On Anti-gay Laws

an essay by Roger B Rueda

Anti-gay laws are extremely cruel. They are irrational. They reflect the bitterness and viciousness of a country. They manifest the lack of intelligence and sensitivity of a country. They are very distressing. They are doggedly unrelenting. They are made of doctrinaires and bigots and intellectual sloths. They are made by one-dimensional people.

Humane societies encourage people to act in a kind and sympathetic way towards others, even towards people they do not agree with or like. And those countries which have anti-gay laws are so unfeeling. I think these people have been very selfish. They've been mainly concerned with themselves. And I’m happy that the Philippines is a country whose leaders are non-judgemental and humanitarian.

As it happens, a lot of gays are more productive than non-gays. They send their siblings to school. They provide their family with money and food. They work hard. They share their life and talents with non-gays. They have respect and regard for others’ feelings. They cry when they are sad. They laugh when something is amusing. They take care of their family when they are sick or when they are old. They feel or show pity, sympathy, and understanding for people who are suffering. All these are normal attributes of being a human.

I know that culture and tradition have prejudiced many anti-gay advocates. They put the blame squarely on the Westerners for the existence of gays in their countries. But without the Westerners though, these countries would be so uncivilised and ignorant as yet. The Westerners could only expect ingratitude from these countries. I think they are rather churlish and unappreciative. Perhaps, their countries would still be populated by primordial forests; their people, destitute.

One African told me that gays are subhuman. For me, such a comment is openly contemptuous. If criminals like murderers, rapists, thieves, terrorists, and otherwise are considered as human how come he considers gays as subhuman. I think such a comment is crazy and illogical. His fear of gays and gayness is tenuous and pointless. I think he is a bigot.

If for no reason at all, the US declared that all Africans should be made as pets because they look like a monkey or gorilla and they don’t look like a normal human being, would that person feel good. Wouldn’t he raise objections or disapproval? Would he have power to change himself into a Caucasian so that he wouldn’t be made as a pet or a working animal?Does he think everything is just easy to transform himself to fall in what the influential power is imposing on him?

If Africans don’t like all the philosophies of the Westerners, why don’t they go back to their own ways? Why don’t they take off their clothes and live like those barbaric people hundreds of years ago? Why do they follow Western cultures when those destroy their custom and distinctiveness as Africans?

I think bigotry comes from the people who are particularly liable to discrimination. Their skin colour should remind them of who they are. Their being an African should remind them that the world respects them despite their undesirable/objectionable look. Openly telling me that gays are subhuman is impudent and insulting. If I told him I hate him because he is an African and he looks like an ape, would he feel pleased?Would he be happy that I don’t care if he is kind or educated or talented or productive because I hate him for being an African, for looking horrible despite the diamonds he is wearing?

Does being gay affect everyone’s life like how murder, rape, terrorism, or robbery does? It is insulting that gayness is equated with all these crimes. To murder someone means to commit the crime of killing him/her deliberately.If someone is raped, he/she is forced to have sex, usually by violence or threats of violence.Terrorism is the use of violence in order to achieve political aims or to force a government to do something.Robbery is the crime of stealing money or property from a bank, shop, or vehicle, often by using force or threats. These crimes hurt or kill someone. Has gayness hurt or killed someone? I think saying this is not based on logical reasons or clear thinking. It is denouncing before thinking. It is intellectual sloth.

I think societies like ours are getting sensible. In this country, everything is based on equity in the face of gender and sexual orientation. I’m happy that there is no anti-gay law in this country. Filipinos cannot allow dogmatism to stand in the way of progress.

I’m happy to hear comments from friends who are very bright and intelligent. I’m happy to know that they are non-discriminatory and compassionate and in the know of gays and their frame of mind and the issues they are facing in the present day.

Gays could be our parents, siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, friends, neighbours, professors, soldiers, police officers, doctors, workfellows, countrymen.

So, for me anti-gay laws suck. They are inciting social hatred and they are completely one-sided. They do gays and people who respect and love gays an injustice. They frighten gays into law-abiding subjection. They are a form of persecution.

The Passers-by

a poem by Roger B Rueda

She came growling and wagging her tail.

I thought she was a sweet young woman.

She was a freak, lunging at every life,

grabbingcoconut palms, bananas,

mangoes, acacias, and houses fiercely.

She was with the famished death,

their scythe seawater,by magic,

drowning out every life they passed by.

Unsurfaced roads churned into mud

byher invisible feet and her breath blew

offgables of nipa and cogon and tin.

No matter what theysaw to eat

they polished anyone off in an instant –

a baby, an old woman, a mother,

a husband, a wife, a professor,

a call centre agent, a gay, a beautician,

a soldier, a politician, a journalist,

a nurse, a doctor, a kitten, a mouse,

a goldfish, an iguana, a gecko.

They took a bite of every dream,

of every love, of every joy, chewed

and swallowed in hanging fire.

They cast out the beliefand disbelief,

the celebration and silence,

the memory and vacuity,

the way of life and rituals,

even the abhorrence and self-indulgence,

the positivity and pessimism,

leaving a cry of anguish bursting

from the lips of the victim survivors

shakingwith terror and with rage

as the passers-by hastened with quicksilver

steps towards other islands whose

victimhood was foreseen and reviled.

