Children

She wanted me to sit by the stairs as she played with the other kids all by herself. I could hear her talk to the other kids and most of them ignored her. They were mostly 7 and 8 and 9, and they spoke Tagalog fluently. ("Ba't may baby dito?" "Ayoko dyan, English!")

I stayed away, dear reader. I stayed away.

There were three who knew Lucia, though, and I could hear them talking to her (in English). She would peek from around the corner, to make sure I was still there. Still far away. But still there. She waved and smiled. "I'm okay, Mama!"

One of the meaner kids said, "May mumu dyan!" (I STAYED AWAY!) One of the boys (Arvi—the one who knows Darth Vader, remember him?) pulled Lucia aside and said, "There's no such thing. Don't believe him."

Another boy, Axl (also a regular playmate) said, "Come on, Lucia, Arvi and will play with you in your house."

Lucia said, "Okay. How about the other children? Do they want to play, too?" (She called them "children"—the same way an adult would.)

And I—the adult—said, "I don't like them. They can all go away." (And they did.)

God bless my darling's kind heart, but this mother will only take so much. Besides, I was good, I stayed away (for as long as I could).

The boys have left, leaving behind a mess. "Sorry for the mess," she said. And kissed me on the nose.

Compassion and Empathy

Just a few hours ago, I had lunch with the yaya who took care of me and my siblings for about 6 years or so. This was during most of the 90s, so she had front row seats to the show that was my teenage angst. Wew. While we were talking about this and that, she said, "Parang bumait ka, a."

For some reason, I've been getting that a lot lately. And no, it isn't because I'm fantastically nice now. It's because I was THAT messed up before. Recently, I explained to some fairly new friends that I wasn't always like this. Things were very, very different before.

Another friend asked why and how I've mellowed so much. I told her that I had been through hell and back and that I literally almost died. Basically, I've been living my second life since 2012, and I am much more appreciative of what I have now. There are times when I feel like reverting to states of mind and being that nearly destroyed me, but the tug passes. Not without much effort, but it passes.

I am in that weird space right now, remembering that year (as well as the year that just passed), and I'm in a muddy mix of emotions. Mostly because I saw this video shared on my newsfeed:



My emotions are weird because, I can intellectually remember being sad and alone and ashamed. But I don't emotionally remember them anymore. At least not as much as I can feel how much happier I am right now. Don't get me wrong, I still remember the shame all too vividly. But I don't really feel the shame as intensely now.

Interestingly, when I think about that year, I don't remember the sadness or the fear or any of that. I remember the things that got me through.

So much of what Monica Lewinsky said resonated with me, but of all the things she said, this was my favorite: "Shame cannot survive empathy".

And, like she said, this empathy can come from anywhere.

Aside from love from my family and friends (my goodness, my family and friends, THANK YOU), what buoyed me were the many private messages that near-strangers sent to me. I mean, I received messages of hope and encouragement and prayer and outright love from people I wasn't even close to. From people who didn't even know the whole story. I had people telling me about how other people were praying for me. It was amazing.

Meanwhile, some people whom I thought were really good friends—and I mean, REALLY good friends—kept away. Remained silent. Waited for me to reach out. They wanted to remain neutral, they said. Nailang daw sila. (Sorry that my misfortune made you ilang. Hay.)

They are no longer my friends. I cut all ties with them. And that's okay, I wish them well. I have already been blessed by so many with so much.

I've been pretty okay, actually. In fact, I dare say: I'm pretty happy. (Eek!) Ugh, someone actually had the audacity to ask if I was dating again because I looked so happy. (Like it isn't possible to be happy on my own. Like it isn't possible to actually want to be alone. Oy.) It's scary sometimes, this happiness. Since I'm more in the manic portion of the spectrum, I have to keep checking if I'm being overly hyper again, if this happiness is mania.

