The Fluidity of Gender

I don’t know who in the world started the idea, but the first time I heard it, it felt like turpentine. Like all ideas that didn’t suit me, I just let it on, knowing that there’s no arguing with the world that insists on its terms, not yours, even if the critics who were talking about the fluidity of gender were describing my play, which by all intent and purposes, I meant to be a lesbian play, which is to say a joke on heterosexual society.

The trouble is, but for a handful of women readers in the audience, who enjoyed the cussings and the semi-nudity, everybody seemed to have missed the point, including the producers who staged it. I don’t know what is that guy doing there, but they couldn’t seem to conceive of a lesbian play without a daddy inserted and so the gay director put in some flashback device where a family (Mommy, Daddy, and two tykes) was to be seen at the play's opening, looking every inch normal as a sunny day. So one gay critic demanded that it was good alright, but where’s the resolution of the conflict, and by resolution of the conflict he meant, will the family situation improve from abnormal to normal? It can get depressing, people's obtuseness, I mean, like couldn't they see there was no freak of a family to laugh at up there?

But what could you do when you had been overly congratulated that your non-winning entry to the Palanca, Little Sister, got lucky enough to be selected among the 17 plays to be mounted in a playfest crowded with talent? Wouldn’t you feel happy and grateful enough that you’re entitled to free tickets to all these 17 winner plays if you paid for your own airfare from the province to Manila and way back, and never mind if the contract that they sent you weeks after the playfest stipulates that your play will fetch you an honorarium of P3,200.00 withholding tax deducted, and what is that scary provision saying there about the honorarium being a matter of confidentiality and is not to be revealed to anyone?

And about a week back, that was what someone was saying. Isn’t she 57, that old, she said, how come these younger lesbians on the scene here are so conservative, playing butches and femmes and oh so full of sins to confess, isn’t she supposed to be the old-fashioned one, the lola here?

I got lucky to have gone out to listen to her lecture on gender and sexual orientation and thank Heavens, she did not talk about the fluidity of gender, only that you could have as many sexual orientations to choose from or fall into, from the first categories of lesbian, gay, bi, transgendered, transsexuals and intersexuals on to the combination of two or three or four and so on of these categories to make up a new one. Or say you may start off thinking you are oriented to be sexually attracted to the opposite sex, which makes you a hetero, then discover later on that you have been all along actually sexually attracted to women, which makes you a lesbian, then later on you go bi, then graduate a transsexual man and turn into a fag, then a lesbian fag, who may then marry a dyke. I’m not joking. Neither was she. There’s no playing with these things and the LGBTI categories anyway are so limiting; life is much more painfully complicated than what the book says.

Fine.

Gender fluidity sounds to me like political pluralism, it sucks, people made that up because they don’t want to problematize anymore the world they inherited. So I protest. For instance, I have always thought of myself a sep (a lesbian separatist) since the day I realized that you could not just count on the most revolutionary of men to give up the perks of manhood and the Glory and the Power of the Pope for the sake of liberating humanity, and especially the rebelling other half of humanity. But at the same time, I felt at a deadend, knowing that I have to work with other social agents (who aren’t feminist lesbian like me) if I want to get anywhere at all. So in a way, it was a way out for me, a promise of liberation, you could say, the idea that I could and may one day go to bed with just anyone I meet on my street and hopefully share a trench with him or inherit his rifle, too. (I think of Gwendolyn Brooks saying she doesn't like deadends, where there is no one to meet or to berate.)

So compulsory heterosexuality did not exist now? All that is old feminism? I still cannot think of the dykes in Bankerohan, the vendors and the cartpushers, saying that of themselves, that their gender is fluid. Or my parlorista gay and bugaw friends now in their retiring years. Easier for the privileged sex and the privileged classes to say that.

And if I ever so much as broach it to my cousins in the province that they could be gay, they will just bash me in the head for the plain crazy old woman that I am.

We write for ourselves, because
if we don't we feel less of who we are.


Lia Lopez-Chua

Some people, maybe in the Philippines, will call me a Chinese poet. But to the rest of the world, I will be a Filipino because of my country of origin.

Is my poetry Chinese? Filipino? Regional? Cultural? Existential? Maybe a region of existence.

Different readers will respond differently to my work. My book's title and cover may grab some and not others. My poetry will resonate with some and not with others.

