Category: Nonfiction

Coffee and Friends

Nonfiction by | August 9, 2009

Most of us equate coffee with age and long nights that never end; some of us place it at par with romance and falling rain, or hot sultry nights and youth, or balmy days and long forgotten echoes of old remembered loves and footsteps that ring no more, or cold afternoons and chocolate rice porridge before our old television sets and their endless reruns of movies long archived. Whatever strikes our fancy, goes; coffee on hand, it seems, is here to stay.

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Planted, Uprooted, and Transient Boarder in This Soil

Nonfiction by | August 9, 2009

I look around and see that there is a lot to be done—laundry in a basket, books sprawled all over the floor, clothes hanging haphazardly from fixtures, my bag puking papers all over my shoes, slippers and sandals, my bed a mess—and I have just woken up from my sleep, that which I did not truly enjoy. I had a dream—and it was of a home, which felt so familiar and artificially sweet. But it was odd and not at all refreshing. It was awkward and still and dull. It cannot be called a dream, but that’s what people call mental images in succession, so it’ll have to be called that. And this dream was a dream that ended up all mine.

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HH: A Different Ride

Nonfiction by | August 2, 2009

Your sweat pours down your back as the temperature rises. The heat is killing you. You press yourself hard on the body trapped between your thighs, making sure that you are fixed on it. You try to stay focused but you forget everything along the way. Your grip becomes tighter; you don’t want to lose the moment. And just like anything done in haste, the whole act is over before you know it.

This is how it is to ride a motorcycle under the battering heat of the sun. Wind is the only relief as it touches you. The ride’s rhythm makes you wonder what awaits you. Is it a pending collision, a machine defect, a dried-up-river road, or an attempt of the motorcycle driver to make advances on you? In this case, wonder is an understatement because people at times become frantic and even terrified. To fall from the motorcycle is unfortunate, or worse, tragic. Just like what the old folks keep on telling us, riding a motorcycle is like putting one foot in the grave. Continue reading HH: A Different Ride

Kronika ng Isang Biyaherong Pinoy

Nonfiction by | July 19, 2009

Kung luho mang maituturing ang pagbibiyahe, maluwag sa dibdib kong aaminin na ito ang isang bagay na kailanma’y hinding-hindi ko maaaring ipagkakait sa aking sarili.

Nag-umpisa akong maglakbay sa iba’t-ibang bahagi ng mundo nang ako’y mangibangbayan. Ngunit hindi ang mga lugar na binisita ko ang pagtutuunan ko ng pansin sa sanaysay na ito. Kundi ang mga panggugulo at panlalait na tagpong aking naranasan bilang isang biyaherong Pinoy. Lalung-lalo na ang nakapapagod na proseso sa pag-aplay ng visa. At ang pagharap sa mga kinatawan ng imigrasyon sa tuwing papasok pa lamang ako o di kaya’y papalabas na ng isang bansa.

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Bye bye, Baby

Nonfiction by | July 12, 2009

I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t grunt ‘But…,” nor ask why. I just said yes, and nodded even when I meant no. Recently, my parents said no about me working in Metro Manila. I was devastated. I wouldn’t survive it, they predicted.

In Kindergarten, my teacher told this story after nap time when other kids were still sleepy. She told us that birds make good parents – they build nests for their young, feed them everyday, and protect them from unkind predators. But there’s one thing bird grown-ups don’t do for their young – fly. They don’t teach their chicks how to flap wings or glide in the air. In fact, some bird parents even risk pushing their chicks from the nest so that they will learn how to fly. It’s nature’s way of saying that learning does not always have to be vicarious. All birds learn to fly the hard way.

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A Bus Ride to Remember

Nonfiction by | July 12, 2009

I am a traveler of the road that connects Surigao del Sur and Davao City. I have lived most of my life in the city, but occasionally visit Surigao, particularly on Christmas breaks, summer vacations, and when the family decides to have a reunion. Sometimes the death anniversary of my great grandmother was reason eough to visit Surigao.

The first trip that I remember making was upon the request of my grandmother, who was longing to see me. I was accompanied by my aunt, whom I called “Mommy.” I had to sleep the whole day to prepare for the trip, which was scheduled at night.

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The Obligations of the Writer

Nonfiction by | July 5, 2009

(In memory of my father, Florentino Evasco)

Invoking the Presences
I would like to begin with a poem which I wrote many years ago for my father, Florentino Evasco. On March 14, he would have been 85 years old. This poem is published in my first book Dreamweavers and part of a cycle entitled “Blood Remembering.” It is called “The Mound of Bones”:

Behind the house,
A mound of earth
Kept my father
Busy digging.
From here the house
Was to extend
A listening ear
To the bamboo grove
And the frogpond.
But father struck
A pile of bones
And was soon lost
In contemplation.
Mother died
When he was fifty.
He told me then the secret
Of the mound of bones:
How the enchanted trees
Dug deep roots and curled
Around the skulls;
How one day, another man
Will uproot other trees and
Unearth our own,
And be lost in
His own reflection.

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Gender In Literature

Nonfiction by | June 28, 2009

The story of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “The Birthmark” expresses how women are defined as “the other” and men as the powerful sex.

Attics do not house humans. They are wasted space. Women are considered half monsters — and they are wasted. A woman inhabits the attic; literally and metaphorically, she becomes a madwoman, both as a writer and a character.

The fact is, Nathaniel Hawthorne is male; and men don’t glorify women.

Nathaniel Hawthorne did not directly say that Georgina is a monster. Only by the way she is presented in the story will it then become clear that literature had always been confined to male writers and male characters. Georgina’s birthmark embodies the unforgivable flaws of the female body and her position as a woman. She is not any different from Dr. Frankenstein’s monster; and the only way to kill the female monster is to destroy male literature.

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