An I for an Eye (fiction)

It all started in a dare when Paolo turned eleven last week. Paolo’s the oldest among us and he has always been our sort of “leader” since his dad bought him the complete collection of Zoids action figures. His toys line up along their living room like a marching band when our own sala set has pictures of Tatay, Nanay, Kuya Marco, Baby Jessie, and me instead. I dunno why all the other boys fuss over those Zoids when I’m pretty sure that they also think that Zoids are really for babies. I mean it’s got really small parts and pieces but after you put ‘em all up together and you get yourself this mean robot—so what? Zoids can only become different kinds of mammals, dinosaurs, insects. But with the Transformers, they don’t only end up as just mean-looking robots, they also get to be cars and trucks and planes and motorcycles and stuff, like there’s a lot of stuff you can do with the Transformers—not like Paolo’s, uhm, baby toys. But then, the only reason I don’t get to be kind of the leader is because Tatay can’t afford any of those robots—although they really don’t have to know that, so forget about it.


Besides, I’m like the youngest in the group—we call ourselves “Decepticons” although we were the “Spartans” last month, depends on Paolo’s ideas. They all say I’m the smallest but really, me and Jeremy are just about the same height. I guess they’ll just have to wait and see until I get to be Kuya Marco’s age ‘cause he’s like the school’s best basketball player ever, and he’s always told me that I’ll get to learn how to play ball like that someday and (whispers) I’ve been practicing.


Anyhow, we were just playing Beast Wars outside Paolo’s house after we ate some cake to celebrate his birthday—so of course, he got to be Megatron again—when he saw Old Carding’s house, blinked at me, and had the craziest idea. But since the boys always think that everything Paolo says is brilliant, I can’t just tell them it’s crazy, y’know, or else, I’ll be out of the Decepticons. So the plan was this: I should be going to the inside of Old Carding’s house and quietly take a peek of his “secret room” and get out before he wakes or something and I must not ever get caught because the old man might gobble me up. “Since you’re little, it won’t be a problem for him to chew you!” Paolo warned. I looked at him and give him my scariest glare just to show that nothing scares me but really, I never got so scared in my life.


Old Carding’s house is only one corner away from Paolo’s. It’s the biggest, oldest-looking house in our subdivision. Nanay said that it was made way back when the country was still with Spain and I remember that it’s like a hundred years ago, maybe even more. They say Old Carding used to be a soldier and maybe that’s why he has that eyepatch on his left eye, he must’ve gotten it from the war or something. One thing’s for sure, though: he lives alone. And no one has ever seen him leave his house except when he goes out to buy some bread from Paolo’s family’s bakeshop. Paolo said that his Ate Maricris—she tends to the bakeshop—told him that once, Old Carding forgot or intended to not put his eyepatch on and she said his left eye had stitches all over and you could tell that there really was no eye in the socket at all. The first time we heard it from Paolo, we screamed—but not like little girls, of course. Old Carding has always scared us out of wits.


Well, to cut the story short, I gulped and breathe heavily and marched straight to Old Carding’s house, followed by the boys. I held my breath as I looked at the broken fence and worn-out gate and the old, big trees that towered behind them. Paolo was saying something like “You can always back out, Tommy. You really don’t have to do this if you can’t!” and the other Decepticons were like, “Yeah, Little Tommy’s scared! Little Tommy’s backin’out!” And in my head, all I was thinking of was Old Carding’s eyepatch and how it had no eye in the socket and how he can really eat me whole. My heart was beating so hard, I held onto my chest and I can feel it go up and down, up and down. All the other boys were jeering and making fun of me so I faced ‘em all and talked in my deepest sounding voice. “I’ll do it!” I said and I did felt more like a Spartan when I said it, too. Suddenly, there’s this brave feeling that bursted inside me and I feel like I can do most anything. In fact, I’m going to find Old Carding’s missing eyeball—it should be hidden in a bottle, floating in yellow liquid somewhere—and bring it to them as my surprise. I’ll give it to Paolo as my birthday present and his jaw will drop and he will make me the second leader or something and they’ll never, ever make fun of me again. I can imagine it all in my head, it was all so clear, and everything was worth it.


And so I said I’ll do it and Paolo went, “Alright! Go now, we’ll wait for you here” and he grinned at me as if I was about to chicken out on them and they were ready to wait and see if I was really gonna do it. But I was ready, y’know, I felt like a Spartan, you bet I did. I looked at the old house and then at the closed gate and saw that I could easily go through the wooden fence because it was broken somewhere. I found this hole which was big enough for my size—I bet Paolo can’t fit into it—and I slipped through it. Once I found myself in Old Carding’s front yard, I heard a lot of footsteps outside, and it sounded like the boys were all running away and they were laughing. I peeked through the hole and saw that the Decepticons were really gone, there was only the empty street outside and me alone in Old Carding’s yard. I froze. Suddenly, I didn’t felt like a Spartan anymore, it was a horrible feeling. Images of empty eye sockets kept flashing in my head as well as eye balls floating in yellow liquid in sealed clear jars, and Old Carding’s teeth sinking deep into someone’s skin—whose skin? I trembled and shook my head. I felt tears were coming on, but I held them and straightened myself. Whatever happens, it’s gonna have to be the boys’ fault, and at least, I’ll die with honor. Still, I was scared but I walked to the house anyway.


