After hearing the buzz about James Soriano's article branding the Filipino language as the language of the streets published in the Manila Bulletin, a friend of mine posted a link to this beautiful speech by Isagani Cruz at a Literature Seminar. This is a fitting speech to cap off the buzz about the Filipino's national language.
It is beautifully written and everyone who appreciates both languages and the literature can appreciate this.
SPEECH DELIVERED AT THE CLOSING OF THE TWO-DAY LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE SEMINAR ON "RE-THINKING AND RE-DIRECTING PARADIGM AND PEDAGOGY IN THE TEACHING OF LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE" HELD AT FAR EASTERN UNIVERSITY, 19 FEBRUARY 2011, SPONSORED BY THE ALLIANCE OF LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE TEACHERS (ALLT)
Since you are teachers of language and literature, allow me to think aloud through a Homeric simile or, if you wish, a 17th-century conceit, or simply, a talinghaga.
I am an adulterer. I have a wife and two lovers.
My wife is the English language. I married her, making my marriage vows to her, my credentials, my MA and PhD in English, at the Ateneo and at the University of Maryland. She cooks my meals, gives me sustenance, by helping me participate in meetings for which I get paid. She bears my children, which are my English columns and books. I come home to her, I rush back into her arms when I want to feel secure. I love her. I love English.
I have a lover, who is female. My girlfriend is the Filipino language. She is much sexier than my wife, because she has all these terms for taste, smell, and touch – the senses that I use when making love. She is much younger than my wife; English was born about 1,500 years ago, but Filipino was born only in 1973. My girlfriend’s mother is Tagalog, but her father is Spanish and her grandmother is Chinese. That is why she is so attractive, because she is down to earth like the Tagalogs and practical like the Chinese, yet she speaks the language that God speaks. You know, of course, as the Spanish people put it so well, that “children speak in Italian, ladies speak in French, God speaks in Spanish, and the Devil speaks in English.” Yes, my girlfriend thinks my wife is a devil.
I have another lover. He is male. My boyfriend is literature. He understands me much more than my wife or my girlfriend does.
I have to struggle with my English, worrying about whether my behavior, my grammar, is perfect. I am always so careful when my wife is around. On the other hand, I cannot take my girlfriend to so-called respectable gatherings. People do not look kindly at me when I use Filipino to speak at big education or business or international conferences. Of course I enjoy caressing my girlfriend’s body, all the literary works written in Filipino, such as those by Bob Ong, but I am a bit apprehensive about boasting about her, because my wife is extremely jealous of her. When I travel outside the country, I have to keep introducing and apologizing for my girlfriend, something I do not have to do with my wife. Fortunately or unfortunately, my girlfriend is not well known outside the country, so I can take her there and limit our friends to the ten million or so of my compatriots working or living abroad. Abroad, my girlfriend is our shared secret and we can talk secretely without my wife knowing anything about her.
But the situation with my boyfriend is very different. I can take him with me anywhere I go. Nobody raises an eyebrow when we travel together, stay in the same hotel room, engage in public displays of affection. After all, boxers and basketball players hug each other tightly, cry on each other’s shoulders, even walk together with their arms on each other’s shoulders. People think it’s natural when I quote lines from literary pieces, when I have a book of poetry tucked under my arm as I walk down a street, when I read a novel in public. In fact, when I quote a line or two written by my boyfriend, people even applaud.
Of course, like other adulterers, I have to admit that I have a real psychological problem, for which I need to see a psychiatrist. I also have a spiritual problem, for which I need to see a priest or pastor. Moreover, I have a philosophical problem, because I do not really know who I love more or best or all the time.
I write in English in an English newspaper. I talk in English when I am in an international or even sometimes in a national conference. But I do not really like being with my wife all the time. I get bored with her and she gets bored with me. We have done so much together that we find that there is not much to do that now interests us. Besides, she always seems like a stranger to me. Like the Duke in Robert Browning’s poem, I feel like my wife, my last Duchess, bestows her favors on everyone, not just on me. I do not feel that she belongs to me. I do not own her nor does she want to be owned by me. She insists on her own rules and does not want to make allowances for my weaknesses.
