Lost in Uncertainties

I always dreamed of having a perfect family picture.

My mother had a family portrait in my grandparent’s house which for years constantly awed me. They’ve got nice dresses, pimple-free faces, nice jewelries and great smiles. Later on, I realized it’s an oil painting made in such a way that they’ll look like rich hacienderos/as and my grandparents powerful senor/a.

At five, we left Marinduque and tried our luck in Bicol. My two elder sisters, who are in school that time with my aunt have no idea we’ve actually moved. It’s better, what you don’t know won’t hurt you.

Except for Christmas and summer vacations, our family has never been complete. Everday, me and my younger brother counted days before the BIG day came, when we can have our sisters again. I knew my sisters have their own countdown too.

And then came Jeff. I thought he’s ours completely. Not until he reached three-month old and we have to let our grandparents took care of him. I can’t understand WHY yet the endless tears in my mother’s eyes are enough explanation. Soft as I am, I cried with her.

That day I learned the art of crying hideously. Every night, when the lights came out I will grab my pillow, and started selling my own drama. Tears are good for the eyes, they said, which I agree less. I have poor eyesight ever since. Or maybe I had enough of bad & sad memories.

Ten years later, I realized lady luck is not sleeping. We became complete. That time, we are building our own identities. And we have Jeff to guide, motivate and inspire. We became instant parents, we shared the common goal of molding Jeff to be like us. We all loved and will never forget that experience.

I remember we laughed together, teased each others, watched TV/movies all the time, sung lot of songs. We fought several times, hurted other’s ego, cried and hated each other momentarily, yet never forgot to be responsible and sensible as well. It was one of the best days of our lives.

When we’re complete, we always made attempts to have a PERFECT family picture. We usually failed. Either bad camera, overexposed film, low battery, or that Papa, was not smiling like we did, Mama looked tired, Ate Joyce was sleepy, Ate Queency had a bad makeup, J-an’s a bad lighting, and Jeff focused elsewhere.

I admit we might not achieved perfect family picture in our lifetime yet our memories together are more than enough.

Sobrang high-tech na talaga ng panahon. Pagkatapos kong malaman na puede palang makita ‘yung aerial shot ng bahay ko thru Google Earth, napaisip tuloy ako ng "what’s next?". Lahat kasi posible ngayon, bilis ng rebolusyon ng mundo. Kisapmata lang bago na ulit uso.

Kaya halos mahulog ako sa aking upuan ng lumapit sa akin ang isang bagong kakilala. medyo shy-type pero nagawa nyang iabot sa akin ang isang notebook, ibalik ko na lang raw agad pagkatapos. Putiks, halimuyak pa lang ng scented paper at sa hulma, hugis at texture ng cover halos hindi ko makapaniwala na nasa aking kamay ang isang relic ng lumang panahon. Halos maluha ako sa galak at biglang naging senti ulit dahil hawak ko ngayon ang "tradisyon" na pinagdaanan ng samu-saring emosyon, relasyon, definisyon, at mga dedication.

Ito po ang slumbook. Ten years ago, ito ang bibliya ng mga kabataan, ang tanging daan upang makilala mo ng lubusan ang crush mo at ang crush rin nya. Isa syang notebook, iba’t ibang hugis, kulay, amoy at itsura na punong puno ng tanong upang mas makilala ang isang tao.Kung may available ka na whole body picture puede mo i-paste, kaya optional na lang ‘yung "describe yourself". malaki ang naiambag ng slumbook sa bagets ng dekada 90.  dito sila nagkaroon ng idea sa pagkakaiba ng love at crush, sa pakiramdam ng first kiss, sa pagkakaroon ng unforgettable place & date, sa pag-identify sa kanilang hobbies, bestfriends, favorite, likes/dislikes, sa pagkakaroon ng motto at ambition, sa pag-unawa sa symbology, numerology at encryption upang maitago mo ang iyong crush through numbers ng hindi made-decipher ninoman, atbpa.

dito ko nalaman ang meaning ng JAPAN (Just always pray at night), HOLLAND  (Hope our love lasts and never dies), ITALY (I trust and love you), LIBYA (Love is beautiful, you also), HOPE (hostess open panty everynight), MARLBORO  (Men always remember love because of romance only) ISTAMBAY (ikaw, sila, tayo ang mga taong ayaw yumaman) at marami pang iba.

Masarap basahin ang slumbook lalo na kung may mga dedications. Dito hindi mahalaga kung wrong grammar o spelling at mas cute pag super korni. ang mahalaga eh ang effort na maipakilala mo ang iyong identity at maiparamdam mo sa iba ang pagiging tunay na kaibigan.

