here's the lyrics of a song my friend nathanel wrote.
it comforts me, and i'm not sure exactly why.
well, it's beautiful.
i learned how to play it in my cold bedroom in my parents' house before i left for negros for Lola.
he emailed me the lyrics and guitar chords the night before i left the states.
and i stayed up all night packing and learning it by heart.
i tried to play it in negros on tito gerome's janky old, rusty guitar.
i was frustrated because i couldn't remember the chords.
then when i kinda remembered the chords, i could not remember the words.
and his guitar refused to stay in tune.
"it's not my way," it kept saying to me.
"will you love me anyway?"
the same guitar, sang a single note to me the morning of Lola's funeral.
i was writing my speech at 3am in the outdoor "dirty" kitchen of Tita Lita and Tito Fred.
it's in the back of the house and away from the flow of visitors and mahjong tables.
one of my relatives (forgive me, i cannot even remember her name) saw me crying as i wrote, and she wanted to comfort me.
i told her i did not want to talk right now. i needed to write. i needed to finish this.
she wanted to be helpful, i know.
i hurt her feelings, and i tried to make it up to her later.
but, she had her detached shield up, so i let it go.
while i was writing, it was cool outside.
the sun was not even near rising yet.
the mosquitos even left me alone.
there was no wind.
i don't remember what part i was writing when tito gerome's guitar played one single note.
i looked up at it, where it hung on a rusty nail, high up on the wall, facing me.
nothing around it.
just the reverb.
i thought, "hi Lola," and tried to think of all of the different scientific explanations why a guitar would seemingly sing one note at 3am while i wrote the eulogy for Lola. and well, i came up with some theories involving physics and weather front pressures.
in the end, science failed me.
and i know it was just Lola saying, "hello" and "just keep going, keep writing."
just hours earlier, all of the apo and great apo of Lola assembled in the back.
we practiced singing, "Sino Ako?" because that was part of the program for the funeral.
that was kinda fun.
and interesting.
most of my cousins on this side are older and male.
and most of them were drunk already or getting there when we were practicing.
somehow, there is always money for beer.
one of them, kuya langging, who is particularly obnoxious when he is drunk, crashed the van my mom rented while we were there.
i am disgusted with him.
he was drunk all that week, acting like it was fiesta instead of a patayin.
he took the keys and went with another cousin to buy more beer and backed up into a tricycle.
the rear panel of the van was all messed up with a sizeable dent and several scratches.
mercifully, no one was injured.
maybe the worst part was that the whole family went into panic mode and wanted to hide this from both me and my mom.
ang tanga.
it's like they didn't know how to tell us, so they tried to cover it up.
i found out tho, and i told my mother the next morning.
i thought it better that she find out that way instead of just seeing it as we piled in for the funeral.
she freaked out and then promptly hid it.
i was amazed at her ability to do this.
once again, my mom will bail out her side.
thank goodness the van was insured.
but, there's a substantial deductible to pay.
and this is not about the money.
my cousin never came to my mom and explained what he did.
he never said sorry.
or took responsibility.
he just kept drinking.
and also insisted he wasn't drunk at the time of the crash.
the next morning, i found him in a chair in the living room, with his eyes closed, head tipped back, mouth agape, drooling, and snoring, like the worst kind of sloth.
this is par for the course with this side.
and this is a pattern that repeats itself.
on one level, i'm mad as hell and feel like i could spit nails.
on another, i think, what kind of circumstances have led to this?
why would my cousin choose to be this way?
what example does it set for us, especially his 3 kids?
why would my family collude?
mom?
we're in bacolod now, in a hotel.
my mother is happy to sleep in a "real bed."
ako, i'm happy to be away from my family.
it's 3am, and my mom is snoring away next to me.
i recall the sting of my mom's scolding, telling me i'm "puro negativo," when it comes to kuya langging and his mother. i remember the pain in her eyes as she gave the sharp look.
it was like, "please, just go along with the ruse. please, anak."
but, i can't.
not anymore.
i don't have the stomach for it.
and i know that this is not mine to fix.
that somehow, i have to find my own relationship to all of this.
somehow.
"how do you do it, mamma?"
"i just don't think about it, if i do, baka nag-high blood na ako."