If the kids cannot afford to pay for my book, they will find a way to copy. I have done that too, and years later when I can afford them, I went searching for those books to have them in my hand. I don’t think I need to bring anything down. The book can be loved or lambasted, or whatever. Just like any work of art, it is what it is. And so be it. Not to mention the book can be thrown into the discount bin, then hallelujah.

What I can say regarding this book is: I think I have given the important details enough thought. I think as with anything important we get ourselves into, we will have second thoughts as to the validity, appropriateness, and verisimilitude of details. And of the endeavor itself. Is this book worth publishing? Is it worth the weight of the paper, the money, the time of people involved, the beautiful cover design? Does the title and the art on the cover do anything for it? Will it be accessible? Some of us will say yes and some of us will say no.

But to go back to writing itself:

No. It has nothing to do with print. I have never focused on print myself. All the publications I’ve had after the age of 22 were not of my own initiative. The only reason I published when I was in college was because my poet buddies in college were published, and it was a challenge to me to get published.

I don’t join literary competitions. I think I have enough ups and downs in my life, just being myself, just doing my darn best to function like a normal person and take care of myself. I only share my work with friends. With Tita, and she had been an advocate for me, sending my work here and there, and of course, there’s her Road Map. The truth is, no matter how corny it sounds, we have to write our truth only for ourselves. I believe that if anything I’ve written deserves its own existence, it will find itself a place in this world. Life has a way of taking care of its own, for whatever reason it has. I was driven to “conclude” The Fate of All Progeny and take care of and put up with all the tedious details because I love the cover so much, because I value what all my friends did to help me get the book together. Otherwise, I really don’t need a book. Especially now, at 52, who I am has nothing to do with either I get published or not. I am a poet whether I write poems or don’t write them anymore; I am a poet even if I don’t publish.

I will always be a poet, because of my way of being in this world, because of my sensibilities. We write for ourselves, because if we don’t, we feel less of who we are. There will be stretches of time when we don’t write or can’t write, and these are the times when we must not forget who we are.

The most memorable thing my ex-partner said to me when I was at the lowest point: Lia, do not forget who you are

BLOGSHOT: Yoani

photo from Generación Y



Generación Y is a blogsite run by Yoani Sanchez that won Best Weblog in 2008. Yoani is a Cuban dissenter and she wants out and not dumped, in her own words, “in the corridors of those condemned to stay”. Yoani’s blog is read all over the world, by all those who care about Cuba, I included.

Generacion Y also perhaps stands for the Young Generation of Cubans, those born in the “post-revolution” 1970s and 1980s, with names starting in Y, or with Y wedged in between, such as Yanisleidi, Yoandri, Yusimí, Yuniesky and so on, and whose education is “marked by schools in the countryside, Russian cartoons, illegal emigration and frustration”.

Yoani is admired by many, but also censured, berated, not least of all in her own country. I have the impression that for speaking against her own country, or at least, the country as run by those in power, Yoani has been rewarded by the “free world”.

Amazing, is it not?

But come. Cuba probably doesn’t belong to Yoani or young people like Yoani. They may not want any of it, as things are, the way every one, young and old, with a green card or a Schengen visa would not want to have anything more to do with the Philippines. Maybe Yoani herself doesn’t think of Cuba as her country, perhaps the way I sometimes feel that the Philippines is a lost country to me, my compatriots in government and in the liberation movement an army of locusts, which makes me, I am aware, the lost cause. Right?

Maybe Yoani’s country is the Blogosphere, or West Germany (sorry, I’m stuck), the imperialist havens allied to the US, or all those corners and places who take well to her rebellion. Or maybe her country is just that little corner in the heart, in the vicinity of Carlos Bulosan’s America, and all things taken, Yoani is good as far as she could go, and like you and I, she is just questing for freedom, however that quest shows itself to her and wherever it will take her.

I grew up admiring Cuba, that small nation who had gumption enough to boot the most powerful nation in the world out of its shores, in the belief that it belongs only to itself and can take care of itself, and my, didn’t it withstand decades of economic embargo, cyclones, desertions. The free education and free medicines, which means a lot to me and those of my relatives here in the Philippines, for instance, who had to dig wild yams to survive dry spells and die from poisoning without seeing a doctor or a school flag, it seems to me, count for nothing now for young Cubans like Yoani. Which makes me cuss for the injustice of it, because… because what, because I would give up my fucking gadgets like oh this hand-me-down mobile phone and your Northface backpacks and sneakers and this discard laptop I am typing on and pints of ice cream and layers of chocolate cakes just to cut canes and hammer houses into place for the Cuban revolution?