(Like, I've been overly productive at work lately and because of what happened in the past, there was a moment where I was scared I was being manic again. I wasn't. I just really love what I do, haha!)

But everything's been steady. I take my meds like clockwork. I get lots of sleep. I laugh—genuinely—a lot. So I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. (I'm okay!)

I just want to say thank to everyone who has been kind to me. Thank you for your compassion. Your kindness and compassion make me want to be kind and compassionate, too. Maybe that's why I'm kinda more mabait now.

For The Woman You Will Become

First, a statement:

I just had to let that off my chest.

Still I Rise

Maya Angelou, 1928 - 2014

 You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

//

All because of her.

For the woman she will become.

Happy International Women's Day.

Beautiful

When I was young, I used to watch my mom, my Nana, and my Lola (great grandmother, in this case) put on cold creams and moisturizers. I soaked in their smells and watched their rituals with great wonder. Something about the whole process—the smells, the movements, the soft sounds—has always made me feel sleepy and warm and safe. 

I am now old enough to (legitimately) worry about wrinkles. (And white hair. And an aching back. And wearing sensible shoes. And...) I've recently just established some sort of pattern that can now be called an actual skin regimen. Late to the party, but hurrah-hurrah.

Lucia watches me now, as I moisturize the heck out of my body in the hopes of getting rid of all the bad choices I've made. (Heh.) She now knows what bottle I reach for, how much moisturizer I put in my hand, even how long I massage my face. "Let me, Mommy!" as she hands over the toner. "I'll shake it, Mommy!" as she gives me the moisturizer. "I like this blue!" as she gives me my tub of Nivea cream. (Aside: This one is straight out of my childhood—all three aforementioned ladies used this, too).

I was running my fingers through my wet hair and she helped me with the tangles. Suddenly, she rested her face on my belly and said, "Your tummy is soft and your face is soft. Like me! You're so beautiful, Mommy. Am I beautiful, too?"

"Yes, my love. More beautiful than anything I've seen."

"I love you, Mommy. Do you love me, too?"

"More than anything now, then, or ever will be."

"I love our bellies, Mommy. We're so soft and beautiful."

Oh, my darling. I suppose I love my belly now, too. (Your soft belly, however, I love most absolutely.)

Some day, the world will tell you that you have to look a certain way to be pretty, my love. And it won't look anything like Mommy. But always remember this moment. You and I, we are beautiful. We are loved. Our love makes us beautiful. 

Here We Go

Tomorrow, I will take the first big step towards getting my freedom (identity, voice, name, courage, sanity) back. I'm pragmatic enough to know that annulment is an arduous and long process. But I remain ever-hopeful.

I want my freedom back. My identity. Voice. Name. Courage. Sanity.

But mostly, I want to focus all my energies on that which makes me sane. And brave (sometimes, because I have to be). That which gives me the name I love the most. The reason I still have a voice and choose to utter it. The Me I love out of all the Me-s I have ever been or ever will be.

Mommy. That is who I am first and foremost, forever and ever.

I pray for strength, everybody. It's going to be a bumpy ride, but I can't wait to get there.

La Decapitazione Dei Capi

BEHEADING OF THE HEADS

("La Decapitazione Dei Capi")

Written by Italo Calvino. Translated by Ubaldo Stecconi & Carmina Ma. Veronica Ll. Bautista

I arrived in the capital on what looked like the eve of a festival. Stands were being erected in the squares, flags were being hoisted, ribbons and palm trees were being raised. Hammers were banging everywhere.

“Is it your national day?” I asked the bartender.

“No, it’s for our heads of government,” he said, pointing at a row of portraits behind him. “It’s for them.”

I imagined it was their inauguration after an election. “New leaders?” I asked.

I nearly had to shout my short sentences to cover the din of hammers, loudspeakers that were being tested, squeaking cranes that were erecting gallows. The bartender shook his head; they were not new leaders, they had been around some time.

“Do you commemorate the day they seized power?” I asked.

