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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Haircut

Poetry by | July 12, 2009

Everyone asks me where
my long hair went.
With a shy smile
I’d reply, “Split ends.”
What I really mean is
we split up.

Everyone asks me why
and with a sad look
I’d reply, “Fly away”
or “Tangles.”
But they know
what I really mean.

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It must have felt like

Poetry by | July 12, 2009

a crystal dolphin
attached to a string
of chimes hanging
over the little pond
when the water ceases
to flow to the rhythm
of springs,
when the bells toll
and let go of their hold,
when the notes slip
on smooth pebbles,
when the music
hangs limp
on the string
and nothing, no
nothing stays

but the whistling
of the wind.

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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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Jonathan

Fiction by | June 28, 2009

Everybody has a boyfriend named Jonathan. Johnny, Jonas, Junjun, Nathan, Anthony, Tony, Wanwan, Tantan.

Skin glistening with sweat, Jonathans always talk rough, walk big, and hang out with their guys after a basketball game. They have clean haircuts, pressed shirts, big backpacks, and white rubber shoes. When they are with a girl, they hold doors, shake their shoulders and puff their chests like young roosters.

These Jonathans will have roses and chocolates, candlelit dinners for two, and quick kisses in dark movie houses. You practice your lips every Friday night for a date on Saturdays with Anthony.

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