margie? Where are you?” I asked inwardly, gritting my teeth, after realizing how silent the room actually was. “Hannah, take care on your way home. Favor, pakilock naman po ng cabinet ko, i think i forgot, the lock’s on my bed. Thanks. i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to hurt you. I’LL MISS YOU. May God look after you. Let His will be done,” read the message, followed by a kissing smiley.
It was from Margie, my roommate of two years and bestfriend of ten, and yet, a stranger in more ways than one, particularly during those days (those days). She’d always texted like that, though, always the complete words, no shortcuts whatsoever. And she never failed to mention God. She could’ve probably been attending the 5pm Mass that very minute.
I let out a heavy sigh. It’d been a week then since Margie spoke to me that kindly. This would have been her first attempt at a “normal” sort of communication since she knew about what was going on between Andrew and me. My eyes searched for her cabinet’s lock where Margie’s bed was, and true enough, it was on her pillow.
“Can’t believe she forgot,” I thought, smiling a little. I half-expected that it’d be longer before Margie finally got around. Her strange behavior had recently turned for the worse and even I had started to get scared of my oldest friend. After I read her message, I felt that I could breathe more easily. Maybe it was just a phase.
I went over to Margie’s bed, hurriedly took the padlock, and pressed on the number combination: 2-5-6-8. It clicked open. I didn’t even have to ask her about it. I simply knew. I knew Margie’s phone’s security code, her ATM pin number, her real birthday—because there’d been a mistake in her birth certificate when the record keeper heard 30 instead of 13—her class schedule, the different times of the day when she took her medicine (because she had frequent bouts of depression)—everything. And I was quite sure that Margie knew all the things about me as well. We lived in the same neighborhood since we were little girls in Naga, she in her mary janes and I in my high-cut shoes. We both went to Universidad de Santa Isabel in elementary and high school. It was an all-girls school run by nuns from the order of the Daughters of Charity. And we both passed UPCAT and ended up being college roommates in Los Baños. We were soulmates. Heck, our menstrual periods were even in synchrony (or at least they used to be).
I hooked the padlock onto the cabinet door fastening, pushed the lever inside, and raised the pressed numbers. And then I checked its hold by pulling it twice. It held. There, that should secure Margie’s closet properly until she got back. I threw my own closet a glance even if I already knew that mine was also well locked. I took my phone and selected “Reply.” “K, mixon accomplishd.Ü don’t sweat it, i understnd. Just don’t 4get 2 greet me n lng on my bday ha. Wish u kud b dr. Miss u mor! My sincerest condolences 2 ur family. U rili shud b dr, though—”
—but, thinking that Margie didn’t need the extra conscience, I changed my mind and cleared the unfinished sentence, replacing it with
“—Maybe I’l drop by ur place 2 pay respects to tita on ur behalf. God bless. C u pgbalik qng elbi. *hugs*”
I pressed “Send.” It was all I wanted to tell her after a week of silence and a few dramatic bursts of emotion. Leaving for the weekend to celebrate my birthday at home while it was Tita Sonia’s (that was her mother—or what she had closest to a mother) wake three houses away felt like cheating. But Mamay said everything was ready and Papay was coming home. Just the thought of leaving Margie in Elbi almost killed me, but she didn’t want to go home. And perhaps it was better that she didn’t. Her stepdad, Doug, was the only family she had left and this was probably the worst thing about Tita Sonia’s death.
“People die, Hannah. It’s the only way they can actually start living with the Father.” That was what she told me before resorting to preaching about death and how chastity could have saved me from burning in hell—or something like that.
I checked the time again: 5:16.
But even as I chirped “Time to go!” did a slight drizzle begin to pour and in a few moments, it grew into heavy rain.
“Oh, perfect!” I went to the windows beside my bed and hurriedly closed them. Traffic was even uglier with this kind of rain, I thought. But I was good to go.
And then, Winnie the Pooh flashed 5:20.
That was when I took each and every one of my bags, determined to brave the rain. The room was still in its quiet reverie except for the rain outside, spattering on the windows, plummeting against the pavement, chanting angrily along with the wind, drowning out every sound in the little dormitory. I closed and locked the door behind me (and I wish I didn’t, even to this day).
+++
Being the only girl among my siblings, I had always been the one pupil in class who chewed gum a lot and pulled at my classmates’ hair. My two brothers always did those things and I thought that all the other kids did them most of the time, too. But I’d always get a scolding from the nuns and at 11, I already sort of earned the reputation of being a bully in the all-girls school. It didn’t help that I was two inches taller than all my other classmates, either. They called me Goliath. I hated those girls. They were always giggling and they’d shriek when they’d see a bee hovering around the room. It was annoying.
Margaret Abadilla, however, was the sister I never had. She was the frail-looking, petite girl who didn’t have any friends, and whose presence could only be felt because she always came first in the class roll call because of her surname. She was a mouse, never talked much. We were neighbors but aside from our classes, I only got to see her when she’d get out of the car and went into their white front gate, or when she went out the gate and got into the car.
