Category: Nonfiction

Gatsby Wears Levi’s (Part 2)

Nonfiction by | October 2, 2016

It always appeared to me that introducing my future fiancée to my dad would not be a problem given the circumstance he had back then; yet I have been engaged for almost five years now and dad knows nothing about it.

They did marry, right after dad convinced my mom’s family that he would become a licensed engineer; and that he would also give her more than the Tamaraw FX that the other suitor promised. I smile when I see a picture of me as a baby held by my dad, in his toga beside my mom. The vastness of the MSU golf course filled the background.

Getting his license was an elusive thing. Dad was already teaching as a part-time instructor when he started his review for the board exam. During daytime, he taught disinterested engineering majors. At noon, he dealt with death threats from failing seniors. At night, he studied for his board and was in-charge of getting me to sleep. Mom told me that dad used to read his reviewer out loud while carrying me in one arm. I had heard of circuit theorems first before fables and fairy tales.

Dad never got any result, whether pass or fail, from the first board exam. No one in that batch did. All the test papers were burnt in a fire, which the examiners said was an “accident”. Dad would have left his dreams to die like the extinguished flame had he not met mom. With his wife, plus the baby that rested in his arm getting heavier, dad brushed the ashes off and was determined to do it all over again.

The examiners made sure to keep the test papers safe. Dad had his result the second time around.

He passed.

Continue reading Gatsby Wears Levi’s (Part 2)

Gatsby Wears Levi’s (Part 1)

Nonfiction by | September 25, 2016

My dad loves expensive clothing brands. He bought his first pair of Levi’s when he got his first pay.

This, people would assume, stemmed from the lack of luxury he experienced during his childhood. But there is more to it than just that. He would rather own just one pair of Levi’s than a dozen low quality jeans.

Dipolog, 1970

When he was only fourteen years old, my dad became the head of his family. Two successive deaths made him the caretaker of his mother and three younger siblings. His father (Jose), according to my lola, was stabbed multiple times by at least ten men because he wanted to build what could have been the first copra mill in their town. Later on, I’d learn that these men were members of the National People’s Army. Later on, I’d also learn that it was because lolo Jose left a woman heartbroken (having learned that he was already married to my lola), and that woman happened to be the sister of the NPA’s commander.

His eldest brother, Manolito, too young and too brave, joined the military to avenge their father only to be killed a month after. Both their deaths were accounted to the same rebel group.

Dad grew up in a town where relatives treated other members based on their status and the material things they own. Dad and his siblings ranked at the bottom because they wore nothing but relief clothes (relip or ukay) that lola had bought from the market. These clothes never fit them right. These were always too big and their color too pale, opposite to their cousins who were lavished with clothes from Dubai.

Dad’s sisters did the laundry. And the contrast of their clothes was obvious: while their cousins’ shirts hanged outstretched and clipped tightly to the rope, theirs were dumped in clumps and stacked sloppy on top of each bamboo pole.

I thought my dad, as a kid, surely must have complained about things. I was wrong.

Continue reading Gatsby Wears Levi’s (Part 1)

Tablea Tales, Part 2

Nonfiction by | September 11, 2016

Tablea Tales, Part 1

I was 19 when I first experienced harvesting cacao fruits with my father. I realized it was my father’s first time to pluck cacao fruits off the tree as well. He was surprised how difficult it was to remove the fruits from their twigs. We discovered that the fruits were so attached with the tree that they just dry there hanging on the twig and only fall down when they were entirely black. The tree looked grim with all the hanging black, rotten cacaos. We plucked them off and threw them on the ground. It was as hard to remove as the fresh fruits.

My father rarely talked when we started harvesting and collecting the ripe cacao fruits. The only times he talked was when he would tell me to pick up the fruit that fell on the ground and put it on the huge plastic bag I was holding.  I was used to having imported chocolates in golden foils handed to me by my father when he would come home from work abroad. And after years of struggling overseas, here was my father with me in our backyard, harvesting yellowish cacao to add to the dozen I already had in my bag.

When I was a kid, I never wanted anything else but the chocolates father brought home almost every year. It didn’t matter then whether he was home for Christmas or not. We grew used to it. We grew used to having chocolates as a consolation for his long absence. But now as I was plucking off cacao with him, I realized I wanted him more than all the creamy, bitter-sweet chocolates combined. He had been away for years and I realized, as his calloused hands were struggling to pluck off some ripe cacao fruit, that there was nothing more beautiful than this moment.