On the other hand, I write in Filipino when I feel The Urge, when I feel hot and eager, when it is that time of the month when my hormones are raging and I just want to have someone I can have a very physical, very honest, very intimate, very enjoyable time. I do not have to worry about my behavior, my grammar, when I am with my girlfriend. I can let my hair down, whatever is left of it. Since she is young, she looks up to me and admires me. She does not have a personality cast in stone, so she does not mind changing when I want her to change. Since I give her a condo, a maid, a car, and spending money, I own her. I create words that she has to include in her vocabulary. I teach her. She is not my teacher, the way my wife is. She is my student, someone I mold according to my own likes and dislikes.
Still, I look forward to being alone with literature, being alone with a short story or a poem or a novel, watching a film based on a literary text, writing a literary text. My boyfriend combines the best traits of my English wife and my Filipino girlfriend. He is equally comfortable with both and he joins my wife and me when we entertain at home. He joins my girlfriend and me on trips abroad. My wife and my girlfriend, not being of the same gender as I am, do not really understand my needs, physical or psychological. But my boyfriend does. He excites me, keeps me interested, makes me eager to be with him, with his texts done from the time of Sophocles to the time of Jaime An Lim, Gemino Abad, Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo, Oscar Campomanes, Ferdinand Lopez, and all the writers in this audience. He knows exactly how and where to excite me. He is one with me in emotions, in sex, in love, in everything.
It’s not easy being an adulterer. My wife does not want me to be with my girlfriend. My girlfriend wants me to leave my wife and to marry her instead. My boyfriend wants me to be alone with him, not with my wife nor with my girlfriend. On the rare occasions when I have all three of them around the dinner table, they seem cordial enough, though I know that they really cannot get along that well. My boyfriend keeps breaking the rules of grammar that my wife and my girlfriend make. My wife keeps telling me that she is from a very rich and old family and I would be a fool to leave her. My girlfriend says that my wife does not understand me and only she can.
It’s a mess. Sometimes I feel that I should just go into a Trappist monastery and renounce all language, keeping a vow of silence instead. But my boyfriend insists that he should come with me to the monastery. They let males in there, but not females.
Sometimes I feel that I should just find an uninhabited island among the 7,100 islands of the Philippines and live there without books, without anyone, but my boyfriend is already in my memory, my wife has molded my thoughts, and my girlfriend has conditioned my physical needs.
There is a practical solution, but I don’t want to take it. I could just leave the country and become an OFW in a country that does not speak English – and there are quite a number of these countries. That way, I will never use English, there will be no reason to use Filipino, and I will soon forget all the classic lines of literature that define my being. But there’s a catch. That country will have its own literature. I will surely find a new boyfriend. My boyfriend will surely introduce me to a new girlfriend. Before I know it, my new girlfriend will become my wife, and I will be back where I started.
I am glad I was invited to this seminar, because I can now rethink and redirect my personal paradigm. I can now teach myself a new way of looking at myself, rethink and redirect my pedagogy in teaching language and literature. In my imagination, I can be constructive. I can resolve issues. I can keep alive my live circuit. I can break out of my depression and get rid of all my repressions by letting the world know who exactly I am.
I am an adulterer, and proud of it. Maraming salamat po.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
James Soriano's Controversial branding of the Filipino language as "the language of the streets"
This article has been removed from the website of the Manila Bulletin because of the criticisms the article has received. I can relate to the sentiments but come to think of it, most of us who do not come from the National Capital Region or Luzon, do not speak Filipino as a mother tongue, which is a prestige register of the Tagalog language according to Wikipedia. My mother tongue is Bahasa Tausug and English was the medium of instruction at school, and Filipino was a grammar subject which I was not very good at. Until now I would still say "nawala ako" (I got lost) when meeting friends at a place not familiar to me while being here in Metro Manila, instead of saying "naligaw ako" which is the correct translation for "I got lost" and most of the time I am being laughed at. I sound Visayan when I speak Filipino and I am not even from the Visayas Region. Definitely, when I am in the streets of Metro Manila, Filipino is the language I use, not English, and definitely not Bahasa Tausug.