In school, she always sat in the corner at the back even if she was too small, well, until she was made to leave that sad, little space of hers. We were in fifth grade then. Sister Asuncion, our Mother Superior and Basic Spanish teacher who, at 70 or so, only looked to be about 50, came in for class and pointed her trembling thin, white finger at Margie—the trembling, the bulging green veins, and wrinkles in her pale hands were the only signs that gave away her age. We actually made up stories about her being an aswang that ate little children just to keep her face youthful. “Tu! Ven aqui!” her high-pitched voice resounded in the classroom. “Can you even see from there? Susmaryosep, come and sit in front of me, hija!” All heads turned to the little girl at the back and everyone could see Margie shrink from dread and blush in embarrassment.
She hesitantly stood and slowly made her way across the aisle to Sister Asuncion who boomed, “Date prisa!” and this made her walk briskly to the front, her head down, eyes fixed on the floor. The other girls were whispering things like “So weird,” and “Just like her crazy dad,” and “Talks to herself most of the time.”
“And you, Ms. Martinez! Get rid of that gum or I’ll forcibly take it from your mouth and tie it around your hair just to keep those unkempt strands in place.” Sister Asuncion was already speaking to me.
The girls let out hushed giggles as I walked to the trash bin, rolling my eyes. I guess Margie got so scared at that time that she never returned to sitting at the back anymore. She remained in front through out all our other classes. And I kept my gum when the veiled aswang wasn’t around.
The other girls made fun of Margie a lot. Like I said, she wasn’t much of a talker—well, except when she was all by herself, or when she thought she was all by herself. There were also rumors circulating about her biological father, that he’d gone mad after World War II (he was already 83 when Margie was born and he died of old age). I don’t know what her father was like since she wasn’t able to meet him herself when she was old enough to remember. But if it was true that he really was insane, I still would’ve preferred him to Doug just the same. Even then, Margie was already terrified by her stepfather.
I remember it was a hot afternoon and classes were already over. Most of the girls were picked up by their mommies, or daddies, or nannies, while the rest were left playing on the volleyball court. I was busily winning and hitting at some girls myself. We were playing dodge ball.
“No fair! You’re a lot bigger!” one sore loser quipped. I’d already gotten her off the court four or five times and I could tell she was on the verge of tears.
“Hey, that means you should get to hit me more often!” I laughed and threw the ball at her. I missed. The girl jerkily swayed her hips to the right some milliseconds before the ball reached her.
“Ha!” she screamed and faced me, grinning from ear to ear. It was an irritating sort of transition from her sour face just seconds ago. The ball was rolling its way outside the court and the girl was already getting high fives from her teammates.
“Nice going, Goliath!” one of my teammates, a sixth-grader, shouted.
“Oh I’ll get it!” I snapped and ran across the court to fetch the ball. I think I was cursing in between chewing my gum at that time. I never missed. In the midst of my expletives—which I was careful enough not to say out loud, lest one of the nuns were passing by, especially if it was Sister Asuncion—I realized that the ball was already lost. I tried looking for it by the nearby bushes where a bench or two were hidden. That was when I heard that little voice animatedly speaking and I knew I had never heard it from anyone else.
“Look here, we can now play ball! You do know how to play ball, don’t you?” it said cheerfully. I peered through the bushes to see who it was. It was Margie and she was talking to somebody who seemed to be sitting on the stone bench, except that…there was no one there.
“Nah, I don’t think I know basketball. I may be too small, see,” she said. I narrowed my eyes and searched for another person. I was sure I heard no other voice, but she seemed to have answered a question or something. Margie tapped the ball and sent it to the ground. She tried to dribble it, but her hand wasn’t fast enough to even catch the third bounce. I chuckled. She gasped.
“Who’s there?!” she asked, more frightened than questioning.
“It’s me, Hannah!” I said, walking away from the bushes and showing myself to her. She only blinked at me.
“Margie, right?” I invented that nickname for her. I always thought she was such a funny, little thing and she was different from all those obnoxious girls who called me Goliath, and I knew I liked her even then. I beamed, spat the gum out, and walked towards her. I think she even took a step back. She always looked scared whenever people talked to her.
“It’s okay. I just came to get my ball, that’s all,” I tried to sound nice. “And don’t worry, I sometimes have imaginary friends, too—I mean, when I was eight, er, seven—no biggie!”
“They’re not imaginary.”
“Well, if you say so,” I smiled and went to pick up the ball that rolled its way beside the bushes. I glanced at the stone bench. I was certain nobody was sitting there the whole time, but I blurted out "Hey there, ‘Margie's friend!’" if only to humor her. I turned to her and noticed that her expression was now curious, not as scared as before. And then she smiled. It was a lovely kind of smile. Perhaps she was wondering why I was talking to her in the first place. Nobody in school seemed to mind odd, little Margaret.
“Hey, you wanna play?” I said, shifting the ball from one hand to the other.
“No, thanks. Uh…Dd-dada’s…going to be here…soon.” Her face looked scared again by the mention of that word, “Dada.”
“Dada? Oh, I see,” I said. “Dog” (I preferred calling him that) was one of the tallest, most formidable men I ever knew, I never wanted to look him in the eye. His beard was thick and black, and reminded me of the Bombay who rode his motorcycle around the city, past our house, every day. He owned the local meat shop and I always heard him shouting cuss words at his workers whenever Mamay brought me along to the market. He had a slight limp when he walked but he still had that dreadful aura about him. I’d totally understand if Margie was dead scared of her “Dada” (he did things to her, dreadful things).
