Poetographie

I always wanted my classmates
be the first to notice me 
and greet me with their innocent smiles,
I would have wanted them to tag me
in our game called alotonay--
but mornings were not what I expected.
 
Every morning he would wait for me like a servant
When I rode a jeepney
he would sit beside me-
his cold fingers creeping on my back. 
 
 
One day he asked me,
“would you like to come with me?
It's just a stone’s throw away from school, dear child,”
and so I agreed and went with him.
 
We walked along the sidewalk,
his hands on my shoulders
I felt I was protected by my loving father
until he squeezed my arm
feeling like I was consumed
 
we sat together
his hands
exploring and stroking
my hips
which felt like
presses from his lips.

             “… and it was because I had happier moments with women than with men”

            “Life never is the way we want. Rather, we are the way it wants,” a friend of mine once said in one of his articles. In this brief sojourn between existence and death, we experience many memories; some that are adored, which we never ere to let go, while some are painful enough that we never again wish to recall. In 1999, I was as young as ten when I had a stalker; an unforgettable experience with my male accompanies when I was in my elementary. I left our house for school before the clock struck 6:30 in the morning.  Despite the birth of a new day, mornings never did feel warm because the figure of a stalker reaching me in the brisk dawn sent a chill down my spine. I felt his cold fingers creeping below my back every time I rode a tricycle or a jeepney. It had always been like that for a year. I was too afraid to tell about his presence to my father; whom I believe was the only noble man in the earth. It continued not until one day I had the courage of disclosing it to Papa. Nonetheless, it had happened. It was a man and I was the helpless victim; a woman. 

            However, the incident did not really frighten or threaten me to be together with their company. It’s just that the experience I had with the stalker was totally different. Back in the decade, I was also considered to be one of the boys. Consequently, I did not take the instance of being harassed to generalize men. In fact, I was always with a roster of men; playing and conversing with them, and even attempted to become one of them. Often times my girl classmates would call me a tomboy, for I even dressed like a man with large T-shirts which I used to borrow from my father’s wardrobe, baggy pants and a pair of white sneakers larger than the size of my feet. As I now look back the bygone days, I fail to reason what caused me to be around with men more than my sex, but perhaps it was because I was comfortable with them. I act like a man. I think the same way they do with conviction and pride, not to mention having the proud attitude they possess. I like their thoughtfulness and the linear perspective of life that they live. Nevertheless I liked them because they are men. 

            Being with men to me was gaining a sense of freedom; a sense of freedom that I could only achieve imitating the patriarchal man. Women never are free in our patriarchal society. They have to abide by the rules defined by its ideology. We are the other sex in the society we live in; an object to be gazed at, and are taken for granted. No wonder that is why Oscar Wilde says, “Women are meant to be loved and not to be understood” while Aristotle, one of the great Greek philosophers said that women are an “unfinished man”.

           It is commonly believed that women are more emotional than men. During my assimilation with men, I came to find the reverse. It’s just that they tend to conceal their emotions more differently than women. They keep it with them. Women are more expressive but men are more emotional. During those times, I acknowledged the fact that I love myself more than anyone else in this world. I also came to know that the more I got close to men, the more I came to understand the existence of women.

            Apart from men, I also had friends from my sex as well. The first was during the elementary. I was a year older than her and we both went to the same school. It was only then that my life became worthy to live in the absence of Men’s love apart of my father’s. Just like me, she too had a best friend before we met. However, unlike to her former best friend, mine wasn’t as loyal as hers. Together, we shared merry memories way back in the elementary. Our friendship was a bliss that I wished would last forever, and I prayed for it. We made a point to meet one another every afternoon so as to spend some time together; sharing our problems and confiding whatever we needed to reveal. We never shared a dull moment together.  There was so much to talk to…so much to share about. We both were enticing, one way or the other. A week has weekdays and weekends. Since we did not meet during the weekends, we made a promise to write letters to one another and hand it on Mondays. The letter itself showed our rich time, the things we had to talk about, and share. There were letters about what we had dreamt; details of the persons and the setting were all recorded in jubilance.  Although we had been away for only two days, it seemed eternity to see one when we met on Monday to hand our letters.

