Category: Nonfiction

The Roundball

Nonfiction by | July 19, 2021

About three years ago, on my first trip home from Davao City where I was studying, Isulan actually felt like home for the first time. Funnily enough, I took a picture of the Roundball as soon as I stepped out of the van, and that was also another first. The Roundball wasn’t a grand architectural feat or anything like that at all—it’s just a roundabout—it looked rugged and unkempt. For something that has stood there for as long as I can remember, it’s anything but new. It did, however, remind me that I was home. Something inside me wanted to immortalize that moment. Perhaps it was the feeling of home, of warmth, that I wanted to carry back to college. Or maybe it was just an impulse.

I took a stroll on the empty highway—it was eight o’clock in the evening. The dust in the air stung my eyes and filled my lungs as I kept on looking and walking around streets and buildings that I would have overlooked if it had been any other moment than that. A couple of minutes later, I reached the old market, the palengke, and I noticed that a statue of a golden eagle has been erected in front of an old bakery, barbecue stalls with disco lights lined the pathway, street lights were no longer flickering, tarpaulins and colorful banners of politicians flitted by the warm evening wind. The moon seemed to project a vague film on the concrete, the stars hummed, and street dogs sang. Were all of these like this before? I didn’t know and I didn’t care. It was all too surreal.

Today, after being caged here for more than a year, it’s safe to say that I have again forgotten what that feeling is like, and my indifference has long been revived. Isulan, a town of ninety-thousand in the province of Sultan Kudarat, has become synonymous with indifference. It’s in the streets, the dusty wind, the people. Nobody cared about politics, nobody cared about the literary works that won a Palanca, and it seemed like nobody cared about the pandemic. A quick motorcycle ride to Kalawag 2 St. and dozens of people walking around with no face mask on is a recurring sight. All these people exuded an air of arrogance, and some just downright neglect. It’s impossible to know what these people cared about. Other than themselves, it’s already a stretch to assume that they cared about anything else. This would have been a good time for the presence of a police officer, but they didn’t care enough either about the people in the narrow streets; they only seemed to care about those on the highways, in the middle of the bustling economic center, those in the sentro.

There used to be only one milk tea shop in all of Isulan, and that was in the sentro. Now, there are more than a dozen in every street and corner. I always wondered if business owners in Isulan were just envious of other people’s businesses, or if they never had an original business idea all their lives. Lechon manok stalls too; every time I turn my head, I find one. God, nobody cared about originality in this place. And don’t get me started on banana cue vendors. Everything here seems the same, everyone just copies everyone else. The clothes they wear, the things they post all adhere to what is uso, or what’s trending—which milk tea shop has the most “aesthetic” interior design, making it the most uso at the moment. It makes me sick.

Early morning is probably my favorite time of the day, at least before classes started. I would usually ride my bike by then, which seemed to clear my head. Exercise did help my mental health to stabilize, but what I actually sought for was the sunrise. The sun always looked different whenever the landscape changed. My favorite route is on Kudanding—the farmland on the outskirts of Isulan. I remember the first time I dared to even ride there. The cemented road was narrow, various bushes and flowers paved the side, a bit farther ahead on the horizon rice paddy fields stretched for over a kilometer. Then I slowed down my pace, something inside me said to wait patiently for the sun to show its new story of light and brightness and hope. Faint yellow-orange strings of light broke through, slowly turning into a thick blanket smothering the field in its amber radiance, the morning dew crystallized into exquisite gems, and the mist retreated as it gave reverence to the almighty sun. I watched for a bit longer, still trying to balance myself on the bike. And then it was over. I made a U-turn and pedalled as fast as I can. I had to return home; the sun can burn if I basked in it for too long.

I know, however, that the sun would turn gray in my eyes eventually. So I try to restrict my bike rides there. Time is a thief, and the more time I spend enjoying something, the sooner I become indifferent. I barely know what I like anymore, and I feel lost. I feel lost in a place where I have lived my whole life, and yet that moment of just looking at the sunrise on a bike ride has made my indifference lift, even for just a moment. Maybe one of these days, the Roundball might make me feel something again, but I wouldn’t count on it.

_________________

David Madriaga is taking up BA English-Creative Writing in the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

Photo Credit: https://www.soxph.com/2017/08/hamungaya-festival.html

Reasons To Stay

Nonfiction by | July 19, 2021

  1. In Dapitan, underneath Rizal’s tarnished skin is history being rewritten.

 

  1. The only thing I learned in school is that Dapitan City is just a place where Jose Rizal was exiled. Everything was centered around him: the city’s history, its progress, historical sites. But the weird thing is, when I was growing up there, no one ever mentioned his name at all.

 

  1. Well, that’s aside from the school named after him, where my grandfather used to teach law subjects. And the huge shrine by the shore, where his silhouette would loom as the sun goes down, reminding the city of his presence. But other than that, it’s as if he never even existed.

 

  1. It is a family tradition of ours to be “exiled” in Dapitan; each grandchild of Papa and Mama would spend an entire summer with them, away from the rest of the world. It is my turn now, and I was half-excited, half-dreading to stay there without my phone, my parents, and my cousins.

