Mementos

I was at the proper distance enough to see what was happening at the kitchen. My mother placed the saucer containing suman and biscuits in the middle of the lighted candles just opposite to my grandmother’s photograph. I moved only when my mother instructed us to step outside as she sprinkled ashes on the kitchen floor. I was holding my stare to the ashes mixing with the dirt in the house, because I wanted to make a note of the process.  I walked backwards and suddenly felt a quiver of excitement; because any moment after the ritual, my grandmother would “walk” with us. I sensed the strands of hair at the back of my neck stood.

That was the 9th day since my grandmother died. The women including my mother was overwhelmed in prayers while my sister, my brother and I were silenced; because, we neither do know what to do nor where to positioned ourselves amidst the solemnity of the house. I was distracted looking at my Lola’s photo. According to the tradition, the ashes indicated if a visitor has walked around, because it would show footmarks on the floor. I wondered how the ashes, prayers and food would send the soul to visit the living. I never go beyond that curiosity neither forced into believing in spirits returning to eat a cup of meal.  What was important for me was that we were able to offer our respect to her.

I was inattentive about how long I stared at the photo. If Lola was here, she would have asked me for a cup of coffee. At least, I have something worthwhile to do. I stood up. If Lola was here, she would have asked me to bring her to her room. My shoulders would have become numb by now. I sighed and I wandered around the house. If Lola was here, she would have told a story about engkantos and ghosts wandering inside the house. I went upstairs, hoping to do something worthwhile while I waited.

I saw the Rebisco container again. It seemed ordinary and worthless together with the boxes and plastic wares shelved at our bodega. But, I immediately recognized the red pail because I was familiar to the illustration of cheerful children riding the merry-go-round and how that brand of biscuit became a culture inside the house. I opened the container and smelled the unpleasant breath it has kept for three years. I was not expecting to find wafer and biscuits that were usually in it. I was after the remembrances which supported my longing of a person I never wanted to forget. 

For some reason, her scent—a spirit of the sea mixed with sweat and talc powder was preserved in the container. When I smelled it, I was immediately reminded of my grandmother especially on the day we first met and the days we spent together. I was seven and I only knew my grandmother from my parent’s stories.  We met already because I saw her in some of my baby pictures. I hid behind my mother despite she prepared for welcoming. Nevertheless, I have to be forgiven of forgetting her face and for the uncomfortable meeting.  I gestured forward, received her hand for a mano and embraced her. There, I gave in to her warm bosom and delighted in to her summer salty scent. I knew, from that day, that grandmother will have to live with us based from the bulk I noticed at the gate. There, I saw three sacks of coconuts, saba, root crops, vegetables; and another two sacks of rice. The boxes were filled with assorted items too. I was not familiar of their names, but I saw a variety of distorted and colorful shells and some sea creatures such as the dark cocoon-like mollusk, and the relative of shrimps but have the body of a centipede. I was more amazed when all of these funny-looking creatures were edible. Grandmother cooked them into a creamy coconut stew. No matter how the bowl of seafood soup looked unhealthy to our eyes, it was a taste of the barrio life. My grandmother brought it into our house the most natural food we ever had.

 I never sensed from my father the same curiosity we experienced; except, I felt his craving for the familiar exotic food. It did not occur to my mind how my father longed for his mother like what he has sympathized for the delicacy prepared in our table.

She did not visit the barrio for two years because my father decided that traveling was unfit for her age, unless someone from the family went with her. But, father was busy in his work, my siblings and I were studying, and mother was indispensible in the house. Lola had her chance; when one summer, everyone was suddenly free. My father was right. Going to the barrio was strenuous. We left the house in the morning, and had been exhausted by the end of the two-hour bumpy bus ride. Then, we still had to endure the next two-hour sea trip. I had been vomiting when I saw the boat which we boarded. It was a bigger version of a fishing boat because of the “katig”. But the captain’s cabin, the deck, the roof which housed the row of seats, and the engine found at back area made it a transportation vessel. It has a capacity of about 65 passengers and still has a room for baggages such as the sacks of charcoal, coconuts and other crops, banyeras of fish and barrels of oil or gasoline. Getting on the boat was a challenge. We have to walk into a plank board, a mock up bridge connecting the pier and the deck of the boat. My mother was never used to it despite she had traveled to the barrio. However, my sister, my brother and I had to be lifted all the way across the bridge by my father. I would have fallen into the sea if I tried to walk into the board. Inside the small ship, I was suffocated from the mixture of the gasoline fish odor and the smell of salt from sea. Furthermore, I was uncomfortable sitting on the banko which were only good lumber attached to several beam/posts. The actual sea trip was another challenge. The small ship was gliding into the big waves which splashed water inside. It was fun at first, but in the long run, I was again vomiting.  Nevertheless, amidst all those trials getting into the island, my grandmother remained calm and silent. In the end, my father was wrong. My eighty year old Lola was fit to travel.

I was nine and was old enough to draw from my observation an image of my grandmother as a social person. She would have earned Doña as a title. As soon as we arrived at the barrio, a crowd aligned by the shore. Those people had been waiting for her since she left the village to live with us in the city. They were farmers, fishermen, tenants, relatives and friends who were witnesses to her life in the barrio. “Kamusta na Mimay”, they asked her. Then, I busied myself looking around the barrio. My grandmother owned some hectares of land which included the residential lots, the farm, and the coconut plantations. She was not rich and did not claim the ownership, herself. Instead, she allowed families to build their house and farm on her land. The people’s gratefulness became more evident when, we reached my grandmother’s house. My grandmother was delighted that her house was well. The people had been taking care of the place. Not only that, some families have prepared food for her. They brought inihaw na kwaw, nilupak na kamoteng kahoy and some fruits. We could have survived in the island with just the ration of food coming from the neighborhood. 

