Fellows to the 1st Cagayan de Oro Writers Workshop named

Events | March 27, 2016

Nine (9) young writers have been chosen as writing fellows for the 1st Cagayan de Oro Writers Workshop scheduled on 1 to 3 April at the Reading Room of Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan’s Department of English in Cagayan de Oro City. Said writers workshop is organized by the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro (NAGMAC), in partnership with XU Department of English.

The fellows are Jessmark D Acero, Christian S Baldomero, Adeva Jane H Esparrago, Stephanie Alexis C Gonzaga, Arvin E Narvaza (Poetry), Hazel-Gin L Aspera (Non-Fiction), Gari R Jamero, Jeany Mae D Macalam, and Ervin Patrick G Silva (Fiction). This year’s workshop will be paneled by critic-dramaturg Rogelio F Garcia, Jr and other esteemed writers in the city. NAGMAC is also looking into tapping the expertise of other local writers such as poet-fictionist Raul G Moldez, poet Arlene J Yandug, and fictionist-essayist Ma Elena L Paulma. Poet Mark Anthony L Daposala serves as the workshop director.

As one of NAGMAC’s thrust, the workshop aims to revitalize Cagayan de Oro’s local writing culture and assert its identity in the map of regional literatures in the country.

For inquiries from interested partners and sponsors, the workshop secretariat may be reached through email (cdopoetrynight@gmail.com) or through mobile (+63 9166232400).

Poetry is Alive!

Nonfiction by | March 27, 2016

Program Description: Poetry flirts with many forms and adapts novel “publishing” routes just to get itself out there. Where can the audience for poetry find the Filipino poem today?

Poet, Gemino Abad once said in a writers workshop, I believe that was a panel discussion about a poem, “all literary works must move towards poetry. Poetry is the finest language.” Poetry, therefore, is not flirting with other genres, but it is poetry that is being flirted with. True, there are experimental works that adapt poetry into other forms; say a novel in verses, or on the extreme side, a series of example phrases & sentences lifted directly from the Anvil-Macquarie Dictionary of Philippine English for High School as in “Philippine English: A Novel” by Angelo Suarez, which is, as a whole, a poem. Yet works like these are not for the goal of “putting poetry out there” but for creativity itself. Poetry in the Philippines has already grown and has adapted a lot of forms, and I am just going to discuss one that is very much prevalent these days.

Well, there will always be that assumption that poetry is the least popular of all literary genres. Most of my friends would turn down a page when they see that the words are written in lines (or verse), even the ones who read more often than usual. Writers already understand that there is not much money to expect from publishing a collection of poems. One would then assume that it would need a lot of effort for poetry to get noticed. But that is already an old thought. On the other hand; poetry is the easiest to market or the easiest to deliver. Since the start of slam poetry or spoken word, Poetry had become a well-liked form of entertainment. It has even become a sport in some parts of the world.

Poetry Slam or spoken word poetry is a technique that utilizes wordplay and story-telling. The poems are written for the purpose of being performed in front of an immediate audience. The technique originated from the poetry of African-Americans in Harlem (Marc Smith, 1984, Chicago). It often includes collaboration and experimentation with other art forms such as music, theater, and dance. And so, the poet will have to exhibit a certain degree of acting as well as some appropriate dynamics in public speaking and body language. Surely, schools have exposed us to the more complicated poems, there are even poets whom poets only understand. It is for these experiences that some of us believe that poetry is hard to understand and hard to write. But let’s leave those to academics; spoken word brings poetry to the people for making it simpler and the art accessible. A great tool is relativity. Human beings are sad by default. What also made spoken word famous is the subject matter that they discuss. But let us leave that for later. I have a paragraph or two for that. Moving on…

“Finding” poetry hasn’t been a problem in major cities and other parts of the Philippines. Let’s say for example in Manila, spoken word events are E V E R Y W H E R E. Seriously, a spoken word event can be as popular as a gig for rock bands. Listening to someone talk about his or her past, about the wounds opened and re-opened is now a trend. The most famous in the North, is Word Anonymous. One is even becoming a TV Star, Juan Miguel Severo, has a spot in “On the Wings of Love.” Haha. I always thought poetry can never be a profession in the Philippines, and here’s this guy making money out of it. And last February, well-known spoken word artists/poets came to the Philippines and did a sold out show, Sarah Kaye and Phil Kaye. Yeah, artists or poets, go on tour now. Before, we hold poetry readings where some people go to, now poetry readings are sold out shows.

