(2016) Heights Vol. 63, Seniors Folio

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heights seniors’ folio 2016 Copyright 2016 heights is the official literary and artistic publication and organization of the Ateneo de Manila University.

Copyright reverts to the respective ­authors and ­artists whose works appear in this issue. No part of this book may be r­ eprinted or reproduced in any means whatsoever ­w ithout the written permission of the copyright holder.

This publication is not for sale.

Correspondence may be addressed to: heights, Publications Room, mvp 202 Ateneo de Manila University p.o. Box 154, 1099 Manila, Philippines Tel. no. (632) 426-6001 loc. 5448 heights - ateneo.org Creative Direction, Cover, and Dividers

by Ida de Jesus and Renzi Rodriguez Layout by Ida de Jesus, Zoe de Ocampo, Geraldine Fajardo, Ninna Lebrilla, Cheska Mallillin, Marco T. Torrijos

Typeset in mvb Verdigris

Seniors Folio an anthology of seniors’ writing and art 2016

Contents Reina Krizel J. Adriano 2 Alunsina Departs the Station 3 Imahen 5 Aces Amor 8 The Legend of Claire Demanawa 9 Kjerrimyr R. Andrés 20 Blinds 23 Roxette Joy Angelia 26 The Makings of Dysfunction 29 Luis Wilfrido Atienza 32 Expedition 33 The Recovery 35 Shiph Belonguel 38 [A beautiful boy...] 39 After Kevin Carter 40 Christian Jil Benitez 42 Sa Ilalim ng Punong Namumulaklak 45 At Noong Binura Ko Ang Aking mga

Pahiyaw sa Ilalim ng

Punong Namumulaklak 53 Balang-Araw Mamahaling Kita ______ 55

Regine Cabato 58 Deliverance 61 Murphy’s Law 62 Tiffany Corrine Conde 66 I Dream of Genghis Khan 69 Modern Love 75 Catherina Dario 80 Manananggal 85 Luigi dela Peña 102 Ilang 105 Lihim 108 Rosario 110 Mark Christian Guinto 114 Balot 117 Emil Hofileña 120 Designated Driver 121 Jerome Ignacio 134 Perfecto Gomez: Bagong Bayani sa

Lansangan 135

Christine Imperial 174 Collections of Francesca 175 Jonnel Inojosa 180 At Nang Lumaki 181 Marc Christian M. Lopez 186 Katahimikan 189 Pagsusukat (Sistemang Metriko) 191 Halimaw sa Aking Loob 193 Alimpungat 195 Metropolis 197 Salita 198 Jeivi Nicdao 202 Hush 205 Sa Hindi Pag-alpas 209 Lubos 211 Caloy Reyes 214 Baon 215 Ray Santiago 218 Sa Paghuhulma 219

Francine Maria D. Sta. Ana 222 The best way to eat is bite off the

head first 223 Underworld 224 Ayana Tolentino 226 Girlhood 227 Joshua Uyheng 242 Protoevangelium 243 Creation of Man 244 Peavey F. Vergara 252 [Dark morning—...] 253 Manuel Iñigo A. Angulo 256 Foundation I 260 Madelaine Callanta 262 a trauma on the skin 263 god in three gradients 264 Louie Balboa Cartagena 266 Tiyanak 268

Caroline Carmona 270 Head In The Clouds 274 Juan Carlos Concepcion 276 Syncopation 278 Philip De La Torre 280 Ang Lagalag 282 Arianna Mercado 300 postcards (series) 302 where is everyone? 306 Josephus Theo Nugraha 308 Noodle Haus 310 What’s for Dinner? 311 Renzi Rodriguez 312 Iskrambol 314 Krysten Tan 316 Contact 320 Nicole Marie C. Vesagas 322 Burn (series) 323 float 326

Introduction From the beginning of the academic year, heights has invited its readers and the Ateneo community on the venture to the unfamiliar and to an engagement with local and national contexts. In our final folio, our contributors come from contexts are constantly changing, assuming their own unfamiliarities. This year’s graduates surfed through those shifts.