***

I searched intently for another item and found the photograph of my dear Lola Mimay. I studied it.  She was wearing a white bestida with a belt around her thin waist. Although her face has a pair of thick-framed eye glasses, she still got the attractiveness men would look from a woman—a balanced beauty, in and out. Her classic, long eyebrow curved perfectly down which emphasized her happy expression. While those half-Hispanic brown eyes accentuated her face. Her nose was beautiful and tall, and her full lips were accustomed to smile. But overall, her cheerful mood was something in her that made her beautiful. I hardly imagined that the woman in the picture was my grandmother.  When I met her she was already a woman with a long grayed hair, a freckled and wrinkled face. She has those expressions of calmness. She had changed in accordance with the years that had passed; like fashion improving over the progress of time.

Geronima Vargas was born on September 29, 1913 in the distant town of Calapan, Mindoro. She finished there her primary education, and later; along with her parents moved to Rapu-Rapu Island in Legaspi, Albay. In the new environment, she encouraged studying needlework and handicrafts which were short vocations suited for girls. Eventually, there were a lot of broken hearts when she married my grandfather, Clodualdo Baluso—a cadet promoted to Master Sergeant of the Armed Forces of the Philippines after years of combat in local and foreign places. She was already 31 when they were blessed with their only child, my father. After a long delay, she moved her career forward and continued dressmaking. At some point in her career, she had students of her own.           

She has nothing to wish for until; the Japanese came interrupting all her wonderful plans. Her career never achieved its splendor and my grandfather had left for national service.

I have little knowledge about the details during and after the war. But, in general, I was sure that she spent insurmountable years in the barrio where she administered the farms and coconut plantation industry. After which, the quarter of her life was spent together with us.

She walked in timely paces from her room to a particular chair found outside.  My Lola grabbed the chair and dragged it beside the threshold where the sunlight reached her and where she could view the street outside.  She will have requested for a cup of coffee and pandesal by the moment she saw me.  My grandmother really would want extra sweet coffee, if I had not reduced the sugar each time. Whenever she noticed that I have diluted her coffee, she asked either my brother or my sister for a tablespoon of sugar. But on instances when she has no one to call, Lola will have her own access. Eventually, my mother wondered why refilling the jar of sugar has become more often. She caught grandmother in the kitchen smuggling sugar in a small plastic bag. All the while, Lola has enjoyed the coffee I prepared for her because she had sugar kept on her pocket.

***

The torn and brownish papers inside, frayed from an old notebook was another memento I found in the container. It held less information about grandmother but I saw a connection. She was like that page, desaturate from pigments and brittle, when she was in her nineties.

There was a solid thud and water splashed, one afternoon. Then, we heard a short howl after. Startled, we looked for the source of the sound. She had been lying in the wet floor beside the bowl of urine which toppled on one corner, when my mother reached her. She was brought to her bed and father examined her limbs for injuries. She was fine except she had some bruises in her elbows and knees. But that accident did not stopped her from doing what she wanted. She kept on going to the restroom despite of the urine bowl mother gave her. Not even the night has made her rest from walking. One time, I thought the lights were off downstairs. But, I saw the light was on in the bathroom. I went out my room and approached it. At a distance, I heard water poured into a pail. I was afraid to go any nearer because I did not want to see an empty bathroom.  Who would be in there—at 2 am in the morning everyone was asleep, I thought to myself. My heart pondered when someone appeared behind the curtains. My grandmother was carrying her urine bowl. She has been going in and out of the bathroom again. I let my disappointment pass, and helped her way to the bed. I switched off the lights and went to my own room. The next morning, my mother asked us who have left the lights on last night. I shrugged.  

Her frequent flight to the bathroom caused her accidents. She had accumulated the injuries, until such time, she had trouble balancing. She was aided from then onwards.  Eventually, she was no longer a subject from a distance, but a person who needed the most intimate care and support. She often asked for my aide. Her hand pressured my shoulder and as she struggled each step. Yet, she was stronger than any woman in town. She never wanted to lie in bed the entire day. She was challenged at each dwindling days of her ninety-third year—and, for that alone was enough to identify her strength. She was incomparably greater, always, than her guide who only have to endure her weight.

I remembered how often she would complain of my brother for accidentally stepping on her foot whenever he passed by the doorway. I was amazed when she grunted about it more than the distressing passing of her time.  She had lived with us until she died at an age closing to a centennial—ninety-five.

***

Still searching the container for more items, I found a small sapphire jar. The jar held, inside, a piece of cloth. It was sewed on the edges to contain an old coin which was said, the first funeral contribution for a baby boy who died on a Friday night. According to my grandmother, the charm averted all evil and bestowed luck and prosperity in business for the bearer. However, the catch was that the coin must never be put out of the cloth as the effect would diminish and the enchantment would fade. She passed the heirloom to my mother, eventually; to impart the lesson of value and to symbolize the trust and responsibility she presented upon my mother. Truly, my mother kept her promise for the blue jar had always been in good condition and had given us a prosperous livelihood.

***

The tin water container was valuable for my grandmother, too. The soldier’s water canteen was a distorted aluminum flask with black plastic cap attached to the bottle’s neck by a strap. It held special memories unknown to us because there wasn’t a day without it. She never drank water if it’s not from the special container.

I laughed at the thought that I, once in my younger years, had caused damages to the canteen. It had always slipped in my hands whenever she asked me to refill it with water every night. But no matter how valuable the item was to her, she was never infuriated.  The canteen reminded me of her character who was as strong and as endurable as that item.

***

As I continue in discovering the contents of the biscuit container, I found a ball of crochet with a needle running through it. It enlightened me to a past spent crocheting and embroidering. My grandmother was passionate in needlework. She’s very good at it. She can do different patterns and designs. She used to sell her finished pieces to her friends, and those which were not sold were kept in our house. There was a time when she taught me how to do a crochet pattern, but my short patience for detail was a challenge in the task. Unlike me, she had an eye it and she worked on it slowly, and gracefully. She hated me one time, when I detangled her work, out of my frustrations and curiosity, hoping to discover how it was done. She lectured me by telling me that you cannot do a task if you hasten on finishing it. Work slowly but surely and you’ll suddenly realize that you’re actually close to accomplishing it.” Patience is a virtue”, she used to remind me.