In Cebu, just for poetry reading events, or just literature itself, there are four organizations that keep the wheel going; Bathalad, WILA (Women in Literary Arts), Nomads, and Tinta (UP Cebu’s lit org). These organizations team up to come up with poetry reading. Hearing this being told to me by a friend, Jona Bering, it was in full zest, “Yes, Dar! The poetry scene is growing. Mostly college students, gender issues are frequent topics, and yeah, some are not that good yet, but we are getting there.” When I was in Dumaguete, they were like holding a poetry reading every week, or it was just so timely that there were several authors who launched their book that time.

In Cagayan de Oro, Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa CDO and Bathalad (Mindanao Chapter) are having poetry readings from time to time. If not Spoken Word, it is Improv. We see that there is a growing interest in Poetry in various parts of the country. Poetry readings are everywhere. I suppose that culture, be it famous or not, will never die.

And of course, here in Davao, we have a LitOrgy. Young Davao Writers, we can say is the unofficial, younger version of Davao Writers Guild. Well, it was for Davao Writers’ Guild’s several poetry reading events that LitOrgy was born. In general, it is a biannual poetry reading event that is now being rebranded as a spoken word event. Angely Chi, or as we address her, the Patron Saint of Davao Arts, said in an essay, “I am reminded that LitOrgy was not only supposed to be a “literary orgy” of the writing and the reading public, but also a coming together of people from different disciplines whose texts are not found in pages but in their bodies, in their songs, and in their images.”

Bragging aside, last August, the Young Davao Writers organized the seventh LitOrgy, called it “Seventh Seers,” which tickets got sold out in about 2 hours when the ticket reservations were open. Because we wanted each poetry reading event to be an intimate one, else the purpose of the whole thing would be defeated, we had to make the goers reserve their slots. There were still a lot of people who were asking for passes, so we organized a second show. And August 30 and 31 packed the Red Rooster Bar along MacArthur Highway with an attentive crowd who went there not only to listen but brought with them their own poems to read in the open mic. As they say, the orgy happens in the open mic. Poetry reading events usually has only less than ten readers of performers, and the rest of the night, which expands to about two to three hours until the bar closes, is allotted to the open mic. And it is wonderful to discover gems among the audiences. So parang scouting din yung open mic, so we can find fresh blood to join the next LitOrgy events. So if I will be asked if poetry is alive? Yes, poetry in general, very much.

There will always be critics to a technique. Even I myself have reservations. Spoken word poetry had been a good outlet of self-expression. If you check out videos online, the usual topics would be pain, unsuccessful relationship, gender issues; these are one of the reasons that I have grown tired of checking out youtube videos. Spoken word, I suppose, is a detouring from the Philippine Literary tradition due to the utilization of certain techniques. Say for example, sentimentality, purple patches, and cliché in order to capture their attention and also to be relatable. You know the word, “hugot”?” It might be annoying to some but it is what sells. The lines, “these hands wrote your name on pages/ after blank pages then colored it with the brightest fireworks/ of January first and February fourteenth” borders to the cliché but hey, this works for audience who are just there for the “feels.”

Here’s the catch, spoken word poetry might not be the most brilliant technique in poetry for majority of people who know better, but it opens the opportunity for other techniques. In Young Davao Writers’ events, LitOrgy, there are always open mics. Anything goes; all kinds of poets, all kinds of technique. And when some of the people in the crowd become interested enough, they will start to look for other sources, for the purpose of quenching the thirst for literature (that is also the reason why some events are not the frequent, so that people will hunger for it) and also if they try to write themselves. And so the cycle begins or continues.