Sobrang bilis talaga ng panahon. lahat puedeng magbago. ang spelling ng love ay luv ngaun, ang 143 ay luv u, ang ha-ha-ha eh simple smiley na lang. wala na rin masyadong nakakaalala sa tradisyon ng slumbook, at kahit minsan walang gustong umamin na my slumbook entry rin sila. ganunpaman, korni pa rin ang buhay, nakakakilig pa rin pag may crush, at masarap pa rin ang magmahal.

At 20+, I have 67 friends in friendster (only half of which I knew personally), 238 entries in my phonebook, have 12 separate email accounts, a member of 16 mailing lists, and still felt emptiness from time to time. I really need friends, I’m helpless.

You could cheer me up with a testimonials or a friend-referrals. please help me beam up my friendster account.

Birthday in the bario is synonymous with spaghetti. It is the only day of the year when every mom poured out tons of catsup over pasta and let kids’ white shirt be bloodied by their masterpiece without worrying on dirty laundry. Spag gave the "Happy Bday" song more melodies as usual, and defined one bday from the other. Obviously, pansit & other delicacies are nothing when spag is around.

I’m proud I have my own spag day too. Every year my mom would cook the sweetest, meatiest & bloodiest spag sauce ever and I would be very grateful I’m alive on that day and have mom as generous as mine. Years afterwards I learned that city kids ate spag almost every day and I envied them. I also found out that theirs can be bought with a pair of fries, drinks or burger, and lot of freebies. To top it all, they can even have Jollibee or McDonalds sung a happy bday for them.

Btw, five days ago was my bday. My present&future wife for years now visited me in Legazpi City, my first and best present. At 5am, still sleepless, my sister Q from Kuwait texted her greetings. It was followed by text/email messages from my friends Lala, Yayang & Joan, Ms. Gwen & Armie, Mommy Linda, Toni, Bong, Lloyd. My sister Joyce called me & I extend my usual kumusta to my fave pamangkin, her son Kokoy. I also got messages from GSIS, Lina of Jobstreet, Yahoo! Bday reminder, and to some of my mailing-list such as Men’s Health, Ariraru, 360, to name a few.

France left at 6pm to Manila, I’m still thankful she went here though it means being absent for two days. I really love this girl. Before I go to bed, I received two last text/s, perhaps the most important & I can’t help I cried. It’s from my brother Jeff and cousin Jayrome who extend the bday greeting of the person who cooked me the best-tasting spag — my mom.   

Yes, it’s my bday. But how could I forgot it’s my spag day too?

Limang taon ako ng aking ma-realize na hindi ako cute. Sa murang edad, naintindihan ko na kung bakit hindi ako puedeng maging ring bearer, anghel sa easter sunday, o maging konsorte sa anumang king & queen search. hindi na rin ako nagtaka kung bakit wala akong matandaan na pumisil sa pisngi ko o bumuhat sa akin upang isama sa kung saan man na pasyalan. wala kasi akong dimples, payat, maitim at masakit mang ulit-ulitin — hindi ako cute.

matindi ang inggit ko sa aking mga kapatid. sa murang edad alam ko na definition ng inggit. ito yung after-effect ng maitsapwera at hindi makasama sa anumang kasiyahan. sanay na rin ko sa feeling ng manikip ang dibdib sa atake ng sobrang inggit. ang lulusog kasi nila, magaganda at gwapo,sobrang bibo at super CUTE pa. sila ang kadalasang hari at reyna sa mga santacruzan o star sa anumang play, sila rin ang bida sa lakan ng barangay, mutya ng agham at amateur singing contest, at ang pinakamaraming kalaro at kaibigan. samantalang ako, nasa isang tabi lang kunwari tahimik na nagmamasid at nanonood sa kanila pero pinapatay ng matinding inggit.

paborito raw ako ni nanay. sa murang edad alam ko kung bakit. siyempre kasi lagi ako sa tabi n’ya. marahil kasi nanay ko lang nagtitiyaga makinig sa kwento ko, at samahan ako sa panahong hindi ako okay. hindi ko alam kung nauunawaan nya ‘yung sitwasyon basta masaya ako kapag napapasaya ko siya sa mga kwento na wala lang.  gusto ko lang naman palipasin ang pananalanta ng inggit, at kalimutan kahit sandali lang na hindi ako cute, hindi ako gwapo, hindi ako star material.