          She was one of the most important persons of my life. I admitted it in days and nights; thanking God for making us meet and share moments of pure bliss. However, when you laugh a lot, you are sure to cry. When you love a person dearly, you are ought to be heart broken in the end. Consequently, after two years of our cherished moment, we finally put an end on our friendship. There wasn’t even a slight chance to relive what had been broken. The damage had been done, and it could at no cost be repaired. There were attempts to patch up things. But who would want to make peace to a friend who never knows how to accept an apology? I tried to reach out but she would shut her door. There was a moment when we promised to each other that whatever happens we won’t leave each other. But where was she when I needed her the most? It was hard for me to accept everything. I was really desperate to have a best friend, to have her back. I begged her not to leave me. I begged her to stay at least for just a while but she kept on telling me that she had had enough of our friendship, she was hurt. It was deep black. No matter how much the wound heals, the scar continues to remain and remind us of the wound. To her, I was the wound that healed and yet again, I was the scar that reminded her of the wound I caused.

          The abrupt “THE END” forced upon our friendship made it seem like a dream. It seemed that our friendship was all but a dream. Only I realized that I had been dreaming for a long time. Those sweet memories, the never ending giggles, laughter, stories, those letters all seemed a dream. It reminds me of Shakespeare’s words in As You Like It “All the world’s a stage/And all the men and women merely players/They have their exits and their entrances/And one man in his time plays many parts.” And as I now recall her memories, I view in Bard’s aforesaid lines. Indeed, the world is a stage and we all play. We come, share some wonderful moments together and then we go. In the end, what is left to us are the fine memories and those heart-rendering departures; our friendship is the example.

         “Let destiny choose its doom.” I cannot have what isn’t ordained to me. As I trace our friendship, I still recall those pleasant moments we had shared together; those very laughter and never ending talks, and I smile, but deep within, I still recall the “THE END”. I know, I will never have her back, even if I wished to. But I know that those passing memories that we were together will never leave me even though the person who promised to stay with me forever had already left.

          No matter how many good deeds one does, a single wrong doing will overcast his/her good deeds. Like it, despite the many memorable moments we spent together, everything about it seems painful because of the departure that I did not long to. Even the happiest moments turned harrowing. I felt my weakest when I was alone, without my best friend’s comfort. It is said that hope shines brightest in the darkest of times. But, did she come when I was in dark? When I needed her the most? When I needed her comfort? When I needed to talk to? To share to? Indeed not. Even the air that I breathe could not comfort me in my weakest. It merely would surpass my shoulder offering the howling whisper that brought back those troublesome moments rather than a sigh of relief. It was as if everything about our friendship had come to nothing but only failure as I fail to understand my own being.

           I thought I could find my redemption through women. Never did I know that it also is a woman who’ll hurt another woman.  Men taught me to get up but women taught me how to battle with pride.

            Pain loves to glide through my flesh. I love everything about women even if one of the most important persons in my life, my elementary best friend, a woman, had caused me so much pain.

           Today, I have my new best friend; still a woman but the only difference is that she’s a writer. We’ve been together for almost 3 years now and just like any other friendships ours is also peppered with heartaches and pains. I once recalled a friend of mine who said, a relationship becomes abnormal when the people involved in that relationship are always happy as if they never knew pain. Ending the friendship with my elementary best friend was painful but this time, I’m giving myself another try.   

            I know that the experience I had during my elementary years had really brought an impact to what I am now. The memory of the stalker sometimes haunts me in my dream; I could feel his cold fingers creeping below my back and his figure trying to reach me in the brisk dawn. Nevertheless, I know I was happy with the company of men but I more certainly believe that I am happier with women, with pain and laughter, with letters and words. The only sex that could give me satisfaction is another woman whose heart is just like mine. After all, who else can understand me other than my own same sex? 

Thanks to one of my personal editors, Mr. Pratik Rimal

          Once upon a time, in a faraway farm there lived a fine and noble Rooster with a very beautiful voice. Its name was Rooky. Not only was it blessed with a gifted voice, it was a wise Rooster that comforted his troubled friends through singing advices to them. It was so that the animals in that farm lived in peace and harmony for many years.