I would have, years back, if my next to nil political resources allowed me to travel to Cuba. But it didn’t, so now, I join Yoani in the belief that talent and labors like mine have no room to thrive in islands lorded over by sterile cows and revolutionary stayovers. Or who knows what I did, if and when, I made it to Cuba years back and found out as Yoani did how indefensible things have become there, how worse off "communist cadres" are there compared to here, no wonder those who wanted to save their revolutionary asses chose to leave and make a life elsewhere?

I’m not saying I don’t want Yoani hanged. I think of her privileged enough to have been born in “post-revolutionary” Cuba, in the same way maybe that I think fucking privileged and look down on the young in my own country who think armed struggle does not go with ipods and Louis Vuitton bags and stiletto heels and precision-design toenails and regard me as stone-age feminist who cannot see that gender is fluid or that post-conflict transformation is as real an event as the 2010 presidential elections ergo worth involving in.

For sure, one didn’t have to go to Cuba to know about how “communists” and Party-ordained revolutionists don’t take to writers with their own minds. If revolutions out-of- power can have arrogance enough to reject smart alecs who think they know better than those actually doing the dirty job of running a revolution, how much more those in power like the one in Cuba, although if Yoani wants my opinion, I don’t think the Cuban communists are in power. I think they really are fucked up and at their knees, just as Filipino communists are as fucked up and at their knees these days or they would have not handed over some of their best cadres to the circus at the zoo called electoral politics.

This is no best of time, these are the glory days of commerce, or I would have not lived to see my pals up there globe-totting hacking it up with the biggies and signing their names up to the aid agencies leaving me to swallow my own vitriol. This is the march of capital the world over and wouldn’t we know it if what we said or did served the retail sites, offline or online.

Wouldn’t we know it if what we are doing were part of the problem, or part of the solution.

I hurt for Cuba, and can’t help but feel let down, betrayed maybe, by its failure to keep Yoani and the Y Generation to itself.

Would that Yoani trade places with me.

Isang Araw sa Katanghalian

Pinagbabaliktad ko ang mga bato, pinagtutuwad ang mga flower pots, subalit di ko makita ang susi sa pintuan. Siguro nakalimutan ni Jano. Puwede ba iyon? Saan naman kaya si Sarah at ba’t sarado ang mga bintana sa itaas. Di kaya’t nasa loob siya? Nakatulog sa sobrang pagod? Iyong tingala ko at akmang sisipol, bigla may narinig na anasan sa itaas. Boses ni Jano at Sarah. Nagsiseks sila?

Naupo ako sa malaking bato katabi ng saradong pintuan, nagpasyang maghintay. Sa biyak-biyak na sahig na semento sa aking paanan ay nagpuprosesyon ang mga langgam. Nagbabatian, naghahalikan. Niyakap ko ang bakbak na puno ng mga papel at labahan. Sa kabilang apartment kumakanta’t nagigitara ang binatilyong madalas kong nakakasalubong at nakakangitian sa daan. Bye, bye Miss American Pie… Bakit kaya bumalik si Jano. Di ba’t sabi niya’y me importanteng lakad sila ni Omeng ngayong linggo? Umungot ang pintuan sa silid-tulugan. Napaigtad ako. Tapos na sila? Tumayo ako. Aktong kakatok, nang bigla’y pumalandit sa hangin ang maigting na boses ni Sarah, sinundan ng pabulong na sagot ni Jano.

“Ginawa mo na iyan nun! Gagawin mo na naman uli ngayon?”

“Lakasan mo pa!”

Nag-aaway sila?

“Tatakbo ka na naman? Diyan! Diyan kayo mahusay!”

“Marinig ka ng kapitbahay!”