Batch 2016 is the first to graduate under the new academic calendar, resulting in the longest school year in university history. We are one of the last batches before the K-12 implementation and its consequent curriculum, which has fewer units for core subjects. Fresh off the national elections, we are also the first to graduate under a new presidency; in student affairs, we leave behind a new student government structure after consecutive failures of elections and the subsequent success of the Constitutional Convention. The batch will miss the warming of the anticipated Areté, and the Fine Arts Program’s first year as an official department. All around them, the tides of change are rolling—and they have fared it well, and made art in the process.

The works in this folio are a testament to change. That is to say, they are born out of change and they can document and even engage with it.

Art and literature often emerge from a stirring that is new, sometimes unfelt before, one that tugs and will not stop tugging until is written down or rendered on canvas. Art also interrogates and interacts with the unfamiliarities with which they are confronted. But amidst the shifting external climate, the works are also a form of permanence.

Immortalized in these pages are pieces from a specific time and place.

They capture stills, documenting moments in time that are fleeting in nature or that go unnoticed. Other times it is for specific moments of groundbreaking epiphany, changing the characters or personas for the long term. They are a testament of time.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · ix

The Seniors Folio—and indeed every heights folio—endeavors to be a testament of its time. The publication recognizes its archival function, and is constantly striving to be able to say with conviction: This is what art and literature looked like in the university at this point in history.

It is with this thought that we are delighted to present the contributors to this year’s Seniors Folio and their works. The selection ranges from frequent contributors to the newly published. While the publication is dismayed that some of those here may be published for the first and last time, we would also like to celebrate their debut. We would also like to encourage you to return: If you can, continue submitting to heights as alumni and being a part of the university’s growing artistic and literary community.

Moreover, we hope you continue your art. We hope that you will find—or make—the time and the space for it. In a possibly humdrum life after college, one of material conditions and routine that steals at time and stuffs it in cubicles, we hope that you will be blessed with a change for and of good, with a change that challenges, with a change that causes growth, and with a change that causes art.

Another generation of writers and artists are, once again, out on a venture to the unfamiliar. It has been a pleasure traveling with you all.

Regine Miren D. Cabato editor-in-chief June 2016

x · Introduction

Works

Reina Krizel J. Adriano

bsm applied mathematics / bfa creative writing

Si Reina ay magtatapos na sa kanyang unang kurso ngayong Hunyo 2016 at magpapatuloy sa Malikhaing Pagsulat sa susunod na taon.

Nagpapasalamat siya sa Palihang Bagwisang Filipino para sa mga komentong kanyang natanggap upang mapaayos pa ang “Imahen” at kina Stefani Tran at Stacey Dy para naman sa “Alunsina Departs the Station.”

Nagpapasalamat din siya sa mga taong nakasalamuha niya sa unang apat na taon niya sa kolehiyo—sa mga kakurso niya sa amf at Block X2 2016/2017, sa mga miyembro ng ams, heights, ACheS, at WriterSkill, at sa panelists at kapwa fellows niya sa ahww 20, iwp-Nonfiction 2015, at anww 14. Isinasapuso niya rin ang walang sawang suporta nina Thea Bonifacio, Aris Amor, Tracey dela Cruz, at Christian Benitez, at ang kalaunang pag-unawa ng kanyang mga magulang—sina Rey at Jelyn—sa kanyang naging desisyon. Hindi niya rin malilimutan ang araw na hinatak siya ni Martin Villanueva sa mundo ng cw at ang mungkahi nina Carlo Mallari at Reg Onglao na ipagpatuloy ang double-major na muntikan na niyang talikuran. Tatapusin niya ang ikalawang kurso para sa kanilang lahat.

Para sa mga munting kasiyahan sa kabila ng lahat ng kapaguran at pagdududa, sa mga munting pagtulak at minsanang pagtataya: salamat, salamat.

3 · Reina Krizel J. Adriano

I am reminded, once again, of distance, vis-à-vis the push and pull of time against this moment.