***

Next, I found the little shells at bottom of the container. From it, I remembered those boring days spent by playing our favorite folk game, the sungka. It was a game played in an inch thick wooden elliptical board that has two sets of holes. The first set was comprised of two larger holes called payo where the player kept all his/her collected shells. The other was two paralleled row of smaller holes where the battle really took place. We played with our own mechanics. Unlike the usual play, we reduced the shells used in the game. And, the goal was to win all of your opponent’s shells just by gaining them from their side without putting anything on the payo. It was a shorter game, actually, for we could play several matches in one sitting. Despite of having played it many times, winning against my tactical grandmother was a difficult challenge. I never won twice in those consecutive matches.

***

            I was perspiring inside the bodega. I had emptied the container and had put the items beside it. I looked at the rummage I made beside myself. I was waiting for my mother to call me. They were still busy at the living room, I thought. I drifted my mind again into the experiences I had with my Lola.

             She gazed at the vast sky whenever she paused in between her stories, as if the clouds would form shapes into ideas for her next topic. When she looked away and be momentarily lost in thoughts, she became a silhouette in the glaring sun. Although, her recollections were mostly repetition of her experiences, she never grew tired of retelling it over and over again. Every end of a story was the beginning of another. Within a day, she would tell stories which she associated to random things inside the house. For example, she related the flower plant in the house to the coconut, macopa, star-apple and banana trees found in the barrio years ago. Then, she would tell about how she worked hard to make the kuprasan and coconut plantation profitable, how she helped in the farms, how she lost during calamities, and many more how’s and when’s.  The who’s and what’s were another subject in the next stories. She recalled encounters with her classmates, acquaintances, friends, family and relatives who have danced with her during barangay fiestas, who became her kumpadres and kumares and who have stayed in her home. There were names which were hard to remember because they were unusual and unique titles—Anto, Mamerto, Kuling, Bilikit and Poto to name a few.

In the end, she had amazed us on how good her memories for remembering her past. She even recalled the feasts of the saints she knew and the places she had visited for the fiestas. But, she had always been forgetting how many times she had told us the same stories. And, I never bothered telling her to stop because I was aware that she needed it to remember.

***

            I remembered when my Lola used to tease my sister with a name, Sisa. I laughed when I mistakenly thought that Sisa was the crazy character in the Rizal’s classic novel. But actually, she was referring to the name of the typhoon which ravaged the barrio during my sister’s birth. In between the words of her story, I pictured my grandmother as a devoted grandparent. The night of November 24, year 1987 was an unforgettable challenge for our growing family and most especially for my excited lola-to-be. The weather was not good and uncooperative.  It was a difficult situation for my mother because she was laboring and was about to give birth to my sister. My lola have been there to support my mother, despite of the bad condition. The roof was torn apart and moments later, the house gave in and crumbled. Fortunately, they managed to evacuate the place on time before the collapse. They transferred to another house which belonged to my grandmother’s brother. The wind still blew hard and the tides rose above the shore and reached the houses. Finally, my mother gave birth to my sister. After which, my father secured my sister into a rug cloth for the lack of better dried receiver. Then, the powerful wind uprooted the walls; making them transferred to another location.  They crawled outside because the roof had fallen down in them. A cousin of my father mistook the bundled rug and he had almost thrown it away. If my grandmother was not there it would have been a tragic story. My sister would have drowned in the flood. After a few hours, the storm left the area and the sea calmed.

***

            I closed my eyes and imagined my grandmother laughing and smiling at me. Aside from it made me felt the again happiness of her company, I remembered an unusual spot for a keepsake—her golden tooth.  One of her premolars on the right was coated in gold—a gift from her husband. I could not help but admire it because, according to her, it was a symbol of good status during her time. I was awed, yet I never wished to have one; because it was a fad suitable only in my grandmother’s time. I ridiculed about borrowing and sending her tooth to the pawn one day.  I giggled when she playfully act to remove her tooth and offer her empty fist to me.  

My grandmother has two secrets for reaching that age of ninety-five. First, my grandmother has a distinguishable lengthy pair of ears. I used to measure it with my fingers and then, compared it to my ear. According to my Lola, long ears were an indication that a person would have a long life. She inherited this feature from her Spanish ancestors. Her other secret was easier to achive who wishes to have a long life. She loved to eat seashells and seafood which benefitted her with a healthy body. It kept her bones stronger, helped lower the cholesterol in her body and kept the good circulation of the blood. No wonder, why she always wanted to go back and live in the island, where she can always have the hot “ginataang” clams for lunch and adobong octopus for dinner.

***

February 15 was unforgettable. That night happened four years ago. The house was solemn and somber especially at my grandmother’s bedside. It filled us with uncomfortable emotions, of pain and of lost. It was difficult to understand her speech.  But, I knew what she meant. That moment when she drew her last breath, the wind outside blew so strong. And then, I saw my sister cried. My mother went to the kitchen. My father was at the living room. I forgot how I felt.

***

            The last keepsake that I never knew about until the 9th day was the memory kept in those people whom we love. Through us—her family, she will always be with us in the form of memory—a keepsake that does not weather and corrode. That keepsake was more a concept and abstract, but has a more concrete juncture to my whole being.  It resided deep in us until we passed it to the next generations. Unlike all the things inside that container, memories are everlasting. It will never fade so long as the person who held them remembers.

Quietly, I closed the container and listened to the snap the lid. I was thinking how my grandmother’s life had been summed into those items inside the container. I returned it back to the sheleves. My heart was fed with the sweet memories and I left having a thought in my mind: We can continue to live in the memories of those people who love us so much and in the mementos in which we engraved our unforgettable histories.

Whenever I passed by the doorsill and stopped to lull in the heat of the sun, I always longed for a person who used to sit in the same spot. I can’t help but wonder if objects, too, do long for their old masters—like that chair, for instance. Does it know that its usual occupant had been away forever? Do they feel the difference between the warmth of my palms and my grandmother’s as I held them. They were inanimate objects but they have served well—like this sepia of photographs that has no ability to recall but has the capacity to show me clearly the face of my Lola. Like this blue jar that can protect an enchanted memoir against the weathering brought by time and pressure. Like the shells of sungka which remained lustrous despite of the dust and dirt that had enveloped it. Like the enchantment inside the kulambo which  comforted my fragile self. Like the crochet that can be untangled and reconstructed over again.  And, like all those things that had comforted my Lola.