May mga paang nagtatakbo pababa ng hagdan. Kumatok ako. Dire-diretso ang labas ng pintuan ni Jano. Madilim ang mukha nito. Ni hindi ako tinanguan. Pumasok ako, alumpihit ang hakbang, ipinatong ang bakpak sa upuan at dahan-dahang umakyat ng hagdan. Bukas na ang kanina’y nakasarang mga bintana. Nakatanaw sa labas si Sarah, nagyoyosi.

“Bakit iyon?”

Tiim ang bagang niya. Ni hindi ako nilingon. “Dumating ka na pala.”

“Ba’t andito si Jano? Nagpaalam siya bago ako umalis, ilang araw raw siyang mawawala. Me lalakarin sila ni Omeng.”

Nanginginig ang mga daliring me hawak na sigarilyo. Naglalarong parang ulap ang usok sa kanyang mukha.

“Buntis si Emma. Iyon ang lakad nila.”

Girlfriend ni Omeng si Emma. Walang nakaiskedyul na kasalan, pagkakaalam ko. At tensiyonado lagi si Emma sa mga araw na ito. Pero lahat naman kami tensyonado lagi. Sunod-sunod na reyd at hulihan, pagbobomba sa kanayunan.

“Anong pasiya ninyo?”

“Ayaw nilang ipaalam.”

Nila.

“Gusto ipaabort.” Mapait ang ngiti at nanglilimahid sa luha ang mukha na lumingon sa akin.

Saglit akong nagulat. Umiiyak siya? Si Sarah umiiyak?

“Wala bang magagawa ang mga medik sa mga ganitong bagay?”

May punyal na kumislap sa kanyang mga mata. Pagkuway parang pagod na ibinaling muli ang tingin sa bintana. Humugot ng hininga bago nagsalita uli.

“Pinaakyu na nga pero ayaw matanggal ang bata.” Kampante at praktikal uli ang tono ng kanyang salita.

“Buti ipinaalam nila sa iyo?”

“E, hindi nga nila alam pa’no mangtanggal na bata, e.”

Napakunot-noo ako. Dinudurog niya sa pasilyo ng bintana ang hawak na sigarilyo.

“Nagkonsulta sa akin, kung pa’no ko pinatanggal iyong beybi namin, nung iwanan niya ako sa QC, nang tumalilis siya papunta rito sa Mindanao.”

Natulos ako sa aking kinatatayuan.

“Ngayon niya lang binanggit sa akin iyon, alam mo ba? At ngayon niya lang tinawag na beybi namin iyon.”

Nakangiti siyang humarap sa akin, basa ang mukha. “Pagkatapos ng limang taon.”

Patda akong nanatiling nakatitig sa kanya. Sa hataw ng araw na tumatama sa kanyang pisngi, parang maliliit na sapa ang kanyang mga luha.

Shit and Double Shit

May mga araw na para akong ligaw na talangkang walang batong mapagtaguan. Walang makakausap na di ka bubugahan.

Si Jim ay nakahilata sa ratang upuan. Nananakit ang likod ko at kailangan ko ng mahigaan. Ang init sa itaas at mukhang lalong mainit ang ulo ni Sarah. Kahapon pa kami di kinikibo. Pababain ko kaya para mananghalian.

Iyong akmang katok ko sa nakatiwangwang na pintuan, inabutan ko siyang nagmomonologo, na lalong nilakasan pagkapansing nakatayo ako sa kanyang likuran. Ang kailangan raw sa Mindanaw na mga kadre, iyong matatatag. Gusto kong mag-about face. Inspirational talk ang kailangan ko, hindi ED, puwede ba. San na kaya napunta iyong kinakanta niya nung mga nakaraang linggo, tungkol sa husay ng mga taga-Mindanaw. Taga-Mindanaw raw ang nakaisip nung Welgang Bayan, pati na ng Lakbayan. Ngayo’y parang ilang araw na siyang puro puna, puro reklamo. Nagpapagpag siya ng mga alikabok na naipon sa mga tokador at aparador, alauna na, hindi pa siya kumakain. Kagabi’y inumaga siya kangangatngat ng dulo ng kanyang lapis. “Para kang rebolusyunaryong daga diyan, matulog ka na” ani Jim. Bahagya lang siya umangat ng mukha, parang galit pa at binati.