Language, learning, identity, privilege
By JAMES SORIANO
August 24, 2011, 4:06am
MANILA, Philippines — English is the language of learning. I’ve known this since before I could go to school. As a toddler, my first study materials were a set of flash cards that my mother used to teach me the English alphabet.
My mother made home conducive to learning English: all my storybooks and coloring books were in English, and so were the cartoons I watched and the music I listened to. She required me to speak English at home. She even hired tutors to help me learn to read and write in English.
In school I learned to think in English. We used English to learn about numbers, equations and variables. With it we learned about observation and inference, the moon and the stars, monsoons and photosynthesis. With it we learned about shapes and colors, about meter and rhythm. I learned about God in English, and I prayed to Him in English.
Filipino, on the other hand, was always the ‘other’ subject — almost a special subject like PE or Home Economics, except that it was graded the same way as Science, Math, Religion, and English. My classmates and I used to complain about Filipino all the time. Filipino was a chore, like washing the dishes; it was not the language of learning. It was the language we used to speak to the people who washed our dishes.
We used to think learning Filipino was important because it was practical: Filipino was the language of the world outside the classroom. It was the language of the streets: it was how you spoke to the tindera when you went to the tindahan, what you used to tell your katulong that you had an utos, and how you texted manong when you needed “sundo na.”
These skills were required to survive in the outside world, because we are forced to relate with the tinderas and the manongs and the katulongs of this world. If we wanted to communicate to these people — or otherwise avoid being mugged on the jeepney — we needed to learn Filipino.
That being said though, I was proud of my proficiency with the language. Filipino was the language I used to speak with my cousins and uncles and grandparents in the province, so I never had much trouble reciting.
It was the reading and writing that was tedious and difficult. I spoke Filipino, but only when I was in a different world like the streets or the province; it did not come naturally to me. English was more natural; I read, wrote and thought in English. And so, in much of the same way that I learned German later on, I learned Filipino in terms of English. In this way I survived Filipino in high school, albeit with too many sentences that had the preposition ‘ay.’
It was really only in university that I began to grasp Filipino in terms of language and not just dialect. Filipino was not merely a peculiar variety of language, derived and continuously borrowing from the English and Spanish alphabets; it was its own system, with its own grammar, semantics, sounds, even symbols.
But more significantly, it was its own way of reading, writing, and thinking. There are ideas and concepts unique to Filipino that can never be translated into another. Try translating bayanihan, tagay, kilig or diskarte.
Only recently have I begun to grasp Filipino as the language of identity: the language of emotion, experience, and even of learning. And with this comes the realization that I do, in fact, smell worse than a malansang isda. My own language is foreign to me: I speak, think, read and write primarily in English. To borrow the terminology of Fr. Bulatao, I am a split-level Filipino.
But perhaps this is not so bad in a society of rotten beef and stinking fish. For while Filipino may be the language of identity, it is the language of the streets. It might have the capacity to be the language of learning, but it is not the language of the learned.
It is neither the language of the classroom and the laboratory, nor the language of the boardroom, the court room, or the operating room. It is not the language of privilege. I may be disconnected from my being Filipino, but with a tongue of privilege I will always have my connections.
So I have my education to thank for making English my mother language.
Language, learning, identity, privilege
By JAMES SORIANO
August 24, 2011, 4:06am
MANILA, Philippines — English is the language of learning. I’ve known this since before I could go to school. As a toddler, my first study materials were a set of flash cards that my mother used to teach me the English alphabet.
My mother made home conducive to learning English: all my storybooks and coloring books were in English, and so were the cartoons I watched and the music I listened to. She required me to speak English at home. She even hired tutors to help me learn to read and write in English.