All over were remnants of mortal frailties.

Infection

fiction by Roger B Rueda

He felt a sharp pain in his stomach. He sat up and tried to know what was wrong with it. All of forty-nine, never did he experience such a curious pain that was as if gnawing his insides.

A doctor himself, Edgar observed the pain and he knew it was not a usual pain because it seemed the pain was so fresh.

He didn’t sleep anymore. He took the novel he was reading and began to bury himself in it. His wife was by him, sleeping deeply. He looked at her and covered her up with a blanket.

After an hour, Edgar began to vomit up blood. He was on the toilet when his wife got up.

‘Honey, what’s wrong with you?’ Venus asked, trying to get some sort of answer.

‘I must have eaten something,’ he said, he wanted to hide his situation at first, for he didn’t want her to worry. ‘Please hand me my antacid.’

***

Edgar didn’t pursue his plan to move to the US, though, of course, everything was ready and there was a job waiting for him there. He decided to stay in the Philippines and tried to know what was wrong with him, because his laboratory results showed nothing and there was nothing wrong with his body. However, the pain he could feel was undeniable. He carried out some fascinating research into that pain. There was no known cure for his disease, so since then he had given himself over to his infection.

Following a routine checkup, Edgar was discovered to have an unknown disease. That shockedhis friend into helping him to find a cure for his disease. There was a little birdlike organism with a pointed beak and darting eyes inside his abdomen. It would scratch about searching with its beak for fresh blood. It would ruffle its feathers and he was really quite uncomfortable. He would drink fresh human blood to stop all the pain he would feel, but it was eating into his savings, so it started to worry him.

One evening, he walked home from the hospital where he was working. He fainted dead away when he was at the village green, but it took him a short while to recover. He crawled across the street and in the woods.The thought of fresh blood made him salivate. When he saw a man, he ran to him, grabbed a hold of his legs and held on so he could not get away, and bit into his neck. The helpless man was shouting his head off. He then stabbed at the chest with a stick and scooped out his liver. The next morning the news that a manwas killed by a supernatural being took everyone by surprise.

Edgar got really angry with himself while he was eating breakfast in front of the TV. He attempted suicide, but he was so weak to pluck up the courage to do it. He had a fear of death. Besides, he was a Christian. He had faith in modern medicine, so he hoped and prayed that the research would go well.

His wife had got plenty of jobs to keep her busy. Her work involved a lot of travelling, so they would meet for lunch once or twice a month.

His sons were both reading medicine abroad.

He had been keeping a diary for twelve years now and one by one he would narrate the sequence of events which led up to the disaster.Strangely, no one would believe him when he would tell them he had been infected by a strange disease, so he wanted to manage to keep his illness secret from his family until he was well.

The birdlike organism in his abdomen grew large branching horns called antlers. When it was wild with hunger, it would flap its wings furiously and fly upwards to his throat. He had to endure the pain. He would close his eyes and lie in his bed screaming in agony. Sometimes, he would cry himself to sleep.

***

Edgar and Venus got married twenty five years ago. They were childhood playmates. He went to Iloilo, in a hick town, on holiday and stayed in a manor house his maternal grandparents owned. There he met Venus, a daughter of a market gardener. They and the other children spent the afternoon playing on the farm.

He hadn't seen her since that memorable evening of Dinagyang whenhe left Iloilo until he bumped into her tray, knocking the food onto her lap, at the university cafeteria. In those early months, there was a very close bond between them.They courted for five years before getting married.

***

Edgar, a month before his illness, went to Iloilo for their summer holiday. Venus went with him but returned to Manila after three days. Edgar stayed at the manor house with his in-laws, who are both centenarian. They gently tended him. They seemed a lot happier since they met him. They cooked himspecial meals. One of Venus’s cousins brought them a pig. The couple, on that day, tied the pig's leg across its chest and lugged it along, keeping it off balance. The old couplestruggled to attach a second cord and pulled its legs back to expose its throat.One puncture began an inexorable flood of blood, and death came after a minute of unanswered trumpeting calls for help.

The pig almost broke free of its bonds, giving everyone a fright, and granting the couple a higher feeling of accomplishment when it was dead.

The couple cleaned the hair off the pig. Edgar couldn’t believe his eyes how they had been working energetically all morning. He was not allowed to help kill the pig nor cook the meals. So, he with his nephew exercised in the garden.

They served him a bowl of blood stew and barbecued liver at lunch.

After lunch, he took a little nap. Several poor children and their parents were waiting for him in the yard to consult with him, but he felt slightly dizzy and disoriented, so he excused himself and went inside his room. He vomited up all he had just eaten. His saliva seemed like letting it fall on the string. He was genuinely surprised at what happened to him.

In the night, the couple cooked him valenciana, sisig, and menudo. He buried himself in a novel.