hindi talaga ako masaya. sa murang edad mulat na ako sa katotohanan na dapat tanggapin kung ano ang binigay sa ‘yo. kaya nga bihira kong gumamit ng eskinol o likas papaya soap o kahit simpleng jonhsons baby lotion kasi alam ko wa-epek rin naman, butas pa ang bulsa. masaya ako na magkaroon ng pimples kasi at least napapansin ng ibang tao. marami rin namang hindi cute na tao pero bakit masaya sila? siguro pakiramdam nila cute sila, o may pumisil sa kanilang pisngi nung bata pa sila, o naging lakan at mutya rin sila kahit money contest lang nga.

mababaw lang siguro akong tao at masyadong nilunod ng ala-tsunaming luha ng inggit. madalas naisip ko na ang sarap siguro ng pakiramdam ng panggigilan, pisil-pisilin at himas-himasin. siguro sikat na ako ngaun or dami kong naging syota kung minsan may nagkainteres na kunin akong konsorte sa santacruzan. pero hindi nga ako cute. saka bawal daw ang pangit sa wedding entourage.

Bummed? ever been in situations where the world negates your immaculate plans? people were as bad as they wanna be? and you intend to save humanity by slouching in your divine couch.

welcome aboard. i have your stories & i suggest you read until the very last word (Translation: do i sound desperate to gain global readership?)

as far as she could remember, donna believed that gay persons are the gayest of them all. they smiled a lot, cracked the best & spontaneuos jokes , and always knew to spot straight from bi. she spent her productive days memorizing gay jargons and was fond of telling stories full of alien words undecipherable to common ears. she enjoyed being gay and totally embraced her new personality. unfortunately she fell for one.  they’re both gay, and in this society nobody loves them except themselves. that’s the ultimate sign. her only hope to try straightening the supposedly curve line.

marco dreamed of intimate moments with her art teacher on top of the classroom desk. secretly, he wished he had big muscles, larger groin, and voice as manly and tough as warriors in medieval movies.  she is the ultimate hot MILF and if he was just peter north, he would ask her for a hot encouter. his notebooks were full of sexy sketches and he’s certain they’ll end up together since they always ended "sweetheart" in his FLAMES attempt, and it was never wrong. but lady luck does not favor horny kindergarten students. marco got busted when her mom checked on his notes and discover his "hot" secrets. as always, mom ruined kids dreams for goodness sake.

kiko eats a lot. name any food & chances are his tounge devoured on them already. he’s not particular to everything he puts on his mouth as he believed they’re all the same. spicy increases his sensation, sweets make him smile, exotic makes him think, and salty is bad for the liver. nonetheless all contributed to the fats in his body. yes, our man here has an oversized boxer but he didn’t care. who does when the aroma of "inihaw na kamote" is enough to unleash his inner energy. he can’t resist foods & so far tried anything edible except for one. at 40 he hadn’t shagged anyone.

donna, marco, and kiko are problems of the world as the world has lot of problems. population increases almost every second, and every second a boy bangs a girl and/or vice versa, and some boy/girl wishes they’ll be banged anytime. as problem is a constant companion of banging-by-products, there’s a unique conformalities arises at the blink of an eye.

mother earth has the toughest job, she got lot of housecleaning and needs a helping hand. who cares? in my ideal world, i’m having a deep sleep on my couch.

The boy in me never grew old. Peter Pan envied my strong bones, healthy shoulders and nice physique, yet the boy in me ceases to move on. He is still the shy, timid and unassuming poor little boy that he really was two decades ago.

This boy is the poorest in his own little world. He has poor eyesight, poor friends and spirit, and poor pocket. He danced and sung alone with his poor imaginary friends as his sole audience. His rich siblings and friends do not love him, as nobody loves poor in this rich-filled world. He won the best-actor-plum for crying endlessly at night, and drenching his poor fellow, a soft pillow, with tears full of hatred, self-pity and envy.

The boy has the emperor’s clothes and a quarter of Prince Charming’s charm yet the smart mirror sees nothing but an image of a poor boy - pitiful, sad, and angry. The costumes he wore is not enough to cloak the boy within. Others secretly wished they were on his shoes, admired him for his completeness, and would die just to sleep with him nonetheless the poor boy was completely unaware. He believed the attention and stares were to humiliate and disregard him, to uncloak him of his poor stature. His only wish is that one day he will live in his world where nobody seems to notice as he walks, no more smiles, head turns and secret stares, no memories to remind him of his poorness.

His neverland is a nightmare to somebody who said no man is an island. If only Peter Pan knew this, he would jump ectastically and thank God he wasn’t blessed with strong bones, healthy shoulders and nice pysique like mine.

No doubt, Peter Pan will live happily ever after since then.