The front yard was big enough for six cars to fit in it. And the house looked even bigger and older and scarier when you’re near it. Its white paint was already fading away and there were holes and cracks everywhere on the walls. The house had a front porch just like my Lola Nelly’s old house back in the province and it also had a rocking chair and some potted plants but they didn’t look like my Lola’s. Old Carding’s plants already look dead because they’re all black and droopy. And his rocking chair moved because of the wind but I wondered if he ever sat on it since nobody ever saw him do so. The chair creeped me out, I didn’t like things that look like they could move on their own. The windows were all shut close and the main door was about six times my height and it actually had a metal knocker that looked like a really angry lion—just like the knockers that I see on TV on castle doors. My heart was beating even faster than before. The wooden stairs creaked under my feet as I took my every step—I counted, six big steps all in all—and I was wishing sooooo hard that I was climbing the steps to my my Lola’s house instead. Of course, I wasn’t expecting that the door was open so I made my way around the house—the porch sort of surrounded the whole first floor—and tried to look for a hidden passage, an open window maybe, or a weak door, or another little hole I could slide through.


And then, I saw that there was this back door with a screened window and I peeked through it. There was an empty kitchen inside where there was a really long, wooden table with tall wooden chairs all around it. I didn’t notice if there was any refrigerator but there was no one at the sink. Old Carding didn’t seem to be around, too. “He’s probably sleeping in his room with his eyepatch on his bedside table,” I thought. And I bet the eyeball was somewhere near as well.


I held my breath and touched the door knob. I turned it. It wasn’t locked at all.

The Baket List

Warning! Below is nothing but whining. This piece is strictly for whiners, those who are used to whiners, those who appreciate whining, those who can tolerate whining, and those who do not mind pausing for a moment from pretending that they are invincible and are willing to whine along. If you are not any of the aforementioned, I suggest that you immediately leave this page and go to a site that has more positive vibes like, say, Hallmark, or somewhere that has that fluffy life-is-perfect-if-only-you-wish-hard-enough kind of feel like Disney for instance. And if you happen to be a pro-whining person, then I also suggest that you check out Jessica Zafra’s site (jessicarulestheuniverse.com): she does it best.

“Ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako...” I mumble in the midst of heavy breathing in my little treks from building to building, corridor to corridor, classroom to classroom. They all look the same to me. Even the sea of faces do not seem any different from one another unless somebody familiar calls my name and reminds me that I still live, or that I still have friends (or acquaintances), or that I am recognized and remembered when all I want is to be Casper at the moment, minus the “friendly ghost” part. I recite my mantra for this year over and over—“Ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako...”—either in my head or in the form of loud thoughts. In spite of that, each repetition, for some strange f**king reason, makes the objective even more distant, the prospect of the work even more arduous. What’s sicker is that I have barely begun and yet the frustration.... The frustration is. Most unbearable. Beyond that of which was caused by my shattered dreams of being a novelist at 18, by my inability to swim or dance or be good at any kind of sport aside from my imaginings of Quidditch, by the deaths of Hedwig and Dumbledore!

Speaking of, I have been wanting to know when the sixth Harry Potter movie will come out on IMAX in SM North since last week and so I went to see the screening time literally handwritten in a ten-ish font size on a small piece of paper in front of the ticket lady (this was to be found in the allegedly “Third Biggest Mall in the World”). And then I noticed this particular phrase which I assume is the SM Cinema’s tagline: “Your Life as a Movie.” Pakshet. Another one of Henry Sy’s capitalist lies. In movies, the director gets to choose his/her actors. Even the actors can refuse a script. The writers get to choose their kind of adventure. The audience gets to pick between a Sharon Cuneta or a Megan Fox flick (this is, by the way, a no-brainer). After the film, there’s a lot of fanfare and publicity and if your film doesn’t suck like Gigli or Glitter or Crossroads even, then it might have a shot at being an immortalized classic like, say, Gone With the Wind or Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Oh but then, life is anything but Scarlett O’Hara’s waist or Holly Golightly’s happy-go-lucky-free-as-a-bird-elegant-sort-of-whore kind of lifestyle. Nah. Life is nothing like the movies. Maybe the silver screen has been trying to imitate life but it’s never the other way around. Otherwise, we’d all have credits rolling in the end. In real life, we only have epitaphs or urns for a conclusion (if we get lucky enough to have others give us decent funerals, anyway). My thinking that life is like a Meg Ryan chick flick—or a Nicholas Sparks romance, or a Coca-cola billboard, or a Jollibee commercial—has since been over for me. Not when happiness ceases to be a worthy enough pursuit and remains a mere word, a noun of nine letters with double P’s and S’s and three vowels. This is when I ask that horrible question that Rick Warren has tried to answer in vain (at least for me): What do I live for?

The following are even more questions that currently drive me nuts enough to kick the bucket. Hopefully, they will have their final answers and leave me in peace (and alive) or just vanish from the realms of my overworked and yet questioning brain without being answered but leave me in peace just the same (well and alive, too).

1) Bakit lagi na lang akong pagod kahit ‘di naman ako nagpapagod?

2) Bakit minsan, ‘di naman umuulan pero panay ang shower mula sa taas? Umiiyak din kaya ang mga puno?

3) Bakit kung kelan ga-graduate na, mas tinatamad ka nang mag-aral? Parang ‘di ka na apektado ng pressure at gusto mo na lang maglaho dahil wala kang makitang point sa paggawa ng thesis na hindi naman malilimbag sa isang international journal (balita ko maraming pera rito) at magsasayang pa ng sangkatutak na papel na galing sa libo-libong puno (hence, your own contribution to the murder of Mother Nature). Hypothesis: The Revision and Repetitive Editing and Printing for the Sake of a Decent Thesis That Will Only Satisfy a Select Few of the Judging Faculty are Harmful to the Environment.

4) Bakit merong mga kaibigang talagang panandalian lang? Parang ‘yung mga murang payong na nabibili sa tabi-tabi at mapapakinabangan lamang sa loob ng isang linggo (kung maswerte ka).