Nadadaganan na raw siya ng karami-raming trabaho. Pa’no raw, iyong mga kadreng maasahan sana ay di nakatiis, nagsialisan. Si Lukas raw na masinop kung magtrabaho ay umuwi na lang, masama pa ang loob. –Ano pa ba ang gusto nila? Sila na nga ang tinutulungan.—Ang tinutukoy ni Lukas, ang mga kasamang Moro. Bumalik na lang daw si Lukas sa Kordi, ni hindi pinruseso ang paglipat, pati trabaho niya sa NSC, iniwanan. Ibaloy naman daw siya talaga, palagay niya raw mas tanggap siya sa kakordilyerahan at mas kailangan, bakit ba niya ipagpupumilit ang sarili niya rito sa Kamorohan.

Napapalakas ang kanyang paghampas ng feather duster, at parang ulap na nagliparan ang alikabok.

“Bibigyan ka naman ng mga kasama ang hirap namang turuan, sa halip na tulungan ka, papasanin mo pa—”

Nahahatsing na tumalilis ako pababa ng hagdan. Nakahilata pa rin si Jim sa ratan na upuan. May nagbukas ng tarangkahan at pabagsak na sinarhan. Bumungad sa pintuan ang nangangasim na mukha ni Beng, at umungot, bumagsak uli ang screen door. Napabalikwas si Jim, inilapag ang pahayagang binabasa.

“Shit that Lito! Shit and double shit!”

“Bakit?”

“Mag-aakyu, hindi man lang magsasara ng pinto?”

Dinatnan niya raw itong ginagalugad ang kanyang hita, nasa gitna ng dalawang tuhod ang ulo, hinahanap ng hawak na karayom ang kanyang acupuncture point sa pagitan ng puwet at titi.

Napahagalpak ng tawa si Jim. “E, hindi naman siguro sinasadya iyon, Beng!”

“Anong hindi sinasadya? Sinabi ko na sa kanya na darating ako Miyerkules! Miyerkules ng tanghali! Oh shit! Shit and double shit!”

Bumukas uli ang pintuan at pumasok na parang naglalakad sa pinagtamnan ng mina si Reni. Nagkatinginan sila ni Beng.

“Ah… ano’ng ginawa mo kay Lito?”

Nasa hagdan si Sarah, yakap-yakap sa braso ang tambak ng mga papel na may balak yatang sunugin. Interesado ang mukha nito.

Sabay na nagturuan sina Reni at Beng.

“Ba’t may bukol iyon si Lito?”

Namewang si Beng. Biglang taas ng dalawang kamay si Reni.

“Teka! Ang akin lang naman, pumili ka man lang sana ng pampukol mo sa noo ni Lito. Plato ko pa, e, ceramic iyon!”

“Ah… tinamaan ba?” At bumunghalit ng tawa si Beng.

Pati si Sarah na napako sa pagkakatayo sa hagdan ay di napigilang makitawa.

Usaping Uring-Pinanggalingan

art work by liloy




Kahirap namang kadiskurso ang mga kasama. Sinabi nang hindi pesante at hindi ptb ang uring kinabibilangan ko, aba, nagsitawa lang sila. Ang lolo ko lang ang uring magsasaka, gentle peasant stock iyon, mind you, pero ang nanay ko, pagkatapos iwanan ang lasenggerong tatay ko at umuwi sa nilakhang baryo na pinagsanglaan ng bahay lote at sakahan ng lolo at lola ko, magsasakang manggagawa po, talaga. Ako at ang mga kapatid at pinsan ko, lumpen na magsasaka. Nagnanakaw kami ng tubo, bayabas, singkamas, nangka, pakwan, tinaliang manok at ligaw na pato; nag-iihaw ng dalag, hito, palaka, aso, name it; at nakikipagbakbakan sa mga anak ng sanggano sa baryo. (Nung nagsilakihan, meron naging sundalo, pulis, CHDF; merong naging titser, madre, weytres, prosti, maid sa HK; merong naging holdaper, inte, at traysikel drayber. Pero di ko na iyon ipinaalam sa mga kasama.) Kahit anong paliwanag ko, ayaw maniwala ng mga kasama. Sa urban poor communities raw matatagpuan ang mga lumpen, hindi sa farming villages. Maiiling sila na matatawa. Iba na raw talaga ang nakapag-aral ng Literatura, nakakaimbento ng sariling mga kategorya.