[ Guess how many times "poor" appears and you'll know I'm serious on the poor thing ]

She’s strong because she drinks my milk every night. Her smooth skin and healthy bones are testaments of my milk. I am drain and lifeless because she had mine from the start. I never got the taste of my own harvest. Each nights are chapters full of supremacy, hatred and greed. She insisted, I refused. Good boys are really bad, and good girls ends up drinking all the milk they want. Supposedly, breast milk is best for babies. Yet last night unfolds unexpected chapter. I let her drink my milk wholeheartedly. She said it never tasted that good and wondered why. She still had the last drop and savor its sweetness and freshness. We lived happily ever after since then.

["I" is my past; "she" is a legend]

[ A Trilogy of senseless(?) stories in 150+ words ]

.

"May tama ka!", patiling-sigaw ni Kris Aquino na naka-side view, sabay turo sa contestant na halos mahulog ang underwear sa lakas tumalon at sumigaw na animo’y nanalo ng jackpot sa sweepstakes. “Thank God, yes!” sabi nya habang tumutulo ang luha sa kaligayahan, hindi makapaniwala na natalo nya ‘yung mukhang nerd na contestant at masama kung makatingin. Kanina lang halos lamunin na sya ng kaba, hiya at takot. Pero dahil sa matinding pangangailangan at kapal ng mukha, nakuha nya ang sagot na “talilong” sa question kung ano ang nauna sa alpabeto (tulong, talong o talilong).  Pasok na sya sa pyramid round, konti na lang at makakaharap na nya ng personal ang super idol nyang si Ate Shawie, ang defending winner.  At habang umaakyat sya papunta sa pyramid, pairap nyang tiningnan ang mga naiwang contestant. “Better luck next time”, sabi sa kanila ni Kris habang mayabang syang nakipagkamay sa iba pang pumasok sa pyramid. Lima na lang silang natitira, tiningnan nyang mabuti ang mga makakalaban nya: seryoso lahat, handang pumatay para lang manalo “Tatagal kaya ako?”, usal nya sa sarili habang sumide-view ulit si Kris at patiling sumigaw …

.

“Tinamaan yata ako sa kanya.” Ewan ko pero hindi naman ako nagpapahalata. Halos sampung beses na nga lang ako kung mag-text per day at hindi na rin masyadong makulit pag magkasama kami. Eh talagang ang lakas talaga ng tama, bullseye. Konting oras lang na hindi ko sya makita gusto ko nang basagin ‘yung ulo ko sa semento at umiyak magdamag. Ibang klase kasi s’yang nilalang, japorms pumorma at maangas. Makinis ang ulo, may headband na kulay pula at silver accessories. Ako naman parang gusto ko na s’yang halikan kung hindi lang dyahe. Ang hirap kasi ng sitwasyon, kahit gusto ko ng ipagtapat awkward pa rin. Bakit ba unfair ang buhay? Maiinlab ka sa ‘di naman talaga puwede. Sabi n’ya dati, ganon raw talaga para may challenge, hindi raw basta-basta binibigay para ma-appreciate mo ‘pag binigay na sa ‘yo. Sign ba ‘yun? Baka gusto nyang sabihin na “konting tiyaga na lang at magiging tayo na, basta huwag ka lang susuko.” Huwag naman sana n’yang patagalin dahil ‘di na rin ako tatagal.  ‘Di bale, umamin na naman si Rustom…

.

“Tatamaan kayo sa akin!” Galit na naman si coach, kitang-kita naman ang ebidensya. ‘Wag kasi kayo makulit, sundin lang natin kung anong ipagagawa n’ya. Bakit kasi tayo ang sisihin n’ya eh siya naman my kasalanan. Last minute na pinasok pa si Martinez, anong magagawa noon eh tanga ‘yun. Crucial game pa naman. Kunsabagay, ‘di mo ba napapansin iba talaga treatment n’ya kay Martinez. Nagtataka nga ako dati kung bakit napasama yun sa team eh wala naming binatbat, lampayatot at ang hina ng pickup. Sa iyo ko lang sasabihin ito pero balita ko si coach raw mismo nagrekomenda sa kanya. Tayo nga sobrang nahirapan sa tryout, tapos nangitim pa tayo sa bootcamp, eh samantalang s’ya parang anak ng presidente na bigla na lang sumulpot sa team. Isumbong kaya natin ‘yan sa management or ipasalvage natin kay Tulfo. Makakakuha lang ako ng tyempo, papatulan ko talaga si lampayatot. Saka pare, napansin ko kamukha ni Martinez ‘yung bagong girlfriend ni coach…

[Note: Parental discretion is recommended. Best viewed if you don't know the author.]

