Ba't Di Hayaang Maglaro

photo by Florian Kiopp, courtesy of tdh-phils

Eleanor Trinchera

Maaga pa ang gulo na nila. Naghihiyawan, naghahabulan, nagtatawanan. Sabi ko sa sarili ko, ano ba naman, pinapabayaan lang ng mga magulang!

Hindi puwedeng mag-ingay bago mag-alas siyete! Sabagay mukhang lampas alas siyete na ng umaga. Pero hindi ba nila alam na nakakaistorbo na sa mga tao sa kalapit-building nila?

E, bigla namang akyat sa isip ko ang kanta ng Asin.

Masdan mo ang mga bata, ang buhay ay hawak nila...
Ang sagot raw sa kanila makikita, sila raw ang tunay na pinagpala. Nga ba? At bumalikwas na nga ako.

Sabagay, gising na naman ako, pa'no pa ako maiistorbo, at bakit ko pa iisipin na makakaistorbo sila. Bahala na kung sino yung maistorbo nila, tutal gising na ako. Tumungo na lang ako sa kusina, para makapaghanda ng almusal, saka dumungaw sa bintana. Tanaw na tanaw ko sila: nagtatakbuhan, naghahabulan, punong-puno ng tuwa.

Oo nga naman ano, bakit hindi sila pabayaang maglaro. Bihira na nga akong nakakakita ng mga batang naglalaro nang samasama laluna sa parteng ito ng “suburb” namin. Bihira na nga akong nakakarinig ng mga batang nagtatawanan. Iilan na lamang sa mga kabataan dito and nagkakasama para maglaro. Iilan na lang nga sa kanila ang nagkakakilala kahit na sa isang building pa silang lahat nakatira. Iilan na lang ba sa kanila ang nagkakalakas-loob na makipaglaro sa kapwa bata?

Bihira na rin sa kanila ang naglalaro sa kalye o sa paligid ng mga unit. Madalas, makikita mo sila sa mga local parks o playground sakay ng kani-kanilang mga bisikleta o roller blades, o kaya dala-dala ang kanilang scooter, o bola para magsoccer, magbasketball, magcricket at kung ano-ano pa. Iyong iba pa mga alagang aso ang kasama kaysa sa kapwa bata, o kaya mga ipod nila.

Itong grupong ito, karamihan sa kanila mga lima o anim na taong gulang lamang lang. Mayamaya lang magsilakihan na rin ang mga ito, magbibinatilyo, manliligaw, magkakabisyo, magiging barumbado o kaya baka rin at sana, magiging mabuting tao. Pero ngayon heto pa, nagsisigawan, hagikgikan, taguan, parang talagang sinasamantala ang bawat oras ng pagiging bata.

Iba-ibang kulay pa ang mga ito. Halatang galing sa Tsina ang iba at ang iba naman ay maliwanag na galing pa ng India. Sa parteng ito ng subdibisyon sila lang ang madalas naglalaro, sila lang ang madalas nagsasamasama. Sila-sila rin ang madalas nagbabatian, nagkakakilanlan. At parang wala silang pakialam sa mga palalong mga Australyano at Filipino sa paligid nila basta't sila ay nagkakaintindihan.

Oo nga naman, ano. Bakit nga hindi sila hayaang maglaro at mag-ingay. Sino kasi nagpauso ng bawal maglaro at mag-ingay. Tutal napakatahimik ng lugar na ito. Kung minsan pa sobrang tahimik kung kaya sobrang diyahi tuloy umimik.

Pa'no, madalas pati magkakapitbahay ni hindi na nagbabatian at nagpapansinan.

BLOGSHOT: Ilostit!

photo by karen dias



I have the stupidest pair of glasses. It is square and big, too big for my bony face. A temporary replacement, I told the clerk at the optometric clinic along Magallanes Street. I don't even remember the clinic's name. It's one of those sidewalk cubicles you will have a difficult time looking around in if there were three customers walking in at a time. I didn't ask for a receipt or the clerk's name. A one-hundred peso purchase is supposedly disposable garbage a day after. If you don't know me.

