where do you hang out?

Where do you hang out? Mindvalley asks. In my mind’s plateau?

I like the question though. It is interested. So I curtsy and answer: Right now I am at Garden Orchid, all gratitude to the graces of capitalism – whatever that means. I am in no mood to wrestle with the igzakness of words. All I mean is I am enjoying the luxury of a spacious hall, free wifi access, free power charge, without the clerks and the stewards sending me out or pushing under my nose the bar menu. 

Igzak. I first encountered this word from Amrina, semi literate high school graduate who can’t even pronounce Tumba Lata right. Laa-tah, she likes to say, until I had to give up and say, so be it. Laa-tah then. Her mother, who was Day Care teacher of an alternative children’s school where she was enrolled liked to berate her, calling her, not semi-illiterate, mind you, retardate, she would say. My retardate daughter, in local lingo. Retardate kaw! Retardate kaw tuud! I can’t recall if Child Rights were in vogue by then, that was late 1990s, I believe, and incest rape and such were what was looked on as human rights violation (or women’s rights, at the time). 

Ten o’ clock igsak, she wrote. You do not spell-check a word like that. It’s so authentic. And the Tausugs, or the locals, have this way with words, they have a way of picking words from the air and make it homegrown. That’s how we have meyul for mayor, gubnul for governor, abugaw for abugado. Naghapen for what happened. And now, igzak. But the z replacing s is my own interference. I cannot stand sitting by watching when there is so much word game going on.

What is hanging out in Tausug? Naglali. Yari aku ha lawang sin Garden Orchid naglilingkud ha sopa nila ini, nagfi-facebook. Iyan hi Neldy, Tausug researcher, linguist, local historian, in correct word kunu subay pag-usalun when we are referring to the language, Sinug, bukun Tausug. In Tausug tao, in language Sinug. Like Sinama for the language of the Sama people. Okay. No probz.

I bury camouflage my face behind all this. Because I cannot bury my face in the couch. I don’t want to be seen. Stealing info tech access, no cup of coffee to prop me for company; it feels lonesome. Muslim ladies sashay by. The crème de la crème of the Moro intelligentsia. They don’t know me I don’t know them.

I wonder. If there was a third party watching us, would they observe, “they look at each other archly.”