What Is It, Really?

*Of how the break-up happened. I guess I just wrote it so as not to forget, because my relationship with him is not worth forgetting, good times and bad times alike. Also, I passed this for my Creative Writing 10 Character Sketch assignment, and I wrote this in class, the day of the deadline. I was forced to, 'cause it was the easiest thing to write about. Haha! It was vivid as it can be though it's one year after it all happened.

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I looked away from him, and stared at nothing in particular. I knew this wasn't going to be good when he told me we had to talk the next day, and left me alone without even saying goodbye. The moment was awkward, I don't even know if I was going to be happy or sad when he started to speak.

“I know you don't want to, but you have to let me go,” he said quietly. I stood there for a moment as I tried to digest the weight of that sentence. Could it be that easy? This time, I looked at him, at his eyes that usually softened when he sees me. There was nothing in there, or maybe a hint of painful indifference.

“Why?” I stammered. I had nothing to say except that, because it all came so suddenly.

“You wouldn't understand me if I told you.”

“Why do you always say that? You always think people won't understand you. I'm here. I may not know you as much as you know me, but I can understand you.”

“Let's just end this, okay?”

“No. What is it, really? Am I being so predictable now?”

“I just... I don't want you and your mom to fight anymore because of me. I don't want people judging me because of this relationship. It's getting wrong. We've isolated ourselves already. We're not growing.”

And then he walked away. Just like that. Starting that day, it was so easy for him to ignore me, to walk around the same halls as if I didn't exist, as if he hadn't heard of my name before. I knew life wouldn't stop just because we broke up, but self-pity got the best of me. I cried and made sure everyone knew I was depressed. While he went on with his life as if nothing happened, laughing and cracking up jokes more frequently. But I’ve seen his weary face when he comes home and have known his quietness when he’s with his family. Everyone thought he was happy and fine. Only both of us knew that he was not.

They judged him for breaking my heart. They judged him for all the wrong reasons I made them see. Weeks passed before he finally talked to me. Maybe because of the countless assumptions I've posted on my Facebook wall. My assumptions killed him. I couldn’t understand him so I generated my own conclusion as to why he suddenly broke up with me.

“I don't know if you're numb or just plain stupid.” he said. It was the first time I've ever received an insult from him.

“Excuse me?”

“I don't understand why there are weak people like you. Can't you just stop looking at the rear view mirror and fix your gaze straight ahead?”

“Now you're calling me weak. At least I'm not afraid of people judging me when I cry. At least I’m not pretending to have forgotten everything so quickly. At least I’m not locked up with the masculine norms you’re limiting yourself to.”

“You still don’t understand, do you?”

“What don’t I understand? Why don’t you just tell me?”

“You think you know everything. Now you’re hurt, you make assumptions and excuses just so you can say you know what I’m going through. Are you really insensitive? Can’t you see that your assumptions hurt me? Can’t you see how much it hurts when people judge me because of it? Can’t you trust that I can and I’m willing to wait for the right time? But now I’m hurt, and I don’t feel anything towards you but hatred.”

For the second time, I stood there beside him, speechless. I did digest everything he said immediately. I tried to find more excuses. He should’ve told me that long ago so I wouldn’t judge him, I thought to myself. I couldn’t understand how that transition happened. We had been so happy, and he had never shown pain. I tried saying sorry so many times, but I knew he thought I only wanted to bring him back.

I knew how his mind worked some times, but more often than not, I don’t. And I felt I had to run away. So I turned my back on him, because I knew my pride and his pride were holding us back. He never told me the real reasons; he kept me hanging and expected that I would understand in time. I never did, though. Maybe I really didn’t understand him after all, and maybe he was right to think that explanations are useless. We’ve only agreed to our faults; his fault was not providing me an explanation and mine was not trusting him.

But that was a long time ago, when I would rather have him hate me, than be apathetic towards me. I guess you could call us friends now. But I still couldn’t read him after everything we’ve been through. He remains a mystery. Even when we’re together, I’m not really sure if all the smile and laughter he’s showing is just another front he’s making.

Back to Basics

*Had a hard time with grammar on this essay. Ugh, please correct me if you find any wrong grammar lurking somewhere here. I would appreciate it. Submitted for my Creative Writing Travel Piece assignment. I love Baguio, and you don't know how much I really want to come back and study in UP Baguio again and see my spiritual family from Victory Baguio again. T_T

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I have a thing for cold, melancholic nights, when the temperature drops to 15 degrees Celsius and my feet won’t stop shaking. My first nights in Baguio were torture; I wanted to cry every single day. The wind told me that my ten-month stay will be very long.