***

Their neighbour died an agonising death. So now his funeral wake was in progress. When he went there, the family shooed him out of the house. They were glaring at him and muttering something. Most people hated his in-laws, but they didn't dare to say so. Edgar would nod as though he understood the people he would meet.

***

Edgar recalled that he first vomited up during his latest vacation in Iloilo. He could vividly remember the feeling of pain and horror.  It seemed that he had profound amnesia and now he was beginning to recover from it. It suddenly occurred in his mind that it must have been the food he ate that had caused his illness.

His skin turned so brownish and black. Minutes later some feathers grew and his hands became his wings. He couldn’t stop himself. He went out of the house and flapped his wings noisily. He then emerged to the roof of the house. He couldn’t believe that situation, but he seemed like dreaming. He perched on the mango tree to try how good he was at flying. He was so brisk and he flew and flew, soaring thousands of feet high in the sky. He could feel, too, how his eyesight had become sharp and he could see even the smallest creature on land. He was beginning to like his situation. But he was worried that his friends might disdain him or might condemn him whenever they’d discover he was so mystical.

***

Edgar's tinted glasses are perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. Without them, a loud reddish glow lit his eyes. People in front of him cast their shadows over his eyes, in reverse, however, so he could not look anyone in the eye. He was wild with pain whenever someone saw an image on his eyes.

Edgar went everywhere for treatment, tried all sorts of quacks, until he met a witch-doctor. He has to learn the most ancient, and holiest aswang rituals, so he has to spend his time in prayer. For one, the bird inside him started to moult at around sixty weeks of age. He’d got a healthy appetite for blood and liver.

He put a poultice over his stomach. The witch-doctor raisedhis tutelary ghost, thathe might get well, and he did.

‘You need strength of mind to stand up for yourself.’ The witch-doctor was deep, mystical woman. Her voice was warm with friendship and respect.

She raised the stone by magic. She lifted her glass of blood and took a quick swallow. Edgar’s eyes seemed slightly dilated, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw it. He was too weak to move or think or speak, however.

She plucked the black chickens’ feathers on their throats and then slit them, one by one. She dressed them.

The witch-doctor decided on roast black chicken and vegetables, with alopí, a rice-cake made of rice-flour mixed with sugar and coconut-meat, wrapped up in banana-leaves and boiled, to follow.

The witch-doctor’s family feasted well into the afternoon on black chicken, some bizarre vegetables, and alopí. Edgar stuck hisgreenish tongue out. It looked very long and sticky. His eyes seemed to bulge like those of a toad. He metamorphosed to a dog and emerged onto the living room. His ears stood erect. The witch-doctor and her helps dragged him back to the room. One helper burned incense. It then started to perfume the air. The witch-doctor tried an herbal remedy to calm him down.

A swarm of his hinúptanan composed of animals and birds encircled the house of the witch-doctor.Some blackbird flew down and perched on the parapet outside his window. Some dogs were waiting for him under the house, as the flooring was made of bamboo. In the last five hours he’d undergone a physical transformation. He became a terrifying half-human, half creature with long fingernails, long snakelike hair, fiery eyes, black teeth, and the tusk of a wild boar. Edgar had to adopt so many disguises his prey wouldn't recognise him. In a month he needed to eat man beef at least five times, according to the witch-doctor.
‘Being an aswang is just a matter of practice.’ She rubbed the back of his neck and smiled ruefully at him. She handed him a cruet after she smeared him with oil from it.

Edgar flapped his wings keenly and flew away.With no idea of what to do for his next move, hehovered over a small village. Later, he salivated over something delicious, so he followed his nose. By instinct, he took the soft pith of a banana plant and licked it with relish. Then, he attacked a pregnant woman, strangling her with his tongue that hung down at great lengths, and the unborn child, and pulling out their livers. The woman seemed to have died a natural death, as the pith became the woman’s dead avatar.

Before dawn, he went home lugging a sow behind. He tied it to one of the trees in front of their house and ran in a rush inside the house to get his iPhone, as he wanted to take some photographs of the sow. He then uploaded them to his Tumblr.

Since then, he’d never been sick anymore, and he became a fully-fledged aswang. He became evasive, to the point of secretiveness.

The Death of Professor Wendam

fiction by Roger B Rueda

Myra Wendam, a professor, was killed in a head-on collision between a bus and a taxi outside the university.

Lots of students had a terror of her and her two gay colleagues, Ricky and Aba. They three had a heart of stone. They felt very bitter about their childhood and all that was denied them. They were subtle psychos. With the existence of the three at the college, all students were between the devil and the deep blue sea. So, some students wept for joy when they were told that their professor died.

A lot of students would get short shrift from them even if they fell sick while they were stressed out by being under a lot of pressure and, of course, by their waspish tongues which could hurt. The students found them arrogant and rude. Nobody could believe their pretentiousness but their innocent students, who thought that a diploma in communication arts was gold bullion. The three seemed to show signs of genius. They taught a lot of things, which they themselves didn’t know what these really were. Myra taught advertising, but never had she produced at least one half-decent advertisement. But they kept on believing that their MA’s (or EdD in the case of Aba) were credible evidence for convicting people around them.