“Hmmm…d’you even know that we live in the same subdivision?” I asked her. “Tell you what, it’s only two blocks away from here, and I usually walk home. You can join me—if you want. I’ll drop you off at your place.”
Her eyes widened, and I hurriedly said, “I mean, if your dad’s not gonna be mad or—”
“—Oh, will you?!” she exclaimed. “Please, oh—you really mean that?”
“Er, if you don’t mind, or your dad for that matter.”
That afternoon, I left those annoying girls without a ball to play dodge ball, and Margie and I walked home together—I, carrying my ball and backpack and jug, and she, trying to keep up with my pace, her bag slung over her shoulder and her lunchbox rattling in her hand. We talked about the girls we didn’t like in school. Technically, though, I did much of the talking while she did much of the nodding. Goliath and the mouse. I always thought it funny and strange, but we’ve been inseparable since then.
+++
“It’s huge!” I exclaimed, obviously elated.
“And it’s too much,” added Margie.
We just arrived in St. Rosalia and we were surveying the closet space in our new room up on the third floor. It was the very first time for both of us to have gone any farther than Bicol. Margie was cautious while I was psyched the whole time.
“That’s because you hardly brought any stuff.” I glanced at her things: one travelling bag that wasn’t even fully packed and the long, green umbrella that she always had with her since high school, and which served as her cane as much as it shielded her from the weather’s many idiosyncrasies. “You’re not taking the vow of poverty now, are you?” I teased.
“Oh, but it’s true! Isn’t it too big, Sister Pat? A person can fit in it!” Margie crossed her arms in contemplation and looked at the dorm’s nun and supervisor standing by the bed. I never liked Sister Pat much. She talked about the dorm fees a little too frequently and she always had that odd grin on her face as if she knew everything—and that everything was funny. Plus, she smelled strongly of moth balls.
“Ha! That person won’t get to breathe in there. The cabinets may have their locks but they’re already sealed, see? That’s to prevent roaches from getting in. Naphthalene balls can still come in handy, though. Don’t you just love how they smell?” she said, her lips eaten by the baring of all her teeth.
“Uh, no,” I answered.
Margie gave me a quick “Hannah!” kind of stare before saying, “That’s alright, Sister Pat. We’ll take it from here. We’ll just go downstairs and settle our dues shortly.”
“Alright, you girls have fun then. You just give me half of the month as down, and you’ll be all set!” The old, plump nun ambled her way out of the room and stopped just outside the doorway. “Welcome home!” she said. I felt my hair stand on end.
“Well, that was rude of you,” Margie chided me after making sure that Sister Pat was already gone.
“Well, that was creepy!” We laughed.
That was a year ago. We were freshmen. I already got over my gum and she wasn’t the scared, little child that she was anymore (or so it seemed). We were eager to take on college. Especially Margie. Being far away from Naga seemed to do her a lot of good and she knew it, too. Doug went hysterical when he knew that Margie was going to UP Los Baños but Tita Sonia was keen on sending her away. I assume that she’d always known what that “Dog” had been doing to her daughter, only that she never said a word. We lived in a quiet neighborhood where the slightest rumor could ruin a family. And I guess, Tita Sonia—an active member of the local parish’s Christ’s Ladies of Benevolence—cared more about reputation than her daughter’s wellbeing. For her, it might have been Divine Intervention when she could finally send her daughter to UP with only a bottle of antidepressants, a Bible, and all the money she needed (and all the memories both haunting and repressed) to keep her company.
Fortunately, St. Rosalia was everything Margie could have ever wanted. It was no different from a convent. The Chapel was only about fifty steps away, right outside the dorm. We ate in a “refectory.” We had a prayer room with a fully decked altar and four pews slightly smaller than those found in church. And the whole place was so quiet you think you could almost hear Sister Pat grin—that little sound of flesh getting sucked behind all those yellow teeth (if only the dorm had been as quiet as usual, then maybe it wouldn’t have happened, if only it didn’t rain so hard that weekend).
“Rosalians are known to be consistent honor students, you know. That’s because of the peace that you find in this dormitory, it makes the place conducive in learning.” I’d often hear Sister Pat throw this “pitch” to the parents who checked the dorm out for their girls.
“Conducive to, Patty, it’s ‘to,’” I thought to myself while I gave the parents a warm, “I’ll-be-kind-to-your-daughter” kind of smile. I liked everything about being a Rosalian, except for having to deal with Sister Pat—she just seemed like a hypocrite to me. She looked at us as if we were puking little cash machines. I guess she had some reason to believe that. I mean, Rosalians were usually pampered (although Margie was anything but pampered) and well-off. My family was only able to afford it because Papay worked abroad.
But I did like the girls in St. Rosalia. It was like a nightly slumber party, and because the dorm was little enough, we got to bond intimately with one another. I was close with most of the girls, we knew one another’s secrets—crushes, boyfriends, the few bratty dormmates we didn’t like but pretended to like, tips on shaving our legs and whatever else there was to shave, and what have you. Margie was adored by many, but they felt like she was out of reach, like she was on a pedestal or something. Meg (that’s what they called her) was quiet most of the time. She never got angry, largely because she vented everything out on me, which I didn’t mind, because that meant that she trusted me more than anyone else. God was my only rival when it came to her confidence. I knew how to pray, I was sent to nun’s places all my life and so was Margie. But Margie’s faith was like no other. She could stay in the prayer room for hours on end, she attended Mass every day at 5pm, she said the Rosary before she went to bed. She’d always been such an angel. It wasn’t long before everyone called her “St. Margaret.”