What it means to count days, now minutes,

to measure how far apart exactly do people seem on both sides of the rails.

Your name escapes me; this way I tell myself, You are not here, and so,

I have forgotten. I proceed to ask the man at the ticket area how long it takes to get to my destination. He doesn’t have time for this conversation, I presume; not enough to spend an eternity in a minute. Yet he answers: an hour.

Half an hour, if you’re lucky, he adds. The clock decides I won’t be. When I say destination, he thinks of a place and the time to reach it;

I dream of spaces not reaching each other instead. The person behind me coughs; I back off. People shift gazes in this tunnel faster than they move. Feigned calmness as they wait for their turn to board. What they don’t know:

they have taught me how to understand movements. Under these roofs where I am safe from heavy skies—

the thought of water against skin is petrifying because memory serves and fails, something retracts itself the minute I intend to articulate that feeling,

what of water, then. This rain reminds me that I’m supposed to be with someone, recreates a memory like a story I once knew or I think I have belonged to. Then again, I am not to be reminded

of what I know. Mister, would you please make room, just a little bit more? I am not

Alunsina Departs the Station

heights Seniors Folio 2016 ¡ 4

fond of touch. This contact of flesh against metal bars, the slight dapple of cheek against fabric, then: unfamiliar fingers,

suddenly, more sweat. Even the rain does not apologize for falling. This journey suspends operations. It is more afraid of collision than I am of returning. Should I also be unwanting of it. These days I can only be lucky with my safety.

People pretend to need the railings, anyway, but the irony behind it denies assurance. Movement ceases when bodies are in motion, like folklore,

like legends. Later, the isolation is a prelude to freedom. The rain hitting the roof of this train.

This train, hiding from it, too. Outside:

ghostly cities. Inside, permit me to see reflections. Mere faces of the undead.

Something tells me I am starting to act like them. This ride teaches me

how to be familiar with strangers,

how to be familiar with myself.

Imahen Laging nakakuwadro ang larawan ng isang mukha sa dingding.

Dahil hindi hiyang ang mukhang ito sa anumang nasa labas ng obra, hindi ka maaaring lumapit kahit gaano pa man katindi ang iyong pagnanais. Bulong kasi ng iba, mayroong tamang pagpapahalaga, natutunan ang tamang pagtangkilik. Marahil nalimutan na rin ng pintor kung papaano ang paglikha sa piyesa at ang pagdaplis ng kanyang kamay sa obra ay hindi na rin maituturing na alaala. Kung maaari mang makaalam ang piyesa, ang tanging alam nito ay ang pagpaspas lamang ng tagalinis sa duming nakapalibot sa kanya. Kaya’t ikinukuwadro ang mukhang nakalahad sa larawan sa ibang paraan.

Mayroong iba’t ibang klase ng pagtitig ngunit nananatili ang larawan sa kanyang kinalalagyan. Wala pa ring banta sa iyong pagtitig na ang pagtitig sa litrato ay ang pagkulong pa rin sa nakalipas. Ito ang pagtuklas—tuwing pinagmamasdan mo sa sulok ng museo ang mukha at ang diwa ng mukha, tuwing pinag-iisipan mo kung nalulumbay o nalulugod nga ba ang naglalarong ngiti sa mukhang ito. At mayroon namang hindi pinipiling magmasid. Sa palagay kasi nila, ang pagtitig ay isang katumbas ng paghanga. Marahil natatakot silang manampalataya, o sumamba, o umasa. Ang hindi nila natatanto: ang palagiang pagtitig ng imahen sa kanilang pagdaan. Lumilipas ang panahon ngunit hindi maaaring kumupas ang obra. Darating ang oras ng paglisan ng mga matang nakapinid ngunit kung sa nakaraan o sa mismong katayuan man iyon, hindi na ito mahalaga. Kailangan pa ring magpatuloy ang pagtingin ng imahen sa kawalan. Ang pagkawala ng iyong pagtangkilik sa kanyang porma, ang palagiang pagmulat ng kanyang mga mata. Binibigyang-atensyon ang obra ngunit madalas hindi lubos ang pag-unawa. May bibig ang kanyang mukha subalit hindi kailanman maaaring magsalita. Kung may salita mang mabuo, o kung may kwento mang mabanggit, hindi ito maaaring kuwestiyunin ng larawan. Lalo pang humihingi ng kahulugan ang larawan. Bihirang