In school I learned to think in English. We used English to learn about numbers, equations and variables. With it we learned about observation and inference, the moon and the stars, monsoons and photosynthesis. With it we learned about shapes and colors, about meter and rhythm. I learned about God in English, and I prayed to Him in English.
Filipino, on the other hand, was always the ‘other’ subject — almost a special subject like PE or Home Economics, except that it was graded the same way as Science, Math, Religion, and English. My classmates and I used to complain about Filipino all the time. Filipino was a chore, like washing the dishes; it was not the language of learning. It was the language we used to speak to the people who washed our dishes.
We used to think learning Filipino was important because it was practical: Filipino was the language of the world outside the classroom. It was the language of the streets: it was how you spoke to the tindera when you went to the tindahan, what you used to tell your katulong that you had an utos, and how you texted manong when you needed “sundo na.”
These skills were required to survive in the outside world, because we are forced to relate with the tinderas and the manongs and the katulongs of this world. If we wanted to communicate to these people — or otherwise avoid being mugged on the jeepney — we needed to learn Filipino.
That being said though, I was proud of my proficiency with the language. Filipino was the language I used to speak with my cousins and uncles and grandparents in the province, so I never had much trouble reciting.
It was the reading and writing that was tedious and difficult. I spoke Filipino, but only when I was in a different world like the streets or the province; it did not come naturally to me. English was more natural; I read, wrote and thought in English. And so, in much of the same way that I learned German later on, I learned Filipino in terms of English. In this way I survived Filipino in high school, albeit with too many sentences that had the preposition ‘ay.’
It was really only in university that I began to grasp Filipino in terms of language and not just dialect. Filipino was not merely a peculiar variety of language, derived and continuously borrowing from the English and Spanish alphabets; it was its own system, with its own grammar, semantics, sounds, even symbols.
But more significantly, it was its own way of reading, writing, and thinking. There are ideas and concepts unique to Filipino that can never be translated into another. Try translating bayanihan, tagay, kilig or diskarte.
Only recently have I begun to grasp Filipino as the language of identity: the language of emotion, experience, and even of learning. And with this comes the realization that I do, in fact, smell worse than a malansang isda. My own language is foreign to me: I speak, think, read and write primarily in English. To borrow the terminology of Fr. Bulatao, I am a split-level Filipino.
But perhaps this is not so bad in a society of rotten beef and stinking fish. For while Filipino may be the language of identity, it is the language of the streets. It might have the capacity to be the language of learning, but it is not the language of the learned.
It is neither the language of the classroom and the laboratory, nor the language of the boardroom, the court room, or the operating room. It is not the language of privilege. I may be disconnected from my being Filipino, but with a tongue of privilege I will always have my connections.
So I have my education to thank for making English my mother language.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Life on a Tight Rope
The cigarette butt is burning my index and middle fingers, and as I inhale the last of its smoke, I saw a brief picture of my life in a minute, capping it off with my present state of mind.
It would be easier to just let things be and wallow in misery, because after all I have tried hard enough and the harder I try the more illusive dreams can be.
Sulking becomes a natural reflex cushioned only by the tears shed inside.
Incessantly I continue to run away unbridled by what is constant if only to keep me sane.
I count countless herds of sheep before I sleep at night and yet I still cannot seem to rest my mind, and sleep has become an enemy.
I am reminded of one of my trips to the islands in my province in Tawi-Tawi, Southern Philippines, sailing on a small motorized boat fit only for at least three persons. We entrusted our journey to our “bankero” who, without a compass used only the clouds' patterns and the wind direction as his guide and as always, we arrive at our destination without being eaten by sharks or being held hostage by pirates.
If only I could just pray to the sea for signs of my fate, I would journey through life with only the night stars as my guide.
I would not mind.
But life is not about wishful thinking and what if’s and what could-have-been's.
Life’s surprises do not come in pretty wrappings with colorful ribbons. They come in unanticipated fashion that can bring out the best and worst in you.
Life is about taking calculated steps on a tight rope balancing on thin air, and there is no looking back.
Whether I reach the other end or not solely depend on me.