"but, how do you not think about it?"
then, she gave me the look.
i cried when i was alone.
cried tears in restaurant 21, surrounded by strangers and my solitude.
i realize i wanted my mother to protect me from all of this.
isn't that what mothers are supposed to do?
it is a most unreasonable expectation, in light of everything;
i realize that now.
i've been feeling uneasy all night, not able to rest.
i just vomited 3 times.
and have been on and off the toilet too.
and i started my period 2 days ago.
triple cleanse.
purge this Muki.
so much letting go.
more to write.
but i'm tired.
i know i won't sleep.
but i want to get this heavy, hot computer off my belly.
may pagasa
by nathanel
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=411274409
huwag kang mag-alala
tayo ay pinagpala
daming biyaya sa buhay natin
huwag kang matakot
babantayan kita
lahat ang bagay ay mababago
dumilat ka
huwag kang mahiya
dito lang ako
para sa'yo
huwag kang lumuha
meron pa magpapasa
walang hangganan ang pagibig ko
huwag kang matakot
babantayan kita
lahat ang bagay ay mababago
dumilat ka
huwag kang mahiya
dito lang ako
para sa'yo
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
another Lola
Mendung Sabal has also transitioned.
i feel blessed to have met her last july in iloilo at the Kapwa conference.
bukas pa ay ang libing ni Lola.
also, it's the full moon.
it's perfect.
thanks again, Universe.
kiss Mendung for me.
my Lola, too.
i feel blessed to have met her last july in iloilo at the Kapwa conference.
bukas pa ay ang libing ni Lola.
also, it's the full moon.
it's perfect.
thanks again, Universe.
kiss Mendung for me.
my Lola, too.
Lola in the white house
just read that Marian Robinson will join the Obamas in the white house.
buti naman.
my Lola lived with us for a number of my childhood years in illinois.
she and my Lolo and my other grandmother, Mama Big, looked after us when my parents were at work.
Lola would cook our breakfast and our merienda everyday.
she would look after us when we were swimming.
and fry cheeseburgers on white bread so that we could eat them,
dripping with grease,
in our wet bathing suits,
by our janky, old above-ground pool.
she and the other olds would watch as we rode our bikes up and down our loooong ass driveway and fly down "suicide hill," which as it turns out, is a gentle slope, measuring maybe 10 degrees.
the olds would watch as the Villanueva girls would put on enthusiastic gymnastics shows or song and dance numbers...on roller skates.
there was a small raised garden bed on the side of the house where Lola would harvest kamatis.
i can't remember what else grew there.
maybe talong.
i just remember kamatis.
the morning before we went on a long driving vacation bound for the arch in st. louis, i remember Lola picking her tomatoes before we left. there was this one huge green one that seemed like it was as big as my face. i remember being so amazed to find that it turned ruby red, perfectly ripened on the kitchen counter, by the time we came back. i thought it was some kind of magic.
(i still kinda do.)
ah, youth.
one of the things my youngest sister Sammy will always remember about Lola, daw, is how Lola always let her roller skate in the house when our mother wasn't home.
now, if that ain't some Love.
i don't know what is.
buti naman.
my Lola lived with us for a number of my childhood years in illinois.
she and my Lolo and my other grandmother, Mama Big, looked after us when my parents were at work.
Lola would cook our breakfast and our merienda everyday.
she would look after us when we were swimming.
and fry cheeseburgers on white bread so that we could eat them,
dripping with grease,
in our wet bathing suits,
by our janky, old above-ground pool.
she and the other olds would watch as we rode our bikes up and down our loooong ass driveway and fly down "suicide hill," which as it turns out, is a gentle slope, measuring maybe 10 degrees.
the olds would watch as the Villanueva girls would put on enthusiastic gymnastics shows or song and dance numbers...on roller skates.
there was a small raised garden bed on the side of the house where Lola would harvest kamatis.
i can't remember what else grew there.
maybe talong.
i just remember kamatis.
the morning before we went on a long driving vacation bound for the arch in st. louis, i remember Lola picking her tomatoes before we left. there was this one huge green one that seemed like it was as big as my face. i remember being so amazed to find that it turned ruby red, perfectly ripened on the kitchen counter, by the time we came back. i thought it was some kind of magic.
(i still kinda do.)
ah, youth.
one of the things my youngest sister Sammy will always remember about Lola, daw, is how Lola always let her roller skate in the house when our mother wasn't home.
now, if that ain't some Love.
i don't know what is.
52
i just woke up from a delicious 3 hour nap.
i haven’t been sleeping very well.
it’s partly due to all the fluorescence and the perpetual daytime, i imagine.
but, it’s also because this place hums with activity, 24/7.