5) Bakit ako nagtitiis at nagtitiyaga pa kung ang pinakamadali ay ang tumakas (san naman kaya ‘ko pupunta?), magpakamatay (‘di pa naman ata ‘ko ganun kayabang), mamundok (the only way to fix a society is to be an active part of it), o maglaho na lang (‘di pa ‘ko marunong mag-teleport...besides, energy can never be destroyed, only transformed)? (wild guess: nagtatapang-tapangan pa kasi e)

6) Bakit ‘pag ikaw nagmamahal, handa kang isigaw sa buong mundong mahal mo siya kahit ‘di siya willing gawin ang bagay na ‘yun? ‘Pag mas expressive ba, ibig ba sabihin, mas marunong ka magmahal o madaldal ka lang talaga?

7) Bakit ‘pag me problema, mas napapansin niya? Pero ‘pag wala, indifferent siya? Mas masaya’t makulit siya sa ibang tao pero pagdatingg sa’yo, puro hinanakit at problema lang ang maririnig mo.

8) Bakit ‘pag nagkakasakit, saka lang nagiging mahalaga ang buhay para sa isang tao? Dahil kung nagkakasakit man, parang ibang tao nang nagpapatakbo ng buhay mo maliban sa mga gamot at duktor na pilit pahahabain ang buhay na hindi naman iyo.

9) Bakit buong buhay mo, tuturuan ka nilang maging isang “mapagmahal na nilalang ng Diyos” pero sa oras na nagmamahal ka na, sasabihin nilang unahin mo muna ang sarili mo?

10) Bakit kelangang “bakit?” Bakit hindi “bakit hindi?” Bakit “bakit?”

And yet, the mumbling continues: “Ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako, ga-gradweyt ako....”

Hans and Gretchen (fiction)

Hans and Gretchen: A Love Story

Hans Christian Fontanilla was the kind of person whom one would have great hopes in. An all-time achiever, a music prodigy, a good-looking fellow with that certain James Dean swagger. He had deep, brown eyes that used to know how to smile genuinely. He had fair complexion, long hair, long limbs and his arms were filled with visible green veins that branched out into many directions, like they were intentionally drawn to form this beautiful green procession of cords and threads. He was the kind whom one would expect to live fully and die young only because he was too beautiful to grow old. In fact, he’d always wanted to die at 27, just like all the rockstars he’d wished to become.

He was born on July 4, 1979—a Martial Law baby. He came from a small, conservative Catholic family whose only concern was to be good Filipino citizens. Mr. Fontanilla never got himself involved in politics. Actually, he didn’t like talking about it at all, unless it had something to do with religion, in which case he passionately spoke up for the Church—“Like any good Christian would,” he’d say. Mrs. Fontanilla hardly talked about anything and Gretchen, his younger sister, only liked talking about books. Hans was the odd ball in the family, the sore thumb, the black sheep, so they say. He was Plato’s philosopher who got out of the cave. If it weren’t for one huge mistake, he would not have been banished from the Fontanilla household for as long as he lived. And he lived ever so briefly.

When he lived, though, he lived like there was no tomorrow. He was the guy who did not hesitate to have fun. In fact, “too much fun” was not in his vocabulary. When he began grade school, he already knew how to play several pieces with his first guitar. Fresh into high school, and he got to join a band with a bunch of college dudes. He was into guitar as he was into singing as well as drums, a bit of the violin, and the piano was his plaything. He also got into painting after he was made to leave the family. In fact, he painted a whole series of portraits of Gretchen and sold them all just to get by. Whenever his buyers asked him who the girl was, he’d answer “No one.” And his chest throbbed like hell every time he said that.

Hans didn’t like forgetting. He made music to remember, he painted to remember, he smoked and drank to remember, he got high to remember—until the memories didn’t hurt. But there was always something about Gretchen that killed him slowly. No matter how much he played or sang, no matter how much he drew or smoked or drank, no matter how many sniffs he took, Gretchen haunted him like a ghost. In the same way, he was a ghost to Gretchen, too. They were brother and sister but theirs was a love story that neither began or ended only because it shouldn’t.

Hans lived life on the edge. He tried to go as far as he could but his wallet would only take him as far as the country’s capital. His dream was to go to the Himalayas and never come back. He heard he’d find heaven there somewhere, the kind that would still take him in, despite what he did. And so, he worked hard to get to those mountains, the “top of the world,” never really admitting that he worked hard to return for Gretchen. But every time this came to him, he’d always shrug it off like it was somebody else’s idea that wasn’t supposed to intrude upon his own thoughts in the first place. In short, Hans lived a life of lies and ghosts. His friends were his music, his art, his drugs, the women who never really roused in him what it was like to love. And he died at 27, just like how he’d always wanted. He had a drug overdose that he knew he’d never regret because twenty fours before he succumbed to his demons, he saw an angel in the nearby coffee shop. She wasn’t wearing her ponytail anymore but she still had a book with her as she read Paulo Coelho’s “Veronika Decides to Die” on that particular afternoon. And she didn’t notice the man with the long hair and beard across the room who was watching her read the book until the very last page, until she got up and left a P20-tip on the table, until she walked out the doors and faced the late sunshine during that last orange dusk. Hans painted the girl who was reading, right before he killed himself and he called the portrait, “Gretchen.”

Kuya

The family never really spoke about it. We weren’t supposed to. It’s been ten years now but there really is no mention about him, like he didn’t exist. It happened only once. And after that, it didn’t happen at all.