“In a sense,” a customer beside me explained. “We have this celebration regularly: when the day comes, there they go.”

“Pardon me?”

“They have to climb up to the stands.”

“Which stand? I’ve seen many, at all crossroads.”

“One stand for each; our government has many heads.”

“What will they do there? Do they speak?”

“Not really, no speeches.”

“So, what do they do when they stand there?”

“There is little for them to do. They wait for the preparations, then the ceremony is over in a couple of minutes.”

“And the people?”

“We watch.”

The bar was crowded. The carpenters and handymen who were unloading the stands’ fittings from their trucks (axes, stumps, baskets) would come in to drink a beer and quickly go. I would direct my questions to somebody but somebody else would invariably answer.

“In short, it is a sort of re-election. They get confirmed in their positions, in office.”

“Not at all,” they corrected me. “You didn’t get it. It’s actually the end of their terms in office; their time is over.”

“And so?”

“So when the head no longer rules, it rolls.”

“Hold on, why do they have to stand on the stands?”

“So that we can have a good look at how the head rolls, springs in the air, and ends up in the basket.”

I was beginning to understand, but I wasn’t sure yet. “You mean to say the heads of your heads of government? They roll in the baskets?”

They nodded. They clearly meant beheading; the beheading of the heads.

I had just gotten there, I had not read the papers, I did not know a thing.

“Tomorrow then, all of a sudden…”

“It’s the rule; when the time comes…” they were saying. “This time, it falls in mid-week. Holiday. Nobody works.”

An old man added gravely: “When fruits are ripe, harvest comes; when the time comes for the heads, it’s beheading. Would you let fruits rot on the tree?”

In the meantime, the carpenters were going on with their job: scaffolds were erected, heavy guillotines were being tested. Stumps were firmly fixed onto the stands for ax-beheading. They were placed close to convenient prie-dieux (a man lay his head on a stump to check that it was at the right distance). Something like butcher’s counters were installed on certain stands so that the blood could flow neatly into the drain. Oilcloth was spread on the floor; sponges were ready at hand to wipe it clean from the splatters. The men were working cheerfully: some were laughing and whistling.

“You look happy. Did you hate them? Were they bad leaders?”

“Not at all!” The clients in the bar were looking at each other, surprised. “These ones were good, I mean to say, not worse than many others. You know what they are like: leaders, bosses, chiefs…When you get to the post…”

“I have to say I quite liked these ones, though,” another client said.

“So did I. Yes,” others added. “I have nothing against them.”

“Aren’t you sorry that they will kill them, then?” I said.

“This is not the point. The moment you accept to be a leader, you already know the end of the story. No hope can die of old age!”

The others laughed. “That’s too easy! After your nice spell in power, you shake some hands and go back home, as if nothing happened.”

Another said: “Oh that would be something! In that case, everybody’d want to be a leader! Here I am, take me, I’m ready!”

“So would I. And I!” many said, laughing.

“I wouldn’t,” said a man with glasses. “Not like that, that would be meaningless.”

“True. What sort of leaders would those be?” other voices added. “You can do the job only if you know what lies ahead, otherwise…What nonsense!”

The man with glasses, apparently the best educated among them, began to explain that power over the others is one and the same thing with the latter’s right to put you on the stand eventually, and bring you down. What authority would a leader have if he were not surrounded by this expectation? If you could not read the expectation in his own eyes every single moment of his term in office? Civil institutions rest on this double edge of power; there has never been a civilization that did not adopt this system.

“Hmm, I can give you some examples…” I objected.

“Real civilization, I mean,” the man with glasses insisted. “I’m not referring to those barbaric period which stretched over peoples’ histories.”

The old man who had spoken earlier about fruits proclaimed: “The head rules as long as it stands on the neck.”

“What do you mean?” the others asked. “You mean to say that if a leader doesn’t have his head chopped off at the end of his term, he would rule for the rest of his life?”