“And I’m like one of your followers,” I jokingly said to which she smiled humbly.
Margie was mostly admired because of her skills on the piano. Next to the prayer room and her study table, the seat by the baby piano in the receiving area was her favorite place. The girls’ visitors listened to her play. The inquiring parents were especially captivated, probably wondering if their daughters could ever be taught to play like that. I was a fan myself. Eversince we were kids, I knew that music was Margie’s gift. I never could play an instrument to save my soul. But Margie—she changed every time she closed her eyes while her fingers danced on the black, the white, the ivory. It was like she was in a trance or something. She had mastered Fϋr Elise and it was the arrangement that I liked to hear her play the most, perhaps because it was the most familiar piece to me. I even recorded it once so she could make it her phone’s alarm tone since she always woke up at 6 am, right before sunrise.
Apparently, Margie also got herself another fan: Fr. Kevin. He regularly visited the dorm when she played or when he just felt like talking to her. Once, he even sent her a bouquet with a card that said “My dear Margaret, These pale in comparison to you. Signed, K.”
Margie told me that Fr. Kevin was only 30, but that even at such a young age, he already made it to becoming the Chapel’s parish priest. She’d always been uneasy with the opposite sex (I couldn’t blame her, after what she’d gone through), but Fr. Kevin scared her less—perhaps it was the robe. Margie was never really attracted to him the way that he was to her. She thought it was a pure kind of friendship and she chose to believe that the bouquet wasn’t from him, either.
“There are lots of K’s as there are lots of Margaret’s,” she claimed.
“And you’re the only Margaret here who hangs out with a Kevin,” I pointed out.
He was cute, in fact. Some Rosalians attended Sunday Mass just to see him preside over it. They sighed and giggled to his jokes when he delivered his sermons. They even said they envied St. Margaret, that it was “a match made in heaven.” Margie frowned upon this and even tried to avoid him. The only reason I never liked Fr. Kevin despite his charm was Margie (I never found it in my heart to forgive him for what he did).
It was evening then and I just got back from school. I found Margie in one of the bathroom cubicles, furiously scrubbing herself. She was crying quietly (poor Margie, always had to endure things quietly) but her skin was red and almost bruised.
“Margie!” I shouted, running towards her.
“Don’t touch me! I’m filthy,” she sobbed. “I’ve to clean myself, Hannah.”
I then found out that that afternoon, Fr. Kevin insisted on seeing her. Margie plucked up the courage to tell him that their closeness already had people talking and that she wasn’t okay with it anymore. This was when he confessed to her that he was, in fact, in love with her. Margie would not hear any of this, so she told him that it was best if they didn’t see each other again. Margie told me how Fr. Kevin begged her to stay and when she declined his request, he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her.
“Doug was all that I saw, Hannah. It all came back to me. I…can’t forgive myself now,” she whispered. I tried to hug her, but even my touch frightened her. “I am filthy, I must do penance,” she said.
I felt sorry for Margie. I hated Fr. Kevin. I hated “Dog.” I hated Tita Sonia for being a mute witness to it all. And I hated myself, because I didn’t do anything to protect her, either.
The following months were the saddest, most disturbing time between Margie and me. She started spending an hour and a half when she took a bath. The other girls complained about this because they had to wait for their turn. She didn’t talk to me much except when I tried to start a conversation but she only ended up reassuring herself that she’d be “as immaculate as before” in no time. And I told her, “It doesn’t matter. You’re still the Margie I know. Don’t let your past haunt you. I’m just right here, everything’s gonna be okay (and I wish that I really was there for her and that everything would’ve been okay).”
I met a guy named Andrew. He was a classmate and I fell for him. He was my first boyfriend and I guess, after having been from an all-girls school and a ladies’ dorm all my life, I was excited by the prospect of finally falling and being in love. I admit, I sort of busied my life around Andrew. Somehow, I forgot about Margie and the things that she was going through (I hate myself). There were times when I slept over at Andrew’s place instead of the dorm. It was pretty easy, you see. You only had to ask for overnight permits from Sister Pat and you were good to go. The nun didn’t care much about your safety outside St. Rosalia, as long as you paid on time, that was it.
Margie confronted me about this and I told her that I knew what I was doing, that I was in love, that Andrew loved me as much. She flinched at the mention of his name, worried that I might not be careful enough.
“We used to have our periods together,” she said, her stare resting on the calendar I had pinned over my table.
“You’ve been checking on my schedule?” I asked, still trying to feign innocence. Margie had guessed it right: Andrew and I had, in fact, been sleeping, and I’d developed the habit of monitoring my period by crossing out series of days with a red marker. I became irregular and whenever a month had passed without any sign of a period, I panicked.
“You don’t even have it now.” She took out a small piece of crumpled paper out of her pocket and showed it to me. It was the instruction sheet of the pregnancy test that I took when I panicked two days before.