            One fine early morning, Rooky awoke ahead of the rest of the farm animals. It was such a glorious morning that Rooky could not help but ring out its most beautiful song to the world. Unfortunately, the gentle morning breeze brought this beautiful song through the nearby forest and into my den. Naturally, I was awakened, not only by the song but by the rumblings of my empty stomach.

            Slowly, I followed the song through the forest and to the farm. There I saw the most delicious Rooster, singing to its heart’s content.

            A fine meal that I would make, I thought, as I smacked my lips in eagerness.

            Slyly, I approached Rooky. “Good morning, my friend! I was awakened by such beautiful song that I had to come out of the forest to see where this wonderful music come from! Perhaps you can come down from your perch so that I might thank you properly?” I gently cajoled.

            Rooky smiled. “Oh, Mr. Fox, roosters and foxes have never been friends. I don’t think it would be wise for me to come down from my perch so you can thank me,” replied Rooky politely.

            After a bit of silence, I tried another ploy to get Rooky down. “Oh, by the way, did you hear the good news among the forest animals?”

            “What news is that, Mr. Fox?” asked Rooky.

            “I’ll tell you all about if you come down from your perch,” I grinned.

            Not wanting to seem impolite, Rooky simply smiled at me and continued singing… when abruptly, Rooky stopped singing. It squinted its eyes as if it was trying to see something at a far distance.

“What is it?”I asked.

“There, not too far away, are…are wolves, I think… coming towards the barn,” Rooky replied.

I knew that there were really no approaching wolves.

“Oh,” I said hurriedly.”I think I should go. We’ll talk next time.”

“But why must you hurry?” inquired Rooky. “I was just about to come down from my perch to hear your good news!”

But before I could even finish my sentence, I disappeared not knowing that I was just behind an old mango tree, ten meters away from Rooky.  So Rooky descended from its perch and began singing again. As confident as it was, Rooky made his way toward the other flock of birds .

Rooky thought that I was frightened because of the wolves. He never knew that my hunger was the main reason why I stayed. I heard Rooky flapped its wings and so I peeked from where i was hidden and there I saw Rooky walking his way towards the other birds.

I ran as fast as I could and because Rooky was joyfully singing that time it didn’t hear me ran. I jumped over Rooky and just like any hungry mammal I attacked Rooky at its body. There was no any help coming from the other roosters since they fled because of our encounter. Rooky was terribly wounded but I didn’t feel pity for him. I slowly gnawed its meat. I felt that time that I had the tastiest meal I ever had in my entire life. 

            It was during the summer of 2001. I and my playmates were under the heat of the glaring sun busy making our “tabanog [1]”.   Arjan, who was four years younger than me was holding a blue plastic bag. Like any inquisitive kid, he kept on asking me, “Ate Banban unsaon paghimo ug tabanog?[2]” he didn’t stop pulling my skirt until I replied to his childish query.

            “It takes patience to make a kite Arjan. So just sit there, relax and wait for me to finish the kite I’m still making, okay?”, I carefully explained to him.

           So he sat at the corner and waited for me. When I finally finished my hand made kite, I asked the little boy to structure his blue plastic bag. He was very excited that time. He drew a curve on his lips when I narrated him my first instruction, “Okay Arjan first you have to fold the bag in half and it should be flat and even”.

            “Ate, I want the shape of my kite to be patterned after yours,” he requested with such eagerness.

            I asked him to spread the plastic bag which he had just folded. Then I instructed to cut the bag in a pentagonal shape; because it resembled the shape of my kite which he wanted to imitate .When he had finally cut the two pentagonal shaped plastic bags, I asked him to spread it on the floor. Everyone was busy with kite-making. Assembling the hand-made and ready-made materials for their kite made them excited and jovial.

            Arjan was very fervent. He would ask me from time to time about the proper way of cutting the plastic bag. Along with being enthusiastic, he was very patient when I taught him how to make a kite. His patience and eagerness showed that he really wanted to learn something; and learn something from someone regardless of age difference.