“This is how things went,” the old man confirmed, “in those times when it wasn’t clear that the moment you accept to become a leader, you also accept your beheading. Those who had power would cling to it…”

At this point, I could have objected, I could have given examples; but nobody would have listened anyway.

“So what did they do?” others asked the old man.

“They had to behead their leaders against the leaders’ will, using force. Not even at regular times, but when the people really could not stand them any longer! This was before things were given some order. Now, the leaders accept it.”

“Of course they do,” cheered the others. “Can you imagine it if they didn’t?”

“Things are not as you say,” said the man with glasses. “It’s not that leaders are forced to accept their execution. If this is what you think, then you miss the point of our institutional system; you don’t get the real relationship between our heads and the rest of the population. Only leaders can be beheaded; therefore one cannot wish to be a leader without wishing the cut of the ax at the same time. You can become head only if you feel this calling; only if you feel that your head has already been chopped off the moment you get to your position of power.”

The crowd in the bar had gradually dispersed, they had all returned to their jobs. I realized that the man with glasses was talking only to me now.

“This is what power is all about,” he went on, “it is the expectation. All your power is nothing but the herald of the blade that hisses and neatly severs. All applause is nothing but the beginning of that final applause that hails the rolling of your head on the oilcloth on the stand.”

He took off his glasses, he wiped them with his handkerchief. I noticed that his eyes were filled with tears. He paid his beer and went out.

The bartender spoke close to my ear: “He’s one of them, look here.” He pulled a stack of pictures from under the counter. “Tomorrow, I’ll have to replace the pictures on the wall with these.” The portrait of the man with glasses was on top of the stack; it was an ugly blow-up of an ID photo. “He’s been elected to succeed those who are quitting the post. He’ll be in charge starting tomorrow. Now it’s his turn. If you ask me, they shouldn’t be told the day before. You’ve seen for yourself how he’s taking it. Tomorrow, he will watch the executions as if they were his own. They all do the same: at the beginning, they are disturbed, overwhelmed. The ‘calling’, what words he used!”

“And then?”

“Then he will learn to cope, like everybody else. They are so busy, they stop thinking about it until the day of the celebration comes for them, too. But then, who can read in the heart of a leader? They act as if they are not thinking about it.

“Another beer?”


---
Stecconi, Ubaldo, ed. Daydreams & Nightmares: A Fearless Anthology of Italian Short Stories. Manila: Anvil Publishing, 1996. Print.

And finally, death.

She was a Parson Russell Terrier, a tiny little thing when we got her. She was so small, she was actually going in and out of my bracelet. We named her Sushi.

A few months into our relationship, Lucia's dad and I bought a dog together. We both loved dogs, and it seemed like the most natural thing to do. I had a hard time conceiving, and so Sushi was really our baby. When I finally got pregnant, we were worried about how she would take it. But she wasn't jealous like we feared. In fact, she was fantastically protective. She would watch over Lucia, sniff Lucia, sleep beside Lucia. When someone other than me or Lucia's dad would come close, Sushi would growl at him/her.

May 2014, doing yoga poses together.

Because of the separation and all that had happened, I had not actually seen Sushi in a long time. The last time I saw Sushi was May last year. Lucia would see her from time to time, when she would go to her dad's place to visit, but that was it.

A few weeks ago, Sushi died. A few days after Christmas.

I didn't know how to write about it, really. It's silly, but I've been refusing to. Or I couldn't. But not because it was sad. It was more because, well, I didn't know how to process it. I accept it, that's for sure. But I don't know how to feel. Does that make sense?

Perhaps it's because she had already been lost to me before she was finally gone?

Lucia cried for a long time after finding out. In the weeks that have passed, she would say, "Sushi is dead." At the most random times. (It hasn't gotten too creepy naman.)