“Wha—how could you go over my garbage, Margie?!” I hastily took the paper from her hand. “It’s negative, just so you know!”
“You weren’t like this before! ‘Food for the stomach and the stomach for food’—but God will destroy them both. The body is not meant for sexual immorality, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body. 1 Corinthians Chapter 6, Verse 13, Hannah!” Her eyes widened at me, she was trembling. She was already starting to creep me out.
“Margie, just because you were raped doesn’t mean that everyone else was, too!” That hit her. Real hard. Her tears welled up in her eyes. And then, it occurred to me that despite the fact that we knew all that happened even as young women, we never really said the word. We went to a nuns’ school and we lived in a quiet neighborhood where the slightest rumor could ruin you. We knew what was going on, but we only spoke in a hidden sort of language, something that only Margie and I understood. And the moment I blurted out like that, the moment I refused to use the language that we knew, I realized, that was when I lost my Margie. Completely.
“I never said I was raped,” she replied, showing no emotion this time. I don’t know how she was able to stifle her tears but she looked at me, her face expressionless. “You’re just a whore, that’s what you are.”
+++
Margie’s behavior changed rapidly. At first, it was just strange. It all started when she stopped taking her pills and she’d fall into depression. I caught her putting stones and pebbles inside her shoes in which she walked all day and this badly bruised her feet. And then there were days when I’d find myself stopping at the door of our room because she’d sound like she was talking to someone inside. And when I got in, I found no one else apart from her. I wondered if she was just talking to herself just like when I found her behind the bushes in fifth grade.
“Nathaniel came for a visit, you just missed him.” She was smiling.
“Nathaniel?”
“One of the angels who speak to me.” And she’d go back to her textbooks and read while I stood there in amazement. “Where’d my bestfriend go?” I thought.
Some of our dormmates were already talking in hushed voices about the “peculiarities of St. Margaret.” One of them told me that they saw her weaving a crown of thorns that she picked from Sister Pat’s rose patch.
“Can you believe it? She wore that thing and she was bleeding the whole time while she played the piano all afternoon! The girl’s clearly gone cuckoo!” Aiza remarked as the rest of the girls listened.
“Oh, shut up,” I said. “You can’t even keep your hands off your roommate’s stuff.”
This made Aiza blush heavily and the girls disperse to their own rooms.
Things became even more distressing when I woke up to Margie’s Fϋr Elise (her alarm tone) one morning and found that she was already missing from her bed. I felt that something was up so I went to look for her. After searching the bathrooms and the receiving area downstairs, I finally found her kneeling in the prayer room, her right hand holding a fountain pen which she was furiously digging into her left palm. I froze at the sight of the black ink mixing with the blood that was spilling all over her hands. It actually took me a long time before I figured out what was happening.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I rushed and stole the pen from her.
“No, Hannah! Stigmata! Haven’t you heard about it?” Her bloodshot eyes bulged at me, a crazed sort of smile spreading across her face. Margie frightened me.
“You’re…out of your mind…Margie, you—” my voice trailed off, and I only picked her up from the pew and led her to the comfort room. I washed her up and I couldn’t stop myself from crying. Later that morning, Margie told me that she’d received a call that night: Tita Sonia died of a heart attack. And Doug wanted her to go home.
When I asked her if she was alright, she replied, “People die, Hannah. It’s the only way they can actually start living with the Father.”
The smile was still there and it did not betray her statement.
+++
That weekend in August—when I turned 18—was one of the best weekends of my life (or it should’ve been). There was an intimate party at home, and only my closest friends and family were invited. Papay was there, of course. And he kept on asking me if I had any boyfriend waiting for me in Los Baños to which I blushed and kept my quiet. I was still a bit guilty about Andrew and me but I had plans of introducing him when the right time came.
“Where’s little Margaret?” Mamay had asked.
And I told her that she didn’t want to come home, that she might have been too depressed to meet her mother’s remains. Margie didn’t even greet me on my birthday. I guess she forgot. I hoped she forgot.
We did go to Tita Sonia’s wake and I saw Doug sitting in a corner. He still looked frightening even if his black hair and beard were now speckled with white. I still felt the same hatred for “Dog.” Much of Margie’s weakness was because of him, of this I am quite sure. I didn’t show up for the funeral anymore. It pained me that Margie wasn’t going to be there.
I missed Margie a lot and even if I had a blast as debutante, I still couldn’t wait to go back to Elbi to talk to her. It just wasn’t the same without her. Our friendship had survived through the years, and all those years of bonding and trying to understand each other, and keeping secrets about each other—all these reminded me of just how much we had shared. A part of me said that I didn’t know Margie anymore, but a greater part of me told me that I shouldn’t be scared. I knew that leaving her or forgetting all that we’d gone through would just hurt even more. I just got so used to being with her that I couldn’t even imagine life without her (no matter what went on in her mind). I love her and I’d spent a great half of my life with her, and I’d do everything to bring my Margie back. Goliath and the mouse. It’d since been that way. And it was going to be that way until we got old and I’d listen to her play Fϋr Elise for me.
I took the day trip back to Laguna, looking forward to formally reconciling with my bestfriend. Maybe I wanted to try and convince her to seek a counselor or a therapist or something. I wanted her to be alright. When I arrived in Los Baños, I noticed that much of the place was only recovering from flood.