Lolo Jr. and i are the first to go to bed around 10pm;
the mahjong tiles still clicking.
i wake up around 3am;
the mahjong tiles still clicking.
and, i’m getting more sleep than most around here.
there’s cooking to be done, as we are eating at least 6 times a day, counting merienda.
and Ilonggos, like Kampampangans, are particular about their food and like to eat (and drink) very well.
there’s also constant cleaning.
and buying of supplies and food.
and greeting of visitors.
copious amounts of visitors.
as usual, i get chased away when i try and help with the household work.
so, i mostly hide out in Lola’s room emerging to make a duty round of hello’s, eat, or check on my Mom.
this morning i went to the palengke to buy flowers.
and i drank native coffee and ate fresh puto with Tita Lita.
yum.
(and i’m not usually a coffee drinker!)
hmm, maybe this is why i have been having touble sleeping.
i also finally transferred the photos off my phone onto my computer.
that was surprisingly easy and relatively painless.
(maraming salamat, Bluetooth!)
i’m 95% done with Lola’s slideshow.
the music is not quite right, but it is good enough.
no one seems to know what Lola’s favorite songs were.
i wish i knew.
i have this recording on my phone of a conversation that we had last october regarding her favorites.
goes something like this:
“Lola, what is your favorite color?” sabi ko.
“whatever you like, i like,” sabi niya.
“Lola, what is your favorite thing to do?” i asked.
(long pause)
“i used to love playing cards,” sabi niya.
(nagulat ako. i thought for sure she would say mahjong.)
tapos, sabi niya, “you know when you get old, you like one thing and then in the next minute you don’t like it anymore. i don’t remember anymore what i like and don’t like.”
it goes on, and i listen to that recording every so often.
so, maybe even Lola doesn’t remember her favorite songs.
this particular morning, i woke up at 2am,
and in the wee early morning hours,
i came up with a brilliant idea.
i’ve been fretting a bit about my speech, and it occurred to me that it would be good to solicit input from all the apo and great apo of Lola regarding their relationship with Lola.
so, i spent a good chunk of time today texting and emailing all 52 of us.
imagine.
grabe.
nagulat ako, our number, like a deck of cards.
Tinanong ko sa amin dalawang tanong:
1) what have you learned from Lola Mameng?
2) what will you always remember about her?
i had to do some pretty crafty detective work in tracking down cell phone numbers and emails.
atsaka, ubos na ang load sa computer at cell phone ko.
i emailed and texted all over the world…
and it was so worth it.
the replies are trickling in…
and they are so moving.
although i’ve only received about 50% return, emerging themes, that echo my own experience with Lola, are apparent.
i appreciate the affirmation.
she is the tie that binds us.
i wonder what will happen to our family now that she is gone.
i haven’t been sleeping very well.
it’s partly due to all the fluorescence and the perpetual daytime, i imagine.
but, it’s also because this place hums with activity, 24/7.
Lolo Jr. and i are the first to go to bed around 10pm;
the mahjong tiles still clicking.
i wake up around 3am;
the mahjong tiles still clicking.
and, i’m getting more sleep than most around here.
there’s cooking to be done, as we are eating at least 6 times a day, counting merienda.
and Ilonggos, like Kampampangans, are particular about their food and like to eat (and drink) very well.
there’s also constant cleaning.
and buying of supplies and food.
and greeting of visitors.
copious amounts of visitors.
as usual, i get chased away when i try and help with the household work.
so, i mostly hide out in Lola’s room emerging to make a duty round of hello’s, eat, or check on my Mom.
this morning i went to the palengke to buy flowers.
and i drank native coffee and ate fresh puto with Tita Lita.
yum.
(and i’m not usually a coffee drinker!)
hmm, maybe this is why i have been having touble sleeping.
i also finally transferred the photos off my phone onto my computer.
that was surprisingly easy and relatively painless.
(maraming salamat, Bluetooth!)
i’m 95% done with Lola’s slideshow.
the music is not quite right, but it is good enough.
no one seems to know what Lola’s favorite songs were.
i wish i knew.
i have this recording on my phone of a conversation that we had last october regarding her favorites.
goes something like this:
“Lola, what is your favorite color?” sabi ko.
“whatever you like, i like,” sabi niya.
“Lola, what is your favorite thing to do?” i asked.
(long pause)
“i used to love playing cards,” sabi niya.