Whenever there is a poetry reading, there is a small BLTX; the zine culture continues. Poetry books are not likely to be the ones displayed on the glass windows of NBS, Fully Booked, etc., and the ratio of poets getting published to the poets is too less to many. Most publishers, in the name of profits, will not really prioritize poetry over the more popular genre. There are no longer shelves for poetry books in leading bookstore; more often than usual, they are just mixed up with other Filipino Literary books; but poetry will always find a way to get out. One effective example of this is the zine culture; independent publishing by single individuals or by organizations, say for example, LitSoc, the academic organization for Creative Writing Students in UP Mindanao, compiles their works in a bundle of bond papers stapled to become a coffee table book and sells it during a proper event; a BLTX or a poetry reading where the organizers were kind enough to set up a table for “merch.” Yeah, I had a friend, who’s a great poet; he won an international award for poetry last year, compiled five of his poems in a bond paper, folded it in a fancy way, and then sold the collection for 30php. Clearly, it was not for the profits but to get read.

Although there are constraints put up by the market for Poetry books, authors will always find a way to put their works out there. In the internet age, everything is possible. One can just start a blog to broadcast his or her works to the public. It’s as easy as signing up for a wordpress account or other free hosting sites that provides you a subdomain, or if you have the money, buy a domain name, a webhosting account, set up the site, and voila, you’ll have your own corner in the internet where you can post your poems or other works. There are a lot of young people today who are trying to write however they can and post it in social media sites. So Filipino poetry, in this time and age, is literally everywhere since you can just access them anytime you need to. You can just read on, say for example, authors featured in various sites, panitikan.com, dagmay.com, and the rest. Or someone can do that for you by posting a copy of your poem or a link to your site, or to a site where it is available. Restricting yourself to be read in free mediums will always be your prerogative. Some prefer to keep their poems to themselves until they are ready to be in physical pages, some would resort to express themselves in the open world of the internet. Nonetheless, this is how poetry copes up with the times.

I have always been told that a good poem is one that works great on stage and looks good on the page.  So therefore, a poet does not stop at spoken word. It is just a phase. The page is as wide as it can be for the many creative minds that we have in the country.

Darylle “Darsi” Rubino is a graduate of the Creative Writing program of the University of the Philippines Mindanao. This essay was first delivered in the 6th Philippine International Literary Festival on November 20–21, 2015 at Seda Abreeza, Davao City.

Coming Home

Poetry by | March 20, 2016

A month before I told Mama
I am coming home, she
enrolled herself in driving lessons
bought extra bookshelves
prepared all of her “You got fatter”-themed remarks
confiscated the coffee from the kitchen
On the latter parts of waiting, she
surrendered the keys to Dad
did not ask him for extra money
made the grocery list longer
searched for new cafés serving tea
She posted a status on Facebook
on my return
before the airplane’s wheels
touched the asphalted runway
Receiving the warmth of Mama’s embrace
and feeling her wrinkly palms
as I hand a plastic bag of sans rival
made me smell the Downy used on my bed sheets.
Welcome, she said.

Andrea D. Lim is a Mass Communication senior at Silliman University. She is the editor-in-chief of the Weekly Sillimanian. Home, for her, is very abstract. She was born in Pasig City, spent childhood years in Marikina and Bulacan, and studied in General Santos City from fourth grade to fourth year high school.

I Want to Surprise My Parents

Fiction by | March 20, 2016

I want to surprise my parents.

It is my nineteenth birthday and I want it to be unforgettable: the type that neighbors talk about during their children’s graduation parties and whispered after Sunday masses. After all, I am a year closer to full independence and grown-ups love talking about mature topics like that.

Our family never celebrates birthdays. I cannot blame them. It is unnecessarily expensive and a family of six can barely feed itself, cannot afford the luxuries that only the privileged enjoy. But it left a gaping, blank hole in my childhood. I never got to experience the awkward stares from all my friends and family as they chant in chorus the familiar “Happy Birthday” song. I never got to blow out candles for wishes or to take the first slice of that cake. I never received presents. So this year, I want to throw a surprise party that will not trouble my parents.

This is not the first time I try to make my parents happy. There have been several attempts but they always find out about my plans. Always. I am thinking it is because of my brother who likes to sneak around and check my phone to see what I talk about with my friends. Some of those text messages include my scheming. My brother also likes to be the best son, which is probably the only motivation he needs to tell me off. I have been scolded for my scheming, of course. My parents do not know how to handle those kinds of seedy situations and I pride myself for being the creative kid that thinks outside of the box.