“It rained the whole weekend,” Sister Pat told me as she handed me my room key. It dangled from a small wooden plate with the digits “302” written on it. “Welcome back,” the nun gave me her usual grin.
“Thanks,” I said half-heartedly as I wrote down the date and time of my arrival on the dorm’s logbook.
“So, when are you—”
“—S’Margie upstairs?” I cut her off. I knew she was about to ask when I was going to give my advanced payment for September.
“Well, now that you mentioned it, I haven’t seen that child around lately. I thought she was with you. Why, aren’t you neighbors? And didn’t her mother just die a week ago? How else is she going to pay? Her father hadn’t been keeping in touch—”
“—Uh, yeah, but…but she wasn’t there at the wake.”
“That’s funny, she wrote in here on the logbook that she went home to Naga last Friday. There, see?” She flipped the book to the August 11 page: “Margaret A.” and across it, under “OUT” was 4pm, and under “Date and Time expected” was “Monday, PM.” I was certain that it was her writing—the cursive letters, the soft strokes.
“Perhaps she lied about going somewhere else so Sister Pat wouldn’t be suspicious,” I thought. I mean, I did the same thing so I could sleep at Andrew’s. So I said to the nun, “Alright, maybe I didn’t see her at the wake or something. She’ll be back tonight, anyway. Thanks, Sister.” And I began hauling my baggage up the stairs, wondering where on earth Margie went without even telling me.
I stopped at our door and turned the key clockwise in the key hole. When it clicked, I pushed the door aside with my weight because the baggage had both of my hands occupied. What attacked my senses was telling me that the room was anything but inviting. There was a weird kind of smell that was like something was rotting. The air in the room also felt heavy and damp. I figured it was the rain the whole weekend that caused such humidity, plus, our room was also located beside the dorm’s compost pit. Perhaps the fertilizer was still freshly buried and it stunk even more because of the added moisture.
I placed all my things on the floor. Eight-hour bus rides were always tiring, no matter how much you got used to them, especially day trips. It was hard to fall asleep when the sun was high. I knelt on my bed to open the windows and let the air in. It was dusk and the last of the day’s sun freely poured into my face. I felt a bit drowsy from all that travelling. I wondered where Margie went. I wondered how I could possibly start a conversation with her. I wondered how she was. I lay myself on the bed, took my phone from my pocket, and reviewed the last message that she sent me that Friday. “Hannah, take care on your way home. Favor, pakilock naman po ng cabinet ko, i think i forgot, the lock’s on my bed. Thanks. i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to hurt you. I’LL MISS YOU. May God look after you. Let His will be done.” A kissing smiley.
By this time, my eyes were already narrowing. I tried to keep awake until Margie’s return but before I knew it, I was already asleep.
“Hannah, wake up,” a voice said. It was Margie’s. To this, I bolted and sat on my bed. My head was still swimming as I took control of my thoughts and my senses. The first thing that I noticed was a piano playing Fϋr Elise in the background. The room was dark and my eyes were still straining to see where Margie was. She didn’t seem to be sitting on my bed, although her voice sounded as if she whispered to my ear.
“Hey, good morning,” she said. And finally, I saw her standing by her closet. It was a little dark but I could see a bit of her through the moonlight that streamed into the room. She was smiling at me. This time, though, it wasn’t the chilling, crazed kind of smile. It was the smile that I saw when we first talked behind the bushes in fifth grade. I could not explain the joy that swelled within me when I saw that smile (I miss that smile).
“Margie!” I said, leaping from my bed and running towards her, eager to throw my arms around her. But something was wrong. I couldn’t feel a thing except the cold that enveloped me the moment I touched her. I tried to move nearer—I thought I’d missed—but I couldn’t feel her. Margie seemed to be…part of the air. The stench in the room also began to get worse and the dampness was still there. I took a step back and looked at her, wanting to ask her what was going on.
She was still smiling, but then I suddenly saw that she was wearing the crown of rose thorns that wasn’t there a minute ago. She had blisters that bled on her forehead.
“Margie, you’re bleeding!”
“Hannah,” she said in a monotonous voice, “I bleed for the Lord. You should’ve believed in the angels. They spoke to me. They told me to get in there and welcome Heaven.” She motioned her right hand towards the cabinet door and she raised her left palm to reveal blood streaming from its middle. She blinked at me and blood also flowed down from her eyes across her cheeks.
I screamed. Or at least I thought I did. The Fϋr Elise was playing louder and louder, fighting off my screams. I noticed that I couldn’t move no matter how hard I tried flinging all my limbs. In a few seconds, I felt the bed beneath me. I was sweating profusely and my entire body was writhing wildly. I flung my eyes open and tried to catch my breath. Fϋr Elise was still playing and was as loud as it was in my dream. The stench was still present and it hung harshly in the damp air in the quiet, little room that Margie and I shared. But I was all alone and I realized that I was already crying. Tears kept streaming down my face as I looked at Margie’s closet and knew that the sound of Fϋr Elise was coming from in there.
My Winnie the Pooh clock glowed in the dark: 6:01.