 

  1. It is a twelve-hour ride to the city, from Davao, by land. I slept throughout the entire trip, hogging the backseat all to myself while my uncle and aunt argued about where we would stop to eat merienda.

 

  1. I remember the different routes we have taken on the way to Dapitan, back when I was still in grade school. One time we stayed in Cagayan de Oro since it was getting dark, and my dad was too sleepy to keep driving. Another time we rode a ferry from Dumaguete, and that took roughly two hours, but I felt like vomiting the entire time. There was also a time where we rode a plane from Manila, but we landed in Dipolog because Dapitan doesn’t have an airport. Each visit to the place is different, but all seemingly familiar.

 

  1. Sunlight spills through the jalousies, and the roosters outside start to trumpet, as if to say welcome home. I slither to the side of my bed, eyes still crusty from last night’s twelve-hour drive, and my feet feel the dusty, creaking wooden floor, in search of my slippers.

 

The first thing I smell is the sweet scent of marang. The second, Mama’s warm, bitter cocoa sikwate. I drag my feet downstairs and see my 70-year-old grandmother, who looks just like my mom, but with short hair and a shorter fuse. “No good morning, Rapachung?” She says.

“Good morning, Mama,” I say sheepishly. I give her a peck on her wrinkled cheeks. “Where’s Papa?”

 

“He’s in Potol, playing tennis.” The usual morning routine. We share the same time zone, but my bedtime is my grandfather’s call time in Potol, where he plays tennis with the rest of the retired court judges. See you in court is a joke as old as they are.

 

  1. My mother and her siblings grew up here, in this two-storey house that they say is haunted, with a garden so huge they called it the “hundred acre woods,” and when we were little we would go Easter egg hunting there with all my cousins.

 

Now that it’s just the three of us in the house, the garden really does feel like a hundred acres.

 

  1. Potol is just a bike ride away. On sunny afternoons, the entire street is teeming with food vendors, henna tattoos, and DIY braces––Libre Taod, as the sign says. Free installation. Their only tennis court is filled with children bouncing back and forth.

 

Today is a good morning, indeed. Peace and quiet, save for the sound of tennis shoes kissing the concrete, and racquets lobbing the tiny neon ball.

 

I wave at Papa, and he waves his racquet and smiles. All gums and no teeth.

 

  1. In Dapitan, we have about a million relatives in our clan. This person is a relative of that person who is a distant cousin of the other person. Everyone in the clan calls each other geng, the same way Davaoeños call each other bai.

 

Well, everyone except for Papa, because we always call him “Justice.”

 

“Geng, asa ta mangaon?” or “Musta naman ka, ‘geng?” Everything starts or ends with geng. I’ve always wondered where the name came from, so one day I asked my aunt. She said it began with Palangga, which means ‘beloved’ in Binisaya, then it was shortened to langga, then shortened further to gang, until it finally ended up as geng. The term of endearment for literally everyone–an all-encompassing, all-purpose name that is commonly used in our family reunions and gatherings, where there are so many people it is impossible to remember each of their names. The next thing I knew, I was calling everyone Geng as well.

 

  1. I squeeze my way through the Plaza. People are leaving the halls of St. James the Greater, waving croton leaves, locally known as parpagayo, to the sound of drums and trumpets and church bells. They look like pompoms, only green and red, and veiny.

 

I still wonder if people really kissed the statue on the altar after the mass had ended, because the mere thought of it is gross.

 

Viva Señor Santiago! Someone shouts.

Viva! We yell back.

 

“Sleep early, Rapachung,” Mama says, unfolding her hand fan on one hand and patting her forehead with a hanky on the other. “You were sleeping again at Mass.”

 

In my defense, I had no idea we would go to Mass every single morning. Every single morning for an entire week, then the week after that, then the week after that. It is an absolute nightmare—no wonder they call this an exile.

 

  1. One thing I missed in this place: the public beach. No, not Dakak’s expensive, imported white sands, but the only one in the city that is open to the public. The first beach I went to that had black sand. No one really knows the name of the beach, but my relatives call the place “Boulevard.” Its origins were probably buried deep in the sand, but when people from the city say “Maligo ta sa Boulevard,” this is where they would go.

 

On my bike, I watch people melt under the heat of April, with cold beer and sunblock, their feet buried in the soft, black sand as I ride the stretch of the shoreline.

 

  1. Another thing I have missed in this place: Tita Marooch and her chicken lollipops. She is my mom’s distant cousin, but in Dapitan she is her bestest friend. Basically she cooks chicken wings shaped into lollipops, crispy with a little spicy kick. For me it was “the best in the whole entire world,” as I said when I was six. A decade later, my slogan still stands.

 

“Rapachung! You just biked going here? That’s quite far!” Tita Marooch is holding a glass tray of freshly cooked chicken. No time for talking, I gobble up the entire tray.

 

  1. When she was young, my mom had the nickname Peruka, which means “doll-eyed” in Subanen. Nanay gave her that name, and it stuck to her as she grew older. When she visits Dapitan, people call her Peruka the same way people call me Rapachung. The name feels warm, like the feeling of holding a steamy hot cup of Mama’s sikwate with both hands.