I heard my mother called me. I went down and sat on a chair. My mother approached me, at the same time offered me with a biscuit.

Inmates

I was awakened in a steaming night of August by the clinking of metal springs underneath my bed. I rolled, so careful not to produce more sounds that would disturb the girls. But the more I focused; the more I became conscious of the band of noise around my five by two feet of one-thousand eight hundred pesos worth of suspended space. The small electric fan at my feet had been toppling down whenever I stretched my legs. The squeaking from my roommate’s gnawing teeth resonated as well. And then, there were the vibrations on the wall from the fan’s motor; an interlude of the passing vehicles and some honking of a pedicab; the tick-tock of the clock, the d, and, the palpitation of my heart. Together, they became rock music the entire time I was conscious in my bed. I wondered who else inside the room was awake.

Job…check. House…next… The blazing afternoon of May 2, 2010 was just an hour after I was hired as a visual effects artist in a post-production house—my first job, actually.The heat was oblivious to my intense search for a dorm or an apartment. I must have a place to stay before the night could prey me to the opportunists lurking in the stranger street. Then, there it was. Just a few lots from my first inquiry, I spotted a white cardboard hanging on the gate: Female Bedspacers, inquire inside. It said. It did not fit my imagination of a home, actually. But, I lowered my criteria because I was exhausted to look for better options. I acknowledged the advertisement, and rang the bell. 

Inside the compound, four two-storey apartments aligned on the right side of the pathway. It was traced towards the center by the lines of hanging clothes. In the middle, some women were interrupted when I entered.T he second door was my target, so, I stood there. A minute later, an old woman, mincing her steps and wobbling her head, appeared. She came out, unexpectedly from the third door. Then, she stole me from my potential host. Her physique was of a typical aged person. She has a white short hair, wrinkled face and arching spine except her arms. It was a convolution of bagging skin down from her elbow to the back of her hands. It was momentous revelation. And, I was preparing to back away and to look somewhere else until she began talking. I stayed because it was impolite to leave a conversation. I surveyed for a bit longer. She introduced herself and proposed to be called Tita Annie. Afterwards, she invited me inside.

I imagined a tiled floor, lacquered muebles and colorful curtains; but as soon as my sight adjusted to the darkness inside—reality came as a blinding flash of light.  The apartment was small. With twelve steps—I was on the kitchen. Three more forward, I was in the bathroom. Half step, I was on the laundry room. Five step backwards, I was in Tita’s bedroom. Adding five more, I was on my way upward to the second floor.  There were two doors on both sides, immediately found after climbing the stairs. The one on the right has one vacant slot.

The master bedroom has a large bed beside the huge window which framed the busy street outside. At one side, there was a divider which had small figurines on the shelves. The electric wall fan laboriously oscillated to shove off the heat inside the room. Crowding at the right side was a double deck which occupied one third of the area; boxes and plastic bags atop Tita’s personal cabinet; our locker; a dresser with some newspapers underneath it;a poster on the cobwebbed wall; and, the door which opened inwards. Fortunately,t he room had still space left for a person to pass and peek at the window. And, among all those blockades,t he enclosed place was jam packed off our tenants—Pamela, the siblings: Karla and Kat, Argielyn.

I had been considering to take the place until she told me the rent. I was dismayed with the one month advance one month deposit policy. I needed five thousand pesos as initial payment. I searched around hoping to find a reason why I will have to board in the apartment. I examined the double deck she was offering me. It was small, fit for a person to sleep on. It has no mattress. I still have to buy one. It was unreached by the air from the electric fan. I need one electric fan. Worst, the bed has no ladder. I have to step on a chair and stretched my leg  the window sill in order to climb the upper deck. I disagreed.

“Two thousand pesos” was her first offer. I looked around again. The room was crowded for five people, I thought. The bathroom was small because of the huge drum of stored water.  The floor was made of wood. The laundry room smelled like spoiled meat. The kitchen was a sore, too. It has plastics hanging all over the cabinets above the sink. Tita’s room was in an appropriate location in front of the kitchen. Also, it was dark inside. I weighed the consequences. “One thousand eight hundred pesos”, I told her. I only needed a bed. I accepted to sleep on the upper double deck bed, under her condition—I should not let the other tenants know of our rent agreement.

May

            I had difficulty sleeping on my first night in the apartment. Aside from the heat and the unstable bed, I was not really used at sleeping on somebody else’s bed. At home, I have my own  mattress and pillows. I did not have to share the electric fan with other people. Nor, did I have any problems producing loud sounds because I was alone in my room. Beneath the upper deck where I lay quietly, I heard Ate Pamela snoring. I wondered how she could have slept in a bed which swayed whenever I rolled above. Among the girls inside the room, she has a lot of experiences living in boarding houses. She had been living away from her family since college until she worked in an educational consultation agency nearby. At thirty-two, she had not been in a place which she could permanently call her house. The siblings, on the other hand, moved in two days after I rented the bed space. Ate Karla and Kat were from Isabela. They had been nomads in Makati for almost three years. I wished I had my sister with me, too. We would have occupied that large bed and then, sprawled in our sleep. By the floor, Argielyn was liberally enjoying her space. She could roll and could shift positions any way she wanted, because she slept on the floor. She was contented in her niche, I could tell from the energy she has, the next day. At least; she did not have to worry about climbing up my deck or punching a sister whenever she liberally extended her limbs.

            Waking up the next day was not a challenge and has become repetitive. Kat had left for work by six in the morning. I did not need my alarm to wake me up because I was stirred by the movement of the bed. I knew that Ate Pamela had just left her post below. While she bathed, I had my breakfast in bed. I often have bread because it was easy to prepare. At seven in the morning, I would take my turn at the bathroom; while, Ate Karla had just left for work. By the time I finished, Ate Pamela had dressed and had put on her makeup. On the corner, Argielyn would silence her alarm clock and lazily rose from her bed. I had, by that instant, able to dry my hair in the electric fan. Argielyn would rushto the bathroom at around 8:30 am, barely in time for her work. After a few glancing at the mirror, I would leave the room to Argielyn who was getting dressed already.