            Sometime later I asked him to get broomsticks which were to act like a skeleton for the kite. The sticks he got were too frail. “Choose those sticks that are hard enough, the harder the sticks the more durable your kite will become,”  saying this, I asked him to grab another sticks which were strong enough to hold the wind current. We measured the pentagonal plastic bag and cut the sticks in accordance to its height. Then we knot the sticks using a rubber band on both ends. These bands were tied both,  horizontally and vertically.

            Arjan was very happy when he saw the kite but I told him that it wasn’t finished.  “ We have to put a tail on your kite, what color would like us to use Arjan?”

            “Katong red Ate Banban[3],” he quickly replied.

            The red tail of the kite was taped at the bottom. It was very attractive and Arjan’s eyes sprung into delight by his new achievement, a new hand-made kite which soon would be reaching the skies!  “Makapalupad na ko ug tabanog, Makapalupad nako ug tabanog [4],” he said with admiration and mark of surprise.

            But before we flew our kites, we needed to attach a string for us to maneuver it.

“Muuli sa ko’g balay te aron mukuha ug sinulid[5]” The little boy ran towards their house to steal a roll of thread from his grandmother’s sewing box.  As he rushed to his home, I wondered if things could always be free, without something to guide it. After all, although the kite flies to the distant sky; which we can hardly reach, undoubtedly is held by someone far down the ground.

           We tied the blue sewing thread tightly on both ends and started to do trial and error. We were successful during our first try. So we decided to fix the mess and everything on the ground for tomorrow’s kite flying activity  with our other playmates.

 The summer sky was overcast. The wind blew hard and it was a perfect time to fly the kite; the very kite which I had made with my own hands and childish creativity which was made from plastic bag, broomsticks and rubber bands. We were playing dangaway that time.  However, I and Arjan were so excited that we even opted to skip a round of the game which the two of us, along with my childhood friends were playing. 

The day came and it was a time for kite-flying.

We walked to a two-hectare empty lot, an approximate distance of half a kilometer from our subdivision. I have known the place since the time I and my playmates caught spiders one dismal evening. I could not recall how many times I set foot on that lot. However, one thing I was sure of and it was that every time I visited the place, I felt as though I were seeing it for the first time. My eyes then was like those of the philosophers who saw daily things with amusement and fascination; every single day.  Tall, green grasses, with a gentle caress of the wind were dancing along the tune;  swaying like passionate lovers.Through that empty lot, I found my paradise. It was not the same as the miniature paper castles I used to play on, but it was far better. It was as if I owned a piece of land which nobody else knew existed. So I started flying my kites that summer. I liked to maneuver the flight of my kite wishing that they would someday kiss the azure sky. I and Arjan enjoyed the flights of kites like other first time kite flyers. The wind blew hardly and the tall grasses swayed hard this time as it made the perfect sounds of nature. We were able to fly the kites that we made. Unlike mine, Arjan’s kite, however, was not able to withstand the strong wind. It fell hard on the ground, helpless.  With the kite’s fall, it seemed that nature showed her powers when things grew to optimum. Consequently, his kite, which had tried reaching the sky fell down to the ground and became too frail to be mended.

I asked Arjan that we would fly my kite together. It was euphoric. It went higher, up and up and cut and swerved. That time I wanted my kite to soar high, fly like a bird, unafraid of losing their stability. Perhaps I loved kites because of their persistent aim to ascend. There was one time when one of my kites reached the highest point of its flight. I pulled the string and maneuvered it carefully. I was at my happiest at that moment. The higher it soared, the freer it was. But suddenly the wind had become calm so it slowly lost its flight making it kiss the restless ground.

The moment I had with that little boy, and my encounter with my kite will remind me of many attempts to maneuver the “tabanog” to reach the highest heaven. It was a summer spent with so much patience and longing.  Our present becomes a past, and no matter how hard we try, we can never re-live those moments. It’s all the memories we cling to…“that time, this happened…it was so fun…” and we have a hearty laugh. With time, I along those friends who surrounded me certainly have grown up to be mature people; people who think logically and reach a conclusion. However, despite it, every time I see young kids flying kites, I drift to my days when I did the same. More than that, I think of that little kid, Arjan, who once dreamt of reaching the sky like a kite.