Damn if I do and damn if I don’t.
Cupcake
Why are you afraid of me? Is it because I have sharp edges? Is it because I am too much to handle? or is it because you cannot picture me in colors and I am unpredictable, tameless and unbridled?
Or maybe you think I am tough enough that I cannot be pleased with the tiniest of things and the simplest of joys.
It is rather sad that you only see me in all of the facade and the bruises I try hard to keep, and when things get too comfortable or uncomfortable it is easier to say you've had enough because I am just too much to handle.
Funny how you have managed to lay your expectations and decide that it is my fault when they are not met.
You think you fall short not simply because you just do but because I am too much to handle.
You saw me in all of my frailties and vulnerabilities and still find me hard, cold as a rock.
You cannot picture me sweet because you already have a version of me in your mind and in your heart you would rather have me that way because that is how you have come to know me and it is easier that way.
I will not defend myself nor will I explain how or why I have come to be.
One thing is for sure, if I cease to be then I cease to be me.
A cupcake may look as sweet but that is not always the truth.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Top 10 Reasons Why There Couldn’t Be a Filipino-American US President By David Letterman
I found this article and thought there's humour to it. Thought I might share it...
Top 10 Reasons Why There Couldn’t Be a Filipino-American US President
By David Letterman
10. The White House is not big enough for in-laws and extended relatives.
9. There are not enough parking spaces at the White House for 2 Honda Civics,
2 Toyota Land Cruisers, 3 Toyota Corollas, a Mercedes Benz, a BMW , and
an MPV (My Pinoy Van).
8. Dignitaries generally are intimidated by eating with their fingers at State dinners.
7. There are too many dining rooms in the White House – where will they put
the picture of the Last Supper?
6. The White House walls are not big enough to hold a pair of giant wooden
spoon and fork.
5. Secret Service staff won’t respond to “psst… psst” or “hoy.hoyhoy!”
4. Secret Service staff will not be comfortable driving the presidential car with a Holy Rosary hanging on the rear view mirror, or the statue of the Santo Nino on the dashboard.
3. No budget allocation to purchase a Karaoke music-machine for every room in the White House.
2. State dinners do not allow “Take Home”.
AND THE NUMBER 1 REASON WHY THERE COULDN’T BE A FILIPINO-AMERICAN U.S. PRESIDENT IS…
1. Air Force One does not allow overweight Balikbayan boxes!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Virtual Friend
I can still remember vividly how the ice cream felt in my mouth, tasteless but numbing. You brought it to me if only to make me feel I was not alone that night. I took offense. Was I desperate? I choked on my own reply because I was. It was the 31st floor where I used to live and looking down it seemed so easy if only to ease the pain, but thanks to you and those who pulled me through I have found my strength.
You were with me everyday in India. Even if I had to sit in front of my computer for hours till the wee hours, being physically present became immaterial because what mattered was the presence no matter what.
The little things did not go unnoticed.
You may think that I do not consider you for real, but to me you are.
I remember everything including the DVDs you brought to my dorm during those painstaking nights of waiting for the bar exams.
Some people think I am difficult but you never saw me that way and for that I am grateful unto infinity.
No, you are not slow at comprehending my metaphors and similes, you get it perfectly fine. You get me even if I don't.
Forgive me if I do not share to those around me what I have with you, it is just something I am keeping for myself because you too are just as important and just as priceless.
Forgive me if I wasn't able to return the kind of love you showed me, I was too broken.
You are loved.
for MLB
You were with me everyday in India. Even if I had to sit in front of my computer for hours till the wee hours, being physically present became immaterial because what mattered was the presence no matter what.
The little things did not go unnoticed.
You may think that I do not consider you for real, but to me you are.
I remember everything including the DVDs you brought to my dorm during those painstaking nights of waiting for the bar exams.
Some people think I am difficult but you never saw me that way and for that I am grateful unto infinity.
No, you are not slow at comprehending my metaphors and similes, you get it perfectly fine. You get me even if I don't.
