re-membering

there is a woman, that’s made up like a movie star, dressed in ivory lace, lying in a white casket, in the living room.
they say she’s my Lola.

no,
i don’t think so.

that woman is tall.
and her back is straight.
my Lola’s back is curved like a bass clef, or like a comma, from her scoliosis and osteoporosis. she stood 4’9” on a good day.
and she would never be so stiff, with her arms at her sides, hands hidden away.
she was always moving, restless.
like my own Mom, she can’t sit still for five seconds together.

her favorite position of comfort, or at least the one i saw her most in, was lying on her back.
her right arm up, right hand cradling her head, elbow casually pointing toward the window. ankles crossed, left over right, knees bent, ever so slightly, duster riding up (wow, legs!), right toes tapping to some erratic invisible music.
the fingers of her left hand picking at her cheek or stroking her chin, as if in deep contemplation.

she asked me once, out of the blue, in October, “Karen (pronounced KEH-rehn), is it apple picking time in California?”

i was lying next to her in her bed and sat up.
where the heck did that come from?
“yes, ‘La,” I answered, “tama ka. it’s apple picking season in California. bakit po? gusto mong kumain ng mga mansana?”
sabi niya, “only if it’s from California.”

she was always very particular with her food.
she loved laswa, isda, and all things gulay.
and Libby’s corned beef. (don’t try and give her any Filipino corned beef.)
and all kinds of sabaw.
and peeled seedless grapes.
she would only eat chicken if it was chicken inasal, or on rare occasions lechon manok, or sandwich from Snackee, the local fast food joint here in Binalbagan.
don’t try and give her chicken anything else or she would turn suplada, make faces at you, and send you away. and if she still had some strength and her cane was nearby, she would shake it at you as you left.

instead, bring her special siopao from Bob’s in Bacolod.
and their garlic bread, too.
and their cream of asparagus soup.
and their lechon kawali.
or bring her Hawaiian “pizza pie” (pronounced PEE-cha) from anywhere.
she loved to eat that.

i’m sitting on her side of the bed as i type this.
my butt is numb. the foam on her bed is maybe 3 inches thick.

last night my mother and i arrived from las vegas.
super jetlagged and uneasy.
parang, ayaw kong bumaba sa naming van.
heart in my throat, beating a thousand times a minute.
hot spit came out from under my tongue, filling my mouth; i wanted to vomit.
it was drizzling.
i looked outside through the dark tint of the rented van.
the sun had already long set.
traffic from Bacolod was terrible because they are fixing the roads. they are always fixing the roads. my cousins say they’ll be done by 2010, in time for the elections. it took more than 3 hours to drive to Paglaum, when it used it take a little over an hour.

outside, the funeral parlor erected a large green bamboo scaffold, fitting a gigantic tarp covering the front and side porches of the house of my Lola. long fluorescent lights blazed suspended from the tarp, making everyone and everything look garish and slightly blue.

there were several mahjong tables full of people, the clicking of the tiles a familiar kind of din.

men were talking, smoking cigarettes, and drinking beer.

there is a small podium by the front door that holds the book that people are supposed to sign when they come to visit.

a long table held picked-over food and snacks.
another table nearby, next to the water dispenser, held Nescafe packets, coffee mate, a jar of sugar, a sticky spoon, empty wrappers, plastic stirrers, and styro cups.





a palpable pause and silence as everyone stopped their activity for a moment as my mom and i came out of the van. i could feel their eyes appraising us, looking at our clothes, my mother’s jewelry, waiting to get their cue on how to act from the way we presented.
i didn’t like that feeling.
i don’t like that feeling.
why am i here?

then cousins and titas and titos and helpers started filing out of the house to help bring down the copious groceries we bought in Bacolod and the ever present cursed balikbayan boxes that we brought from the states.

beso-beso,
weak smiles,
a millisecond of our eyes meeting,
then the eventual look away.
look at me. PLEASE.
why can’t you look at me?
why don’t you ever look at me?
why can’t i look at you?
when will we really see each other?

inside, more bright fluorescent lights.
sobrang dami.
it’s hot.
and dazzling white.
and unnaturally bright.
like a movie set.
or a photo shoot.
it’s gross.
vulgar, even.
the place is full of faces that i don’t know.
i don’t like it.

i put down my backpack and went to see “Lola” in her casket.
“gwapa ng Lola mo,” they all said.

my throat was dry.
my eyes hurt from the lights.

i looked down at her
and said,
“hi Lola.”

then, i went to her room, to her bed, and layed down, leaving some space for her, in case she might join me. i stroked her side of the bed, imagining i was smoothing her hair, and told her that i missed her, that i didn’t want to be here without her, that i was sorry that i had so much hate in my heart for some of my relatives…still.