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Tablea Tales, Part 1

Nonfiction by | September 4, 2016

Tablea Tales, Part 2

Chocolates. I love how the mouth moves with the expression of the word. I love how the mouth pouts in the first syllable, how it opens and makes the cracking k sound, how the tip of the tongue touches the palate, creating the l sound and slowly creating a smile showing the teeth, as the tongue rests in the middle of the mouth. It’s funny how the whole mouth – the teeth, the lips, the tongue, everything – when combined together, could create such a beautiful word. Chocolates, I know, creates much pleasure as much as the ears take pleasure in listening to it when uttered.

I couldn’t remember a time when Krishelle, a childhood friend, ever missed a piece of Wiggles after lunch. Every after lunch, she would have me go with her outside the school for her daily dessert. Wiggles is a twisted colorful marshmallow coated in rich chocolate. It was nothing special, really, but I had seen how this small piece of sweets capped her lunchtime. She looked satisfied with it. Happy, even, that she always looked forward to its taste to cap her lunch for the day.

I was a witness of how this small twist of chocolate made her so happy and excited. She always offered me some and I just couldn’t refuse. I also wanted to feel the same delight she felt every single time she ate Wiggles. It was sweet like any other chocolates and there was actually nothing about it that was special at all. There was nothing extraordinary with the way the marshmallow complemented with the chocolate coating. I have tasted better marshmallows in chocolates before. And yet, she was happy. For us kids, that was all that mattered, then.

Continue reading Tablea Tales, Part 1

Of Corals and the Memories of Pablo

Nonfiction by , , , | August 28, 2016

Pablo Picture 2

It was a cold December 5 morning, with the waves rushing to the shore, when the municipality of Lingig faced a new day from Typhoon Pablo’s harsh winds. Lingig is the last municipality of Surigao del Sur. It is also the last town of Surigao del Sur before the next town of Boston, Davao Oriental. Somewhere far from shattered homes, fallen lines, and broken trees left by Pablo, the fishing community of Lingig discovered at mid-sea something that looks like a section of a deserted island. In fact, from where the people stood at Purok 3B, Cab-ilan Poblacion, the floating stretch of land looked more like a ghost ship.

It took an old fishing boat and a large dose of courage for two fishermen to discover what the strange, new island really was.

“Susihon da lang nato daw unan ngidto kay para masayudan (Let’s go check whatever that is.),” said the younger of the fishermen, pulling the boat with him, his paddle on his side.

“Amu agaw total guba dasa yang kanato mga bay (Let’s! After all, our homes have already been broken by the typhoon. What is there to lose now?),” replied the much older of the duo.

As the pair rowed across the calm seas, the rest of the community who gathered by the shore could not help but argue among themselves.

“Guba ngiyan na barko (It is an abandoned ship.),” said one to his mates.

“Basin haw isla ngiyan (Maybe it’s an island.),”said another.

“O basin haw barko gikan sa lain na lugar tapos yada ngani kanato tungod ng dagko na bawod (Or it’s a ship from nearby place carried out by the big waves),” replied the other.

Their arguments took awhile until the fishermen who ventured to the sea returned.

“Isla ngidto na yapuno ng korals (It’s an island made of corals!),” Ondo, the younger of the two, exclaimed with disbelief. “Kadto kamu para makakita kamu (Go there so that you’ll see it.),” he urged everyone to also go see what they have seen.

The news of the emergence of the mystical island spread throughout Lingig and the neighboring municipalities. While national television networks and the delivery of relief goods focused much on the devastated parts of Boston, Cateel, and Baganga, the people of Lingig had to fend themselves from people who were more interested with the new tourist sight. Tourists were intent on bringing back with them sacks of corals from the island.

It was only after several sacks of corals have been quarried from the mystical island that the attention was shifted in Lingig. More tourists came just to step on, and examine the island, or to swim on its surrounding cold seas. They have made light of the effects of Pablo, and have instead taken pleasure from the coral island that Pablo brought with it.

The mini island was named after the super typhoon, so it was called Pablo Island. Lingiganons do not want to call it Bopha since Bopha was a foreign name. As if to give tribute to the damages brought by the typhoon, naming the Pablo is a way for the people to reclaim what was left of their lives after the calamity. And to remember a time of their lives when losing everything is really to gain back one’s self.