She was good, the salesclerk. Understood right on life's less emulated virtues when I asked for the cheapest they had. But maybe it was because I said to her not to call me guapa because I'm not guapa, I'm a boy, little boy blue. How she giggled at that. Didn't stop smiling. Made me wonder if she got a girl-bf or got a crush on one, or she was just not used to being spoken to in English like she mattered. Probably she was just counting on my coming back to her for a real replacement of the one I lost. A costly trip that would be, sweetheart, one I'm not likely to make soon.

The one I lost. I could not be thinking of my eyeglasses? Or of the laptop that broke down before New Year's Eve and is still held hostage by the computer guy who I suspect is overcharging this time? Or of the jobs that my friends in the NGOs liked to offer me so that I would talk and talk as I bit into their well-dealt sowhatdyathinks until they knew what to do without me bitching? I had seen how many of my one-pagers and two-liners turned into press relations speeches and three-year programs that took care of children's tuitions, SSS and Philhealth payments, gas and gadgets, while I hanged in the sun to dry until I got to love it there in the sun.

Of late I have learned as well not to bleed too much over what got away or didn't come my way ever again. A dream research project. A writing and publishing grant. A teaching job. Now I'd like to think that what I don't have money to buy is at the moment not worth the purchase, I need not miss them, I will have them in time: a Doris Lessing's latest; a Charlie Chaplin set; a loyal laptop, a canvas as wide as my door; even just a quiet room with a writing table and no man pissing around. The best things in life are free, I count on that.

My life's constant companions are the books that, like the children I once had, I did love with despair but now, I can also freely give away. Let go, I tell myself, each time I hurt, knowing that they might never return or may fall in evil hands, be eaten by the elements, like the son I hanged up the phone on when he said You get me from here, you take care of me! Books don't hurt like that. But I recall how once when friends borrowed then stole, I cursed:

That what they took will not make them any richer like it made me.
That for taking from me they will not be better by me.
That what they destroy of what they cannot have will not grow around them ever.

That what I don't have will not make me less but more and more of myself.

Later, I would learn, too, that the friend who stole from you once will steal from you again and again. At first it may just be an Arundhati Roy or Mrs Dalloway or a bundle of stories on Switzerland and Germany you or a thoughtful friend took pains to photocopy page after page out of Granta, soon it will be a job, a friend, or a network of friends: a rope to get you by in your poverty, in the outway. Next it will be your sheaf of rip-offs incinerated with a blink of an eye, your life's gathered prose on the way to the typesetting machine, your journals of daily hurts searing the skin in the face, your first art works, the hard copy of your first drafts, and finally, your own words, a speaking position, what tiny audience you're left with, what little right to self-description you have: to speak about one's self in behalf of the self, unlaced by jealousy or hate, even the right to love, to burn a path to reach out to another soul in the cold, uninstructed by ethics, unmediated, and unobstructed by proprietary and brokership laws.

Thanks to their graces and harmless ways, you will find yourself walking a land mine of hopes blasting you to pieces.

And yet, ages later, you will have to thank them as a way of returning the favor. You didn't die, did you? You didn't get even, you didn't even get published, you only got better, madder, and bloody shameless as ever. Is that what you read, Jeremy?


So what did I lose? Beside a pair of glasses to see me through?
I lost my way, I suppose, while writing. So now I navigate the road aboard this hundred-peso joke above my nose and I skid as I walk like a boat lost and coasting along craggy mountain slopes.

My hope is that my friend Circe won't be far-off.
Don't follow me!

Ode to Viktor

I know you hate me.
And when you raped that girl
I understand I was among those prissy cunts you
wanted torn up. You must have envisioned
telling your story from the point of view of
rivenness? But her blood on your hands,
how does it feel, Vik?
But Vik, if there is one word
to describe my life, undone would be it.
Remember how back in school
our favorite phrase was poete maudite?
We reckoned if we didn’t make a name
for ourselves, we might as well just lie
and lounge among them poetes maudites.
That wouldn’t be so bad, we said.
Then we snickered, hi-fived,
and downed our beers.
But every time I thought of it,
it was like being run over at midday
by a big truck: It limped me for life, Vik.
And Vik, you never said it out loud,
but I heard you:
Nobody wants to be explained away as
thwarted poet;
Nobody wants to be remembered as struck
at midday by a big red truck.



2003
Davao City

Pasko Nga Ba?