 

Nanay is Mama’s sibling. In Dapitan, they call her by her Subanen name, which means “Princess.” And when we visited their house in Piñan, I asked if I had a Subanen name, too.

 

She places a hand on my shoulder. “Miyaka,” she says. “Little one.”

 

  1. In a few hours my uncle and aunt would stop by our house and pick me up and send me back to Davao. I squeeze the memories into a duffel bag.
  2. I watch the wipers move back and forth, sweeping the tears pelting the windshield. I watch the city behind me getting smaller and smaller until it is nothing but a memory.

Raphael Luis J. Salise is taking up creative writing in UP Mindanao. He has been a fellow to the Davao Writers Workshop.

The Games I Play

Nonfiction by | July 12, 2021

The noon sun hangs high overhead, glaring into the canopy of my F4U Corsair as it hurtles along at 425 kilometers per hour. The noise of its R-2800 Double Wasp engine, a guttural howl, fills my ears as I cast my eyes around, trying to pick out the tiniest speck against the deep, dark blue of the sky.

I’m not alone. To my portside wing is an eclectic mix of aircraft, some of them American like mine. Others are British. Strangely enough, one or two Japanese planes–a Mitsubishi A7M Reppu perhaps–are on my side as well.

Below me, squadrons of attack aircraft arrayed in broad Vs roar towards their objectives, wing pylons laden with munitions, barreling through dark puffballs of flak and weaving through the streams of red and green tracers that rise to greet them.

Up ahead, I see the enemy. Tiny dots for now, and if I squint, I can make out the tiniest profile of their wings. One of them maneuvers, and streamers of white vapor peel off its wingtips.

I angle upwards, the engine roaring as I gain altitude. Some of my wingmen do the same, hoping to avoid flying head-on into the engagement and instead attack from above and behind.

The dots grow closer, details more defined. I begin to make out the sleek profiles of German Bf-109s with their square wings and Soviet Yakolevs with their tapered, almost triangular wings.

Approaching head-on was a mistake.

It might be strange to say that gaming is what got me into writing, but it did.
I’d always been a voracious reader. Over the years, my father had accumulated a veritable library of books and by the time I was born, the living room of my childhood home was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves groaning under the weight of hundreds of books. I grew up with my own encyclopedia set. I stayed up all night to consume novels like Peter F. Hamilton’s Pandora’s Star, or the various anthologies of science fiction and fantasy I could pull from any one of the shelves.

But I was merely content with reading until I played my first computer game.
I was enthralled by the alternate history of a world where Albert Einstein invented time travel to assassinate Adolf Hitler, where the Soviet Union rose to challenge the Allies, and where a madman named Yuri created mind control to establish a secret base on the moon.

I spent time drawing tanks and stickmen duking it out amidst electrical storms and aerial bombardment instead of paying attention in class and taking down notes. I’d made my first friend that way too, and by December of that first year in elementary school, I had an idea on what to gift him for the Christmas party.
One of my teachers saw that I liked to draw and suggested that I make a comic for my friend. I labored for days over the comic, crafting a story where the Soviets had captured a weather control device and were planning to use it to level our hometown. It wasn’t the best, but in writing it, I’d gained an understanding.

I hope it’s still with my friend. It’s been a while since we last talked.
Fast forward to 2007. I’d found myself experimenting with a game called Battleships Forever. It was a small game, and one available for free. It wasn’t graphically spectacular, nor did its story delve deep. But the best thing about it was its gameplay. At its most basic level, players were assigned a fleet of ships to command and a variety of scenarios to test their strategies. It wouldn’t have been groundbreaking were it not for another feature: players could assemble starships, have them fight in a variety of battle modes, and share them over the internet.

The community was centered around that aspect of the game. Members pushed themselves and each other to innovate, to improve their skills as shipbuilders and artists–and when it became part of the forum’s culture to give background information and backstories to their creations–as writers.

Storytelling became part of the game as members formed alliances and rivalries, weaving their nations’ backstories together. We argued over inconsistencies, brainstormed plot and technical details, and sat at our keyboards with bated breath as we awaited responses to our roleplaying.

By the time the Battleships Forever community began to dissipate, I’d come away with a new appreciation for writing. I’d realized writing isn’t just part of a game; it could be the game. Stringing together parts to form a ship, executing a perfect maneuver to put myself in the perfect position to take out an enemy in a dogfight is just as mentally stimulating as putting words together to create sentences and whole paragraphs to illustrate a new world.

Nothing gets my blood running like flying by the seat of my pants, weaving through a hail of tracers or frantically ordering troops around as well-laid plans are put to rest by the first contact with an opponent. That same rush of adrenaline manifests in the revision process as holes are poked in my manuscript, as new opportunities are created and flaws are exposed.

There’s a sense of freedom, of limitless possibility hidden behind the intimidation of starting anew. It rings when I gaze over a landscape and see a city waiting to be born, sounding clearer and brighter as I lay down road networks and zoning, plan the routes of utilities, and finally see the first settlers move in.