At first glance, the summer capital seemed to be a very normal place giving you the unnecessary hassle of walking up and down the steep roads, not to mention the vehicles that would blow too much smoke on you every once in a while. The water was ice cold, and you won’t really need a refrigerator that much. I didn’t like SM City Baguio, and all the buildings standing there trying to transform the city into a very industrialized place. A lot of people also warned me to watch out for thieves in crowded places like the public market and Session Road. But despite of that, the locals of Baguio were very nice. Unlike the typical busy Manileños, they would really stop and listen to you for any queries, as if you’ve been friends with them before.

I stood in front of McDonalds one rainy night, wondering what I was doing in the north, miles away from my family. I found myself hailing for a taxi, as numerous snob drivers ignored me. There was always traffic lurking in Session Road, and I had no choice but to walk home. On most mornings, as I walked to school, I could literally see the air I breathe out. It must have been the low temperature.

I visited the pond near the Oblation statue frequently. There was peace and quiet in that place, away from the noisy students of UP Baguio. I met ate Len there, a campus minister from the church where I came from. She introduced me to people who became my friends; they made my succeeding months in Baguio seem too short. We ate together at fast food restaurants or carinderias every lunch and dinner. And did I mention that the locals cook very delicious food We often went down Session Road to buy the famous homemade frozen yogurt sold by a bar called “Rumours” where, people said, UP teachers hang out a lot.

I heard my classmates talk about partying ‘til they drop at Nevada. I’ve never been there, anyway. When our block had bonding sessions, I came with them to places such as Teacher’s Camp, The Mansion, Diplomat Hotel, and other baranggays, and discovered how big Baguio actually is. There was even a valley in Benguet called La Trinidad, which has quite a different temperature than Baguio on mornings, but way colder on evenings.

At days when boredom struck, I usually take the jeep to Loakan, and visit the Philippine Military Academy. They kept a historical account of the Armed Forces of the Philippines there. Soldiers were not my thing, but at least history is. I roamed around the museum and sometimes wished I could be one of the female marines. In late February, you would find no space at all. They closed main roads as people watched the famous Panagbenga Festival. I decided not to join, and had a photo shoot with my friends at Camp John Hay instead. The place was perfect for contrast in photos, because the historical place still had its original texture.

The cold, melancholic nights seemed to disappear as time passes by. Maybe I was getting used to it. If not, my resolution would be long walks late at night, with no idea of the direction where I was headed. After I got tired of walking, I just traced back my steps and went home. Recently though, my friends had kept me accompanied in coffee shops or competed with me on eating contests during buffet dinners at Ate Len’s house. Riding the jeep was the best part of getting to her house; I got to see all the shining lights at the bottom of the mountain from Marcos Highway on the way to Balacbac.

Before I went back to Makati, I went to Minesview Park first. That’s where you could find the cheapest strawberry jams and ethnic costumes, and that was when I was reminded that Baguio was not as normal as it seemed. The scenery was breathtaking, plus the feeling of being on top of the world. There was no place like Baguio. I guess it only got lonely when I was still a stranger in that cold land, but the people were nice, food was always great, and Baguio still had the knack of keeping me silent by way of nature.

The last time I went there, a private van drove me home, it was three in the morning, and there was no visible industrial light down Kennon Road. It felt good that at least some cities in the country still had traces of primitivism. People still walked as far as a jeep would take them. Igorots still paraded their costume -- their sense of culture. Flowers still bloomed amidst vehicle smoke. People still went to Burnham to jog on cold mornings despite the stink. They still spoke Ilocano even if Koreans or the Tagalogs were dominating the place. They still sold sundot kulangot, which was almost nonexistent in Manila these days. They still took pride in the beauty of the mountains, which was slowly diminishing.

I lasted for ten months in Baguio without even missing the mall, the internet, or the commercialized things I once got used to in the lowlands. I bet I’m more surprised right now than you are. So I stuck my head out one last time to see the way of life in Baguio and be reminded to go back to basics. I am definitely going back to that place again.

Staying Away from Pepper Sprays and Saliva

     “It’s either you take summer classes or you stay with grandma and grandpa in Nueva Ecija. You choose,” mom said. Let’s just say that there’s always finality lurking in the tone of her voice. It’s summer! Can I just not do anything at all? I mean, if I’d be taking summer class at this time, I’d be defeating the purpose of summer vacation. I’m not intending to study after being fed up last finals week. I heaved a sigh after hearing her say those words.

     Summer in Nueva Ecija sounds great, but it wasn’t an option. It was also this season last year when my family went there for a reunion. It wasn’t long until I fell in-love with the place, when I could just sit back on a haystack and enjoy a scenic view of the green grass stretching to infinity. And it also didn’t take long when I started watching the sunset hand-in-hand with someone else.

     His name is Miguel. He came up to me together with his carabao when he saw me fall off while farming which, not to mention, left me dripped in mud. He extended his hand and reached out to me to help me get up, but I ignored him. I can manage, thank you very much, I thought to myself. I guess you could call that girl power or pride or whatever. I walked away with an imprint of his medium-built body, his face, and his deep-set almond eyes on my head. It was stuck there since then.