I slept until morning. And I suddenly wished I never woke up. I wished I never left for the weekend without having convinced her to come with me to Tita Sonia’s funeral. I wished I never locked her closet when I read her text message asking me to do so. I wished I never tolerated her silence and her insistence on talking to entities that were not there. I wished I did something about that dirty old “Dog” and kept him away from Margie. I wished I was able to help her fight off her angels—the demons that tormented the sister I never had (but I felt it was too late to wish for all those things).
I slowly stood from my bed and walked towards the cabinet. The stench was getting harsher and harsher, and the music was getting louder and louder. I noticed that the closet door was a bit disfigured, it looked like someone was trying to push it open—from inside. I squinted, and my head was throbbing like hell as I approached what Margie said was the way into heaven.
I touched the padlock. The steel’s coldness almost stung my fingers. I pressed onto the number combination: 2-5-6-8. Amidst the Fϋr Elise, the lock clicked open and even seemed to reverberate against the cramped walls of room 302.
You are probably wondering why I am writing you when I can simply blurt all these out since I’ve been very outspoken with you all my life. I’d pretty much say whatever I wanted, even if I knew it would cause you pain, and I’d never really care much, either.
I know: I’ve been a very bad girl. My lips emitted poison and struck not only your heart but a hundred others that beat around me, too. Now, I wish to straighten everything out.
Sorry, as the song goes, seems to be the hardest word. I write this letter not only for your forgiveness (personally asking for it won’t achieve what this letter will) but also for your endowment of my only Christmas wish.
Mama, I regret every cruel word I uttered. I regret that I began answering back at the tender age of eleven. I regret that when you chided me (which I know I needed), I’d automatically, passionately snap right back. I regret protesting against your will when it was for my own good. I regret throwing terrible fits at home when things weren’t going my way. I regret cursing whenever I wanted, ignoring your plea that I speak like a true young lady. I regret using my mouth in improper and impolite ways. All these, I not only regret but I am incredibly guilty of and truthfully sorry for.
I’m also sorry for disobeying you and doing whatever I fancied, scorning my conscience that grew fainter with each rebellion. For complaining often for the things I can not obtain straight away not considering that each time this happened, I hurt you, for it’s always painful for a mother to be incapable of giving her child his desires in life. I’m sorry for making faces at you whenever I was displeased. For doing mean things and using the bratty excuse, “I’m going through teenhood!”.
I remember one night, when you stared at me for the longest time and said, “You’re not the daughter I once knew”. Then, I heard faint weeping through your bedroom door.
Just when I thought you’d finally give up on me, you stayed, reminding me of everything that lies ahead of me, telling me to “hitch my wagon to a star”, teaching me what you know of life, love, faith, etc. For all these, Mama, I’m extremely grateful. And I’m sorry for not appreciating them enough. For not seeing the good in our relationship but the faults and imperfections instead, that naturally exist with us humans.
Lastly, I am terribly sorry for saying I love you incessantly, not entirely meaning it as I continued hurting you more. I’m sorry. I really am, for every ache, for every tear.
And as my only wish this Yuletide season, may you forgive me. May you put all the aches and tears behind us now and give me another chance to be the daughter whose memories you keep fondest and dearest to your heart. The daughter I lost to my inner demons.
I know you miss her. Please welcome her home again this Christmas, as she tries to live anew, bathing in the perpetual love and devotion a mother like no other can only offer.
I love you Mama. And this time, I really mean it.
Forever yours,
Lara
Above is a letter that I wrote and submitted to the Philippine Postal Corporations’s First Regional Letter Writing Contest four (or so) years ago. It actually won first prize and the funny thing is , I never gave it to Mama. O.o
I was poring over my past documents when I stumbled on this one. My reaction was a sigh as deep as the Pacific Ocean. Well, it's mainly because, first, I was such a dork then. I was only 15 and was just too happy to care about right and wrong--God knows what kinds of things I am now capable of as juxtaposed against what I did during those times when pimples were as tragic as 9/11 and unrequited puppy love was my own version of religious hermits' corporal mortification. O.o And second, I'm not sure if I still have the guts to say all this again.
What the heck. I don't even know the person who wrote that letter anymore. It felt like reading someone else's diary, and yet, I just knew that it was...familiar...in a way. A Chinese proverb said , "To understand a mother's love, bear your own children." I dunno about my future children but I'm as sure as hell that I won't ever--ever--give up on them. The more sensible part of me tells me that I shouldn't be so certain. After all, I haven't been the kind who deserves a "Best Daughter in the World" trophy or anything. No, not really. I just won a writing competition. That was all.