I feel it too when I stare at a blank page, just waiting for my words–whatever they may be–to fill it up, waiting to be read, to be critiqued. To be challenged.

Tracers flash between my compatriots and the enemy. A Spitfire tumbles to the earth, smoke pouring from its engine. A 109 explodes into a pall of flame and smoke, its debris fluttering in the wind.

The British and Japanese planes are maneuverable, but flimsy. They can’t afford to get hit. So, they try not to. Engines scream, airframes creak and shudder, pilots black out as they duck and weave through a hailstorm of fire.

Movements begin to slow, maneuvers straightening out as pilots struggle to disengage, to recover lost airspeed and energy.

Energy. Potential energy. My wingmates and I have a lot of it, having taken positions several hundred meters above the furball. It’s time to convert. My wingmates nose down, beginning their own attack.

I see it, a pair of Bf-109s trailing smoke, one behind the other.

I pull my control to the right and the plane tips over, nosing downwards while I pull back on the throttle. Four-hundred-twenty-five kilometers per hour. Four-three-zero. Four-five-zero. Five-zero-zero.

A peregrine falcon, when it dives to make an attack on its prey, can reach an excess of 300 kilometers an hour. It attacks from above and behind, giving its target very little chance to escape.

I’ve left it choking on my exhaust. I plummet at six hundred kilometers per hour. My wingtips begin to flutter, a sign they’re about to break off. I’m close to overspeeding. But a reduction on the throttle balances it out.

If I do this right, I can take both out with one pass. I change the angle of descent, losing some airspeed while my altimeter’s downward tick slows. But now I’m behind the rear 109, and with a pull of the trigger, the F4U-4B’s four M3 20mm autocannons lash out, red tracers lancing through the air and into the German fighter’s tail and wing, blowing both apart.

But I’ve misjudged my angle, and the tracers flashing by his cockpit alerts the second German to my presence. He puts his plane on its wingtip and turns around while I flash past. To turn would be risky, sacrificing most of my speed to engage him. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

I flip upside-down, then pull back on the control, pulling the plane into a half loop, almost halving my speed even as I meet him just as he completes his own turn. I fire, he fires. Red and green tracers flash past each other. My plane shudders as its starboard wing is torn off in a hail of shrapnel, but I’m gratified to see his 109 disintegrate into its component parts.

Grinning, I reach for the keyboard and type “GG EZ.”

The reply: “F**k u!”

Bien Carlos Manzares is a couch potato with his head in future worlds. In the present world, he is a creative writing student of UP Mindanao.

Notebook

Nonfiction by | June 7, 2021

Gamit ang notebook sa among panahon. Kini uban sa mga butang nga amo gayung isulod sa bag nga bala-balahon ngadto sa eskwelahan ug pauli. Makahinumdom ko nga init-init pa ang akong notebook sa akong una nga subject human sa matag buntag nga pagpanghinlo.Tungod kadto sa pagdap-ig sa balonan nga nagkupot sa akong paniudto.

Matag subject sa eskwelahan nagkinahanglan ug notebook. Kabahin na ang pagsulat sa among notebook sa among adlaw-adlaw nga gimbuhaton—usahay katunga sa panahon, usahay sab sa tibuok oras sa among klase. Ang katong naay pinakanindot ug agi maoy mag-una sa pagsulat. Mao bitawng ginganlan namo siya’g board secretary kay mao ni iyang papel. Dali niyang kurisan ang isig ka kilid sa blackboard hangtud kini mapuno. Ug sa dihang mapuno na kini, mobalhin siya sa pikas blackboard ug didto na usab magpadangat sa iyang walay puas nga pagdukdok.

Dili laay ang pagsulat sa notebook sulod sa klase. Lingaw hinumdoman nga kami murag mga lagong nga magbalhin-balhin sa isig ka kilid sa klasrum, magtabi, magsinikohay, magsininggitay kay naay nagsalipod nga dakong ulo sa atubangan, apan hilom sa kinatibuk-an kay nagkapuliki ug apas sa tigsulat. Talagsaon ra sab sa amoa ang dili magsulat kay isa man gyud nis mga susihunon sa among mga maestra inig abot sa tinggrado.

Dako akong pagtuo nga sama sab niini nga mga kasinatian ang gidak-an sa akong mama sa dihang siya nag-eskwela pa. Apan dili parehas sa among naagian, siya ug ang iyang magulang naay taas-taas nga baklayon gikan sa ilang gamay nga yuta sa bukid nga karon bag-o lang nahalin. Sama siguro siya kahinay molakaw niadtong gamayng bata nga nagbala sa iyang dakong bag nga akong nalabyan sa karsada usa ka buntag, unya diay pagkahapon mipabuhagay sa iyang kasiaw uban sa panon sa mga sama niyag edad sa ilang pagpanguli, gawas nga mga balili ug mananap ang sagad niyang mahimamat sa dalan nga nagliot ilalom sa kagulangan kaniadto. Dako siguro niyang pasalamat sa mga rebelde nga maoy hinungdan sa pagkahalin sa ilang mga kabaw ug sa pagbakwit nila padulong duol sa highway.