***

Two years ago, both Ricky and Aba, who had been extorting money from their students for years, were found slain in an alley a block from a cinema where a lot of gays, who had promiscuous lifestyles, would go. Since then, the place was said to be haunted by the ghosts of the two gay professors.
There seemed no justice in the world as they were slain like that, but justice remained elusive for them and their family. Life just redressed the balance, perhaps.

***

Myra's cremation was a sad affair. Few mourners attended the funeral. All were her family. No students were there to symphatise. Only Ricky's family and his sister, who the rest of the class were sick of watching brown-nose, and Aba's cousin, who would dance attendance on all her professors. They all spent the entire afternoon schmoozing with Myra's family.

***

The death of Myra fuelled speculation that she had, indeed, struck terror into her students and that someone still must have held a grudge against her for doing all the bad things to him, or perhaps, her. The fault lay with her, whose manners were as worse as Ricky’s. But, of course, Ricky was a subtle evil genius.

No one, at first, knew what made the bus and the taxi collide at the crossroads, but after months of investigation the police suspected foul play. They investigated how a crime like that could have occurred. The killer or the mastermind must have borne any grudge against her. Myra died in mysterious circumstances, and there was a possibility that it was murder. For one thing, when the bus driver was in collision with a taxi, one passenger heard the noise of a gun firing at the helm.

The next scene was all a bit sudden. The one killed was not the real driver. The real driver had escaped, and her wife was on TV, weeping buckets and appealing to her husband to show up. After an autopsy was carried out, a week after, the police and the media concluded from the evidence that Myra was murdered.

A year ago, Myra kept herself aloof from what was happening around her. Her insensitivity towards the feelings of her colleagues, who would have a foul day with her at work, was remarkable. But one of her colleagues noticed that she'd been seeing someone on the quiet. The woman looked strangely familiar, though her colleague knew she'd never met her before.  When the woman and Myra saw her, they gave her a black look, and, as she left the secluded restaurant, she was confronted by the angry women, Myra and her companion, who tried to block her way. They threatened to kill her unless she did as they asked.  In order to escape threat, she resigned from her job unexpectedly and fled somewhere very far.  Since then, she seemed to have sunk without trace.

Myra’s family were surprised to see her pray. Praying became part of her morning and evening ritual. She was an atheist and what she was doing seemed paradoxical to them. She erected a statue to her god and decided to devote herself to him.  How she became like what she was remained a mystery until her death when, in the fading light, people saw bats flitting about on the street where the bus and the taxi ran into. Then police discovered a bundle of black books whose writings were difficult to decipher and small plastic discs whose information was fully encrypted and couldn’t be accessed. Myra's full name was carved into them. So, the police turned  them over to her family. A week after, her family got a going-over and all the books and discs were stolen. The family questioned the motives, but it remained wrapped in mystery save Myra's only daughter, Alexandria.

Some of her students recalled how Myra had paraded up Commonwealth Avenue, past Tandang Sora Flyover. She looked like some mad old woman in her wide-brimmed buri hat while she was dragging a cart with a statue of her god down to the street, her shoes and socks taken off, she walking barefoot. But when they remembered how she would start to swear at them in class, they would swear like a trooper, too. They loathed having known her in their life. What was very clear in their stories, which they were spreading, was their passionate hatred of her.

Everyone rejoiced at the news of her death. Her colleagues cried as if it was not for joy when they heard the accident. She was believed to have died not in the accident but in revenge for what she had done bad in the past.

The news of her death was around for a week, then slid into oblivion.

Dinagyangman

fiction by Roger B Rueda

Crowds of people poured into the streets of Iloilo City Centre. I pushed my way through them.It was hot and getting hotter.There was a great crash and then a long roll of drums.The first tribe to perform was something to get excited about. My camera started clicking as soon as the tribe stepped in the performing area. I didn’t bring anything except my Galaxy S3 – I was well aware of pickpockets.

I entered into the spirit of the occasion and stood beside a man who was beside himself with excitement. He turned to look at me. I smiled at him. His eyes smiled up at me.

I was all alone in the middle of the crowds, enjoying my life as throughout the street, the views were a constant source of surprise and delight, vibrant rhythms all over.

‘Excuse me,’ the crowd were enormously enthusiastic, so it was not easy to get through.The heat and the noise made me sleepy. I began to get dizzy spells.I looked at him again; his neck had henna tattoo. He winked at me, as if he knew I was thinking the same thing that he was.

I took a step away from him, but his face lingered on in my mind.I walked away, eyes shut, body tense.I began to perspire heavily.  My skin was tanned and glowing from my day at the Dinagyang.

I edged a little closer to some buildings. I trudged wearily down Mapa Street. After quenching my thirst with a long drink of cold water, I needed to snack on some sandwich and tea. All the shops were congested with spectators.

I went in a small café in a lobby of a small hotel. I sat in the corner and browsed through the pages of a magazine, some newspapers lying on a nearby couch. I had been to the café several times, so it was such a comfortable haunt to me already.The server appeared. ‘Do you have Darjeeling?’ He nodded and smiled.