"To nourish children and raise them against odds is any time, any place, more valuable than to fix bolts in cars or design nuclear weapons." -- Marilyn French
"Sometimes when I look at all my children, I say to myself, 'Lillian, you should have stayed a virgin.'" -- Lillian Carter, at the 1980 Democratic Convention, where her son was nominated for a second term as US President
"Whenever I'm with my mother, I feel as though I have to spend the whole time avoiding land mines." -- Amy Tan, in The Kitchen God's Wife
A mother who is really a mother is never free. -- Honore de Balzac "A mother is not a person to lean on, but a person to make leaning unnecessary." -- Dorothy Canfield Fisher
"She was the archetypal selfless mother: living only for her children, sheltering them from the consequences of their actions -- and in the end doing them irreparable harm." -- Marcia Muller
"If you've never been hated by your child, you've never been a parent." -- Bette Davis
"Motherhood brings as much joy as ever, but it still brings boredom, exhaustion, and sorrow too. Nothing else ever will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality especially while you struggle to keep your own." -- Marguerite Kelly and Elia Parsons
"At work, you think of the children you have left at home. At home, you think of the work you've left unfinished. Such a struggle is unleashed within yourself. Your heart is rent." -- Golda Meir
"Mama exhorted her children at every opportunity to 'jump at de sun.' We might not land on the sun, but at least we would get off the ground." -- Zora Neale Hurston
"Motherhood is neither a duty nor a privilege, but simply the way that humanity can satisfy the desire for physical immortality and triumph over the fear of death." -- Rebecca West
"The best way to keep children home is to make the home atmosphere pleasant -- and let the air out of the tires." -- Dorothy Parker
"Making the decision to have a child-it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."
--Elizabeth Stone
"The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness." -- Honore' de Balzac (1799-1850)
“Eva,” she whispered, her breath perfumed by the double-mint gum that she had been chewing after her eleven o’ clock dinner. It was just 11:30, and the first car that pulled up was a white, brand new Rav4. It might be her lucky night. “Hop on, Eva,” a husky, male voice said. She could barely see the man in the dull yellow cast by the streetlight against the dark Timog alley. But she didn’t get paid to pick out beautiful faces. The beautiful cars. They are the standard. “Are you getting in or not?” His tone was calm, as if finding another woman with a name more exotic than Eva was as easy as driving round the corner. Well, it was. “Hang on,” she quipped. She might’ve sounded desperate for her next sentence was a well-modulated, deep, and certain “you can’t afford me.” “Name your price.” This guy was obviously a big shot, she thought. “Ten. One night. No kissing.” “Done.” Just like that, Eva was in the Rav4. She couldn’t believe it. She was chewing her gum furiously. She could’ve asked for a higher amount. 15 thousand, probably. But ten wasn’t so bad for a Monday night. First client, too. “On one condition,” his voice filled the car as he drove along the hidden avenue that led to the highway. “No alcohol and cigar, I hate the stench. No pills, no weeds, no mushroom, no needles, or anything of the weird sort. If you’re going to use the comfort room, I’ll have to keep watch.” The man turned to Eva, the headlights illuminating his face. He had deep-set eyes and an aquiline nose. His lips were so little, one could hardly see them move. It suddenly dawned on her that the owner was as handsome as his car. “Oh, that won’t be necessary, I already peed. And besides, I’m allergic to all that…weird sort,” said Eva in her slow drawl. She was smiling. The man was a dreamboat. And his pockets seemed to be as desirable, too. “I don’t like that periwinkle outfit, either,” he said. “It’s blue.” Eva’s eyes widened at his mockery. She fixed the straps of her dress and shuffled in her seat. “Whatever. I have a halter dress for you. Size 4. You’ll fit in it, won’t you?” he surveyed her with his deep eyes before making the U-turn. “I am quite thin, thank you. But I don’t think I need that dress, sir. We’ll just get down to business, and you’ll be hotter than you’ve ever been that you’ll beg me to lick you down there with ice cubes in my mouth. I guarantee that you’ll be moaning my name, asking for more,” she said as she pulled down her spaghetti straps down her shoulders, her face inches from his. “Could you please get rid of that gum? Oh, and if you have any tattoo, do cover it with a concealer or something.” His eyes didn’t shift from the road for even a second. “I ain’t got no ink. I told you I’m allergic to needles,” she retorted as she pulled her straps back in place. “And the gum?” Most men would flip for Eva’s “subtle skills of seduction,” or so the other girls would call them. But this one—this mysterious, stunning driver—was impossible to please. “Please dispose of the gum.” Eva sighed and spat the gum out, wrapping it up in tissue paper. She fought the temptation of sticking it onto the car seat, but she thought about the ten grand and decided against it. “Thank you,” he said, smiling for the first time. The smile was so endearing that she forgot all about his earlier offenses. “Okay, you may keep that dress so long as you keep your skirt down. You’re having Noche Buena with my clan. You’ll meet my parents, my siblings, my cousins, my friends, everyone very dear to me. This is the story: you’re my girl and we’re incredibly happy. We met at the Le Cabaret Gala last September and we’ve been going out eversince. You work in sales but dream of putting up your business someday,” he instructed quite nervously. “Oh, and you’re 20 years old, so they’ll excuse your naivete for youth. And I’m Rupert, by the way. I’m gay, and I prefer that the world doesn’t know of it.” Rupert offered his free hand, smiling shyly at Eva. “Eva. I think I’m fine with Eva.” She shook his hand and laughed. “Right. Oh, and merry Christmas to you…Eva.” “Merry Christmas, sistah!” Eva leaned comfortably on her seat and gazed out the window, watching Manila’s December passing by: thousands of shimmering Santa Claus and reindeer figures as well as nativity scenes, of Christmas lights, and of parol happily hung around the city.
(Writer's note: above is a flash fiction that I did for my Creative Writing 110: Fiction class. I had to start writing with nothing but these random words: Eva, mushroom, ice cubes, tattoo, streetlight, periwinkle. I wove a little story out of 'em, also had them in bold letters, if you noticed)