Among mama ang among magtutudlo sulod sa balay. Siya ug ang among lola ang mag-agak namo sa paghimo sa among homeworks kaniadtong gagmatitoy pa mi. Magbasa mi ni mama sa textbook sa English. Kauban sab mi ni lola pagsulbad sa mga problema sa kwarta nga gipabalon sa akong maestra sa Math. Inig kabuntag mamangon mi sa akong mga igsoon human sa napulo ka damgo sa usa ka mahinanukon nga gabii. Magdungan mi ug pangaligo sa karaang goma nga tab, samtang ang init nga pamahaw ug adlaw-adlaw nga gatas nagpaabot na sa kan-anan. Unya malibang. Unya manutbras. Tanan ilalom sa ilang makanunayon nga pag-atiman.

High school na mi nakamatikod sa ilang dakong pagpangandam aron kami magtubo nga himsog ug naay kahibalo, gikan sa ilang pagduol sa lainlaing utanganan alang sa adlaw-adlaw nga panginahanglan hangtud sa pagpamalit ug school supplies duha ka bulan sa dili pa ang ting-enroll. Magtubo man sab gud ang mga presyo inig abot sa Hunyo, gawas nga mag-aginod ang linya sa mga tawong maglumba ug bayad. Nag-una sa lista ni mama ang notebook para sa kada subject namong upat, ug ang usa ka rolyo sa yarn nga iyang ipuli sa spring nga naghawid sa mga palid aron mahimo kining pulido ug lig-on sa pagsugakod sa usa ka tuig nga pagkuriskuris. Hinay-hinay niyang tahion ang kada notebook sa iyang bakante nga oras sulod sa balay.

Daghang siaw sa eskwelahan. Daghang bulas ug sugilanon kabahin sa umaabot—mga panghupaw nga unta dili gayud matungnan nga mamaestro kay lagi budlay na ang pag-atubang sa blackboard human sa daghang tuig nga pagsulat. Usahay naay manghagit ug sumbagay sa kilid-kilid agig pagpaila sa ilang gimanggad nga kaisog. Ug kini usab kabahin sa talagsaong kalisud ug kalipay nga anaa sa pagtuon, ug sa iyang nag-inusara nga pamaagi sa paglutas. Usahay naay mawad-an ug notebook, ug milagro nga kadto mangakit-an dis-a ulahing gihipos sa tag-iya human sa pipila ka adlaw sa wala pa ang exam. Apan wala ni sukad mahitabo nako kay naay dakong timailhan nga dili mabulag sa akong sinulat, nga akong gidala-dala kaniadto sulod sa akong bag nga nag-alisngaw sa kainit.
kaniadto sulod sa akong bag nga nag-alisngaw sa kainit.

 

Dodong Isco is a visiting lecturer at JHCSC, San Miguel, Zamboanga del Sur. He has just received his job order for DepEd. He was born in Buug, Zamboanga Sibugay.

Ako

Nonfiction by | May 31, 2021

báyot n. 1 sissy¹. 2 male homosexual².

source: A Dictionary of Cebuano Visayan, by John U. Wolff

¹ Gisumbag ko ni Papa kay hinhin daw ko molihok. Ana siya di daw kini angayan para nako nga iyang bugtong anak nga lalaki. Unsa na lang daw ingnon sa iyang mga kompare (nga mga palahubog ug bahog ilok)? Maayo na lang dawat ko ni Mama. Unsaon ba uroy pagpagahi og nilihokan oy? Wala man nako na tuyo-a kon ganahan ko molakaw pina-Pia Alonzo Wurztbach ba. Ay, Catriona Gray diay.

Idol jod nako na sila ay. Kabalo ko sa akong kaugalingon, nga pareho nila, aduna koy kapadulngan sa akong kinabuhi. Silver lining ba, matod pang Catriona. Nga dili lang matanggong akong kinabuhi isip mamaligya-ay og bulad sa Cogon. Not that I’m complaining, apan naa pay mas dakong mahitabo angay para nako. I could feel it! Nga akong pangandoy nga mahimong English teacher mas mohatag og kahulogan sa akong kinabuhi. Dili lang para nako, para pod sa akong matudloan puhon. Pak! “Beauty with a purpose” ba! Ganern!

Apan si Papa mga boxing man nuon ang ipatan-aw nako oy. Dapat daw pareho kong Manny Pacquaio kagahi. Para niya, kini daw ang sukdanan sa usa ka lalaki. Frustrated boxer daw jod si Papa ingon pang Mama. Iya daw jod ning pangandoy atung bata-bata pa siya kay kini daw ang moluwas kaniya sa kapobrehon, apan wa madayon katong nag-ila silang Mama. Mao nang makahunahuna pod ko kon mao ba ni ang rason ngano masumbagan niya si Mama inig mahubog siya. Magawas kaha niya sa pagsumbag ang kalagot sa mga wa madayon nga mga pangandoy? Pamaagi kaha niya kini aron mas mahilwas niya ang kapait sa kinabuhi pamaagi sa mga bugno sa bukton ug paa ni Mama?