Eleanor Trinchera

Tahimik ang paligid. Napakatahimik. Lahat ng sasakyan nakaparke sa tabi ng kalsada. Walang naglalakad, halos walang tumitinag. Pasko nga ba ngayon? Parang hindi, nagkamali yata ako ah. Pero alam ko abeinte-singko ngayon.

Mayamaya, may dumaang sasakyan. Pumarada ito, bumaba ang lulan, mag-anak. Ingles ang salita. Ah, teka… mukhang Pinoy, at mukhang kapitbahay lang namin. Pero deretso ang tingin nila, at di yata ako napansin. May pinag-uusapan sila, ang cah raw, hindi pronounced ang “r”, actually, car talaga iyong pinag-uusapan nila. Masyado na yata akong usisera.

Dumating si Noellin at hindi ko na muna sila pinansin. Patuloy pa rin silang nag-uusap tungkol sa kanilang cah. Nagkahulihan kami ng tingin ng aking anak, nagkaintindihan na kami.

Naglakad kami papunta sa bahay ng kapatid ko, hindi kalayuan mula sa amin. Doon namin ipagdiwang ang araw ng Pasko. Dumating kami sa “main road”. Mangilan-ngilang sasakyan lang ang dumadaan, at wala rin masyadong naglalakad. Nakakailang ang katahimikan.

Sa isang dulo ng kalsadang aming binabaybay ay may moske. Sa susunod na kanto sa salungat na direksiyon ay ang simbahang Katoliko. Tumawid kami.

“Ang tahi-tahimik no? Parang hindi Pasko,” sambit ng anak ko. “Oo nga eh. Pakiramdam ko nga parang hindi talaga Pasko.”

Habang patawid kami sa kabilang bahagi ng daan, may nakita kaming matandang lalaki. Naglalakad rin siya, mag-isa, at bihis na bihis. Pagkuwa'y bigla siyang tumigil sa harap ng isang tanim na may bulaklak na maliliit. Pinagmasdan niya ito.

Nagkatinginan na naman kaming mag-ina. “Buti pa iyong matanda, ano,” ikako sa anak ko, “may panahong huminto para amuyin ang mga bulaklak.”

Papalapit kami sa kinaroroonan niya at bahagya siyang lumingon. Namitas siya ng mga bulaklak. Nang nasa tabi na niya kami, bigla niyang iniabot sa amin ang maliit na kumpol na pinamitas niya sabay ngiti at bati ng “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” sabay din naming bati. Bigla kaming nabuhayan ng loob. Siyang-siya naming pinaghatian ang alay niyang bulaklak.

Bigla, sumigla ang aming mga hakbang.
Pasko nga pala talaga!

Mama, Unsa Ka?

(Pasaylo, Tita Lacambra Ayala)

Mama, tomboy ka? ngutana akong anak.
Nasakpan ko niyang nagkalo,
Nanglukot sa bukton sa akong long sleeves
Naninghawak ug gahikaphikap sa akong bigote
Atubang sa dakong samin sa among kuwarto.
Wala siya kahibalo nga ingon ana na gyud ko
Sa mga adlaw nga abuton ko’g kakapoy
Sa akong pagkananay ug pagkababaye
Kanang nagkay-ag ang balay
Ug akong dughan nangguot sa kalaay
Akong kalag mangitag lugway
Maglakaw-lakaw sa laing lungsod,
Aron manikop og laing kalipay.

Apan kasubo aning pagkadulaa
Kay kinahanglan buhaton kun nag-inusara
Atubangan sa samin atbang sa laing babaye
Nga ang nawong mao ra gihapon,
Walay bigote
Nasulod sa rektanggulong kwadro
Nagsundog-sundog, nanura,
Ug naglantaw sa imong namalandong nga mga mata
Gipalibotan sa nagbitay nga mga labhanan
Gibisbisan sa nagkalamukat nga mga plastik nga dulaan
Ug sa dapit sa pultahan dunay batang laki
Nagtindog, nagnganga. Wa nakaila.
Asa siya gikan?
Ug kinsa sad siya?

BLOGSHOT: One more, for a year-ender, on the Maguindanao massacre

Let’s admit it, the MILF is a goner, thanks to the ravages of peace. It has no mettle in the face of the return to power of warlord politics.