Kuya Hans had everything going for him. At seven, he could already play “Blackbird” on his guitar. Papa taught him that because he was such a Beatles fan but even he could attest that Kuya Hans could play the instrument better than he ever could. At 13, he was already doing the rhythms for Jailhouse Funk, a band that was initially formed by some college boys in our subdivision and they all called him Sly. But he wasn’t just good at playing strings. I told him once that their vocalist, Kuya Jeremy, was no match to his voice at all. No, Kuya Hans sang like Ely Buendia—high pitch, suave, no fuss, no frills—I loved it when he sang. I haven’t heard him sing in ages, he hasn’t been home since it happened (although nothing really happened). I wish I can hear him sing again (what I’d give to hear him sing again).

I am four years his junior. He’s always been the talented, outgoing, handsome and lanky young man in the family while I was the shy, little girl in a ponytail who didn’t talk much except if it was about books. My classmates used to call me all kinds of names: dork, bookworm, nerd, librarian, hootie (I’d glasses), and other really mean stuff but Kuya Hans would come to my rescue. “Run while you still can, you rascals,” he’d bellow but in a strange, cool and calm way—as if he were God summoning the dawn of light or something, except that he had that devil-may-care kind of stare (those eyes, those deep, brown eyes that weren’t anything like mine)—and all the bullies would leave, never to trouble me with their labels again. That’s my brother (I shiver at the word), that’s my Kuya (that, too). My hero.

Mama and Papa raised us to fear God, to always stay on the right track, to never stray. It wasn’t like the loving, fluffy kind of parenting we got from them. It was more of them laying out the path before us without ever really presenting any other paths in the first place. There was one right kind of living and that was it. We weren’t the sort who talked a lot over meals as I’ve noticed my friends’ families who did (and I wonder whether they also have secrets of their own). They always told Kuya Hans and me to love each other but they never really brought us together that much. I already had my own room since I was seven or so and he went out on trips with Papa and I’d have to stay home with Mama all the time. “You can’t join us camping out there, Gretch. It’s no place for pretty little girls like you,” Kuya Hans would tell me, caressing my cheeks, perhaps trying to comfort me. It did comfort me, except that it comforted me to an extent that it also left me a tingling feeling that was supposed to bother me. And yet, it didn’t.

For many years, that was how Kuya Hans and I would be like. Siblings, but not really. We lived in the same house but there was this wall between us, like it should be there for us to establish respect for each other or something, and he’d earn my respect. Of course, he did. Kuya Hans earned my admiration in every way (in every way). Mama and Papa were incredibly proud of him. I still am.

I was 16 and he was almost 20. He was home from college then (I remember how much I missed him every time he went to university and how excited and nervous I was when he was back for vacation). He grew his hair up to his shoulders. Mama and Papa disapproved of it (I thought it was quite becoming). I was pretty grown up, too. My period began three summers ago and the changes were already surfacing (I bet he noticed when I caught him staring one time with those deep, brown eyes of his). We were supposed to clear out my room because he was going to use up some space for his college stuff that didn’t fit in his room anymore. I remember it was a really hot Sunday afternoon and we thought Mama and Papa were taking their siesta. It happened in my room. It only happened once. And after that, it’s like it never happened at all. He never existed.

The Field Trip (fiction)

"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you…."
- Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

The Field Trip

“U redi?”


Chris was in his dorm room and had been staring at the same text message for about three hours now. The same question—his life in a question. His life in dull pixel in a dusty Nokia screen. His life in two words that aren’t even words to begin with. “Am I ready?” It was hard to tell. But what the hell, he was going. Damn sure he was. Ready or not, loaded or not. He was going.


The instructions were clear: a text would be sent at half-past ten at night, right after a late dinner—“and make sure you get yourselves a heavy one, the heaviest you’ll have, in fact. Consider it your last supper.” Laughter rippled among the students as Tina, their “tour guide,” oriented them on the “field trip.” The nervous kind of laughter hidden under the guise of a young, restless sort of brave front or the young, restless sort of bravery hidden under the guise of nervous laughter—whichever anyone preferred to see it. By 11, everyone was to confirm thru text if he/she was ready so Tina would know just how many vehicles they’d need. Right after texting, they were to dispose of their sim cards—“Be sure to throw anything that can be associated with this trip! Or with this organization even. Remember your loved ones, but don’t bring them anywhere with you.” By 12 midnight, everyone would have to make his/her way to the university grounds (because the university was the safest take-off point). That was where all of them would meet, where they’d find out who was going or who backed out. Next destination? The mountains, or the forests, or the fields—wherever the roads would take them.


Chris’ Nanay knew a bit about the field trip. Aling Celia sent him only a hundred pesos for the outing in addition to his allowance that week since he told her that it didn’t cost much.


“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice’s excitement ringing on the phone. She was always thrilled to hear about her only son’s “adventures” in the city. After all, Chris was the only one among the family to have made it as far as college—the country’s premier university at that.
“Just up north, Nay, not too far,” answered Chris, stopping his voice from breaking for they were in fact going down south and it was anything but “not too far.” They talked casually and briefly, just like any other conversation they had on the cellphone. She mentioned the neighbor’s pig pen and how it stank up the whole barangay, how his 62-year old Tatay, Mang Mike, had gone home drunk at 3 am again—“he probably feels as if he’s 30! Por santo!” She even teased him about Joy’s dropping by their house the other day. “She asked when you’re coming home,” Aling Celia giggled like a teenage schoolgirl. Chris loved that giggle. He was already missing it even then.


“Hala sige, at ako’y mauubusan na ng load. ‘Nak, ingat na lang ha (Alright then, I might run out of load. Take care, Son),” Aling Celia said before she hung up. And Chris savored that “Ingat” for he never knew what it meant until this field trip, until he and his mother talked for the last time.