After a few minutes of sipping at my tea, fresh groups of guest arrived. Suddenly, the lobby got crowded and noisy. Judging from their looks, it seemed they were all worn-out. After drinking cans of juice, they noisily slipped away. One guy came and sat down on the couch. His breath came in short pants. He turned his head left to right. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that I was looking at him. I was painfully shy of him – he was the guy I had seen in the crowd. The tea gave me a choking fit.

I turned my chair to face the door and continued with my reading.

‘I’m Ralph,’ he tapped me on the shoulder.He had a big smile on his face. I gave him a hearty handshake. He stood still for longer than a few minutes – it was quite a shock to meet a handsome man with a beautiful voice.Then, I had thought someone came to me, but it had just been a dream.Now, it was real.

‘Please take a seat.’ I smiled warmly so he wouldn't see my nervousness.We exchanged addresses and numbers. He ordered a beer and a sandwich.

We chatted about many things. He was quite an interesting man. We eyed each other thoughtfully.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked.  I was intensely curious about the world he came from.

‘I am from San Miguel.’ I didn’t know much of San Miguel. I only knew one there – Rowena, my co-worker.

‘How about you?’He lifted the beer can to his lips and sipped.

‘I’m from Mandurriao.’ I bit into my sandwich.

‘So how’s the Dinagyang?’ he asked. ‘I like the Panayanon,’ he added.

‘Romel Flogen choreographs the tribe,’ I told him.

‘Really, I thought he choreographs the tribe from Fort Sant Pedro.’

‘Yes, that was last year. See, now, that tribe isn’t joining. That’s why he accepted the job.’

‘I’m really amazed by their performance. I thought the Panayanon is from Fort San Pedro.’

‘Hahaha, it’s of the Iloilo City National High School.’

‘I need to go,’ his mobile phone was ringing off. He said a hurried goodbye and walked out of the café.

‘I’ll be at the ASAP 18 later, in the sports complex. I think after I’ve eaten lunch,’ I shouted as he was heading the main entrance of the hotel.

***

While I was lying in bed, my phone tweeted. ‘i’lb in smallville. jst mssge me wn ur hr. c u.’I didn’t go to the sports complex. I was getting bored, thinking how crowded it was – it was like spending an hour or two in torment.

I had a shower and went out early – I needed to be there earlier than him. I fell under his spell, perhaps. There was something about him that mesmerised me, I thought.

It took a long time to wash the dirt out of my hair and my whole body. I wore my cleanest pants, a clean shirt and a navy blazer.

***

As one might expect, Smallvillewas full of partyers.The cars choked the roads. As the taxi drew off in front of CoffeeBreak, I got off. I felt a little nervous. I was in a state of great excitement.

‘Vir,’ someone called out my name. Ralph was sitting all alone at a table outside the coffee shop. He waved at me as if we were so familiar – as if we had met and known each other since long time ago.

‘Who’s with you?’ I greeted him with a smile.

‘No one.’ He looked at me openly.

I pulled a chair and sat facing him. ‘Wait a minute,’ I told him. ‘Do you want something?’

‘Just buy prune juice,’ he replied as I was meaning to stand.

I went in the coffee shop and ordered some tuna casserole and black coffee – a bottle of prune juice. Ralph was busy browsing through his iPhone.

I went back too soon – the server was the one to bring all my orders.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ he asked as I was trying to transfer some of my things to the other chair.

‘I had two – but now I don’t have. It has been years.’ I looked at him with all honesty.

‘Me, too,’ he mumbled as the server was placing the order on the table.

We nattered into the night. A spot of rain fell on his hand.

‘Let’s go,’ he suggested.

***

His car was parked up across the street. ‘Let’s go to my car,’ he told me pointing his lips at the white car.

I was confused to where we were heading. But I just entrusted myself to him as sort of instinct. I didn’t know why I believed a stranger I’d never met for my whole life.

Photograph by Greg Delos Reyes

Fatherhood 2.0

fiction by Roger B Rueda

Near the gate of Chung Shan Public Elementary School, some rare birds flew down on a bough and began preening themselves. The pupils were walking into the entrance or went out into some shops. But Peregrino’s eyes were holding a look of envy with children positively revelling under the sun, and then the birds.

Yes, Peregrino envied the birds as they were perching on the boughs, soothingly, the tree flowers scenting the air. The perfect spot for an afternoon nap. He wished he could do the same - join the birds on the boughs and magically stay there as he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

His head was bobbing, his eyelids drooping. He didn’t sleep the other night. His shoulders ached from sitting hunched over the steering wheel of a taxi for close to 15 hours a day. And his hands had developed hard skin at the lines on his fingers that divided them into three neat segments.

The only place he could nap at the moment was the lawn that lay sprawling endlessly in front of him. Why not, he thought. But his only concern was he might start drooling as he often did when he slept, mouth wide open. Sometimes, he would somnambulate.

Peregrino’sflat in Wulai seemed so far-off to him now. An entire 60-minute train ride away. Even if he was to be sent to it without delay, he was sure that his insomnia would recur as soon as his jagged bed was within his grasp. So, he just sat on the bench looking on to the trees, holding his very old mobile and an airmail envelope in which the letter of her family was. It was in Tuwa's hand.