I should think it was both spontaneous and also method (as in method to madness and madness to method). You never know who is client to whom. But for sure it is a parasitically reciprocal relationship between Maguindanao and Malacanang. I’m sure Malacanang knew all along about the ever increasing bodycount going on there on both sides of the clan war and we knew all along why the evacuees could not go back to their homes: it has little to do with the anti-terrorist military operations or the AFP-MILF battles. The warlords and business have so much to gain if people cleared out of there. And I wouldn’t be surprised if most of the evacuees in Maguindanao had “sold” their lands altogether to the ruling families there. I myself did find it incredulous at first, preposterous, the idea that many of the evacuees are more keen on sending their daughters abroad to work as domestic servants in the Middle East and live off that rather than go back to the warlords’ domain. The hope is, if their daughters’ indentured labor pay off enough, they will find a new place in another town or province to eke a living in. The reason why I don’t like all this drama over the plight of the evacuees in Maguindanao is that most of it is yes, Lila, bathos, sentimentalism. I sometimes suspect it is very diversionary, you know, like the soap operas at ABS-CBN, it keeps attention away from the maneuverings going on in high places, and also in low places (if we think of the little fiefdoms in Maguindanao as low places). This is also the reason why I’m not so fond of this lobbying thing aka advocacy work, all this paternalistic welfarist politics. Why take to task a government that is up there in power only for itself. It is such a waste of political energy. I mean, NGOs and Church organizations, especially those with good track record in grassroots organizing, should leave charity and mercy work to DSWD and to Jaycees and do some really solid self-organizing work. That which will make people see their condition and do something rather than stretch their hands out longer and longer for more and more dole-outs. I’m sure everyone is entitled to and would choose a little dignity than all that they have been getting all these years. It will be harder, so much harder than we wish, of course, but I’m sure there are sincere people out there and even in the international aid and humanitarian organizations, who would be willing to invest in more coherent community organizing projects, even in organized resistance work, if only to get this damned country out of the mire of backwaters politics it is wallowing in. Let’s admit it, the MILF is a goner, thanks to the ravages of peace. It has no mettle in the face of the return to power of warlord politics. I’m sure so many of them are in the employ, as part-time security maybe, of the ruling families and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those who fired the guns at the journalists were former or part-time rebels. The Ampatuans can even summon history to their side to justify such dastardly act if they like. Who knows what exhortations better than drugs they used before they sent their men to execute the order to kill? Remember Bud Daho, Remember Bud Bagsak, all those massacres committed by the kaffir Christians the infidels and their friends the Melikans against the Bangsamoro? Remember Palimbang Massacre? remember remember all those genocides committed against the Bangsamoro nation. This is the moment, this is our jihad, our moment of vengeance, of justice takbeer! I could go on and on. I could also imagine what the Ampatuans said about the Mangungudatus. Then as before the Melikans and those in power have local collaborators. If history is guiding us right, the Ampatuans should be rightful heir to that race of collaborators. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But what right have these upstart Mangudadatus to suddenly feel good and martyred for putting themselves in the service of the Melikan’s multi-million (Is it billions? I’m sorry, I don’t keep track.) good governance projects? Mow the rascals down.

“I wouldn’t be so stupid so as to escort a bejeweled bai on her way to file a COC for her datu husband!”, a Muslim friend who used to be with Moro human rights work, said to me. “And why are there so many of them escorting the Mangudadatu party, anyway?!? Is it the pay envelope? Or just the scoop?” Right. Bakit andami nga naman nila. Of course, it is provocative. Kung ako siguro Ampatuan, mapipikon rin ako. Di ba, Orak? You are somehow sorry kasi karamihan sa kanila mga pobreng bisaya, local reporters na tiyak kapipiranggot ang suweldo. I propose there was no pay envelop involved: It was a convoy of good-hearted good governance citizens for free and honest elections.

I myself never liked riding air-conditioned vans, a point of irritation for the NGO driver and fellow commuters I had to go with each time: the Glade freshener brings on my migraine, makes of me a vegetable upon arrival at destination point, but if that’s the way everybody gets a ride nowadays to get in and out of Moro country, would I have a choice of not riding to save my ass if I were there scavenging for news or some signs of hope?