Right after that conversation, he did feel like crying. But he didn’t. Tears would not make things any easier. Not tears, not blood, nothing. He got out his navy blue Hawk knapsack and fixed the zipper that would not close when it had to close and would not open when you pulled it open. He prepared the usual necessities: three sets of clean underwear, three shirts (two were of white cotton and one was red), a pair of cropped denim pants, his Colgate toothbrush, a bar of Safeguard, a sachet of Rexona for men, a sachet of Clear for men, and another sachet of Kraft Cheez Whiz Pimiento Flavor (he’d have to make do without the bread). He looked down at his feet, his worn-out leather sandals, and decided that he wouldn't need any socks for those. He’d have to leave his tattered sneakers behind because they might be too heavy. He then secured all these things in the bag’s main compartment and opened another compartment—this time, smaller—where he put in his copy of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. Kuya Rod, the reason he’d be part of this excursion, gave it to him a year ago. He was a like a brother to Chris. He would’ve joined him in this trip if he hadn’t gotten his girlfriend pregnant two months ago. “I know it’s wrong but there are things that just matter more than your country. Fight on my behalf, bro,” he said to Chris when they last spoke.


Chris noticed that there was still enough space for his stuff so he went to his study table and surveyed whatever else he could bring with him. He gave their family picture a quick gaze and turned it facedown on the table. The photo was taken by the front gate of their house in the province a good five years ago on his first day in high school. For a moment, he wanted to bring with him his Tatay’s toothless grin, his Nanay’s wrinkles around her deep-seated eyes, and his own bouncy, black hair that could’ve made it to a Vaseline shampoo commercial (he now has limp, long hair that he fixed with a tight rubber band), his innocence—or naivete, whatever it was—radiating through that crisp, white polo shirt. But he knew it’d be easier if he left the image of yesteryears behind. It’d have to haunt him later.


He continued packing: his red face towel, the handkerchief with the initials COM—short for Christopher Olivier Martinez—personally embroidered by Aling Celia (he was fine with souvenirs that did not have any of his loved ones’ images in them), the little postcard of Pablo Picasso’s Garçon à la pipe (Boy with a Pipe) on which Joy signed, “To my own Picasso, I’ll be waiting” and which had given him one of the greatest joys in his, so far, brief yet not so uneventful,18-year old life. He also put in his pirated copy of My Fair Lady which reminded him of his own mother, she being a flower vendor when she first met Mang Mike (it was also Aling Celia’s all-time favorite movie). He secured a Batman mug—which he’d owned since he was five—by wrapping it up in two pages ripped from the latest copy of the university’s campus publication. His packing was then cut short by a sudden crowing of roosters. It was his phone’s alarm tone and it was already 11 pm. He switched off the alarm clock and opened his inbox. There it was again in its misspelled, pixel mockery: “U redi?”


Chris pressed on the keys rather automatically. “You bet” was all that he could say. That was his answer. His life in two words. Then, he pressed “Send,” afterwhich he switched his phone off and took out his sim card (he’d have to throw it someplace else). He looked at his navy blue Hawk knapsack—it was either half-full or half-empty. It didn’t matter. He was going.

Meet. April. (fiction)

Introductions. All things begin in introductions. Usually. And because I 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, clueless about this whole writing exercise. Clueless about writing, in fact. She thinks writing is for the indolent and prefers running around kicking balls. She’s a soccer varsity player—“Football” as the Limeys call it, “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. During matches, she makes Beckham look even more gay. And instead of yelling, “Goal!” 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 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 clears her throat before 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? She runs her hand through her hair before she takes her seat across yours, pulling up her shorts so her knees can breathe. “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. And April never really forgave them for it.

“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. “April” is already a bad enough name, but not too bad.

There are only two things that she cannot seem to live with, though: her breasts and her vagina. She hates the bra but she needs the support since she’s a 36 (whispers “C” to avoid April from hearing). 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 changing napkins for that “monthly thing” (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. 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, 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—Gumamela. The distance broke her heart and Emily, last she heard, is now going out with another varsity player from the swimming team and his name is Lee. 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. Perhaps we’ll meet April again in a longer story, something that exceeds two pages and 1 213 words. Should it be a love story about Emily (Aw c’mon! Not another one!)? Or her being queen/king of the football field (Nah, I’m bad at sports!)? Or something like a coming-of-age story about being lesbian (Too clichéd!)? Or 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! Meanwhile, I’ll leave this one hanging. Thank you, April. You may now go ahead to your kickball practice.

She 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.

The Cinderella Man (semi-biography for ANC Storyline)

Everyone’s a sucker for a Cinderella story, especially here in the Philippines where underdogs such as Judai’s Esperanza and Thalia’s Marimar—now Marian Rivera’s, actually—are glorified in local pop culture. The following is an even more inspiring story about a “Cinderella Man” who rose from poverty, overcame its many miseries, and is now facing more challenges in the vast and dirty sea that is politics. What’s more inspiring about this story is that it is, more than anything else, real.

He’s the Man!