The paper smelt like Burayoc, their barangay. Even after all these weeks of being kept in his coat pocket, if he closed his eyes and took a scent of that paper, he could remember what his girls and their house smelt like, the way dust rose when a tricycle drove past, the way it settled in edgings of dresses and resided inside noses.

The handwritten letter in Panda pen ink was beginning to fade away. Some of it had gone in places. But he had read the text enough times to recite it in his slumber. The missing ink hadn’t bothered him before, but for the past few days it seemed to bear a growing space between the sender and him.

Peregrino’s daughter Tuwa, who was all of twenty, was getting married in three weeks. Three months ago, she had sent her father a letter asking him to come home to talk to the man’s family and make the troth official. But Peregrino had been unable to make it home early enough so his brothers-in-law, his wife’s brothers, had gone in place of him.

Tuwa hadn’t spoken to her fatherfor days for fear that he might be disappointed, she was with child for five months. But she was confident that everything would come out OK in time.Her boyfriend was a very responsible sort of person and had finished his university already, andthree months after she would graduate from university, too, so nothing to worry much, she thought.It was love at first sight, and he proposed to her six weeks later. Their love for each other had been increased by what they’d been through together.

Now all that was left to do was for Peregrino to fly back to Ilocos and attend the wedding ceremonyas if he wasa guest. Never did he feel angry with Tuwa. He was rather happy.

‘I’ve sent the money already,’ Peregreno reminded his daughter. ‘I’ve bought you a new phone. I’ll bring it when I get home.’ Every week, Peregrinowould look forward to talking to her daughter by phone, though sometimes he spent more than he would send home. After trying to make his wife realise that there was nothing to get so concerned about anything, he just stayed silent as he pinned his ears back to her unrelenting chatter on the other end.

He always found himself smiling when she talked because although most people would call it irritable, he was really paying attention to her voice. No different voice that he had fallen in love with when he heard it across a high wall for the first time. ‘Oh, Calliope, I love you.’

The girl with that voice at the time had come to visit his aunt and was calling to her seated on a jute makeshift bed nearby, cooling herself with a hand fan, asking whether she needed to debone the bangos. His aunt was a fisheries professor at the IlocosNorte Regional School of Fisheries.

All of twenty three, Peregrino had come out in the backyard just then to fetch his father’s snacks when his ears perked up at the sound of the voice, which he couldn’t define in any other way but like heavenly music, coming from the other side of the walls. He couldn’t see the person, but her voice to him was angelic. That afternoon, he teasingly asked his mother to examine who the young guest was around the corner.

‘Mother, Aunt Xenia has a visitor? Is she her student? Can you know her name for me? Peregrino’s mother was woozily happy to know who that girl was. Neighbours gossiped, shy eyes met and a couple months later, Calliope and Peregrino became man and wife under the shade of a mango large tree as the rest of the barangay celebrated around the love-struck couple. Twocarabaos and five pigs were butchered. The governor of IlocosNorte and the mayor of Pagudpudwere present, and they had sixty primary sponsors. That was 32 years ago. That was the time when Peregrino’s family had a farm to cultivate. They sold it for his father’s frequent hospitalisation.

On top of the three short years soon after their happy day that Peregrino and Calliope had shared a bed, a home, a life, time had gone by in the midst of them, with only these weekly phone calls holding them as one. That, and the three lovely children they had managed to produce in interjected moments spent together. If not Peregrino had lived on his own in a tiny flat in Wulai since 1997, when he had left Pagudpud for Taiwan.

He left his job as a security guard of a milk company in Pasong Tamo in Makati and decided to stay in Laaog for good, but employments were difficult to come by then in Laoag. And opportunities were not favourable. It means it was a dull life, nothing exciting to look forward to, nothing worth reflecting on. Peregrino, then in his mid-twenties, had a young wife and a sister in-law to support. After a dialogue with Calliope that stretched through the night until dawn, he decided to look for work in Taiwan. He had known Taiwan then when his two schoolmates had got married to a Taiwanese. Every year the families would visit Pagupud. And he had hear their companies continued to thrive. Their parents had moved to big houses.

He got to Taipei. He got a cheap ticket on-board a Chunghsing bus from the airport to the house of his friend to begin work for the agency that had hired him as a taxi driver.

Day after day, Peregrino’s day began at 5 AM, with Sundays and holidays. He could never sleep in an extra hour or stay underneath the over-blankets, however cold it was outside. And it was often cold outside in this city. He would slog himself out of bed, get dressed, and drive into the Taiwan Taoyuan International Airport.

There, he would turn into the next side street and park his taxi and wait for a harrowed traveller to come into view from the building’s sliding doors. If he desired a change of sight, now and then he would drive to the more placid Tianjin Street and wait there instead, but carrying outjustno different duty.