That’s why, I never glorify the violence in boxing. Yesss! Kasugakod akong English noh? Of course, I’m both beauty and brains! Charot! Bitaw, mao nga naningkamot jod kong makahuman sa kursong AB English para mapadayon nako akong pangandoy. Reading Roland Barthes by day, selling bulad by night ang drama, sizt! Kon kinahanglan nako antoson ang baho sa bulad nga mopilit sa akong uniform kada magbantay ko sa among pwesto samtang gabasa kog libro, antoson nako, apan dili nako maantos ang pagpasakit ni Papa kang Mama.

Niabot ra jod ang panahon nga ang pagbinat nako sa respeto para kang Papa, sama sa usa ka lastiko, naputol na. Ug kabalo ang kinsa may nakasinati sa pagbugto sa lastiko nga aduna kini pataban nga kasakit.

“Mga yawa! Wala na sa’y kwarta?” ingon ni Papa nga nanimahong RH (Red Horse). Wala mitingog si Mama. Nagpadayon si Mama og hugas sa kusina.

“Amang man diay ning akong mga kauban aning panimalaya! Animal!” miduol siyang Mama ug mi-aksiyong birahon iyang buhok.

“Tistingi!” misyagit si Mama ug gitutok niya ang kutsilyo kang Papa.

Sa unang higayon nako nakita ang kakurat ug kahadlok sa mga mata ni Papa nga wala mamilok. Mora siyag nakakita’g aswang. Katong higayona ra pod nako nakita ang mga ugat sa kamot ni Mama nga milatay morag halas padulong sa kutsilyo nga gikaptan niya og pag-ayo. Gapangurog iyang kamot apan dili sa kahadlok, kon dili sa kasuko—kasuko nga dugay na niyang gitanom sa iyang dughan sa mga tuig nga minglabay. Iyang mga mata napuno sa pagmahay ug pagdumot nga mingdagayday pinaagi sa iyang mga luha.

Sa unang higayon pod nako nakita mihilak si Mama. Morag gikumot akong dughan. Wala ko kabantay nangurog na diay akong kinumo. Ug dadto nako nailhan ang akong inner Darna. I knew I was more than just that stunning beki selling bulad in the market.
Mipaspas ang pagpitik sa akong dughan nga mora bag mobuto ko. Ingon ani pod seguro si Narda inig mo-transform siya og Darna noh? Midagan ko paingon kang Papa ug gisumbag iyang namulang aping tungod sa kahubog. Nahapla siya sa salog. Dili lang ko segurado kon sa kakusog kaha to sa akong sumbag o sa iyang kahubog, apan katong gabhiona segurado ko nakita na niya ang gipangitang kagahi nako.

² Bayot ko apan dili ko talawan.

Gilford was a student of the BA English (Creative Writing) of UP Mindanao, and now he is currently taking up his graduate studies in history at UP Diliman.

 

The Bone Collector (part 2)

Nonfiction by | May 3, 2021

Mr. Blatchley visited us often. During his visits, I learned that he devoted himself to collecting debris of animals found in coastal areas or in jungles of places I had never heard of. He told us about his adventures, his finger trailing around his palm as he spoke. He looked like he was locating new bones to find on the map of his palm.

On some days, he would bring a couple of bread for us, tearing and spreading the paper bag on our table so that all of us could have a share. Bottles of fermented fish and a plate of burned rice didn’t disturb him as he sat with circles of light spat by the holes of our roof. I wished I had the courage that time to ask more about the complications he had survived before reaching this city. But I was more eager to know how he knew where we lived. Was our house a random spot in his never-ending map of discovery for bones?

 

Even before the bone collector heard about my Lola’s small business, we had already nailed a recatangular signage at our fence facing the road: For Sale: Frog Skeleton, Frog Alive. It was inscribed with a fancy depiction of stick drawings on both sides of the signage.  It was something I was never ashamed of. Lola had been doing this business before my siblings and I were born, with a help of a man suffering from a polio, who taught her how to debone. She had taught this skill to Mr. Blatchley who eventually became dear to us even if he never asked for our names.

He also became a friend of my half-brother, who sooner worked with him. They visited places and seas where whales and other trapped animals were found dead. A few years later Mr. Blatchley built his own museum at Bucana. It was named D’Bone Collector Musem with over 700 specimen. It instantly became a tourist spot here in Davao City.

 

One afternoon, during the celebration of my newphew’s christening, in a resort, I surprised to see the bone collector, bringing his family with him. It was the last time I saw him. My half-brother had stopped working in the museum, when he caught by the forbidden madness of this city.

I didn’t want to look for him. Maybe Lola would think that I miss the things that he had given me or the money he had offered her. So I kept my thoughts to myself and stared at our signage as often as I could, as if it was the landmark that the bone collector used to find us, and maybe, he could find us again.

What the signage kept reminding me was its message that our very own survival was rooted into something private. We have been surviving on our own with this peculiar business even before Mr. Blatchley came and gave us a taste of what could be a better life with higher business income. Or a better life with a father-figure.