“Dati, nanlilimos pa ako diyan...literal na namamalimos....‘Di ko in-expect na diyan pala ‘ko mag-aaral,” he said, his eyes widening, clearly amazed at his own fate. He graduated cum laude from the College of Arts and Letters in the University of the Philippines Diliman, the same place where he, as a child, constantly kept his hands wide open, imploring for pesos; the same place where those hands gradually found refuge in the elaborate dance of ink on paper, and took hold of a diploma with a degree in Creative Writing and some units in Film—“...Kasi mahilig akong magsulat, parang gusto ko [ring] maglaro ng mga imahe.” His name is Dominic Flores, or rather, Honorable Dominic “Minick” Flores.
Minick, who is now 30, has been the youngest recorded barangay captain in the country. Apparently, somebody else broke the record but during his time, Minick was the baby, assuming the said position in Bgy. Pansol, Balara, Quezon City at 25 years old. As early as his elementary days, he was PRO of the barangayette. At 16, he was elected Sangguniang Kabataan (SK) Chairperson. And as a kid, he was too busy playing Chinese Garter and other “girl games” to even wonder why he didn’t prefer water guns in the first place. “...I’m an avowed gay. ‘Di naman ‘yan issue sa akin kaya I am loved by our constituents!” he said cheerfully.
“Loved by his constituents” was, in fact, not your usual “trapo” statement. Old men and women in the barangay all speak of nothing but praises for their young captain. Lolo Agapito Abrera, who already seemed to be in his 80s and an active member of the barangay’s Lupong Tagapamayapa, would even allude to Sonny Belmonte when he said, “Si Dominic ang pinakamagaling sa lahat...pati mayor ng QC, bilib sa kanya.... Kung ang iba ina-appoint lang ng presidente, siya hindi! Utak ‘yan e! Magaling siya magturo. Wala naman kame ditong alam e, pero sinasabi niya kung ano ‘yung dapat gawin.” In the Barangay Day Celebration last year, Lolo Agapito’s council won 2nd place as Best Barangay Lupong Tagapamayapa. Aside from this, Bgy. Pansol bagged 3rd in both divisions, Best in Solid Waste Management Practice as well as Best in Gender and Development Practice and Responsive Governance. They also came out 1st in Best Peace and Order Committee, making Minick’s domain the barangay with the most awards, four in total, among all the 142 barangays in the four districts of Quezon City. Minick himself has been cited as one of the most outstanding captains—all these before turning 30.
“Parang binigay talaga sa akin. I had no choice e,” he remarked on his being Bgy. Pansol’s “Kap,” having gained the title by law of succession. The previous barangay captain, Rodrigo Borgoña, was shot dead in broad daylight in front of the barangay hall in 2003. Up to this day, the case is still unresolved and Minick, who was then First Kagawad—the kagawad who had earned the most number of votes—had to take over. To Minick, it was “destiny.” Even his win as First Kagawad was not expected, either. He was absent during the last days of the campaign season because he was a delegate in Canada for World Youth Day. “Siguro nakita nila ‘yung mga nagawa ko as SK Chairperson,” he reflected. Now, Bgy. Pansol has a newly covered court, a new firetruck, a mortuary, a library and WiFi zones, a fitness gym, 24 speakers—as well as about 20 in two depressed areas each—installed in strategic locations to receive direct announcements from Kap including some words of wisdom called “Thought for the Week” which Minick would write himself, four special citations from the City Hall, and many projects and advocacies such as the enforcement of an anti-discrimination ordinance for gays and lesbians—the only known barangay to have one, in fact—all under the leadership of a “dark horse,” undaunted by the misfortune of his murdered predecessor.
Asked how it’s like to be a young politician, Minick said that it was working well not only for him but also for the barangay because the youth can always come up with new ideas. For example, he used to host a “mini-radio program” every Saturday noon transmitted through the speakers in the barangay. It was called DF, short for “Discussion Floor” and “Dominic Flores” at the same time. This was his medium through which he could give regular public addresses and discussions with experts on, say, prevention of fire, dengue, and what have you. The listeners could even ask questions through a phone line. Sadly, Minick could not sustain its weekly schedule because the barangay kept him too busy. If there is any significant edge for him, though, he said that it is his team’s resolve to have “professionalized the barangay services.” “...Kahit barangay governance, maliit siya, smallest political unit, but dapat leaders should put their hearts into what they’re doing. Kung ano ‘yung mandato ng batas, dapat sundin nila ‘yun. After all, sa grassroots naman talaga dapat magsimula kung gusto nating magbago ‘yung kabuuan ng bansa.... ‘Yang mga awards na ‘yan, bonus na lang ‘yan e. Mas gusto ko ‘yung nasusunod namin ang aming mission at vision...’yung pagiging gender-sensitive, ‘yung pagmamahal sa kalikasan.... Meron akong standard.... Hindi masama ‘yung mangopy ka sa ‘Best Practice.’ Nagvi-visit kami, nago-observe sa mga barangay na ‘Best Practice,’” he declared proudly.
On the other hand, when asked how it’s like to be a gay official, Minick replied, “Ang pagiging lider ay wala rin sa usaping gender...kung ano ‘yung magagawa mo for the community. And in the end, ikaw lang naman din ‘yun e. Sabi ko nga, mas naging advantage ko pa siya kasi yumayakap ako sa mga babae, sa mga nanay-nanay, nakakalapit ako sa mg lalake rin. I mean, ‘yun siguro ang edge ko: kahit kanino, kaya kong makisalamuha.” Heck, even the children in the locale know his name. And a huge percentage of his barangay staff are gay, too! One such staffer who is in charge of the barangay waste management, Joselito Merle, and who is already in his 40s, expressed his admiration for his captain who is a decade younger. “Super improve (sic) ‘yung baragay since napanganak ako dito. Hinayr niya ‘ko. Dati, walang trabaho, nag-aayos lang ng bulaklak. Ngayon, waste naman. Hindi lang siya mabuti, kundi saksakan ng buti tsaka saksakan ng galing! Walang pwedeng tumalo!” he exclaimed in his toothless grin.
Considering all the transformations that Bgy. Pansol has gone through under Minick’s supervision, the place has definitely benefited from that magical “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” touch. And it looks like Bgy. Pansol can only get “prettier” because Minick is barely done with his first term—having finished the unexpired term of the late Borgoña—and the “makeover” may be carried out for the rest of the city as well since the young captain is more than willing to run for councilor if only he has the money. “Mahirap lang ako. ‘Yun siguro yung wala ako e. Kahit sabihin mong matatalino ang mga botante, you still need to have resources,” he said. He also revealed that there are parties encouraging him to run and promising him their aid. To this, he added, “Pero sa tingin ko naman ay kailangan pa ‘ko ng aking barangay. Nararamdaman ko, marami pa ‘kong magagawa.” Cheap talk? Not quite. Minick has since resigned from his teaching post in Miriam College Grade School and is now a full-time “Kapitana,” his only sideline being a graduate student in the UP National College of Public Administration and Governance (NCPAG).