Forgive me if I do not share to those around me what I have with you, it is just something I am keeping for myself because you too are just as important and just as priceless.
Forgive me if I wasn't able to return the kind of love you showed me, I was too broken.
You are loved.
for MLB
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
As Is
There is a story she is dying to tell but couldn't for reasons beyond her, a story that would absolutely depict the kind of person that she wishes to be but for reasons beyond her, she just couldn't.
This is an attempt to tell her story.
Maybe if someone else would, she wouldn't have to hesitate, she wouldn't have to choke in her own words, as someone else would attempt the absurd, hoping to get the message across, if only to make her understand the very essence of her story.
She went to this place she described as strangely mystical and there she was able to smell the proverbial flower. She never dreamed of visiting such mystical place but somehow fate brought her there if only to find that peace she longed to have. She felt the desperation to be somewhere else and the place simply beckoned her.
She fell in love instantly with the place and the people she met in that strange mystical place.
There she met a stranger who dared her to try things differently, to attempt the absurd even if it meant going half crazy, to chance upon the rapids that was going to be her story.
You see, she is the kind of girl who makes plans, who organizes things in numeric and alphabetical orders, she makes calculated steps and taking chances are just not her thing.
This was precisely why she has gone off to that strange place because of the disorder she was threading. She almost lost her grip but she held on if only to find a new or perhaps a different perspective.
Meeting the stranger for the first time did not have that much impression on her as she knew and understood he, just like her, was a passer-by.
The stranger stopped at nothing to make her think twice about things that mattered and for those things that didn't. Perhaps for him she was just another conquest, but for her, the little gestures, the little acts of kindness, the tiny ways of showing he cared, made much of a difference and then surprisingly she smiled again.
She knew what she was getting herself into was dangerous for her own frailties but she found herself wanting.
On Christmas eve she has chosen to chance the rapids and dared to dance the tide. She told herself all she needed to do was close her eyes.
The stranger held her, swift but caring, and then she was taken to a distant place she never dared to reach before.
He brought her to places she's never been before and instead of being scared, she smiled and laughed and giggled. She was truly happy.
Then it was time to leave, to move on, and to say goodbye. She smiled and planted a kiss on his lips and said goodbye. She left with a smile knowing she had a really good time in that strange mystical place and she was happy.
Back in her own world she started making plans again, organizing things and setting time table. Amidst all that, the stranger came to visit her, but instead of being happy about it she was surprised to feel strangely sad, because things didn't make sense for her anymore and having to say goodbye twice is just anticlimactic. But she welcomed him just the same despite not understanding why or how, despite of and regardless. She slipped. She knew she was slipping back.
The stranger came and gone.
She is left with a thought, a feeling, questions after questions, leaving her distracted, disturbed. He took with him her smile when he left without telling why he came.
She is at a crossroad, left with a choice, her only option, if only she could just close her eyes and let things happen like she did that one Christmas eve. If only she could she would.
You see the stranger was a strange man, his job is to make people happy. He makes everyone around him smile. She was one of those he probably sensed could use some smiles. She, on the other hand, is a thinker. A wanderlust who does not know what she wants or where she wants to be.
He would if he could.
She would if she could.
But strangely enough if they would when they could, they'd cease to be themselves.
The story ends where it should be.
As is.
This is an attempt to tell her story.
Maybe if someone else would, she wouldn't have to hesitate, she wouldn't have to choke in her own words, as someone else would attempt the absurd, hoping to get the message across, if only to make her understand the very essence of her story.
She went to this place she described as strangely mystical and there she was able to smell the proverbial flower. She never dreamed of visiting such mystical place but somehow fate brought her there if only to find that peace she longed to have. She felt the desperation to be somewhere else and the place simply beckoned her.
She fell in love instantly with the place and the people she met in that strange mystical place.
There she met a stranger who dared her to try things differently, to attempt the absurd even if it meant going half crazy, to chance upon the rapids that was going to be her story.