I returned from work at nine in the evening finding the living room crowded with all the tenants. I hesitated to pass. I might disturb their watch. I waited for my chance. Tita Annie was seating on a couch with her foot raised on top of a low stool and her hair has hair rollers in it. She was surrounded by the girls who were hooked to the television. Aside from the five of us, I shared the house with six other female bedspacers who occupied the room opposite to ours.I knew the names but I never familiarized myself to whom it belonged. Despite that my presence brought an awkward air to the woman seating next to where I stood, I put my bag down and watched the television. At the corner of my eye, I examined the culture they have inside the house. They were matured women judging from their composure and their confidence.The woman seated nearest the television was eating a sandwich for dinner. She handled the food with her pinky finger jutted from her hands. Then, she bit the food slowly, avoiding the ham and the mayonnaise from squeezing out of the bread. I had been staring at her by the time she noticed me. Though awkward, I smiled to her. She covered her mouth when she was choked by the interruption I made. The next woman beside her was a teacher, as what I have remembered from Ate Pamela. She was scrutinizing the lesson plan for the next day. Compare with the previous woman, she was more natural. She was unmindful of the proper sitting posture so long as she was comfortable in her seat. There was a woman talking over the phone as she opened the door behind. I squeezed my body in the corner. Then, she waved to them while headed straight to the stairs. I wished I had that confidence too. Not only her but also those women in the living room were accustomed to the independent lifestyle here in the big city. I had my chance to excuse myself from their company until the teleserye paused for a commercial.

            I came upon them gathered in the big bed.  My roommates barely talked in the morning, so, they extended the night for updates and gossips. I, exhausted from my first day of serious work, was ready to go to bed.

June

The biggest advantage of living independently was the lessons have not to be forced but were allowed to sink in with the help of reminders and experiences. Tita Annie has improvised this idea into a more incorporating way. She, literally, scattered wall posts inside her house.

“Pakisara ng pintuan ng labahan”

“Bawal maglagay ng mga plastic sa may ibabaw ng kalan”

“Huwag mag-iwan ng sabon sa may sink”

“Bawal mag-iwan ng buhok sa belfry. Kanya-kanyang pulot”

“Don’t use the flush in the toilet”

“Iwanan ang tsinelas sa may pintuan”

“Five minutes call per day only.”

“Turn off the lights and electric fan”

“Huwag mamalansta ng isang piraso ng damit. Makigrupo sa iba.”

“Huwag ibagsak ang pintuan”

“Huwag hihigpitan ang faucet at dahan dahan sa paggamit ng tubig”

“Went to market”

“Curfew hours: 10:30 PM- 6:00 AM”

“Bawal mag-ingay”

“Bawal magluto”

For the first time in my life, I had to fall in line before I could use the bathroom. My regular bath time was around 6:30 am, after Ate Pamela’s turn. I had to be inside the bath at that scheduled; if not, I would have to wait for my turn after the two girls from the other room. If I wanted to be early for work, I have to enter the bath on or before six in the morning or, I have to ask Ate Pamela to switch our bath schedules. And also; for the first time in my life, I had to wash in a common bathroom. I could have accepted that fact, if it were not for the considerations I still had to be conscious about. I should not stay for more than twenty minutes inside prior to the person next in the line. Five minutes for bowel, if I had to. Three minutes to apply the shampoo. Another three minutes for scrubbing and soaping my body. The four minutes were for rinsing and for brushing my teeth. After all the cleansing, I made sure that the area was spotless for the next user.

My next challenge was changing clothes discreetly, without exposing myself from my roommates and most especially to the neighbors who can view our room through the window.I managed to get dressed by hiding behind the closet doors and by clipping a blanket on one end to the edge of my double deck to the other closet door.  With a towel wrapped around my body, I put on my pants first and then after that I slipped in my shirt. By the time I was finished, I had bathe again—in my own sweat.

Every Saturday mornings, I had to lock myself behind the screen door of the laundry room. While inside, I had to endure the heat and the stink of rags and clothes forgotten by their owners. Aside from that, I was irritated by the hanging clothes obstructing my rights for a more conducive washing. All the while, Tita’s head would pop in and out at the small screen of the door. It was a reminder that I exceeded in the usual minutes of washing. As I go out the laundry room, she reminded me to close the door of the laundry room to prevent cockroaches from getting inside the house. Plus, she commented on how many pail of water I used to wash my clothes. And next time, I should carefully pour the water in the sink, and sweep the floor after my turn.

July

            On the third month, I was enlightened by the rarity of finding the room empty except for myself. I scribbled on my sketchpad while delighted the air from the electric fan to myself. I was pleased with the peacefulness and the solemnity of the air which inspired me to draw. I was unmindful of the time until my stomach growled. Craving for a delicious meal, I went to eat on a fine restaurant nearby. After I returned, I was immediately confronted by Tita Annie who had waited for me at the front door. I was surprised by the power of her words. “Gaano ka katagal sa labas?”, she began.  “Dalawang oras po”, I told her. “Pinatay mo ba ang electric fan? Muntik na tayong mansunugan”, she said. “Ah, hindi po ako sigurado”, I replied. “Sa susunod, alalahanin mo muna bago ka lumabas”. “Ah, sorry po”. After that, my mood was destroyed. I went outside and returned before the curfew. To my astonishment, below the electric wall fan, was Tita’s new updated wall post.

            The next Saturday, again, I was alone in the house again. To my disappointment, I shared the house with Tita Annie. Since the last time, I tried to avoid her. Fortunately, she was sleeping at the sofa. I decided to bathe. I when I opened the faucet, I had already noticed the loose washer. So, I made sure to close the faucet without tightening its handle. Then after, I went to my room. After dryingmy hair, I went to sleep too. When I woke up, some of the girls had returned. Ate Karla and Kat were fixing their things. At around five in the afternoon, we heard Tita Annie by the door. She went straight inside and looked for me. I have sensed that something happened again. Being the last person to have used the bathroom, she accused me of breaking the faucet. But by the time I had used the faucet, it had broken already. And I had been sleeping, how sure was she that I was the one at fault. I had to explain despite of her close-mindedness. I defended myself against her, but, to my dismay she misinterpreted it. “Akala ko ikaw na ang pinakamabait sa lahat, hindi pala”, she told me. I did not know how to feel. “Purke po mabait ako, hahayaan ko na lang po kayo na pagbintangan ninyo ako ng ganyan?”, I defended myself. It had to be the last conversation I would have with her. The following days, our discussion reached the other tenants. I was irritated to hear that I had talked back to Tita Annie when we had our confrontation. I ignored it and did allow to bother me.