5 · Reina Krizel J. Adriano

pinipintasan ngunit alam mong hindi perpekto ang obra. Maaaring may mensahe ito sa lahat ng matang nakapinid dito, maaaring ibang mensahe pagdating sa iyo, subalit ito ang sikreto: sa minsang pag-alala o paggunita, sa minsang paglimot at pag-iwas, walang puwedeng umangkin sa mukhang ito, walang maaaring humipo.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 ¡ 6

Aces Amor

ab development studies

Aces takes solace in how, no matter the words, a bio can never truly express the matter and depth of gratitude, and makes it a point to be presently thankful. For those who have chosen to share time.

The Legend of Claire Dimawala lunchtime on a Thursday. It’s been almost half an hour since philosophy class, and I see her eating an ampc sisig rice meal at the corner of a nearby table. After claiming my drink, I approach and ask if I could join her; she smiles and pulls a chair up. I unpack my baon of bangsilog and atsara, and we eat in silence for all of ten minutes.

“You sat in philo class earlier, didn’t you?” I ask upon finishing my meal, and she dabs her lips while nodding her head. “Yeah,” she says, “but we’re classmates. I just like sitting at the back.” I take a sip of my coffee boomba before asking, “Then why have I not seen you before?”

She laughs again—her crystalline breath making the air light—and teases, “Well, maybe because that was your first time seated at the back. Why always so late to philo, huh?” She frowns for a beat and then smiles as if she had not said anything. I tell her I’d rather not talk about it, and, “Oh, yeah, call me Ace.” “Nice to meet you, Ace. But why did the beadle call you Aris at the end of class?” Another beat—this time on my part. Some words stumble out of my mouth before I can evaluate them. “Err, it’s a familiar nickname.

I have this thing where I don’t like my name misspelled on coffee cups, and my name is full of the letter A, so why not?” She laughs again at the end of my stammering. “A-R-I-S, right?” she asks. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

She waves the question off as she lifts her cup of iced tea to drink, and I decide to leave it at that. As she sets the cup—now empty of its contents—down, she offers her right hand, “I’m Claire, by the way.”

I shake her hand and think about the etymology of her name, about how apt it is with her laugh. Then without further thought, I blurt out, “That’s a great name. Mind if I use it in a short story I’ve been working on?”

9 · Aces Amor

She rests her right hand back down on the table and gives me a look as if to say she is considering it. “Oh-kay,” she enunciates, “but only if you let me read the story.” Her counter-offer is fair enough, I figure.

I pack my baunan and grab my netbook. As I wake it up, I warn her, “The story is not finished yet—it’s still just a draft. There are some things I need to fix, and the name of the protagonist is one that you just helped me with. Thank you!” She assures me that it’s okay—that she won’t judge the draft. I ctrl+H all instances of Dimawala into Claire Dimawala—expanding the title to those same two words—before passing my netbook over to Claire to read.

The sculpture garden shimmered under the light of the late afternoon sun, with pink-painted metal overcome by the dance of electric tangerine.

The pale wind blew the sparse canopy of akasya, scattering fading rays of quartz on to the greyscale pebbles below. The anito called Hinanap breathed its diurnal breath, dissipating the tropical heat if only for a few moments. As if on cue, the buildings came alive with the persistent ditonal sounds that herald the masses of people—the periodic exhale of hollow rooms. It was a Wednesday, and Claire Dimawala made her way to Hinanap from last period.