(nagulat ako. i thought for sure she would say mahjong.)
tapos, sabi niya, “you know when you get old, you like one thing and then in the next minute you don’t like it anymore. i don’t remember anymore what i like and don’t like.”
it goes on, and i listen to that recording every so often.
so, maybe even Lola doesn’t remember her favorite songs.
this particular morning, i woke up at 2am,
and in the wee early morning hours,
i came up with a brilliant idea.
i’ve been fretting a bit about my speech, and it occurred to me that it would be good to solicit input from all the apo and great apo of Lola regarding their relationship with Lola.
so, i spent a good chunk of time today texting and emailing all 52 of us.
imagine.
grabe.
nagulat ako, our number, like a deck of cards.
Tinanong ko sa amin dalawang tanong:
1) what have you learned from Lola Mameng?
2) what will you always remember about her?
i had to do some pretty crafty detective work in tracking down cell phone numbers and emails.
atsaka, ubos na ang load sa computer at cell phone ko.
i emailed and texted all over the world…
and it was so worth it.
the replies are trickling in…
and they are so moving.
although i’ve only received about 50% return, emerging themes, that echo my own experience with Lola, are apparent.
i appreciate the affirmation.
she is the tie that binds us.
i wonder what will happen to our family now that she is gone.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
swimming
i want to scratch my skin off.
it is so hot.
and the wind is still.
my mother is asleep, lightly snoring, next to me.
she played mahjong all night.
i fell asleep, as usual, to the clicking of the tiles.
they play just outside Lola’s windows.
cigarette smoke, people cackling and howling, others arguing strategy and lamenting.
and always…the clicking of the tiles.
Lola loved to play mahjong.
it was her p300 a day habit.
“swimming,” they called it.
and she played almost everyday.
“kept her sharp,” they say.
and she loved her “classmates,” the other olds that she played with.
i think there were 12 of them, enough for 3 tables.
for Christmas, she gave them each a new lipstick and a chocolate.
all wrapped in little envelopes made from pink minnie mouse wrapping paper.
i was here the morning when Lola was supervising the ceremonial wrapping.
it was quite a production, as i remember it.
the picking of the paper.
the exact measurements of the finished envelopes.
no waste.
Lola’s classmates come to her wake in groups of 3 and 4.
they huddle together, sit in chairs placed right next to Lola in her casket and quietly murmur and sometimes all burst out laughing, no doubt, when someone tells a funny story starring my Lola. i imagine that there are no shortages of those. my Lola was such a character. it just occurred to me that it would be nice to know some of those stories. maybe i’ll try and talk with them next time i see them. hope i don’t chicken out.
now, the hottest part of the day, i hear just one table outside.
i peeked and it is 3 of my Lola’s classmates and Tita Lita playing.
they are using the my favorite mahjong set, the pink tiles.
i have no desire to play mahjong.
it has caused such heartache in my family.
i’ve seen many of my relatives gamble all their money away.
and when they run out, they gamble other people’s money away.
and when they run out of that, they lie and cheat and steal to get more.
sometimes, i think i want to learn, just to “belong” or just to know.
there were times that my Lola told me that dapat marunong ako.
almost all of my cousins know how to play.
there are maybe 2 other odd ones like me.
and my sisters, they don’t play.
all my titas and titos, they know and play.
and all the family skeletons are coming out of the closet to say hello and dance around.
i guess it’s an inevitability, when so many of us are assembled.
all the family grudges and scandals are starting to re-surface.
long lost relatives are popping out of nowhere, everywhere.
thought i would never see them again.
but, we all gather for Lola.
and, maybe, redemption.
and, hopefully, healing.
well, if not in this lifetime…
perhaps the next.
or the ones after.
i marvel how plastic we can all be, for the sake of smooth interpersonal relations.
it’s hard to be here.
i can be plastic, too, i just don’t want to.
so, i hide away in the room of Lola.
and ponder...
how do i want to show up?
where is my freedom?
it is a constant vigilance, to choose freedom in each moment.
in the mundane, i have three assignments.
i need to refresh the flowers tomorrow.
it’s market day at the palengke, so i can buy more.
all white.
i have to transfer all the photos i have of Lola off my phone onto my computer, then burn a cd so they can be included in the funeral service. that will be tedious for me. i hate doing shit like that.
and i still need to prepare what i will say at the service.
hay.
the fluorescent lights outside make it perpetually afternoon, even in what’s supposed to be the dark of night.
at night, Lolo Jr. wakes up and asks me if it’s daytime yet as he nervously glances towards the window, like he’s missing something.
it looks like it is always 11am kasi.
this morning, he insisted on rising at 2am to take his coffee on the porch.
so, he wobbled out, and so he wouldn’t worry, i told him i would fold up his sponge bob for him. i bet he misses Lola, even if she used to boss him. i gave him another coconut shell necklace yesterday, kulay itom at mas dakot, as promised. he is happy with it and flashed me his famous grin this morning.
ah, relief.
i hear the rain.
it is so hot.
and the wind is still.
my mother is asleep, lightly snoring, next to me.
she played mahjong all night.
i fell asleep, as usual, to the clicking of the tiles.
they play just outside Lola’s windows.
cigarette smoke, people cackling and howling, others arguing strategy and lamenting.
and always…the clicking of the tiles.