This year, I plan to do things correctly. My parents have been fighting a lot lately because of the finances. All my other siblings have already graduated college with flying colors while I have been recklessly spending money because I cannot make up my mind. I have been to three different colleges and tried five courses, but they never felt right. These constant shifts added that to all the debt we have accumulated over the years. They try to be understanding but the wrinkles on their faces have increased and there are more patches of gray on their heads. They are growing older, and soon, they will not be able to support me anymore. I feel horrible for bringing them so much trouble, so I thought maybe a surprise could cheer them up to the point where they can forget their problems. Hopefully, this will fix things.

So far, the plan is going well. I am home alone so everything is going smoothly. My family will be home from the mall in a while and all is set. Just above the table, I hung a banner. I place seats around the living room. One chair is in the middle right below our low-hanging chandelier. This is where the surprise comes in.

I hear them arriving by the gate, along with the happy banter between my siblings. I am so glad they came home in a good mood. They will definitely feel better after they see what I have in store for them.

As my father unlocks the padlock, I climb up the chair propped in the middle of the room and wrap the noose tied from the chandelier to my neck. I tighten it and I can hear my father struggling with the gate. Good, gives me more time. When they get in, they will be spending ten more minutes outside to play with the dogs.

I take one final look at the banner I made myself, the stinging bold “I’M SORRY” hastily written with black paint. Soon, father finally undoes the lock. I breathe out all the air in my lungs and without further deliberation, kicked the chair aside.

Nal Andrea Jalando-on is from Koronadal, South Cotabato and sometimes writes in Hiligaynon. She is a former student of Philippine Women’s College of Davao.

Of Books and Dreams

Fiction by | March 20, 2016

I always find the time to read a book before going to bed. Sometimes I dream about that book, especially when I fall asleep while reading it. Last night I had read some chapters of a book on Italian grammar, and before I knew it I was already dreaming of running for my life, being chased by some possessive Italian pronouns.

Luckily I outran them, and I eventually came across a bar called Second Conjugation. Indeed, inside, some irregular Italian verbs were having a good time.

“Hey, you’re new here,” one of them said. “What are you?”

Since I was in an Italian grammar book, I needed to blend in. For a few seconds I thought of a plausible reply, and I came up with this: “I’m a singular, masculine Italian noun.”

“You don’t look like it, but well, you’re in the right place,” he said. “This is a singles bar. See those pretty nouns out there? There are a lot of them here. But here’s the catch: it’s hard to tell whether they are masculine or feminine.”

“It’s not that hard, is it?” I said. “We just need to know their final letters, right? -o for the guys, -a for the ladies.”

“Obviously, you haven’t met ‘colera’ and ‘mano,’ il mio amico.” He laughed.

“‘Mano’ is feminine?” I asked.

He said yes and pointed out why “mano,” or “hand” in English, is always feminine: “You know, when you are all alone, your hand is your girlfriend. If you know what I mean.”

I made a nervous laugh. To regain my composure, I said: “Yeah, Italian is a crazy language. We have female poems but male sonnets.”

He didn’t laugh. I was now more nervous. What am I doing here, I thought, talking to a group of irregular Italian verbs? What if they found out I’m not really an Italian noun? I slowly motioned to go out, but the two of them, “sedere” and “simanere,” asked me to sit and remain.

“It’s my pleasure. But as a singular, masculine Italian noun,” I said, in an attempt to be confident and witty, “I have some declension and possession to do. You know, I would like to spend time with you, but, you know, for now, I should decline—to possess that singular, feminine Italian noun out there.” I grinned and, with a wink, added: “If you know what I mean.”

They all turned their faces towards me as if I said something wrong. Their faces turned red. Some of them stood up, clenching their fists. Obviously, the Italian irregular verbs had a change in mood. It was also tense. To get my way out of this impending trouble, I immediately ran outside—but only to be chased again by the possessive Italian pronouns, which were still in pursuit of me.

I cannot remember what exactly happened afterwards, except that I awoke to the sound of the alarm clock, the book on Italian grammar in hand. On page 16, on the possessive case of nouns, the book says: “Italian nouns are not declined. Possession is denoted by the preposition ‘di.’”

Jade Mark B. Capiñanes is an AB English student of Mindanao State University-General Santos City. He is fascinated with books, dreams, and their connection with reality.