With a backpack slung over one shoulder, Claire Dimawala strode along the stretch of red brick and stopped just shy of the old library building, right at the mouth of the sculpture garden. She sat on one of the benches in the garden and watched as the flow of people dwindled into trickles. At the second bell, Claire Dimawala picked up a pair of pebbles—one black, one white—and whispered into them in a strange tongue. She slipped them into the nooks of her ears and called out to Hinanap. The pebbles vibrated in response, and Claire Dimawala smiled.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 10

“Been a while, Hinanap,” Claire Dimawala said as she closed her eyes, “I think I need your advice again.” In the dark of her eyelids came small twinkles of light, and the pebbles hummed in response, “Claire Dimawala. The prodigal one. Speak on.”

“Ever since I returned, my parents think that I don’t mean it when I say I’ll run away again. Not even the guy I’m dating takes me seriously when I tell him about my issues at home. He just tells me about his own issues. It’s as if I’m turning invisible, except maybe with the ears.

People don’t listen to me anymore. Am I really that inconseque—” “Claire Dimawala,” Hinanap murmured through the pebbles. “You say you ask for advice. Instead you speak. Not about the issue. But around it.” Hinanap shuddered, and a nearby akasya let fall a few leaves—one grazed Claire Dimawala on the shoulder. She let out a sigh, “It’s like, all these people I know, who know me... their lives would go on without me. How do I even begin to deal with this?”

Her eyes still closed, Claire Dimawala watched the pins of light dance behind her eyelids, awaiting the response of Hinanap. A cool wind moved in from the West, chilling Claire Dimawala, who then opened her eyes to the final swathes of crimson giving in to the deep periwinkle of night. “Hinanap?” she called out, but the rock garden was still. “Hinanap?” Claire Dimawala called out again, watching the small motes of dust dance about her backpack in their intricate jamboree.

Claire Dimawala was just about to pick out the pebbles from her ears when Hinanap grazed her shoulder with another falling akasya leaf. “Go to the forgotten pond. In the forest. There you will find.

A guardian. You must fight. This night.”

“Fight?” Claire Dimawala was lost at this advice. “What if I don’t fight?” She stood as if to express her indignation, but Hinanap murmured, “You will fight. You will understand. Claire Dimawala.”

“But why?” Claire Dimawala muttered under her breath. “And why this night?” Hinanap rustled the pods of akasya seeds, letting the ground hiss at the incessant questions. Claire Dimawala sat back down and returned the pebbles. After some time, she slung her backpack over one shoulder and bowed absently on her way out. It seemed her feet knew exactly where to take her, and they led Claire Dimawala through 11 · Aces Amor

the Lovers’ Lane to the forest.

“Okay,” she starts, “what is up with that anito? The way you describe Hinanap—is it even an anito?” The question surprises me, as she seems to be asking while rereading a few paragraphs. “I based Hinanap on a class of formless anito I read about in a book. The book is called Mga Anitong Nananatili. I don’t think the library has a copy of it, though. Formless anito inhabit specific geographical locations and can manipulate nature in those places.”

She is still tapping up and down, biting her lips and furrowing her brow. She nods slowly, “Mm-kay. Just needed some time to wrap my head around that. I was wondering why Hinanap couldn’t just manifest in the sculptures or something.” She resumes tapping the down key, asking what I assume to be a rhetorical question: “Did you have to memorize that description verbatim?”

Claire Dimawala paused at the border of the forest, its trees looming as if ready to crush her. Without warning, leaves swirled about her ankles, accruing more leaves until a humanoid form became of the leaves. Claire Dimawala, in her bewilderment, took a step back, and the creature leapt up to her shoulder and stroked her ear lobe. “There,” it squealed, “now you can hear me!”

Claire Dimawala shook in surprise, dropping the creature to the ground. “What the hell?” she cried out, “Who the hell are you?” She was still jerking violently when the creature replied, “Hinanap has instructions for me to aid you in your quest. By now you must have an idea what I am called.”

“Tinaya,” Claire Dimawala heard herself say. “But how do I know that?”

“Some things you know in your heart,” Tinaya responded cheekily.