Sabagay, anila, mas mainam na iyong burgis na nagpapakamasa, kesa sa masa na nagpapakaburgis. “Pero walang lumpen na magsasaka. Petiburgis ka, aminin mo man o hindi, dahil nakapag-aral ka ng kolehiyo.”

“Tingnan mo’t namumulaklak ng pulang libro iyang payat mong braso. Pustahan pa tayo, galugarin mo man ang buong baryo ninyo, wala kang makikitang nagbabasa ng Marxismo dun.”

“Hindi ako nagbabasa, no, kundi naglilinis ng mga bookshelves at pasilyo. Kundi nyo kasi ako ginagawang katulong rito.”

“Hamo at mamaya maglalampaso kami. Basta iyon. Ang nanay mo ay pesante. Dispossessed class, migranteng magsasaka. Galing Visayas ang lolo mo, di ba?”

“Pero ikaw, ‘Day, ay uring ptb. Lower ptb.”

Ganun ang takbo ng aming argumento sa panahong ang mga burgis ay nagpapakaproletaryo.

Pero masama ang loob ko, ba’t ipagkait sa akin ang katangitanging class credentials ko: Nagtatanim ako ng palay (hah), nagsasabog ng binhi, nagdadamo ng maisan at palayan (hah at hah uli). Nagkabutasbutas mga daliri ko kadudukot-sabog ng pataba. Hanggang Greyd Six ako. Dahil pagkagradweyt ko ng elementarya, napagpasyahan ng Nanay at ng mga kapitbahay na brayt raw ako. Kaya may bukas raw ako. Pinagpumilitan na sa bayan ako ienrol, sa Notre Dame. Sa public high school kasi sa aming baryo, puro anak-magsasaka ang makakaklase ko. Mga nanay nila, mga kaklase rin ng nanay at Auntie sa palayan at maisan. Iyong mga Sabado’t Linggo na napapasama ako magdamo, magpapang-abot kami ng mga kaklase ko sa Greyd Three (di na sila umabot ng Greyd Four) at pagtatawanan nila ako dahil lagi akong naiiwanan. May paligsahan syempre sa taniman at gapasan, at kahit pa sa pagdudoboltaym ng Nanay at Auntie na nakawan, damuhan ang mga linya ko ay maiiwan at maiiwan pa rin ako. Nung dumugo ang ilong ko, tuluyan na akong pinaretiro. Nakakahiya raw sa me-ari ng sakahan.

Nagkasya ako sa pag-aabang sa kanya, sa panghihingi ng pamasahe para sa kinabukasan. Malalaman kong dumarating na siya dahil mag-aamoy DDT na ang hanging namamasyal sa loob-bahay.

Ang amoy ng DDT, kahit yata ako nagba-backpack at naghi-hitch-hike sa Amerika o nagtitimpla ng kape pampainit-loob ng taga-Politburo, makikilala at makikilala ko. Greyd Two ako nang maglason ang Uncle ko. Nilagok ang kalahating bote ng DDT. Nag-iiyak na nagmumura ang Auntie habang buhat-buhat namin paakyat ng traysikel ang nangingisay, bumubula-sa-baba na katawan ng Uncle.

“Ang sabi ko sa kanya, huwag isangla, huwag isangla ang lupa!”

Hanggang sa hukay nagmumura pa rin siya. Di ko tuloy malaman kung ano ang iniiyakan niya, ang pagkawala ng Uncle o ng kahuli-hulihang piraso ng kanilang lupa. Pag ako’y naglalakad papunta sa eskuwela, nasasalubong ko sa daan, mga kasama sa sakahan. Punit-punit ang kanilang mga jacket, luray-luray ang pantalon. “Ay, mabuti Ine, at sa Notre Dame ka nag-aaral.” Gusto ko silang pagyayakapin, sa gitna ng matalim na amoy ng lasong nakadikit sa kanilang mga damit at katawan, bumabalot sa hangin. Alam kong nabubutas na ang kanilang mga talampakan, namamaga ang mga buto, lumalaki ang utang sa tindahan, may mga nawawalang kalabaw, kahahanap ng damo sa dakong Kamusliman.

Pero ayon sa Lola ko, sasamaing-palad raw ako dahil mata-pobre raw ako.