Then again, Pablo Island has made some of the residents of Lingig fight with each other because they think they can willfully claim the ownership of the island.

“Ako yang tag iya ng Pablo kay ako yaka una pag tagduk ng flag ngadto (I’m the owner of the island because I’m the first one to put a flag there),” said a fisherman who is known in the community to unlawfully claim things he fancies.

But the will of the majority is to leave Pablo unclaimed by anyone. Not even the man who has his flag firmly placed on the island. Any of the residents, though, could build his payag. But again, their payag is only made to be rented out to those who wish to visit the island.

The popularity of Pablo brings with it different stories and interpretations for its emergence. Some people believe it was an island of the mermaids because the shapes of the corrals which fill the whole island take various forms and sizes. In fact, most of those who quarried the corrals commented on their decorative qualities. Another story which tries to explain Pablo is the belief that it was the dwelling place of a mystical creature which is a half human and half snake.

For most of the Lingiganons, these stories are simply figments of man’s imagination. Accounts vary from creativity to outrageousness to bald-faced lies. For them, Pablo is the result of the large waves which to have carried these tons of corals and formed a new island. Even as one digs deep into the surface, only more corals can be seen on the island.

Three years has passed since Pablo, and today, it still remains among the Lingiganons. The island is still in existence, but it is more noticeable during low tide. This island speaks true to what a Lingiganon is: someone who has hurdled through the storm and the big waves which had washed down almost the entire community.

And the flag? The flag on Pablo will be a constant reminder that any Lingiganon will rise up to any challenge, be it storm or wave, and still reclaim their life from devastation.

Maria Diane D. Consuegra, Saimonah Judy Mae P. Acosta, Cheemnnee Lou A. Adaptar and Marra R. Martizano are Teacher Education students of Saint Vincent De Paul Diocesan College, Mangagoy, Bislig City.

Binibining Buntis Looks Out for Rain

Nonfiction by | August 20, 2016

For almost three months since my return in this barrio life, summer has never failed to remind me that it has not really left for the rainy season. In fact, even in the middle of July, and now the beginning of August, it still feels like the warm, sultry month of April when the peak of power outages in Davao city had been the rage.

It is warmer for a pregnant woman like me. Like rosary beads, I am counting the days looking out for the rain to come.

Heading for my sixth-month mark, I constantly find myself panting for breath. I pant when I change my clothes after a cold morning bath. I pant during the bumpy ride on the old-rusty tricycle on my way to the local college where I am currently teaching. I pant as I walk toward the wooden, rustic office to prepare for the day’s classes. I pant when I wave my hands in the air as I discuss grammar, communication, research, and all the other things which animate my hands to do their own bidding. As I catch for more air to fill my lungs, I could feel beads of sweat running down my nape toward the bottom of my spine. Little strings of salty liquid also line up the wide expanse of my forehead, not to mention the dewy accent on my cheeks. I tried not to laugh when a co-teacher commented how I got cute, chubby cheeks which seem to invite people to take a pinch on them. The warm weather is not making things easy as I carry my baby around the summer’s day in the middle of July.

Returning in Bislig City since I learned of my pregnancy has been a decisive moment for me. Or so I thought. I have known that in Bislig the second semester of every year always draws in the rain and cold season. So, I readily packed my books, clothes, and all to return back home excitedly imagining for the fresh cold morning to rush me into eagerness for my pregnancy to come to its full term.

Rain seems like the next best thing that could happen to me as my baby grows bigger and my waist expands more to accommodate him inside me. To say that being pregnant brings the temperature twice the normal degrees is an understatement. From the time of my arrival last May until now, I have never prayed for the rain to come as intently as I have been doing. It seems as if I am trying to bargain with God and all His Supremacy to bring in the rain. In one of those reveries, I have asked to whoever wants to listen to take me where the rain hides. Beating my arms for the cardboard fan to summon even a gust of wind, I said a silent prayer for the rain goddess to check on me. I could bear the panting that comes along with my every movement, but the dampness at the neckband of my blouse, my arm pits, the back of my knees, and even that region that joins my thighs and the nether world seems to be inundated with sea salt. The clammy feeling of my skin seems too oppressive to bear—imagine extending this sensation for a whole week or month with only a cardboard material to take on every class period.