 

Veritas

Poetry by | March 13, 2016

See, we used to argue about reality
How you’d defend the hallmarks of science
That stars do not dictate destiny, history
You name them witnesses, spectator ions
In this cosmic chemistry you and I have called life
And I listen to your marvels, doctrines, stories
For some time, you glorified the way all things work
Being measured in perfect accuracy, yes,
Rational, logical, against my own version
I am not saying you are wrong, you are perfect
We are yin and yang, sky and ground, science and faith
And yet you displaced me out of your universe
So I made my world out of what you lack for me
Where miracles exist, that truth is faceted
Mysteries stay as secrets, defying your views
I tried carving your face from the lights pressed lightly
Among car windows, I tried memorizing
The freckles on your neck among stars of clear night skies
I tried to seep through the cracks of your worldly thought
You can’t stand my poetry, the way the world
Is Conspiring for you to see beauty in these words.
No more arguments, your eyes speak clearer
Than the breakthroughs mankind reached because finally
The reality transcends you, me, each of us

Monique Carillo is a student of University of the Philippines Mindanao.

An Inescapable Pattern

Nonfiction by | March 13, 2016

“Mao lang man na iyang ginapalit,” Mama told Papa with a seemingly proud smile. “Mga libro.” I was already a teenager at that time when Papa asked why I had a lot of books. He did not know I loved—worshipped—books. What kind of father does not know his daughter’s hobbies? Well, I have a seafarer for a father.

He sounded like he was annoyed by the pile of books I had in my sister’s room. I had just bought more and that made him ask. Of course he would not know. He is basically a stranger, if you ask me. It would sound rude and it would surely hurt him but he is a stranger to me. As a seaman, he lives in a ship that travels around the world for nine months. That leaves him three months to spend with us at home.

I always remember the first time I met him. I was about four or five years old when we drove to the airport one day. Of course I did not know then that it was the airport or even what that place was for but I was with my mother and my sister. I remember holding Mama’s hand when a dark-skinned, tall, and buff man walked towards us. Mama enthusiastically asked “Sino yan?” The man wanted to give me a hug but I have always been afraid of strangers so I wailed and wanted to hide from him. It must have been embarrassing and painful for a father who was excited to meet his daughter for the first time after working overseas. I could have at least let him carry me or just stared at his face in wonder. Instead, I cried.

But he brought me chocolates and dolls. That was his bait. From then on, I learned the concept of wanting and needing a father. But my father always left. And I used to cry every time he did. Even at the age of seven, I wrote him a letter that asked him to work in the Philippines instead so our family would be always complete. I was willing to give up my toys and chocolates just to have him home.

Filipino TV shows and foreign movies told me that fathers should treat their kids like princes and princesses. I saw scenes where fathers carry their kids, tickle them, lift them up in the air and drop them just to catch them and hear them laugh. Fathers tuck their children in and they hush them when they cry. And when they grow up, fathers talk to them and they go home to more than one best friend. That was why I wanted my father to stay. I wanted what the books and the films showed to be real.

Since my mother was only one who took care of my elder sister for three years after they got married, the way she raised my sister was the same as how she raised me. We were guarded. I could only count the times when I was able to play at school after class because Mama always fetched me on time.

Most of the time, I stayed at home and I had no choice but to read. Well, I always spent time with my cousins who had a collection of Nancy Drew and Sweet Valley High books and they were my first influences. The books were my obsession when I was not allowed to play. Instead of running around and getting sweaty and having asthma attacks, I sat down and read books. I knew how to write letters even before I went to kindergarten so I learned how to read early. Books were suddenly the most amazing thing in my small world. I could see Nancy Drew and her friends collecting clues and catching suspects in every mystery and I wanted to be like her.

Soon enough, I started writing my own Nancy Drew mysteries. I spent long hours in front of our computer, just typing and imagining. I did not make sense then, most probably. But that was when I started writing. That was when I started keeping diaries and journals. Writing became a normal part of my life, just as normal as my father’s absence had been.

It must have sucked not being able to always hang out with friends because five o’clock in the afternoon was already too late not to be at home yet. But it was the only life I knew, my mother always complaining about me not leaving school immediately after class because our house is a bit far from the center of the city and getting home late is dangerous. We were Christians and she did not even allow me stay for Bible studies in high school.

I was not—and am still not—very good with talking to people. I gossip with them and talk about emotional stuff but I can write better rather than talk. I could understand things better when I used metaphors—“I was blue when my father left again for the nth time.” or “My father’s presence is a Band-Aid.” I could calm myself down with similes and hyperboles. I could make sense out of everything when I see them on the page.