You see, she is the kind of girl who makes plans, who organizes things in numeric and alphabetical orders, she makes calculated steps and taking chances are just not her thing.
This was precisely why she has gone off to that strange place because of the disorder she was threading. She almost lost her grip but she held on if only to find a new or perhaps a different perspective.
Meeting the stranger for the first time did not have that much impression on her as she knew and understood he, just like her, was a passer-by.
The stranger stopped at nothing to make her think twice about things that mattered and for those things that didn't. Perhaps for him she was just another conquest, but for her, the little gestures, the little acts of kindness, the tiny ways of showing he cared, made much of a difference and then surprisingly she smiled again.
She knew what she was getting herself into was dangerous for her own frailties but she found herself wanting.
On Christmas eve she has chosen to chance the rapids and dared to dance the tide. She told herself all she needed to do was close her eyes.
The stranger held her, swift but caring, and then she was taken to a distant place she never dared to reach before.
He brought her to places she's never been before and instead of being scared, she smiled and laughed and giggled. She was truly happy.
Then it was time to leave, to move on, and to say goodbye. She smiled and planted a kiss on his lips and said goodbye. She left with a smile knowing she had a really good time in that strange mystical place and she was happy.
Back in her own world she started making plans again, organizing things and setting time table. Amidst all that, the stranger came to visit her, but instead of being happy about it she was surprised to feel strangely sad, because things didn't make sense for her anymore and having to say goodbye twice is just anticlimactic. But she welcomed him just the same despite not understanding why or how, despite of and regardless. She slipped. She knew she was slipping back.
The stranger came and gone.
She is left with a thought, a feeling, questions after questions, leaving her distracted, disturbed. He took with him her smile when he left without telling why he came.
She is at a crossroad, left with a choice, her only option, if only she could just close her eyes and let things happen like she did that one Christmas eve. If only she could she would.
You see the stranger was a strange man, his job is to make people happy. He makes everyone around him smile. She was one of those he probably sensed could use some smiles. She, on the other hand, is a thinker. A wanderlust who does not know what she wants or where she wants to be.
He would if he could.
She would if she could.
But strangely enough if they would when they could, they'd cease to be themselves.
The story ends where it should be.
As is.
Monday, August 08, 2011
Her
She took the bus back to her crib and I am back at mine. The resonant silence beckons me to hear that deafening noise from within me and solitude succumbs me once again with its cold cold embrace. But then I keep hearing another voice, that of hers.
Her limitless capacity to see the things I cannot. Her relentless endurance to understand my erratic mind state. Her unending explanation of things I am incapable of grasping. Her own uncertainties becalming my unbridled heart. Her own frustrations capturing the very essence of my tireless quest for filling the void.
Her warmth somehow keeps that wind that blows my wings.
Her friendship unquestioning despite of, and regardless.
Her big heart is my threshold for all that I am not and for everything I cannot.
My sister from a different set of parents but I love her just the same as I would from the one that would have come from my own mother's loins.
Thank you Minnette.
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
DIYANG
bang ku tumtumun
in subay na lupahun
jantung dih sumuhun
sumagawa subay da pikilun
landuh in pagsusun
sangsah urulun
pagdayaw sin susungun
in jantung hiyapus na
in mata kyakaruh na
in bayah uway na guna
taptap tangisan na sadja
panumtuman pagkasilasa
taimaun na sadja
in ikaw lasa wairuun na.
For Radiyah thank you for sharing your story that was my inspiration for this Tarasul (Poetry in Bahasa Tausug, Southern Mindanao, Philippines)
in subay na lupahun
jantung dih sumuhun
sumagawa subay da pikilun
landuh in pagsusun
sangsah urulun
pagdayaw sin susungun
in jantung hiyapus na
in mata kyakaruh na
in bayah uway na guna
taptap tangisan na sadja
panumtuman pagkasilasa
taimaun na sadja
in ikaw lasa wairuun na.
For Radiyah thank you for sharing your story that was my inspiration for this Tarasul (Poetry in Bahasa Tausug, Southern Mindanao, Philippines)
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