And now I've discovered why some of her toys haven't been part of the usual rotation. Turns out, they're all "dead." They're laid out in small "beds" with little sheets of tissue on them—they look asleep, actually. (And yes, THAT was freaking creepy.)

Hey. At least she's processing it.

The sadness isn't as shattering as it is quieting, though. There is a calm acceptance and...relief? I didn't realize how tiring it was to wait for death in the midst of dying.

2009, upon coming back to the Philippines from grad school in the US.

And, there.

We're not talking about a dog anymore.

...

Our relationship began and ended with Sushi, it would seem.

And there is just relief. Because it was awful towards the end. More awful than I had initially known, as recent events have warranted. Oh, we had our good moments. But that's that. In the end, it was already dead when death finally arrived.

And now, more than ever, there is relief. Shattering relief.

So, now, to the business of living on.

Sleep well, Sushi-ya, Sushi-yana. Sit like a human. 

2008 vs. 2014; But 2014 > 2012

I've been up since 2:30 this morning. Lucia's dad picked her up. I took Christmas, spent it in Singapore with my family, and so I offered him New Year. Off to Baguio they went.

(I tried my best to make that account of the division of our holidays as sterile as possible. As sterile as a surgical knife. Insert knife metaphors >here<.) 

I've been trying to sleep, to no avail. I did get to nap for about two hours, but sleep was fitful and I yanked myself awake from a nightmare. I don't remember what happened anymore (thank you, Brain, for doing that thing you do when you forget stuff that will likely make me suffer). I just know that it was horrifying enough for me to wake up with a yelp—a forced yelp, actually. You know those nightmares: you wake up panting because it was as if you were drowning, and the only way you could wake up was by trying to scream.

Anyway.

(It gets more positive, don't worry.)

I went to the mall. 

I know, right? I was weirded out by that decision, too. 

I got and did a few stuff (wine, grapes, chips, passed by an Air 21), ran into some really rude people (I mean, seriously, y'all are cramming and I'm just here...passing the time), and debated on whether or not I should buy a whole chocolate cake for myself. (I didn't.)

See, I'm going to be alone tonight, New Year's Eve. 

Oh, but I've had several offers from other friends to go out. And just recently, I spent the entire night (and I do mean the ENTIRE night) with my college friends and had such meaningful conversations with them. And so many people are just so awesome to me and my daughter. I mean, really, just amazing. So, actually, my cup runneth over.

But, what am I doing New Year's Eve, Zooey and Joseph? 

Be alone. Or maybe—hachacha—just, be. 

*fancy bow*

No, but seriously. See, here's the thing:

2014 was a difficult year for me. Not quite, 2012. (Let nothing be like 2012, ever.) But...it was painful. Yeah, more painful than difficult. 2012 was a nightmare (that I still wake up from, panting, yelling). But 2013 was a promise of better things. I mean, I was just so.hopeful.

So when 2014 happened, it felt even more devastating. There was a promise...that was broken...that was re-made...and then broken again. It broke in parts that I didn't even know were already starting heal.

You know? I mean...

Oh, I could go on and on, but I won't. Because I was raised better than that. 

(But. For the record: 
Some day, I hope he realizes—and I mean, FULLY realizes—what he did. 

And what he's doing. 
And I hope he becomes genuinely sorry for what he did. 
And is doing.

But I also hope he finds a way to forgive himself, 
because God knows it is difficult finding the strength to forgive him. 

[I haven't yet. God is working on that with me.
At the very least, I try to be a good person to him. 
Because I was raised better than he was. Hah.]

But my daughter will read this some day, and my intention is to process this with her offline.

Okay. I'll end my aside now.)

And also because, surely it was my fault, too.

But "2008 Me" gave me hope.

A former student of mine has, unbeknownst to me, been hanging on to something I said to him back in 2008. And he tweeted it again, just a few minutes ago. And it's gross to quote myself, but I'll do it anyway: 

"Growing up doesn't mean you lose dreams, it just means your dreams change shape. They change along with you."