My father’s absence probably had me always looking for something that I think is missing, something that writing could help me identify. When I was in high school, I was fond of writing sappy love stories. Even now, I still even prefer reading romantic books. Maybe because I do not know how it feels like to have a man with me every day? That is why I watch films that could give me an idea of how it is like. I write stories that could make me feel like I know how it is like.

I think it is because I know there is something missing in me that keeps me looking for it, making me purge everything in me until I know what I want to find. Maybe because I hate the way I was put into this kind of life. A father leaving every now and then, going “home” to a family he does not know. And he cannot even apologize because he will never run out of absences to apologize for. I hate having to pretend that it still saddens me when he leaves. He could wake me up at four o’clock in the morning to kiss me goodbye before his early flight and I could be half-awake and hear him leave and still feel indifferent. I hate having to pretend that I am excited to spend time with him when he comes home.

I hate pretending to be the daughter he wants me to be. I hate pretending that hanging out with friends until late night does not excite me or that reading books is still the only thing I love doing. I wear clothes that are not just a simple shirt and a pair of pants, I curse, I could spend the whole day just being inside my room, and I have opinions that are different from theirs. And he does not get that. I hate not knowing how it is like to have a father. I hate not knowing how to be a daughter. And I cannot apologize.

“I cannot do anything,” he said, sounding angry. “My voice is like this.”

He always sounds angry and I kind of hate him for that. He sounds like he is resenting me and that makes me scared of talking to him. I refused to eat dinner one night when my parents and I had a fight. The cellular network failed when I was out with my high school friends and I could not contact my mother to update her of my whereabouts. I went home to two angry parents who did not even ask for me to explain myself.

I had plans for the next day after that night. I was going to take my dog to the park with my boyfriend, and because of what happened, they did not allow me to go out. We ended up not talking to each other. When my mother saw me crying inside my room, I could not help but explain to them how unfair they were. She blamed me for their quarrel and I just sat there with my unheard words drowning my brain. She called my father and made him sit down and listen. And in every sentence I blurt out, my father begins his own as his defense. “You’re always angry,” I said. “You never listen.”

It was not my fault that I could not call them. I tried to tell them that but they had to wait to catch me crying inside my room before I could be asked to talk. And I hoped that my father, for once, would realize how scared I was of him.

“Sige,” he said. “If that’s what you think, I will never talk again. Everything I say is wrong.”

He stood up and walked out of the room. I never wanted to talk to him again.

So I write. I write like I can control things and people. I can write the kinds of lives I want my characters to live. I write like I am in control, like I have all the choices and I will never run out of them. I write to see different situations, to see that I am not stuck in my own. I write to meet people I cannot meet in real life. I write to keep myself grounded, to remind me of my reality and make me accept it.

I sometimes look at him and wonder. Reality failed to be like the movies and books. I do not have a man who scares boys who would break my heart or a man who scares boys who would ask me out. There is nothing but inevitable anger. It is like I was born with it. This is just a part of the pattern that I have been following for nineteen years.

His constant absence is a big part of my existence. At the age of nineteen, I have gotten used to being a college girl who is away from home most of the time. My circle of friends has become wider than ever and my principles have changed. Aside from reading books, I have grown to love other hobbies such as getting drunk and smoking. And I have lost old beliefs too, like my old obsession of worshipping God and believing in His miracles. I have come to the point when I have seen the other side of life. The life I promised myself before not to live because my family made me believe that it will not take me anywhere.

My father tries. He knocks on my door and greets me good morning like he used to. He talks during dinner like he knows the people in our lives. He tells us jokes like he knows what is funny or what is not for us. He listens like he knows what happened or what was happening. He tries to act like he knows how our lives work. He tries to be a father who knows his family. He tries to fit in. Like the way I try to make sense out of everything through writing. I try to find the words that fit, the words that could make the vague things clear. That is all we have left to do for now.

___

Julienne San Jose Batingal is a third year BA English (Creative Writing) student of the University of the Philippines Mindanao.

Dayang-Dayang

Fiction by | March 6, 2016

(A re-imagination of Ibrahim Jubaira’s “Blue Blood of the Big Astana”)

I.