Lola was my haven when i was here.
if my relatives were being their crazy overbearing, manipulative, and/or money-hungry selves, i could always go to Lola’s room to escape.

she would joke with me and tell me stories.
or ask me how so-and-so is.
or ask the same questions over and over again.
or ask me to call someone for her.
or ask me for capital for mahjong.
or quote me exorbitant prices on how much i owed her for each kiss i “stole.”
masyadong malaki ang utang ko sa kanya.

my favorite times would be when we would nap together, holding hands, the fan blowing the lamook away.
the heat of the afternoon,
our lunch settling in our bellies,
the cries of the roosters,
the laughter of the schoolchildren across the street,
and the distinctive sound of tsinelas on the street.
all served as our perfect, private lullaby.

sometimes we would listen to the radio, the local Ilonggo station, and watch tv at the same time. sakit ang mga tenga ko. Lola liked it tho.
it was like she was afraid of silence.

every morning, sometimes as early as 3am, she would wake up and want me to turn on her old radio “for the news” and open the windows and open the curtains to greet the day. then she would be fumbling around trying to read what time it was on her faithful timex indiglo. then she would ask me again what time it was. then she asked again where her flashlight was. i would show her and then click it on and off to prove the batteries were still good. then she would get in her favorite position, quiet, until it was time to take her coffee.

most of her days, she would take her coffee on the porch, facing her youngest and only surviving sibling, Lolo Junior. Lolo is developmentally delayed and his daily household task would be to sweep the outside porch every morning. Lola would point to the places he missed with her cane. and he would shuffle, shuffle, like he does, sweeping the best he could. his gait is soooo unsteady and he only speaks Ilonggo. most of the time, i have no idea what he is saying, as he mumbles and code switching is something he cannot do. and Ilonggo is something i don’t speak…yet.

he doesn’t like to wear shoes because his feet are quite deformed; they hook inwards, and shoes hurt his feet. i was five years old, the first time i visited the Philippines since i left as a 5 month old infant. i remember feeling so upset with Lolo Jr. because he wouldn’t wear shoes. i remember stamping my own shoed foot and admonishing him, “YOU SHOULD BE WEARING SHOES!! WHY AREN'T YOU WEARING SHOES?!?!” in my five year old world, everyone wore shoes and didn’t sell them or trade them for talangka or tuba or beer.

during that visit, i remember crying because my bath water felt cold and i had to take a bath with a tabo and a bucket. i was bitten by a mosquito by my right eye, and it swelled shut (i was inflammatory, even back then). i had a silver front tooth. i slipped on some turkey poo when i was running on the dirt road in front of the house. i threw peanuts at the turkeys on the neighbor's roof. i must have been a handful. every morning, i would look out through the bars of the front gate, gaping at the school children as they walked past to the Paglaum elementary school, across the street. they saw my silver tooth and my swollen eye and made fun of me.

aswang!
one eyed jack!

Lolo Jr. shuffled after them and chased them away, no doubt yelling some Ilonggo curses after them. right then and there, i quickly forgave him for not wearing shoes. he saved me, too.

whenever i see him, i give him a bracelet or necklace made of native materials like abaca, coconut shell, or seeds. he likes them and wears all of them at once. sometimes 6 deep on each arm, if he doesn’t lose them, get swindled out of them, or trade them away. his toothless smile is the sweetest thing, that absolutely does not need translation.

for merienda today, we ate tuna sandwich on white bread with the crusts cut off, outside on the porch. i gave him water in his chipped brown mug. he was thirsty, as i filled it twice. he asked me for another necklace, complaining that the last one i gave him was too gamay.
sabi ko, “Sige Lolo, anong kulay gusto mo?”
he paused to think, and answered, “itom.”
“Sige po. kulay itom, mas dakot. Promise.”
he smiled, nodded satisfied.

kanina, i secretly watched him through Lola’s window for about 30 minutes as he shuffled back and forth from where his laundry was hanging on the line to the table where he elected to fold (and unfold) his clothes. he would fold, then unfold, then fold, then unfold, then finally fold and pile.