In my hands is a class picture taken a decade ago. The photograph, as it was neatly placed in a picture frame, still captured the emotions and dispositions of the persons in it: innocent yet full of dreams. That was transparent in the say-cheese smile of 23 boys and 15 girls who marked their last day of elementary schooling. In the middle of the photograph, sitting beside the principal and the class adviser, was a proud boy having six medals and smiled the best. I was that boy. I was pinned “Best in Class.”

My six medals, as I understand now, were the fruit of my intelligence, patience, and sleepless nights. Before, I was confused why I needed to learn arithmetic while boys of my age were just playing basketball. I did not understand why I needed to memorize lengthy poems while others enjoyed watching Voltez Five. Neither did I know why I was in a quiz bee competition while my classmates were just telling tall tales and jokes.

Hard work pays. All the answers to these puzzling questions arrived on the day of our elementary graduation. Many moments of that grand day were still fresh to me: the expression in my mother’s face as she pinned my sixth medal, the adulation of the teachers and my classmates’ parents, and the standing ovation given to me by my classmates. I felt as if they treated me with great respect, trust, and praises. Which they really did.

They believed that I possessed wisdom of King Solomon. Adults asked my opinions about current issues. My parents considered my suggestions in running our business. My classmates wanted me to tutor them about lessons they hardly understand. Obviously all of these started after I grabbed six medals. I am a yuppie now, and they still considered me as their immediate adviser.

Perhaps that was the reason why I had this unusual meeting with a former classmate. She called me late-at-night and told it was urgent. I sensed nothing wrong believing that she just wanted me to do a last-minute assignment or a near-deadline research. So I was relaxed when I knocked their door but when she let me in and hurriedly pushed me to her bedroom, I started to worry. (Truthfully I thought of having a very intimate evening with her—for we were opposite sex in an inviting situation.) Unfortunately  another thing happened.

She closed the door. She started to cry. I let her lean into my shoulder. (And I became embarrass of myself for having a dirty mind.) I let her cry until the last tears dropped to her face. Afterwards, I start looking through her eyes. When our line-of-sight met I knew I am the same adviser again. The one that was awarded “Best in Class.”

She started talking. She had her story in details and as it reached the main point I was already dumbfounded. Her story is realistic yet unbelievable: a lady being raised in high morals, attended church every Sunday, a college scholar, full of dreams, and—most of all—was carrying a fetus for two months. It turned out that she had a seven months old relationship with a man whom, through shared love, caused this. It also turned out that that man had a blue collar job and acquired minimum wage, which is not enough to raise a family. He was willing, as she said, to carry on the responsibilities but they were considering another options. And she wants me to give her an advice.

Being in the actual situation, with life at stake, is difficult. I am a pro-life so my advice must something that will sustain the life of her baby. But I started to think its consequences: shattered dreams, unwanted child, and embarrassment and being outcasted. I remembered our elementary times where affection and sperm-and-egg-cells talks elicited fear to us, where crushes were all secrets or else you would become the subject of rumors. And then one of those innocent children was bearing a baby. I was speechless for a minute, she was too. Not until I uttered: “Abort the Baby!”

The decision, as for me, is the most appropriate in her situation. But the most devil and barbaric. So looking back, I still could not believe why I gave such advice. But probably I was just concerned to her future or I just can’t believe that she is no longer innocent. Or I forgot the risks of having abortion to her health and how sinful it is. Or I was not a good adviser.

It happened a month ago and, at that span of time, I received no news from her. I tried to get-in-touch via telephone but her mother was of no help: she spoke a little. She told me that her daughter was taking a vacation to their province—no more, no less. I wanted to ask her current condition, regarding her pregnancy, but I thought twice. What if my classmate’s parents still did not know her situation? Besides, I became embarrassed for suggesting their beloved a bad advice. I just consoled myself thinking that she would never have and abortion though I told her to do so. (Because she was raised in high morals, attended church every Sunday, a college scholar, and was full of dreams) But I still experienced a deep guilt and grief. The thought of losing her child was losing like none other—it was a long term bitterness. The sin of suggesting an abortion remained in the shadow of my heart—it was a dark place.

Still in my hands is our class picture. I am still looking to the innocent and young faces of my former classmates. I am trying to enjoy myself by remembering each of their names and the way we dressed and smile. But my eyes are glued to the young boy in the middle sitting beside the principal and the class adviser. I saw him having six medals, he being the “Best in Class.” I saw him giving opinions, suggestions, and advice. I saw him in an unusual meeting a month ago.

This time tears fell to our class picture.