Although the heart can no longer remember, the mind can always recall. The mind can always recall, for there are always things to remember: joyful days of privileged childhood; playing tag along the seashore; learning to love, lose, and everything in between. So I suppose you remember me, Jaafar.

The day of your arrival caused quite a stir in the astana. I was told that we were expecting someone who was supposed to take care of me. No one could have prepared me for you, five year-old Jaafar. You were made to live with us. We were around the same age back then. I didn’t know I could be looked after by someone who probably had the same wants and needs as I did.

From my bedroom window, I watched your Babo wipe snot from your harelip. She really loves you, noh? She treats you as if you were her own. I was still watching you hug your Babo with your little arms when Amboh knocked on my door. She held my hand as we descended the stairs. It was time to go down and meet our newest tenant, five year-old Jaafar.

“Why are you like that?”

You seemed taken aback by my question. I could not blame you. But your harelip still held my attention. I have never seen a person with such deformity before. I could not stop staring at it.

“What happened to you?”

Your Babo explained how you got your harelip. My chest tightened with guilt by the time she was done. I did not know how such accidents could happen, and how much it affected an unborn baby. Still, I could not hold my flinch back when you tried to kiss my hand.

Despite the harelip, you were a good servant, Jaafar. You obeyed every single order without hesitation. Appah and Amboh only had good words for you whenever your Babo came to visit. But you wet your mat almost every night. I never did such a thing, and you were born one Ramadan before I was. You cannot blame me for laughing whenever your mat gets soaked after another night of failing to hold your pee in.

You were everywhere, Jaafar. I did not want any other playmates. They did not have a harelip like you did. There were times when I could not tell whether you were laughing or crying. I liked to play with you to see how your harelip reacted to the things I did. You even laughed along with me, even if you knew you were laughing at yourself.

I loved bringing you with me to my Mohammedan classes. My classmates, much like me, also found your harelip interesting. We tell you to do the most mundane stuff, like talk, or laugh, or eat, and your harelip became our class clown.

“Dayang-Dayang, do you need me to do anything else?”

“Jaafar, smile for them,” and you would gladly do whatever I asked you to.

“Uyyy! Jaafar has a crush on Dayang-Dayang!”

“Dayang-Dayang has a harelipped boyfriend!”

“Do you like him too, Dayang-Dayang?”

These jokes from my classmates brewed something in you, Jaafar. I could tell. You liked it when we swam together in the sea. Afterwards, you washed my hair and rubbed my back, even if you did not need to. You took Goro’s beatings originally intended for me. I never asked you to. You know I would never do all these things for anyone, ever.

You were at your lowest point when your Babo died. I did not know how I was supposed to treat you during that time.

“I’m all right, Dayang-Dayang. I just want to be alone,” was what you would say whenever I would ask you to go to the beach and swim with me.

So I left you alone, Jaafar. But I overheard your conversation with my Appah. He was wondering why you refused my offer to visit the beach, like we often did.

“No one will love me like my Babo did, Pateyk.”

 

II.

We grew up together, Jaafar. You witnessed how I bloomed into a young teenager. I witnessed how you grew into a fine, young man. Your harelip stayed with you, even if everyone eventually grew used to it. The trips to the beach stayed, but the routine we have previously established went away with our innocence. During a particular time at the beach, you muttered a question nervously.

“Would you like me to rub your back or wash your hair, Dayang-Dayang?” I raised an eyebrow at you.

“Are you out of your mind, Jaafar?”

That day was the first and only time I left the beach alone. The days that followed were spent pretending that never happened. Things were back to normal after that. I never did learn to hold my laughter in during your attempts to capture my attention with your infamous harelip.

My other friends were starting to get married, one by one. Amboh hinted at arranging my marriage to a young Datu from Bonbon soon enough. I could not object. I did not know if I wanted to object. After all, my life was planned out before I was even born, and I could not ask for anything more. Appah and Amboh never deprived me from the luxuries they could offer. I had everything I needed and I was given anything I wanted.

“Do I deserve any of this, Jaafar?”

You looked at me, and your harelip trembled slightly as you raised your hand to touch my face.

“Don’t ever let anyone think you don’t deserve the world, my Dayang-Dayang.”