Lolo has kind of an obsession with his laundry. sometimes, he sits outside, even in the hottest part of the day, guarding it as it dries in the sun. someone must have stolen his clothes once. Lola would yell at him to come inside, out of the heat.

Then, she would say to me, “do not mind your Lolo Jr. he was born premature. he was supposed to be born August. He came June.” then she would make the sira ang ulo sign, with her pointer finger making spirals near her right temple. that always made me laugh.

i’ve heard stories where he would refuse to bathe for days on end, everyone pleading for him to clean himself. soon Lola would instruct Tito Fred to throw a bucket of water on him if he didn’t bathe willingly. He bathes outside by the pump, in his briefs, and is ecstatic if you give him a new bar of Dove soap.

when he was younger, like a homing pigeon, they say, he could always find his way home, even after going on a bender.

he was the one who saved my mom’s life when she was a baby infant. there were flash floods in her village, and she was already floating away, about to drown. and Lolo Jr. saved her.

hay, and Lola and he would sometimes get in the most spectacular fights.
i heard stories from Tita Lita.
they usually started when he would make comments on her losing streaks in mahjong.
she would shoot back saying it’s not his money she’s losing.
imagine two very olds shouting at each other.
she would “chase” him around the outside of the house.
she with her cane, cursing him.
he with his unsteady gait, shuffling for his dear life, desperate for a place to escape the wrath of his Ate.
Lola would get so worked up she would take Lolo’s clothes out of his small cabinet he kept in the kitchen and throw them outside.
then Lolo would yell, “stop, stop! those are mine! Adel sent those to me from the States!”

he understands that she died.
they say that towards the end, when Lola was no longer responsive, he would encourage her to eat so she could get strong again. Lola always was a good eater.

when Lola was served her food, she would not eat eat before knowing that food had given to Lolo Jr. too.

Lolo doesn’t have his own bedroom here.
at night, he usually sleeps on the floor in the living room on his folding sponge bob foam mattress. since so many people come in and out for Lola’s wake, he cannot sleep in the living room anymore.
last night, my mom and i slept on Lola’s bed.
Lolo slept on his sponge bob at the foot of the bed, and ever since Lola died, they say he is scared to sleep alone.
my mom played mahjong 'til the wee hours.
i was on the bed, working on my computer, and he kept sitting up and checking if i was still there.
i smiled gently at him each time and said, “i’m here Lolo. tulog ka na. babantayan kita.”
he would nod, groggy. then, settle back down to sleep.
i don’t know if he understood what i had said.

earlier, the people from the funeral home came by to add more embalming fluid to Lola. apparently, they do this every 2 days. i was in her room and instructed not to come out while they were “giving Lola medicine.” my cousin’s wife, Yvonne, was the Watcher.
everyone else waited outside the house.
strange.

it kinda bothers me that you can’t see Lola’s hands the way they arranged her.
they meant so much to me.
i held them and kissed them often.
her hands are gnarled.
and she has the most wicked hitchhiker’s thumbs.
and swollen knuckles.
arthritis daw.
but her skin was always so soft.
and cool.

i used to tell her, “alam mo ba, Lola, maganda ka. sobra.”
sabi niya, “hay, no good anymore. pangit na ako. ugly!”
“no, no. maganda ka Lola,” i would insist.
sabi niya, “why, you want to switch faces? i’ll look like you. you’ll look like me.”
“o? pwede ba? sige!” i would say.
then we laughed.

i am to speak at her funeral, on behalf of all the grandchildren (no pressure).
i have until sunday to prepare.
i still need to find something suitable to wear.

whatever will i say?
i wish i could say it in Ilonggo.
or even Tagalog.

there is so much.

and i can’t help feeling that this is such a gift.
there is an opportunity here, an opening to transform the anger and hate.
i can help my family heal.
i can help myself heal.

Lola, please help me find the right words.
there is still so much anger in my heart.
i see the geckos, enduring the heat from all the lights, above your casket, perched on the wall, making bantay. i know they remind me to keep my heart open.

on the plane ride here, to help prepare and disarm myself, i listened to three dharma talks given by my Mitra, during our 2006 sesshin.

freedom--beyond hope and fear

i am reminded that that was a particularly transformative time for me as it was one of the first times i felt seen, one of the first times i consciously revealed myself, and probably the first time i allowed myself to feel loved, warts (snot) and all.

deep bows.

absolute freedom is available to me, in every moment.
every
single
moment,
i have the choice to be free.

dito…here.
ako…me.
ngayon…now.

i love you, Lola.

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