     After meeting him that day, he always made it a point to talk to me before he goes home. He even invited me and my cousins to his house sometimes. Things happened fast. Well, we never crossed the line of holding hands, though. But I never knew what I was to him, and my giddiness overcame me, as always. There’s only a day left before I return to Manila. I had to meet him, I had to tell him I like him and I want to hear the same thing from him. I know it’s just a summer fling, but still, I couldn’t resist the temptation of hearing such words. Yes, so much for being conceited.

     I went over his house after sunset. Nobody was home, and the door was left open. I noticed it was always like that since I came there. I decided to wait for him; I have a few hours to spare anyway. He came home drunk. As soon as I stood up, he shoved my shoulders to the wall, and he… he… I can’t even bring myself to talk about it. I went back as if nothing happened, but I still feel his sweat and saliva drying up on my skin.

     When I was a child, I remember picking up something that seemed like a perfume bottle. My mom told me not to touch it, but I sprayed it on myself anyway. It was pepper spray, and I ended up feeling so hot and itchy, and I even got wounds from scratching myself. I wonder how some things that are so seemingly harmless could end up frustrating you for the rest of your life.

     “Nueva Ecija? I’ll pass. Greet grandma and grandpa for me, mom. I miss them. Summer class is going to be fun.” There was an unobvious sarcasm in my voice. But I think I know better to choose something seemingly harmful, in terms of stress, like summer class. That’s just for me, though.

*FICTION

The Makings of a Bloody Sandwich

     “Hey, please take care,” he said as he planted a kiss on the cheek of his girlfriend.

     “Of course I will,” she handed him a lunch box. “Here, I cooked something for you. I know you’re going to miss me.”

     “You shouldn’t have, I’ve already eaten.”

     “You’re a terrible liar, you know that? You can’t even cook.”

     He smiled, and took the lunch box. He knew he was going to miss her. He gave her a big hug before he rode the jeep. The ride was going to last for four hours, and it was going to be dead boring. There was nothing to see except for trees in this rural area. He had been contemplating about his life these days. Going to Mindanao was a choice out of nowhere. He didn’t really know why he studied in UP just to be miles away from his family, writing for his country.

     He thought his butt was growing numb. His legs were having cramps already. “Are we there yet?” he thought to himself. Yet he really didn’t care. He needed the money for his family, and he would go anywhere just to get a news story. Then he thought about his girlfriend, Serah. Her face was appearing in his head for the rest of the trip. It really wasn’t a mistake that he had gone in this place where he was a stranger. He wouldn’t have met her if it wasn’t for this choice.

     Abruptly, the jeep stopped moving. “Thank God,” he thought. He twisted his neck to take a look outside. They were in the middle of a rocky road surrounded by trees. He got the feeling that this wasn’t the place yet. There were only trees, and a road track of dust. There were armed men, more or less a hundred of them. He suddenly felt fear and curiosity at the same time. This could be the perfect news, but he wasn’t in a good position to start with.

      “Everyone, get off the jeep,” said one of them. “Get off the jeep now!” Several gunshots in the air followed.

     One by one, the passengers went down with hands held up high. He was holding the lunchbox. He didn’t know what was happening. “We’re going to be safe. We’re going to be safe,” he said to himself, like a silent litany. The armed men made them all line up. Again, he heard a ripple of gunshots, and blood splashed in every one of those shots. They blasted the head of the man next to him. Then his body budged. He was shot a number of times, like all the others. This time, he really went numb after he felt the pain. He fell on his knees, and then his face was on the ground. He kept looking at the lunch box just beside his face. It was open, chicken and rice scattered on the ground. She cooked Adobo for him, he had smelled it; how he wished he had eaten it. She cooks the best food ever. After a second or two, he passed out.

     Laughter was heard from the armed men. They were having fun, like it was all just a game. They ruled this place called Maguindanao. They had guns, and they had power. They shot everyone as if there was no tomorrow, as if there would never be a payback time.

     On November 23, 2009, the Maguindanao (Ampatuan) Massacre happened. It was noted as the single deadliest event for journalists in history by the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ). It happened just because of a challenge of candidacy in Elections 2010. Fifty-seven people died, twenty-eight were journalists. And this gave way for the Philippines to be called the second most dangerous country for journalists in the world.

     Journalists were killed. Women were shot on their sex organs. They all lay dead on the ground. Their helpless bodies were thrown in a deep pit. They were covered with soil. It was like the perfect way to make sandwich. Then, the next ingredients were the vehicles, thrown in just after their bodies. Again, it was covered with soil. The last bodies were thrown in again. And finally, a thick layer of soil. Yes, it was just like a sandwich.

References:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maguindanao_massacre

“Kung Paano Gumawa ng Sandwich” by John Levi Masuli; UP Baguio Outcrop November 2009 Issue