Ibinubugaw ako sa anak ng kaibigan niya na may limang ektarya raw na lupain. E, ikako, ano naman ang gagawin ko sa lupain ng kanyang tatay, dadamuhin? Hurt ang Lola ko. Nakapaghayskul lang daw ako sa Notre Dame, kalulublob ng Nanay ko sa putikan, nagmayabang na raw ako. Para raw akong hindi magsasaka kapag magsalita. Alam ko raw ba kung ilang kaban ng palay ang nakuha nila nung nakaraang anihan? Balak raw bumili ang tatay niya ng bagong traktora. Sabi naman ng Nanay ko, pakiharapan ko raw iyong tao kahit saglit lang. “At nang makauwi na.” Sabi ng kapatid kong mas patpatin kesa sa akin, sagutin ko na raw at wala nang iba pang magkakagusto sa akin dahil ang mukha ko, malayo pa, nagbabadya na ng masamang panahon.

Sabi ko sa kanya, mas lalong walang magkagusto sa kanya. Muntik na kaming nagbuntalan. Buti na lang pinauwi na ng lola ang kanyang manliligaw. Pagkaalis niya, nangingiting papasok ng pintuan ang Auntie, may bitbit na isang tabo ng tuba. At binisita raw pala kami ng me-ari ng limang ektaryang palayan at kaisaisang traktora ng bayan? Bakit raw mukhang langaw na napisa ang hitsura nung bata?

“Tingin ko, di pa nakakalapit ng bahay iyon, dati nang mukhang pisa na langaw ang mukha nun,” sasabihin ng nanay.

At hanggang gabi kaming parang mga aswang na maghahagikhikan.

To a Girl Squatting on the Roadside

Don’t you have an owned life? If it’s not your father, it’s your brother. If it’s not your girlfriend, it’s your girlfriend. What are you an outlaw for? How many nights did you sleep in jail? How do you fuck? Are you waiting for the future that is yet to come or you’ve lost it already? Why do you run? How many schools kicked you out? Did you pass your Biology? Do you know my last name? Do you have a favorite movie? A favorite cartoon character? What would you have for a weapon? Ever wished your mother had an abortion instead of you? Do you like chocolates? Ever looked up to count the stars? Ever hurt yourself for not looking? Got slapped by strangers? Spat at by men? Wrestled with boys? Who first called you a bitch good-for-nothing dirty tomboy? When did you learn to box so well? What is that scar doing in your wrist? What is the fabric you wear for your underwear? Who do you think you are? Do you give a shit about me or you’re just another heartless blast of loser wanting nothing that you’ll never get? I hate you. Mute dumb brainless ignorant girl. You can’t even get through High School and you’ve got the nerve to stare me out of your damned stupid life.


2006
Davao City
























THEY COME BACK AS STRANGERS

They come back as strangers, the daughters I bore,
over fields of gold and green. I know not
what has eaten them: coke for water, hamburger
for a meal, their days long in parking lots
and malls, their dinners packed short in styro
and foils, no knowledge of grains are they.
Mother they call me, and talk of strangers
with billions stashed in foreign banks,
their glass eyes walls of schools sat in and gaped at,
paper marks instead of scars, dollar earns and no learn,
how much didn’t get to them is all that could hurt,
all they know of pain.

Flabby in the middle, their bodies are their own now.
Husbands in the Middle East or in the Cold North
in a war over the peace booty. Papa their children call
them, but no better than house guests with purse
strings to pull. I pull them back home
but long severed are they from my womb.
They tug away, and I bleed inside me.
“Why don’t you get to your bedroom?” they demand,
their househelps at their heels, to drag me.
Soft in the sole they pad away, no memory of clay,
limbs without sinews, heads tilted, their hands
forever thumbing around tiny little monsters of letters.
Their voices smell of rust and though they summon me
to supper, I know them not. I am in a strange country.
A jungle of wires and picture boxes, all noise,
no fury, sly foxes and frosty bears, in spike heels
and three-piece suits, they drive me around, their idea of sun.
Highways overhead for trees, stonewalls for windows,
walled-in precipices for stairs.

Daughters of my lost earth, swinging on twigs
and branches, little acrobats of my youth,
what have become of you? And what have I done
that you should come back to haul me and tie me
around an empty crib hung with headless toys,
my hands growing cold, craving for soil and
the remembrance of caught rain.


2003
Davao City