August

I had been keeping all those observations to myself until this steamy night in august. Before I went to sleep, I confessed all my unfortunate experiences inside the house. I told them my troubles at the bathroom, at the laundryroom, the difficulty in sleeping, the discourses with Tita Annie and how I missed my home.

There at the boarding house, I learned so many things. I ate at the stranger’s plate. I had slept on somebody else’s bed; I picked up hairs at the bathroom floor; I had sandwiches for dinner; I controlled my steps; I conserved water and electricity; And, I tried to feel at home with strangers. I could not sleep when all these things and the noises echoed in my head. I looked at the window and thought about my family. I really missed them.

I woke up the next day. The night before, I had already talked to Tita about my plan of leaving the boarding house. At six, I was already out and was a nomad again. Until a few blocks away, I spotted my new place.

A Patchwork of Hoover’s Life: A J. Edgar Movie Review

Based on a real life story of a highly ambitious and powerful figure in the history of crime investigation, J. Edgar is a deep and substantial drama/biography film. Inspired to give it a traditional and classic appeal, the film was characterized with the early 1900’s look. From the production designs, costumes and sounds, it succeeded in recreating the milieu of John Edgar Hoover, played by Leonardo diCarpio.

The movie has this cathartic effect which seems to place the audience among the interviewing agents inside Hoover’s gloomy and warm office. His harsh voice reflected himself as a man who has been through time and now, prepared to expose his unacknowledged private life. As dark as his grey coat but clear as his silvering hair, he began to tell about the opportunity he saw in the darkness of a particular night in 1919. The community was alarmed by the large-scale assassination of public officials and the simultaneous bombing of the houses of vicious politicians. That evening opened Edgar to the contempt of the law and the incompetent investigators who used buckets to clean-up the mess rather than collecting it. He involved himself in the crime investigations; and, determined to correct the ridiculed system of investigation and helped by M. Palmer (Geoff Pierson), he eventually found his way at the doors of the Justice Department.  From then on, influenced by his previous work at the Library of Congress, he created a massive card index of public people and officials with various political views. Sooner, he was no longer an outcast for he was appointed as the acting director of the Bureau of Investigations. The 24-year old Hoover who was gradually corrupted by the devouring absolute power was on the leverage of the government. One of his cases advocated him more because he noticed the dwindling quality of investigation into a stare activity and losing its federal sense. Disappointed, he set to correct this contempt and sought means to serve as a catalyst for improvisation. Sooner, a system of investigation was established and implementations of a forensic evidence which he did by gathering brilliant scientific minds; and fingerprinting as a tool for crime study. It took years to dominate the crime investigation; in the end, he headed the Federal Bureau of Investigations—now known as the world-class crime fighting organization.

In the heights of his grandeur and even before he got his rank, he was always been sided by his closest cavalry: Helen Gandy (Naomi Watts), hi lifetime secretary; Clyde Tolson (Armie Hammer), his lawyer and loyal companion; and his mother, Annie Hoover (Judi Dench). His mother was his station wherein he succumbs to hard work, fatigue, and depression brought by his restless public service. On the other hand, Tolson played a decisive role in Hoover’s life and career. There were many scenes which pictured their affinity such as dining after meetings, watching films and horse racing, and simple spending of their spare time on conversations; and particularly, the lounging in a hotel—activities which distinguished and developed into an unexpected private relationship. No matter how ironic to Hoover’s rigid and self-righteous personality; for Tolson Edgar was a passionate and dependable companion. Throughout his nearly 50 years of federal commitment until the dawn of Edgar’s life, he had showed his unconditional loyalty and affection for him.

The movie is a patchwork of John Edgar Hoover’s life. Yet, although the film’s plot jumps back and forth to time, every memory of J. Edgar opened a door which revealed his character and slowly built the kind of person he was. Despite his secrecy, he was still the person feared and admired by many strong people today.

A review: Corazon, Ang Unang Aswang

Last night, I had to leave a bountiful dinner with my classmates just in time for a watch of a film which had been stimulating my curiosity several days before.

     The film was relived during the times of the Japanese regime, in a small rural barrio where couple Daniel (Derek Ramsay) and Corazon (Erich Gonzales) reside in despondence of child bearing. The villagers were discriminate about Corazon who they allegedly accused as a daughter of a whore.  Corazon has succumbed to the lost a their expected son and became insane in the later half of the story. She cursed the heavens for taking her baby away without giving her the chance to hear it cry. She swears that the barrio will no longer hear any child's cry--the village has to pay for all her pain. Sooner, she was found in the wilderness preying on boars and eventually, haunted the houses for human flesh. Daniel, oin the other hand, is a stereotypical character who loved his wife until the very end regardless of his wife's  demonic transformation.

     The movie, "Corazon, Ang Unang Aswang" had its fair share of good and bad remarks from the viewers. Allow me to iterate first the advantages the movie earned.

    First, I congratulate the movie for the commendable visual appeal. Through the use of a warm film grain; appropriate costumes and props; and,reconstruction of village set,  it succeeded in setting the movie back into the period of the Japanese occupation. Second, the sound mixing and sound effects added to the drama and intensity of each scenes--most effectively utilized when the aswang has been preying on the children in the barrio. It gave me cues whether the antagonist would devour to its next victim and fortunately, I was able to prepare myself. Third, there are good qualities when it comes to cinematography but, I'll save my negative comments later. Nevertheless, I like how scenes have been established and the consistency in the use of camera angles and movements. The filmmakers had always established first the set before cutting close to the characters in action to a tolerable fashion. Lastly, the film was not boring in a way that it has entertained me in several ways-- this  leads to my negative comments. 