Life is cheap. You are either predator or prey. From moment to moment of history’s unfolding. And spoils is all.

Does She Like You?

I had been decorating her clotheslines with my briefs and Good Morning towels and she always took them off for folding and ironing, but you can’t just assume that one aunt understood that as a sex change.

My Aunt Lydia suddenly got into dolling me up. I don’t know why. Maybe she just wanted to clear her lockers of unworn clothes hanging like unsold brides or she just found me a little too poorly dressed that she kept on handing me things to fit into. Yesterday morning she took a red sequined blouse shining like a street car which I promptly waved away saying, “Not that, that’s for a girl,” and she yelped and stared down at me her eyes big as her gaped mouth, “And why, what are you a boy?!?” I scratched my head and went back to my book mumbling something about crossing universes a long time ago and where are you which I hoped she didn’t hear and she didn’t and she turned her head around to whoever was there and broke into a loud laugh that called everyone within earshot to her side. “Listen! Listen to this fool! She thinks herself a boy!!!” She kept on repeating the tale to every neighbor and member of the family that came to the house later that day that My Goddess, at 45 I felt like a tyke running fussed over by adoring adults.

My Aunt Lydia is sixty-seven and very provincial. In another time you would not find her making a big laugh about a thing like who you like to sleep with, which is, as I explained to her long ago, what being a lesbian is all about. But we aren’t that theoretical, Aunt Lydia and I. You can’t get around long with old folks explaining your sexual preferences elaborately. You just tell them Oh I don’t like the smell of them sticking in my bed sheets, the smell of their urine in my latrine, like it’s all about hygiene and you have them agreeing and imagining that lesbian sex is indeed far cleaner than heterosexual sex. From there, if you like, you may proceed to talking about limp dicks and big egos beside the many ways that two women can understand the world they both live in on top of sexually pleasing each other, and I promise you, the worst you could get is some cussing and swearing, the best hugs and wild sniggers.

It’s not that my cross-dressing never registered. But if you are the family’s most trusted laundry machine, after some time nothing surprises you anymore, be it a nose ring, a dollar bill, a packet of female condoms in one of the pockets turned inside out, or strings and funny strings with tiny flaps of wings. Reality often doesn’t flop down your lap that way, no. Like I had been decorating her clotheslines with my briefs and Good Morning towels and she always took them off for folding and ironing, but you can’t just assume that one aunt understood that as a sex change.

But really, I have had no trouble with telling as far as my old provincials are concerned. And sometimes I get carried away with the telling that I make up more than what is actually there to tell. Like today my Aunt Lydia had me telling her about girlfriends that I skidded away improvising along the way about why two women who perfectly understand each other often do break up.

“Oh Auntie, I don’t really like girls, they’re all traitors, double-crossers.”

“What?!?”

“You should see them. How they think of themselves priceless gifts to lesbians.”

“What you talking about you nut?”

“It’s true! They’re rotten at the core! They’d trade you for some idiot of a guy with a car and come back crying like you’re some ortho clinic for the convalescent. Oh Auntie, most days I just want to break their teeth and knee their pits. A thankless sorry world if you get so unlucky as to get stuck with one…”

                                  

I was growing uncomfortable, also sad, because it looked like I disappointed her about a truth neither of us could help. One arm akimbo, she put her weight on one side and looked me in the eye.

“Now what are you talking about, you, rascal!?!” her voice was so low, so soft, it broke my heart.

I turned away, lifted a comb from on top of the refrigerator and pretended to be brushing my hair.

“I don’t really take to girls, Auntie.” I put it back and turned around to face her. She really looked so distressed that I could not stop myself from smiling.

“I swear! They’re a lot of baggage!”

“So you take to boys???” She was picking up and was beginning to smile herself.

“Why, sure, Auntie. I’m a homo, didn’t I tell you? So I take to boys. And I go boy-to-boy only. And you know, Auntie, this girlfriend I have? Geeh! She’s the real one! You could spot her without your glasses on. She looks a mighty testicle crusher from five miles up.”

Guffaws. “You crazy fool!”

“Yes, Auntie. And she’s a bit like you, too. A little jagged and a little aged.”

Silence. Long silence.

And then, “That’s nice, dear.  And does she like you?”