Appah arranged for a huge dinner to introduce me to my husband-to-be. I did not dislike him, but I did not like him either. The real issue was I did not know a thing about him. But I had to admit, the young Datu’s physical appearance did not hurt.

Appah wanted us to get married as soon as possible. The days that followed our first meeting were spent for pre-wedding flurries. The only thing I had to do was to fit what I had to wear for the occasion. Everything else was up to Amboh and Appah.

I should not complain. I had every reason not to. I am one of the most blessed daughters in the world. But I did not want to be away from my parents. I was not ready to leave the big astana behind. All my life, I was with people I trusted. Why am I being forced to marry a stranger?

But there I was, waiting for my life to take that terrifying leap it won’t recover from.

The wedding day came two weeks after we met. Datu Muramuraan knew so many people, I can hardly keep count. So that was what the astana extension was for. Appah wanted our astana to accommodate these people who came to celebrate the union of two strangers in the name of marriage.

I caught you watching us, Jaafar. Your harelipped smile made me stifle a laugh in the middle of the supposedly sacred ceremony. That little exchange was my favorite memory during that night.

 

III.

On our first night as a married couple, I forced myself to be intimate with Muramuraan.

“Dayang-Dayang, I will take care of you.”

I let him take care of me.

I let him explore my innermost crevices.

I let him roam every part of me.

Years flew by. I have learned how to tend a family. Waking up meant another day of looking after the people I love the most. The time has come. Finally, I am being referred to as Amboh. My husband has been nothing but good to me. Together, we live a peaceful life in Bonbon with our beautiful children.

Amboh and Appah could not be happier. The astana buzzed with life whenever we come home to visit. My sons came to love the place we grew up in. Where were you, Jaafar?

“Dayang-Dayang, we couldn’t find Jaafar after your wedding,” Amboh answered me as she combed her fingers through my hair.

I could have made you come with us. You could have lived with us, Jaafar. You did not need to be away from me. I did not want to be away from you. I did not know how to live without you, harelipped Jaafar.

Visits to the astana became less frequent after things got hectic. My sons grew old enough to go to Mohammedan school. On weekdays, I had to wake up before anyone else did. I had to take a bath and prepare the things they needed for school. I cleaned the house up a bit. Afterwards, I had to cook breakfast for everyone. No, I did not have anyone to help me do all these. Life is so much different from the one I was used to. But I grew used to this one, too. The love from family I made with Muramuraan was enough to keep me going.

That is, until Muramuraan got arrested. Jaafar, I did not know life could get this cruel. He dragged Appah with him to a mess he insinuated. I did not know he was brave enough to rebel, Jaafar. I did not know he could risk the life we built together for something he was more passionate about. To top it all off, Amboh died after Appah got arrested with Muramuraan. Everyone has left me.

But I had to be brave, too. Not in the same way my husband was, but in my own way. My sons did not have anyone else to depend on. I would never, ever, let go of the most precious gems in my life.

Jaafar, I was thankful the day you decided to show up. I thought you were dead. I was finally starting to get used to not depending on anyone, Jaafar. My sons needed me, my sons had no one else but me. But when you showed up, I could not hold back my tears. How I missed that harelip!

“Oh, Jaafar!” I hugged you with all the days I forgot to remember you.

Catching up meant having to accept how much you have went on without me.

“I live in Kanagi now, Dayang-Dayang.”

“What are you doing here in Bonbon?”

“I’m here for business. Panglima Hussin has cows he wants to sell.”

I wanted to ask if you were married, Jaafar.

“I see you’re a landsman now, eh?”

“Why, if Dayang-Dayang can live unlike the old days, then I can, too,” you were chuckling.

I felt ashamed of where I stand now. I turned away from you as I felt tears brim my eyes. I am sorry for being rude, Jaafar. But you do not need to see me crying now.

“May I go now, Dayang-Dayang?” I could not do anything but hope you saw me nodding my head. The sound of your footsteps disappeared after a little while. I was certain you would never leave me, Jaafar. I was ready to welcome you back into my life.

But I do not deserve you. I have been nothing but horrible to you, and it is unfair of me to expect the opposite from you. But you must know that I could never forget you, Jaafar. You are still everywhere—you and that harelip of yours.

Emmylou Shayne L. Layog is a student of the Creative Writing program of the University of the Philippines Mindanao.