Of course, going full-time does not mean that Minick only sees the world in rosy colors. “Sometimes, you’ll make unpopular decisions pero time will come na mare-realize nilang tama palang ginawa ni Kapitan.” Speaking of “unpopular decisions,” the interviewers also asked Minick about his stand on the President and on being part of her administration. “Unang una, nakatira sa’min si GMA. If she’s in Manila, she lives in Bgy. Pansol.... As a person, I like her. Kaya lang, syempre, nobody’s perfect pa rin. Kung for the welfare ng mga tao, syempre, dun ako. Pero kung may nasasaalang-alang, may nakukumpromiso, syempre, ‘yung kapakanan pa rin ng mga mahihirap [ang mas importante].” He further elaborated, “Oo, may reservations pa rin kasi we have two depressed areas so palagay ko, pwede niyang (GMA) ma-address ‘yun bilang siya ‘yung nakaupo—presidente natin siya...[and since] most of [those na] nakapalibot sa kanya, nakatira rin dito. Pero sa tingin ko naman, performer naman siya. Ganun naman lahat e, lahat ng nauupo diyan, [para sa’tin] walang nagagawang tama.” The interviewers then threw him the ultimate “trapo” question, “Will you run for president?” “Kung may pagkakataon, bakit hindi? Kaya lang wala lang talaga ‘kong pera,” he answered with a smile.
Devoting his time to the barangay, though, has not veered him away from those closest to his heart. Minick comes from a small family, which hugely contrasts with his political contemporaries who all come from big political clans. His immediate family, however, is quite large, he being the fourth in a brood of six. They all grew up without a father. “Umalis si Daddy, noon pa...hindi na siya bumalik hanggang sa nalaman naming namatay na siya nung Grade Four ako,” he related. This left their mother, Estrella, whose very name befits her being “ilaw ng tahanan” and who is fondly called by everyone Aling Estring, to raise all of them single-handedly. “Siguro, without scholarship, wala kami.... Nagkataon lang na may mga honors lang kami,” he added. Among the six siblings, four were high school valedictorians including Kap, two were salutatorians, and eventually, Minick and his younger sister, Diana Dulce, graduated cum laude from the Premier State University, UP. Meanwhile, their bunso, Starson—his name having been coined from their mother’s—has recently completed their list of graduates as he himself donned the toga and cap last Friday, May 8th. Minick was able to get through college because he was an Iskolar ng Siyudad, thanks to his excellent performance in secondary school. Aside from that, he also benefited from the UP Socialized Tuition and Financial Assistance Program (STFAP) and only paid P71 for his overall tuition fees up until his sister joined him in UP when he was already a junior, making the fees jump to P800 every semester.
Apart from the Flores siblings’ perseverance and competency in school, Minick puts emphasis on their mother’s sacrifices. When they were a lot younger, Aling Estring had to work as domestic helper in Hong Kong for about five to six years and because they could barely get by, all six of them were distributed among their aunts with whom they had bad experiences. “Syempre, nakikipinsan lang kami kaya parang ‘naalila’ kame,” he recounted without the least bit of resentment in his voice. There were even days when they were tasked to dispose of the accumulated urine outdoors as a kind of embarrassment. Aling Estring would send money from abroad but their aunts would keep it for themselves and not tell them about it. “Dumating sa point na nagugutom na kami,” he said. “E ang Nanay ko, kahit wala man kami materially—‘dapat busog ‘yung mga anak ko,’ yun ang katwiran niya. Kasi dati, walang wala talaga kami e.” When their family did get together, their house had holes that were big enough to cause a flood inside when it was raining. He’d remember, “Nagsasalok kami. Sabi ko, ‘Ma, hanggang kelan tayo ganito?’” One of Minick’s friends then asked why their TV wasn’t working to which Aling Estring would answer, “Kahit wala kaming TV, busog naman ang utak ng mga anak ko.” “‘Yun ‘yung hindi ko makakalimutan,” said Minick, his stare distant.
It is a small wonder how their relationship with their aunts is doing at present, though. Minick stresses that they are doing fine but that Aling Estring can’t be blamed if she still has any remaining grudges. “Syempre, nanay ‘yan e,” he said. This is the reason he and his siblings do not hesitate to nominate their mother for “Ulirang Ina” every chance they get. Kap showed the interviewers some photos from his childhood, including shots inside their home. It was, in fact, a plain kind of dwelling with only one piece of adornment: an entire wall decked by gold, red, blue, and white—all the trophies and medals that the Flores siblings had brought home for Nanay.
“Nagsikap ako. ‘Yung edukasyon, importante.... Siguro ‘yun ang dahilan kung bakit ako love ng barangay ko kasi syempre, gusto rin naman nilang ang kapitan nila ay totoong magre-represent sa kanila.... Kaya kong makipag-usap sa mga matataas at kaya ko ring bumaba sa masa,” he said. Education is their mother’s most important legacy, which is why Minick himself struggled to send his siblings to school. “Tatlo ‘yung kapatid kong napag-aral ko kasi dalaga naman ako,” he shared, afterwhich he let out a good laugh.
This brought the limelight on his personal romantic life. Unfortunately, just last year, he and his partner—a man with wife and kids—had to break up after sharing a ten-year relationship in secret. Minick found out that he had affairs with two other women and this broke his heart. When the interviewer asked him if he preferred that such intimate details be off the record, he answered, “E bakeeettttt??!” before he let out another guffaw. “Pero kumekembot pa rin ako....dalagang maraming manliligaw.” And some more laughter.
“Queer Eye for the Straight Guy with more heart”—this seems to be the best description of Hon. Dominic Flores’ leadership. No fancy suits, no fancy cars. No gambling lords for bestfriends. No political clans with special interests. And definitely no mistresses. Minick’s Cinderella story is a whiff of fresh air. And if he does turn out to be just “the man” the country needs, then perhaps the Filipinos won’t mind if Malacañang will be painted a bright shade of pink for that “happily ever after.”
(Interview by Kristin Santos and Lara Mendizabal; Text by Lara Mendizabal)