At home, the rusty electric stand fan is whirring endlessly in my room. It only takes rest when I leave for school. Hence, at times when I am just lounging at home, the fan has to be in its steady operation at tab number 1. Oh yes, I do not really go that far as reaching tab number 3; the large bedroom I have shared with all of my siblings and even my nieces and nephews who have come and gone from the family residence is cooled with just the fan. An air conditioning unit would have been the quickest way to lower down the sweltering heat, but acquiring it would be another story.

On a typical weekend, I find myself staying under the shade of a neighbor’s yard just across our house. I would be looking for clouds—the fluffy cirrus clouds which are indications of a possible shower to come later in the day—forming in the blue and white canvas of the sky. The distant chirping of the birds would have made the afternoon a perfect vignette for memories to build on my pregnancy. Yet, my arms have been exerting effort to make my cardboard fan produce the gust of wind it could summon while beads of sweat begin to form on the bridge of my now expanding nose.

However, there were really times when the rain would come visit, albeit scantily. One July morning, a quick morning shower had sprinkled down a drizzle on the gray concrete; then at night, when the weather has been really warm like today, a steady pouring of rainwater can be heard drumming down the iron roofs outside our house. In fact, I could even imagine hearing the pellets of rain calmly beating those of my neighbors’ roofs. On July 19, a really cool morning greeted me and extended throughout the day when the local holiday (for the Mangagoy Fiesta celebration) also brought in the rain enough for the canal water to stream down the river and wash off almost a month-long dry season.

But the next day, the July summer sun warmed up everything.

August has just started, and tonight, it rained. It has been raining since eight in the evening. I could just wish that the cold season would finally start here in Bislig. I have been on the lookout for the rain to come, and this second day of August is a welcome treat. An afternoon sun is alright, but it would be better if more of this cool, rainy weather will fill the day and bring us to a more rested night.

With the Yuletide season drawing near, my baby is also coming to its term. What an exciting way to celebrate these life events but with nature beating its tunes with health and strength in the rain.

I feel my baby moving as I relish on the thought of cooler days and nights to come.

Teresa May A. Mundiz is in Bislig City to prepare for her pregnancy. She teaches English subjects in Saint Vincent de Paul Diocesan College. She counts the days when the rain will come to her hometown.

‘Nuage de Pluie’ is French for ‘Rain Cloud’

Nonfiction by | August 7, 2016

Everything about my life in my twenties so far has been about self-discovery. The endless nights I’ve had questioning myself over and over (“Who am I? Do I like who I am? Who do I want to be?”) have inevitably resulted in an obsessive analysis of my name. Do you do that too? Have you ever spent an absurd amount of time just wondering about it? I mean―your name has just been given to you, chosen by someone else, and usually it’s not because of the newborn you were at the time, but what your name givers had hoped you’d grow up to be. Given that it was just assigned to you, do you feel like your name fits you now that you’re older and an actual person of your own? Some names have histories and meanings―do they ring true for you? And some have namesakes and legacies―do you feel like you’ve lived up to them? When someone calls it out, can the deepest, darkest recesses of your heart honestly answer that that’s you?

I know that it’s just a name. Like all labels, it doesn’t define you. But, it’s your name: You wear it. You bear it. As Rick Riordan ominously wrote in his first Percy Jackson book, “Names have power.”

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Notes on Peace: In Ciudad de Sambuwangan

Nonfiction by | July 31, 2016

The rugged coastline came into view as our plane approached the airport of Zamboanga City, Sambuwangan to the ancient Sama people. This was only my second time to visit this city. The first time was a quick stopover as we transitted for Tawi-Tawi. But this second visit, only days after the Zamboanga Siege, and with the city still trying to salvage itself from the trauma of those days, brings out various emotions in me.

As we neared land, houses on stilts below us grew larger, ships lining the coast called eager young men and women to a better life, perhaps in Sabah. Flooded houses also grew more vivid, reminding the plane’s passengers of yet another recent calamity that hit the city.

I searched within me if I’ve come prepared for the work ahead. Have I read enough materials on this siege? How much do I know of the ethnic diversity in the area, to better understand the situation? How sensitive am I to woundedness? Will anyone be ever really prepared to face such monsters as trauma and grief?

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