    I remembered more of the criticisms. It was actually my purpose in viewing it. Just an addition, to my curiosity which likewise capitalized in judging the improvement of local films. In the end, I was a mere viewer  who always has something to say.

    The film has been challenged, all throughout, by the film editing characterized by incoherent scenes and overt jumping of frames. Probably, it was an effect the filmmakers were trying to achieve like vignettes to complete the story; however, I was lost at some parts because a scene will cut into an irrelevant one then go back to the previous scene. In the end, it cuts away the tension because my thought was interrupted by the shift.

    The story was not as compelling as I was expecting because the film was a cliche. The dialogues, scenes, and flow was predictable. I don't know if this was only in my mind and the other viewers felt opposite about this, but some lines appealed corny to my senses especially on the lovey-dovey scenes of Corazon and Daniel , the squealing and twitching of head of the mad woman was irritatingly exaggerated, and the drama has not moved my heart because I had already anticipated the circumstances of the story.

   The film is successful, otherwise, because it had proved that the Philippine Cinema can also produce other genre. In the end, it was an entertaining watch and a good dessert --afterall, I left a meal without having one.

Passenger Seat

A blatant truth pierced through my heart and left me the paranoia that life, sometimes, can sever through the hands of others.

One night on my way home, I was looking for a ride via Evangelista-Libertad. There were numerous vehicles to choose from, but, I boarded this particular jeep for it was attractive and a lively one—perfectly complementing my gloomy feeling. The several small blinking lights accentuating its rear and sides seemed a minor detail against the interior which looked bouncy of mirror mosaic ceiling, groovy lights and hippy music. I was sitting by the entrance along with another passenger a middle-aged woman who was near the captain. I never thought about it at first, but, the driver was as active as his vehicle.

For the entire journey, I wanted to pull the driver’s hair off because he actually transformed his jeep into a racing vehicle. All the while, I was imagining a spinning roulette from among the possible causes for a car accident which might happen anytime out of reckless and unlawful driving. How would have we ended if that sharp abrupt turn in the street had cars in the counter flow? Or, what would likely occur if the driver missed the road signal because of the loud music? I was paranoid.

My resentment of the experience was, the idea that I was forced to a dependency on the driver who doesn’t seem to care about nor has the consciousness to value his passengers. That moment, I feared for my life because I was not prepared to face a meaningless death. I mean, where was the dignity of dying in the hands of a juvenile driver?  Not only that, I thought about the woman who has her family waiting for her at home. Or, what if he hit a boy along the way? Did the driver ever think of these possibilities?

The driver missed the significant lessons—the sense of responsibility and obedience. Not only him but also everyone has a role in which we have to perform properly. We were tasked to do it; therefore, we must be reliable and mature enough to be the person in control of the situation especially if other people’s welfare were involved.  Along with, proper observation of the law was essential. We know how to break rules; then, we should also know how to follow them. We must know when to stop or to go.

I missed to give him these enlightenment. I suddenly felt the blame was on the apathetic citizen like myself—who should have been a purveyor of awareness. I was conscious all along but I never bothered.

Nevertheless, we are lucky to have God, above all, who takes the wheel and drives us all into safe; and who, in the end, erases all these paranoia.

I think that experience is applicable to any aspects in life. There would be other instances that would situate us into similar dependency requiring our responsibility and obedience.

But, now I know.

Echoes of the Broken Silence

“Be brave”, her father's lasts words to his family before he died is just a few among the quotations found in the book “Breaking the Silence” by Lourdes Montinola. The book is the author's account of her personal experience of war which happened five years ago.

Henceforth, the task of this writing is to go beyond the lines and quotations and dig deeper to an understanding the techniques used to tell her memoir. The thesis of this critical review is the discussion of the factors which made her life writing an effective narrative.

When hundreds of Filipino lives were stolen, the Montinola family was among the few groups who had endured the adversities of the Japanese regime by at least living the best of each day. Amidst the war, the elite family celebrated special occasions, ate those premiere meals and products, educated their children, fancied recreations and entertainment, sustained enough livelihoods, and benefited from influential public personalities—all of which made their life in better condition.  Unfortunately, they were later deprived of those grace periods during the faltering power of the aggressive Japanese oppressors. They became victims of the Japanese soldiers’ last execution of violence as they escape from the strong force of the American-Filipino soldiers. At those moments, they were treated by the Japanese with the same cruelty they have exercised to punish the Filipinos. There was neither rich nor poor, neither woman nor man, neither old nor young—no one escaped the wrath of war.  A few days before the Liberation, the majority of the family was massacred, an unbearable pain that befallen to them.

For more than five decades passed, her heart had been weeping for her lost; and yet she bravely willed to simmer again the tension and fear. The autobiographical narrative was primarily focused on running through the unrelated events of recollected history using a single thread to connect and stitch them together.

To deliver the story of her past that had been kept for long with clarity and effectiveness, the “Breaking of the Silence” had to resurface from the trials in between. It was a challenge for the writer to revisit the repressed subconscious because it is difficult to draw an insurmountable courage and strength to face the trauma again. The problem should come from the possibility that the writer may alter facts due to the limitation of her willingness to engage again with the pain and terror; and, that the writer may hardly articulate her thoughts.  Nevertheless, some points can negate the concept of alteration from her narrative. First, although the writer had been subjective; there is coherence, consistency and logic to her deliberation. Second, she would, presumably, benefit from creatively adjusting the details to achieve interest; however, the joy of expressing a genuine experience/history is sacrificed —which the author probably doesn’t tolerate.  “A trauma can be truly said to have happened until it can be spoken and listened by sympathetic readers”, Leigh Gilmore said in theLimit Cases: Trauma, Self-Representation and Jurisdiction of Identity. Last, she had allowed time to heal her despair and to clear her mind before working on the narrative. Thus, the narrative, hopefully, is safe from emotional prejudices and lies.

Nevertheless, the output was successfully obtained and the author achieved her aim which is to go back, to learn more and to achieve an interpretation of the events in her life.