That Day's Fab Five (Kap is at center)

A Brush with the Maestro

“Perhaps the best known, the most highly regarded, the most widely and popularly acclaimed, the most widely recognized Filipino painter living, here or abroad, certainly the most senior, the most esteemed, the most highly respected, surely the painter who has been the most richly rewarded for his efforts, that is, in terms of sales, prizes, awards, signal honors and distinctions, the painter who has been generally regarded as the dean of his fellows, the painter that Success has singled out for her own, the painter looked up to as master by succeeding generations of painters is Fernando Amorsolo,” I feverishly (and rather illegibly) scribble down on my notebook.

The paragraph above was quoted from this tattered, browning news article which was already too ancient and damaged for me to be able to see what publication it was printed in. It is now comfortably framed and housed by the Vargas Museum, specifically in the second floor, where some of the textual records on the first National Artist in Painting are on display. The rather verbose introduction of the article was written by Francisco Arcellana, who happens to be a National Artist in Literature himself. This relic particularly caught my interest as the article was about Amorsolo’s first one-man show in the National Museum on November 6, 1968. What kind of god was he during his prime that he deserved such an introduction in which Arcellana could’ve easily written all the words of flattery in the English lexicon to describe him, in which leaving out one good adjective would’ve seemed abominable? His close ties with the high-flying society that included the likes of Jorge Vargas and Enrique Zobel de Ayala (who would, according to the information presented by the museum, even grant him a scholarship in Escuela de San Fernando in Madrid, Spain) only stress on the celebrity that he already enjoyed those days. And this was once a little boy from Paco who dabbled with his uncle’s (Fabian de la Rosa, also a painter) paint, perhaps not dreaming that he would, in a few years, be “the painter that Success has singled out for her own.”

The Maestro’s skill with the use of backlight in his works could be his most important contribution to Philippine painting. In almost all of his pieces, there’s always this glow that outlines his figures, giving them a more recognizable shape. It might be the very cause behind the life-like appearances of all his subjects. Everything does seem like a captured moment, a moment frozen by the hands of a master, with his oil, on his canvas, outliving the very creator himself. And I so declare this as I, a dweller of the 21^st century, behold the kind of art that only a classical genius could deliver. From lush nudes to beautiful landscapes, from historical paintings of the war to idyllic genre paintings of bountiful harvests, from portraits of important people to portraits of unnamed secretaries or dalagitas, Amorsolo’s versatility is beyond amazing. And yet, despite all these executions of a myriad of themes, he still managed to bring that all too familiar “Amorsolo touch” to all his works: his love affair with sunlight. Perhaps there are a few that do not attest to this, like “Fishing at Night” (1942, oil on woodboard) for instance, which is my personal favorite. It depicts a man hardly visible because of the murky background, which, at first, strikes one as being so “un-Amorsolo.” But one later notices that the moon in fact, although not deliberately drawn, has its reflection cast on the riverbank (or seashore, I’m not exactly sure). So in a way, Amorsolo still played with light even in this very dark piece of his that it doesn’t exactly mean anything malevolent as perhaps suggested by its overwhelming darkness. It is JUST, after all, a man “fishing at night.” This is another characteristic of Amorsolo’s works: his easy portrayals of the Filipino life. Probing deeper into a certain painting is unnecessary, almost pointless actually, just to be able to get the whole picture, which can already be achieved even at first glance. With his trademark imitation of light and exploitation of colors (the museum guide shared that Amorsolo never worked on a palette but directly mixed layers upon layers of hues on the canvas), he produced his most popular series of genre paintings that mostly remind us of the more beautiful Philippine setting. They illustrated that he wasn’t keen on showing ugliness. Sorrow and struggle were apparently not his cup of tea. Dr. Rod Paras-Perez would affirm this in Amorsolo Drawings: “Thus for him was as it was for the classical masters—man must be presented not how he is but how he ought to be.”

I was given a firsthand glimpse of not only his artistic gift but also of his frame of mind. I can, therefore, safely say that Amorsolo was quite the idealist. It is then no wonder that Francisco Arcellana wouldn’t mind writing him a 100-word introduction. With the Maestro’s dreamy view of the world, sun-kissed rendering of the traditional Pinoy, he did not only live a most colorful life literally and metaphorically, but also gave us, even several generations later, a colorful peek at the ideal Philippines.

Fruit Pickers under the Mango Tree, 1937, Oil on Canvas

Palay Maiden (1920) - Oil on canvas

Lavendera. 1957. Oil on canvas.

Self-portrait, 1942