Lola loved to play mahjong.
it was her p300 a day habit.
“swimming,” they called it.
and she played almost everyday.
“kept her sharp,” they say.
and she loved her “classmates,” the other olds that she played with.
i think there were 12 of them, enough for 3 tables.
for Christmas, she gave them each a new lipstick and a chocolate.
all wrapped in little envelopes made from pink minnie mouse wrapping paper.
i was here the morning when Lola was supervising the ceremonial wrapping.
it was quite a production, as i remember it.
the picking of the paper.
the exact measurements of the finished envelopes.
no waste.
Lola’s classmates come to her wake in groups of 3 and 4.
they huddle together, sit in chairs placed right next to Lola in her casket and quietly murmur and sometimes all burst out laughing, no doubt, when someone tells a funny story starring my Lola. i imagine that there are no shortages of those. my Lola was such a character. it just occurred to me that it would be nice to know some of those stories. maybe i’ll try and talk with them next time i see them. hope i don’t chicken out.
now, the hottest part of the day, i hear just one table outside.
i peeked and it is 3 of my Lola’s classmates and Tita Lita playing.
they are using the my favorite mahjong set, the pink tiles.
i have no desire to play mahjong.
it has caused such heartache in my family.
i’ve seen many of my relatives gamble all their money away.
and when they run out, they gamble other people’s money away.
and when they run out of that, they lie and cheat and steal to get more.
sometimes, i think i want to learn, just to “belong” or just to know.
there were times that my Lola told me that dapat marunong ako.
almost all of my cousins know how to play.
there are maybe 2 other odd ones like me.
and my sisters, they don’t play.
all my titas and titos, they know and play.
and all the family skeletons are coming out of the closet to say hello and dance around.
i guess it’s an inevitability, when so many of us are assembled.
all the family grudges and scandals are starting to re-surface.
long lost relatives are popping out of nowhere, everywhere.
thought i would never see them again.
but, we all gather for Lola.
and, maybe, redemption.
and, hopefully, healing.
well, if not in this lifetime…
perhaps the next.
or the ones after.
i marvel how plastic we can all be, for the sake of smooth interpersonal relations.
it’s hard to be here.
i can be plastic, too, i just don’t want to.
so, i hide away in the room of Lola.
and ponder...
how do i want to show up?
where is my freedom?
it is a constant vigilance, to choose freedom in each moment.
in the mundane, i have three assignments.
i need to refresh the flowers tomorrow.
it’s market day at the palengke, so i can buy more.
all white.
i have to transfer all the photos i have of Lola off my phone onto my computer, then burn a cd so they can be included in the funeral service. that will be tedious for me. i hate doing shit like that.
and i still need to prepare what i will say at the service.
hay.
the fluorescent lights outside make it perpetually afternoon, even in what’s supposed to be the dark of night.
at night, Lolo Jr. wakes up and asks me if it’s daytime yet as he nervously glances towards the window, like he’s missing something.
it looks like it is always 11am kasi.
this morning, he insisted on rising at 2am to take his coffee on the porch.
so, he wobbled out, and so he wouldn’t worry, i told him i would fold up his sponge bob for him. i bet he misses Lola, even if she used to boss him. i gave him another coconut shell necklace yesterday, kulay itom at mas dakot, as promised. he is happy with it and flashed me his famous grin this morning.
ah, relief.
i hear the rain.
Monday, January 5, 2009
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.
/|\
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.
/|\
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
C.R. Favila
namatay na si Lola.
uuwi kami si mommy sa january 3.
parang numb ako.
babalik ako so negros ulit.
negros ulit na naman.
nagsindi na ako ng kandila para kay Lola.
kulay pula.
uuwi kami si mommy sa january 3.
parang numb ako.
babalik ako so negros ulit.
negros ulit na naman.
nagsindi na ako ng kandila para kay Lola.
kulay pula.
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