 

I was often told by Lola and my half-brother to visit the museum, to look at how each animal, once lost in the entanglement of time and place, had been gathered for humanity to witness that life matters.

The bone collector had discovered a place where children wanted to escape from the misfortunes created by their fathers, the way I and my half siblings suffered. I had wondered what it felt like to be complete as a child, but it cannot be, even how many times I imagined it to happen. Some pieces of myself fell before I was aware of it.

Has something in me died? Did I need to be saved to tell people how dangerous or sad my younger years were? The only thing I am sure of is this: I am a person lost in the wildlife of my foolishness and happiness because some parts of me are still missing. My wholeness is yet to be found.

 

***

Neil Teves is a young writer from Davao. His two previous works of nonfiction appeared here Dagmay. He essay “Paghanaw sa Iyang Anino” will appear in the second volume of Libulan Queer Anthology of the South. He is involve in poverty alleviation charity.

 

The Bone Collector (part 1)

Nonfiction by | April 26, 2021

I met the bone collector when I was six or seven years old. He was tall. He wore a black shirt tucked in his loose brown cargo pants. On his belt, assorted keys along with tiny bones and sharp fangs of unknown creatures made clinking sounds as he moved. His body loomed over me as he dragged the dead crocodile inside our house to meet my Lola.

“Mao ni akong ipatrabaho, nay,” said the bone collector. He spoke in Binisaya which surprised me. I had never met a foreigner who could speak my language fluently. “Pila man imong pangayo nay?”  he  asked as he spread his wallet that bulged with papers bills.

“Baki ra man intawn akong ginaihaw dong. Kon kani, medyo dako akong singil,” Lola told him, assuring that she would be paid as soon as she would  be done deboning and assembling.  Then, the bone collector handed Lola a couple of one-thousand bills before he instructed lola to buy all the materials she needed.

 

I later found out that his name was Darrel Dean Blatchley, an American Marine Biologist who had been exploring the wildlife from different countries for a very long time. I wondered how he came here to Mindanao and settled particularly here in Davao City aside from the fact that he had married a Filipina.

Maybe someone had told Mr. Blatchley about my Lola—that she used to debone frogs and other animals for students taking medical courses like Nursing. Although the process had always been laborious for her part, the money paid to her was generous enough to support us.

No part of the bone must be lost, even the thinnest, tiniest on, I heard my Lola explain. She even  added that the arm, leg, and tail of the crocodile must be boiled to make it tender for deboning. Mr. Blatchley was attentive but he chimed in with a light joke once in a while. During his visits, I learned that he devoted himself to collecting debris of animals found in coastal areas or in the jungles of a far away place. He told us his adventures, his finger trailing around his palm as if it was a map.

It wasn’t too long before the crocodile was assembled. Each part was placed back from where it was taken. I could see he was amazed. When he left with the skeleton in his cab, I felt my heart sank. What if we would never see him again? What if Lola would never be paid with that kind of amount?

 

But Mr. Blatchley came back, bringing a black disposable bag that held a dead reindeer.

“Nagtuon naman diay imong apo,” Mr. Blatchley when he saw me gathering the plywood filled with bones of frogs.

Lola had always commanded me to separate the parts that were all scattered on a round wooden plank: limbs on the upper left; arms on the upper right; heads and pelvises at the center, making sure that they were lined accordingly to their sizes. I was often tasked to separate the bones, so lola wouldn’t find it difficult to match them.

Meanwhile, Mr. Blatchley asked if he could do it on his own. He reached for the Elmer’s glue and snatched a piece of cardboard from the pile next to me. He began to place the spine at the center, dropping a dew of glue at its two end points, so that the head, particularly the jaw would be attached to it. But the head was too large for the spine. I picked the smaller one, slowly putting it on his cardboard.

“Kini and maigo diha kol o.” I blurted out. I should have not spoken to him, but it would have been a mistake if he forced those pieces to fit. I should have realized at that time, that some things were not meant to be pieced together.

 

Neil Teves is a young writer from Davao. His two previous works of nonfiction appeared here Dagmay. He essay “Paghanaw sa Iyang Anino” will appear in the second volume of Libulan Queer Anthology of the South. He is involve in poverty alleviation charity.

 

 

 

Weave (First of two parts)

Nonfiction by | March 15, 2021

I start to count the years since I came to Manila for work. How the walls in my rented room went through five repaints of eggshell white. The paint can only attempt to cover the fact that I live in a building where my mother used to stay when she went to college. It is a different structure now, having gone through several refurbishing, including changes in the establishment’s name. But it is still situated in the same area as in 1981 when my parents, who were in their late teens, were wed.

 

I listen to Fleetwood Mac, trying to interpret the lyrics of “Landslide” in my head again. Stevie Nicks’s voice has a certain calmness to it that makes me want to sit down and ponder about being bolder in my decisions.

 

I learned to adapt by myself. True, I was born in Quezon City. We left for the province for good when I was going on four after my father completed his degree. However, I have been living on my own these days; no longer the kid that I was when we lived in Lerma Street.