The narrative has achieved clarity of effectiveness through the techniques the author had utilized. One, there was emphasis which characterized the chapters of book. In effect, the stress on the events fortified her cogent point revealing passionate appeal and reaction from the readers.

The repetitions, also, indicated that those experiences were the most memorable and the most important detail of her past. For instance, the incident which ended to the tragic death of her entire family played several times in the book because she wanted to underline it as unforgettable. In addition, it was one of her intended method to develop a picture with vividness and verifiable deliberation. She wanted to press the reader that this actually happened in the past and it had brought devastating impact to her.

Also, she was capitalizing on creating a comparison and contrast between the before and after of the events. Almost common in all the chapters, the anecdotes were established in a light and happy mood. Eventually, the author introduced a disruption and added tension to the peaceful and nearly perfect setting. Then, the ending would frequently closed with the tragedy that came to their family. The chapters A Playhouse, A Special Father, Trees, Kublai Khan and Mother had proved to shared this particular narrative arc. The establishments of the scenes in these chapters provided the basic knowledge about everything and simple enough to be easily drawn to the schema.

The author had always anticipate that this strategy will drew out sympathy from the reader. The emotions inevitably came out because Montinola had used clear descriptions which rendered an image into the reader's mind and provided an active participation of their imagination. Sorrow and pain for the innocent who suffered and died, regrets and despair for the frustrations; compassion for the oppressed and hate for the Japanese cruelty—were only few among those feelings. In the end, her work, for this reason, was impressive.

The narrative refrained from a soliciting tone nevertheless, it still had the similar action and intensity of a dramatic progression . Without being emotional in tone,on the other hand, she made me cry. For her, it was already enough for the facts to unfold in accordance to how it actually happened through the use of simple descriptions and proper order of events. She knows how to delay the tension and impact and to properly stage the elements according to their value in the story. She delivers these by establishing the characters and elements to create the anticipation. Although, there was an inevitable pattern created. Nevertheless, the connection between the reader and the writer was present. It made us felt the love and blessing of a good father and mother, the excitement of outdoor adventures and even the comfortable silence with a brother or sister.

Also, what made her style effective was the cathartic feel of it. It can't be helped to compare this with Historical textbooks which were read in schools such as The Philippine History by Zaide and books by Leon Hidalgo Guerrero. Although these books, including Lourdes Montinola’s The Breaking of Silence, were about history; they wire different on the attitude/manner of presentation. The textbooks were informational, tedious and plain and while, the Breaking the Silence’s approach was descriptive and narrative which exercised imagination and stimulated participation. Between the two, the narration was more felt than the plain textbooks and it is more relational to the readers. It felt as if the reader have been present and have experienced the Japanese oppression themselves.

Furthermore, she had segmented her narration into unrelated events. It was a challenge for the author to find a way to connect all those unrelated events with a single thread. What she did was to patch those events by always directing/m ending it to the same end. She made certain that all those ideas were connected and important.

Also, the use symbolism and metaphors in the narrative are likewise admirably expected from Lourdes Montinola. Because the elements, characters and object were per-established from the start, it was never difficult to grasp her ideas and to comprehend the story. Furthermore, the metaphors which were simple yet deep contributed to the solemnity of the tone and savored with feel of the story like a poetry. There was a this line in the book that was inspiring: “As for Life, what is it but 'the flash of a firefly in the night,' or 'a little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.' What matters most is the beauty of the brief passage, and the preciousness of its after glow”

On top of everything, The Breaking of Silence is Lourdes Montinola's memoir of the history of the Japanese Occupation in the Philippines. It allowed the imagination to wonder subjectively but neither totally gratifying into fiction. But, it should be justifiable enough to credit her work as simple as a work of art, and therefore, be appreciated for giving hope and light to the readers.

The Consocep Falls, a Cold Therapy for the Heart

 A full seven hour sleep and a carbo-loaded breakfast were futile. No matter how perfect our preparations were, still our energies were obliviously pumped off by the one hour drive in the alternating uphill and downhill slope and rough road.  Furthermore, the trek on the steep and broken down trail added to our physical fatigue to the point that we were laboriously breathing when we reached the spot. But, the agonizing trip was forgotten in an instant. The sound of the falling water was a medley of relaxation and the cold vapor was a refreshment of our tired soul.  

     The Consocep falls is located at the foot of Mt. Isarog in Tigaon, Camarines Sur. It is the main attraction of the natural park which is maintained by the town’s local government because of its vital roles. Primarily, it serves as the basic source of water for the community and for agriculture and livestock. Water flows directly from natural springs to the pipes placed so that it can be accessible by the people. Also, the falls is the life for the canopies which in turn home for many animals and rare species of orchids. And the most evident role, it is the fountain of livelihood. The rural residences profit from selling fruits, “kakanin”, ornamental plants and house decors; and, offering services such as sanitary staffs and tour guides.

     When I saw the falls, I was in dilemma whether to plunge into the water or to keep myself warm. But the cool breeze was inviting. The water was really cold and literally froze me to my bones as soon as I touched the water. I stood at the center of the mini-pool carved from a large rock to observe my surrounding.

Nature has its marvelous way of sculpting the place into a beautiful art. The shadows of the tall trees cast an illusion of time for it was midday when we were there but looked like it was five in the afternoon.  The overcast sets the mood of the place because it gives a relaxing blue hue to the place. The wide and towering bedrock serves as a wall around like a huge natural fort which confines the cold air inside. The hanging vines atop the rock walls are decorations which add to the look. Below the walls, the huge rocks and boulders, as if there was a powerful hand, had been stacked orderly to fortify the place and to create several little swimming pools. And, the Consocep falls, the focal point, supplement vitality to the space. The water pours down to the rocks and flows to the mini rock basins where people bathe in chilling yet refreshing water.

     We were reinvigorated and had regained our energies to intensity. We were ready to take the thousand steps out of the forest and back to the real time— for it were just 3 o’clock pm. Outside, I bought some souvenirs and a bunch of bananas which cost only ten bucks. The ride down the slope made a perfect closing for our excursion for it filled our spirits with more love for nature. We should protect and preserve our environment because we might be tired again someday; at least, there is a place where we can find an elixir to pump us with another full bar of life.