It would be unfair not to acknowledge the enthusiasm that his customers brought to the job. There were mothers rushing to kindergarten to drop off their children before work during mean phone calls from their boss because they were late just as the sitter said she couldn’t take the children this afternoon. There was always a drunken passenger on the weekend.  The kind who was so inebriated that they forgot where they lived. This was commonly a student from one of the many schools, or it was that young couple who kissed and cuddled in the back seat for heat and other reasons. But he was just another taxi driver in this city of two-and-a-half million and Peregrino longed to be back in a place where he was recognised as more than that.

What had he got in all these years that he had lived away from his family? True, he earned more than he ever would have if he stayed in Ilocos. It was enough to send home and live contentedly. But he had lost out on time rocking his child to sleep, falling asleep next to Calliope as he stroked her hair. He had missed special Sunday breakfasts of sinanglaw and watching boxing matches on television with the neighbourhood.

He was still treated as something like a god each time he returned, which wasn’t frequently. If the captivation didn’t stem from the fact that people were seeing him after so long, it was mostly because he was still amongst the handful of people in his family who had it, made it in a foreign country and coped to stay, as against those who ran back ina couple months, intenselybothered by what it meant to live outside IlocosNorte.

And many of them, at least of the younger generation, were waiting for their pair of rubber shoes or a new watch or a packet of cigarettes, which meant Peregrino’s coming meant more to them than anything. But now he desired to be home to be the father of his children. How he desired, not in Wulai, but in Burayoc, where he could participate in the pre-wedding madness that is a staple feature of a Filipino home. But because he was so distant, these choices were restricted to Tuwa’s uncles and male cousins.

So he just waited for the day that he would fly home. It was for keeps this time. He had turned in his papers a few days and said goodbye to fellow taxi drivers who were the closest he had to family. He had packed his valises with 15 years of musings and things, which remarkably didn’t go in for much space.

The last time Peregrino had been home was when his father had been diagnosed as having cancerten years ago. The old man was helpless and his dying wish was to see the son that he adored one more time before he close his eyes on the world for the last time.

This time, Peregrino was going back, not only for one or two weeks, but forever. He was bidding goodbye to the only life he had known for what had seemed like never-ending. He looked at his TransAsiaticket in disbelief, shaking his head. It almost didn’t seem real.

Peregrino set off for TaiwanTaoyuan International Airport in a taxi whichhe didn’t drive himselffor the first time,on the day of his travel. He got out, got his luggage, and generously tipped the driver $10. Making his way inside the airport, he checked in his luggage, took his boarding card, and headed for security.

During the checking procedures, he was called aside and given something the once-over. His things were opened and repacked. After an abrupt smile from the officer in charge, he was allowed to go on to the departure lounge while the authorities continued to shoot sly doubtful looks over their shoulders.

The plane ride seemed interminable. There wasn’t enough leg room and the meals seemed too small. Peregrino was sitting next to a larger toff who occupied most of the space available. That he was seated close to the washroom did not help his wish to get some sleep during the trip. Even the on-board entertainment couldn’t addle him.

Hours later, the plane landed on solid ground. After a brief period in transit, the plane landed on the Ninoy Aquino International Airport. He was relieved to be back to his country. He spent the next hour thinking of his family, of Burayoc.

The next time when the plane landed, it was in Laoag.

As subtly as possible, Peregrino tried to take in the air while still inside the aeroplane to check whether he could smell the familiar smell of Ilocos, of home. Nothing yet. His family would be coming up outside. He tried to be as good-mannered as possible to the other passengers as he quickly grabbed his cabin luggage from the overhead compartment and made a beeline for luggage claim.

He was cleared quickly. Stacking his belongings on to a nearby trolley, he was just aboutto run outside. And as he rushed through the sliding doors,a lot of things had changed.Laoag was no longer the city he used to know. The new Laoag was buzzing with so much energy.

A wave of Ilocos gentle wind greeted him.

The smell of the familiar, the smell of family. There she was, more lovely than he recalled - dark brown eyes, thick brown hair that peeked out throughout,and herangelic smile. She was a vision of loveliness.

‘Papa, Papa,’ called out Tuwa as he was coming near.Her voice was girlish and eager.

There were tears, embraces, and joy-filled cries. But the details are indistinct. After a two-hour taxi ride that had no space for silence, Peregrino was finally home in Burayoc, Pagudpud. He felt like he knew his future son-in-law more than he would have if he had spent three months with him. Tuwa’s animated chatter made it seem like she planned to tell her father five years of stories in one afternoon.

Peregrino got out of the taxi and stood in front of his parent’s house, the old home where he had grown from a boy to a man. His parents had left this world some time ago. His father left first and then his mother years ago. He had happy and sad memories of their house.

He opened the rusty gate that led to a front yard, which smelled still of rain. The sight of the gate was inexpressibly poignant to him. A small dog barked at him.  Yayay, their neighbour, who had been with the family since before Peregrino was born, came hobbling out, using a wooden stick for support. She wore a blouse and an abel as her skirt. She was a sensitive, lovable woman. She was weeping with tears of joy.

‘You look rather frail,’ she said, touching his face.

Peregrino’smoustache was as coarse as her palm, the result of more than 40 years of untiringly performing domestic activities. Peregrino just smiled and kissed Yayay on the temple.He laid his bag on the floor and opened it to get a watch for her.

