–from THE BLACK ART by Anne Sexton
There are places I remember all my life,
Though some have changed.
—Beatles, “There Are Places i Remember”
“Queca cu, cacu ca. Cacu ca, queca cu?” (I am yours, you are mine. You are mine, am I yours?”—an old Pampango tongue-twister.
Faith
is a comforting thing. you can lose everything, but thankfully, you can still hold on to your faith.
i remember watching tv one late night with A, i think it was ‘emergency’ on channel 7. the topic was faith healers. the sociologist they interviewed said that filipinos have this tendency to always concede their fortune and lives to a higher being—to saints and to God, that’s why they readily believed whoever claimed to interceed in their behalf, because they wouldn’t take responsibility to think and figure out things for themselves. A and i agreed it was a very keen observation, that it was copout fanaticism borne out of the filipinos’ laziness.
but in these jaded times, i still would proudly say i have faith. there is a difference between fanaticism and faith. fanaticism is blind belief. faith, on the other hand, requires hard work. you do everything in your power to do your best, and when you’ve exhausted all efforts and you can safely say you gave it your all, faith then becomes the source of comfort and wellspring of strength. simply because i cannot imagine being thrown a rotten apple with worms after praying earnestly for food.
we lost the baby.
went to have an ultrasound this morning, and dr. alfiler did not find a hearbeat. the fetus was as big as expected, but there was a macro yolk sac, and no heartbeat. even without her saying anything, i could tell it from her face as she scanned the image on the monitor. she kept her eyes carefully averted and she seemed to be staring rather blankly at the screen. she furiously fumbled with the keyboard keys with one hand as held the transvaginal device inside me with the other.
“we have a little problem,” she said.
i suspected an understatement. i already expected the worst, and braced myself for it. “how’s the baby, doctora?”
“the baby’s as big as expected, but we have a macro yolk sac, and that is not a very good sign. the baby is supposed to get its nourishment from the yolk sac till the placenta is formed, but it seems it’s not getting any, and that’s why it’s grown by two centimeters since the last ultrasound. and there is no fetal heart beat.”
“so you mean to say the baby’s dead?”
“i hesitate to give that conclusion. we need a second sight. it’s our sop.”
“how could it have happened?” i felt numb. strangely, there were no tears, no emotions—at least not till later.
just before i went for the ultrasound, i was able to text A. asked him if he’d eaten lunch already and if we could meet for lunch. now, as i lay in the ultrasound booth with my feet still in the stirrups and with the knowledge that the baby i was carrying inside me was dead, i was rather undecided about how i felt. my phone’s message alert went off, and i realized it must be A replying to my message. oh no, how am i going to tell him?
June 22, 2005
must house their fire
be water to their song
will their dreams well.
Leaving Home
The very first time I tried to leave home was when I was only about four years old. My dad had scolded me for something I did. (I think I fought with my sister.) I was very upset because my dad was angry with me and not my sister. I was in tears and feeling very melodramatic about it. I thought perhaps he didn’t love me anymore, and he loved my sister more. So I thought of leaving home.
And i remember it clearly: I remember getting a cloth diaper (disposable diapers were yet to be invented)—the sort that was made of a cloth they called bird’s eye—and laid it out on top of my bed. Out of my closet I got one undershirt and two panties (the lacy, frilly kind) and laid them out on top of the diaper.
I gathered two opposite corners and tied them together, and after that, I tied the remaining corners together. I was looking for a stick, but didn’t find any, and so I slung my little bundle over my shoulder like a bag.
My dad was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. I sighed (just like I saw them do it in the movies) and sat at the top of the stairs. My dad went up and sat beside me.
“So, ” he said, “you’ve really made up your mind, huh?”
I nodded.
“You’re going to leave Daddy, Mommy, Gigi and the baby?”
I give another big sigh, and nodded.
“But I don’t want you to go. Everybody’ll miss you.”
I didn’t say anything. I wanted him to be real sorry for being angry with me, and I wanted him to beg me to stay.
“So, are these the only things you’ll bring?” he asked, referring to my tiny bundle. “You’re not bringing much clothes, are you?”
“Nope,” I shook my head sadly. I wanted him to say he loved me and that he will not be angry with me—ever. And that he’d be happy if I didn’t go anymore.
“Well,” he said. It was his turn to sigh. “It seems that you’ve already made up your mind. Mommy will be heartbroken. And Gigi won’t have anybody to play with anymore. And I will surely miss my little darling.”
I nodded. And waited.
“Well, “he said, finally breaking the silence, and standing up. “Let Daddy get you a cab, at least.”
July 13, 2005
Why is it that Filipinos love to benchmark? Does it speak of our incapacity for being original? “The next Vilma Santos”, “The Nora Aunor of her generation”, “The junior Piolo Pascual”…With all due respect to the creators of these campaigns, “I am Ninoy” and “I will be Cory”, I think I can do more by saying “I will be MYSELF and be a hero.” Ninoy and Cory must be turning in their graves. Am I the only one who feels this way?