 

I was fifteen when I actually left Malabang for university in Davao. I have never come back home permanently. I carry around with me my father’s enthusiasm and my mother’s prudence. These virtues make me constantly remember who I am as a daughter of Malabang and as a descendant of one of Lanao del Sur’s oldest families. Tucked in my pockets are faint memories of my early childhood in Sampaloc. There are fleeting moments when I cannot decide where to put my loyalties—in the city of my birth or in the region of my heritage. Whatever happens though, I will tell myself I may come from different places but at the end of the day, I remain a Maranao.

 

People say I speak with a Manileño accent now. I say I may have some occasional slips. I casually walk the streets with my hijab on. I can tell when a tricycle driver overcharges fare. I became friends with the LBC attendants in Bustillos. I go to the same street in Quiapo where you can buy sasati[1] at a cheap price. I know when is the best time to leave Roxas Boulevard before you get stuck in the traffic rush. I look forward to January and February when it is the coldest.

 

Basa (Language)

 

My first language was Tagalog, just as it was for all of my younger siblings. It was most likely the environment that influenced my parents to make me speak Tagalog first.  It is quite different for my younger siblings who were born in Iligan City. Three of them still use Tagalog as their primary language so do some of my younger cousins. Although it may not be the Tagalog that is spoken here in Manila, those siblings and cousins still speak Tagalog.

 

I certainly speak Maranao on a regular basis with my parents and the rest of the family, friends, and strangers who speak to me in our tongue. I also speak fluent Bisaya just like everyone in my hometown. In Malabang, we have cultural harmony. Maranaos there speak excellent Bisaya as if it has always been our first language. Our fellow Christians on the other hand talk to you in Maranao so flawlessly you would think they were born as Maranaos.

 

One time, a friend insisted Malabang is “christianized,” and therefore is some sort of a half-breed municipality. I did not understand because I was raised in a town where fiestas and beauty contests are held flamboyantly but the adhan[2] is heard consistently and beautifully at the designated hours of the day. Bisaya was also the same language spoken in Davao and Cagayan de Oro where I studied my undergraduate course and law school. This is perhaps the reason why my “occasional slips” are mostly caused by “binisaya accents.”

 

At the office, the fondest thing told me was that I am a “Bisayang Muslim.”

 

It gets tricky though when I switch from one language to another. For instance, I answer “Oway,” which means “yes” in Maranao to somebody who asks, “Kumain ka na ba?” or “Wala pa lagi,” which means “not yet” in Bisaya. Let me throw in some “Wen ngarud” for constantly hearing some friends and officemates speak Ilokano. I have discovered that some Ilokano words are quite close to Maranao terms, including emphasis on some syllables that sound angry to ears not used to hearing passion and force in phrases and sentences.

 

Language is very much fascinating to me. In UP, I had Nihongo and French as course electives. I can still understand some “hai” and “yokatta” here and there or a little bit of “oui, s’il vous plait.” I wish I pursued learning Japanese and French harder than just getting a passing mark. I am likewise learning Italian through a phone application that reminds of progress by the day. Juggling letters and words in different languages is exhilarating, offering me windows where I can explore beyond the “5 Ws and   1 H” of Lanao del Sur.

 

On the other hand, Arabic is closer to home. It is expected of Muslims to know how to read Arabic in order to recite the Qur’an. I can fairly read verses and scripts, having gone to Madrasah during my elementary years. However, I quit Arabic school too soon to learn diacritics. I rely on familiarity in order to identify phonetics, vowels, and consonants. Mastering diacritical marks takes time.

 

Please do not ask me about speaking Arabic. I have not yet learned to speak the Islamic language. I think it is not too much trouble if I leave it all to my brother, Alrahji, who studies at the Islamic University of Madinah. He mastered guttural sounds and speaks like a true Arab man it makes us giggle.

 

I remember my professors in the UP Creative Writing program who suggested I write in Maranao.      I fear my knowledge of the language is not enough. I cannot even manage to say the “proper” words in specific situations. I gave in to my Omie’s[3] sharp criticism of the expressions I thought were correct but turned out mispronounced or simply inappropriate. Once, I told my Abie[4]of my plans to write in Maranao. He firmly said it would be difficult for me and that I should not venture into matters that are outside my capacity as a writer. Especially not at the expense of the basa-a-Maranao. But while I admit to being linguistically impaired on the subject, it is my hope that I will not be seen as a traitor to my own heritage. When I was growing up, my parents forbade me to read Tagalog materials for my leisure. They instead fed me English books and magazines that filled my stomach to the fullest, I burped with pleasure.

 

When I was around nine, my maternal grandma said in one of her family speeches that Islam encourages continuous learning—one that is beneficial to you and to others around you. I kept that in mind as I consciously left Malabang to satiate my yearning to learn anything that nudges my curiosity.

 

-to be continued-

 

[1] fish nuggets

[2] call for prayer

[3] Arabic term for “mother”

[4] Arabic term for “father”

 

 Arifah Macacua Jamil writes short stories. “Weave” is her first essay.