O, ha. Hurray, Me.

2008. Newly married. In the middle of grad school. In a different country. Good gracious, just at the cusp of everything.

And now 2014's about to end and...I need to let my dreams change shape. Or, actually, I have to start dreaming again. For myself. All my dreams are for Lucia, and it seems as though I've lost the ability to dream for myself. All I have are nightmares.

But right now, despite earlier pronouncements of dread, I'd actually like to spend tonight alone. With my thoughts. Because I'd like to dream dreams again.

Some day, someone will love me, right?

For now, I'd like to take another shot at that nap. And dream about being back in Singapore with my family. (My goodness, Lucia and I were so happy.) Baby steps.

Still

Still.

Hindi gumagalaw.

Pa rin.

Hindi pa rin gumagalaw.

STILL HURTING  (From the Broadway Musical The Last 5 Years written by Jason Robert Brown)
Jamie is over and Jamie is gone. Jamie's decided it's time to move on. Jamie has new dreams he's building upon, And I'm still hurting.
Jamie arrived at the end of the line. Jamie's convinced that the problems are mine. Jamie is probably feeling just fine, And I'm still hurting.
What about lies, Jamie? What about things that you swore to be true? What about you, Jamie? What about you?
Jamie is sure something wonderful died. Jamie decides it's his right to decide. Jamie has secrets he doesn't confide, And I'm still hurting.
Go and hide and run away! Run away, Run and find something better! Go and ride the sun away! Run away, like it's simple, Like it's right...
Give me a day, Jamie! Bring back the lies, Hang them back on the wall! Maybe I'd see How you could be So certain that we Had no chance at all.
Jamie is over and where can I turn? Covered with scars I did nothing to earn? Maybe there's somewhere a lesson to learn, But that wouldn't change the fact, That wouldn't speed the time, Once the foundation's cracked And I'm Still Hurting.

This

Lucia was just about to turn five months old. I had the entire month off from work—the first time I deliberately shied away from extra work since I started teaching—and we spent every single blessed day together. We had no yaya and so I did everything while "wearing" her on a sling.

Afternoons were my favorite. The world slowed down a bit. She'd be napping and I'd be watching her little face, gently marked with the footprints of her dreams: dimples and crinkles and fleeting half-giggles. I specifically told myself to remember that moment, that time, that period. My chest swelled with happiness.

("I shall remember these days, the halcyon days of my prime and your infancy, when protecting you against the noisy neighbor was my highest mandate. Soon, it shall be much more complicated. It shall be much more daunting." - April, 2011. Remember that wretched boy, Andre?)

And now, Lucia is napping, one leg languidly and obnoxiously draped over my thighs, as if to say, "Yes, I am napping, but I'll know if you stand up and leave, so stay there."

I feel my chest swell again. And in this moment, I am happy.

Schema

Other examples of relations that belong to the DO_TO schema include those that we would express in English using the verbs hit, touch, injure, cure, carry, and bathe, as well as more abstract relations expressed by verbs such as as appoint, insult, and abandon. Note that the agent must be animate (that is, human or animal), or at least construed as animate; otherwise, it can't consciously initiate the action. But the patient can be either animate or inanimate, though some relations, such as appoint require it to be animate or even human.
To make it clearer what DO_TO involves, let's consider some event types that are not instances of this general category. Events designated by verbs such as love, see, know, and understand do not belong to the DO_TO schema both because there is no conscious initiator of the process and because there is not necessarily a participant that is affected by the process. That is, they have no agent and no patient.

The next sentence, I've revised a bit. Just substituted a different example for the one that was used. (See words inside parentheses.)

For example, we normally (love) something without a conscious effort on our part, and the thing that we (love) is not affected by our (loving).

- "Situation schemas and semantic roles" from HOW LANGUAGE WORKS, THE COGNITIVE SCIENCE OF LINGUISTICS by Michael Gasser, as found here.