Once the jet lag wore off, Peregrino was able to meet the guests who had started pouring in long before he was up. Some for the wedding, some for him, some for what he had brought with him. They shouted, pulled at his cheeks and asked him questions.

Fresh groups of guests arrived. After a while the room was filled with cases of liquor. They boozed all night. Calliope was sitting beside her husband, a little aloof and detached. He seemed not tired and exhausted.

***

One afternoon,Peregrino’s brothers-in-law introduced the two outside a coffee shop in a public market. He was a shrinking boy whose eyes appeared to say that he loved Tuwa perhaps as much as he loved his Calliope. That was good enough for him. All he wanted was a man who would love his daughter like the way he loved Calliope.

On the morning of the day before the wedding, the decorators had a spot in the garden wreathed so quickly. The florists transformed the front yard where the wedding would be held in a few days. They made an awning made of bamboo. They prepared everything in front of the house. The monobloc plastic chairs were arranged carefully at every table on which there were three plastic roses in every vase. With its simple decoration, the yard was a peaceful haven. Every neighbour then knew that Tuwas was getting married. Having a wedding reception at home was no longer popular in Burayoc, but Calliope liked it.

The caterers talked over particulars of the menu. Calliopeand Tuwahad several menus to choose from: goat caldereta, ox-tongue, lechon, carne frita, nilaga, estufado, and valenciana. The sweet sellers - leche flan, sorbete, buco-pandan salad - did the same. Peregrino was slightly astounded by all the bustles, a marked difference from his more than quiet life in Wulai. Being back after so long, he kept thinking that he could hear the bells of the train outside his window. He seemed of Wulai, and it followed him even in sleep.

He kept waking at 5 AM, getting rattled that he had slept late and remembering that he could sleep in as long as he liked. It felt wonderful to be back with Calliope again, falling asleep in her arms, his head against her chest that rose and fell with each breath that she took.

He tickled the hairs on the back of her neck. He was gently stroking her black hair. It felt so wonderful to be with a woman after so long. But they had so little to talk about. Tuwa wanted to move away to another city with her husband who had found work there, but Calliope didn’t like the idea. Peregrino promised to babysit his forthcoming grandchild, his first grandchild. So there was no reason for the couple to move away. He suggested that Tuwa’shuband-to-be could commute to his workplace every day.

In 15 years that he spent as an OFW, Peregrino had never felt completely accustomed to there. He couldn’t believe how he had coped with working abroad. And now that he was back, how could he feel so incongruous? He was surrounded by people he loved, by his neighbours, by his relatives. How come he felt so alone? In a bustling home preparing for the first wedding in years, why did he feel like he was crying, yet nobody heard him? Why did he feel he was living with strangers? Why did he sadly miss something he couldn’t recognise?

He would have to give off Taiwan to start out on Burayoc again. He would have to connect up with a wife who had turned into a stranger. He would have to find the familiar in what he always thought of as familiar. In the face of travelling so many miles, Peregrino’s journey was beginning with the fatherhood he had never experienced as his children were growing up, his eyes filled with tears, with pang of conscience and validation, with sorrow and contentment.

Now he was looking forward to having a grandchild soon as time was sitting in his hair.

Politics

a poem by Roger B Rueda

is a beast, its size and shape too small to see,
yet it is as colossal as our imagination.
It is calm but when it tousles its wool,
no one can hold sway over it –
politicians have tried out many things:
They lined up loads of rues
to break in the indefinable beast;
all didn’t come up to scratch.
They thought badly of each other,
calling upon that someone mounting
on it alight and leave off.
They came together at Edsa,
Dragooning the frontrunner into leaving.
A woman,whose husband was slain on the tarmac,
came from evasion and mounted the beast.
It jolted into motion and ran more wildly,
shaking its head confusedly.
A lot closed their eyes and heaved a sigh.
Some squaddies made a grab for a rope
And tried to usurp control of the beast.
They all bit the dust.
Another frontrunner came.
The beast quietened down a little.
His challenger provoked him into a boxing match,
accusing him of cheating, a cynical ploy.
Then another frontrunner came.
Clinging to the withers,
he was dragged off from the beast’s back
at Edsa again and sent down.
Everyone conspired so that he would turn
a somersault down the feet of the beast
and be trampled underfoot.
Another woman mounted the beast.
Her nemeses flung many expletives at her
as she seemed to have no plan of alighting.
Their swear words are soaking into her fame
now as she is kneading her aching neck,
her pride and honour hemmed in by rigid laws.
Her 25th December is not a red letter day.
The son of a previous frontrunner
has mounted the beast, gnashing his teeth.
He wants to turn round the straight way.
He has chucked the crown of a justice
in the dustbin and dismissed it with ignominy.
He has smashed the pork barrel
into the face of his cohorts, feeding them
another unknown nourishment
like a mysterious fruit in a covert.
Bearers of the cross hardly dare open their mouths.
Will the beast put its feet up and become
visible and  untroublesome and gentle?
A hush has fallen over the crowd, its drift pendent.