“Now how about it?” it added while gesturing to the forest. Claire Dimawala brushed herself off and followed Tinaya in silence.

Tinaya made little sound itself, with its footsteps the whispers of crunching leaves. They made their way through the forest on the path of red and grey bricks, each successive step seeming to take longer than the last. They passed over a small creek with murky water, its heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 12

path obscured by concrete. Looming on their left was a void in the soil.

It was surrounded by desiccated brambles of bushes and parched roots of surrounding trees.

“Hey, Tinaya,” Claire Dimawala hesitated, “why would I need your help? No offense.” Tinaya paused, turning around to face Claire Dimawala. “Because you are not familiar with the guardian you are about to face,” it said. “All you really know about us anito comes from a book and the one or two you have already met.”

She gives me back my netbook and tells me that she’s done reading.

“I don’t like cliffhangers,” she comments, “and it could still use some work.” I ask her what I can improve on, and as we set aside the flatware, she says she’ll give me some critique if I walk her to her next class. “Come on, we can pass through the forest. My next class is at the back of ctc.”

By the time we reach the back of ctc, she had given me at least a dozen points for revision, and the first bell had yet to go off. We drop our bags on the nearest stone benches and stay a while in silence—I peruse through the draft and insert some comments corresponding to her critique. “It’s still completely up to your discretion,” she assures me.

“So, this book—how did you come by it?” Her brow is only slightly furrowed, and I detect some note of urgency in her voice. “It’s a family heirloom,” I reply, “but I am not sure how it even came to my family.

Why do you ask?”

“Nothing, I was just curious.” The silence persists, and she takes out a notebook, scribbling into it, presumably to pass the time until the bell rings.

“So you’ll help me fight this guardian?”

“In a way,” Tinaya said, “but, as you can see, I am of feeble form right now. I am afraid I can only go as far as moral support, aside from providing you with invaluable information on the state of things.”

“Also, how will fighting a guardian anito help me figure out my place in the world?” Claire Dimawala asked, pointedly. Tinaya smirked before responding, “It’s not about the guardian, Claire Dimawala, but about what the guardian guards.”

13 · Aces Amor

Claire Dimawala let out a groan in frustration. “I was so looking forward to hitting stuff. Do I still get to do that?”

“You may if you want—” “Great! I’ll do that, then.” Claire Dimawala resumed walking, with Tinaya following closely behind, the crunching of its steps now joined by the brisk clacking of boot soles.

The blanket of night made the pit look deeper than it was, but Claire Dimawala saw in it an onyx glint. “That,” Tinaya started, “is what you are looking for.” Claire Dimawala jumped into the pit, reaching out to the source of the luster. “So much for that guardian,” she chided, but the object eluded her grip. “If only it were that simple,” Tinaya responded. “Now what is the name of the guardian?”

“Does it matter?” muttered Claire Dimawala. At that moment, she started to sink into the soil beneath her, and the object shot up into the air. Claire Dimawala clambered up from the pit before the softening soil could swallow her up. She glanced up at where the object went, and saw the luster coming from atop one of the nearby trees. Claire Dimawala could not see what exactly the object was in the darkness, and the starlight confused her even more.

“Two o’clock!” Tinaya shrieked, and before Claire Dimawala could react, she felt something whack her on the right cheek, knocking her down. “Nine-thirty!” This time, Claire Dimawala rolled away, then she noticed that the roots of the trees were animated and were after her.

“Is this the guardian, then?” she hollered at Tinaya. “Yes! Five o’clock!”

The root was coming in for a low strike, and Claire Dimawala jumped over it. She glanced up and saw the object seeming to hover over a nearby tree and evaded another root so she could climb up.

As soon as Claire Dimawala cleared the thrashing roots, she was met with a barrage of leaves falling from branches coming out from stasis. She held on to the trunk of the tree for as long as she could, but even the trunk was jerking violently.

“Any advice for when I’m being attacked by trees, Tinaya?” she yelled with her eyes closed and her grip slackening. Tinaya hopped up on various moving tree parts until it was standing on the shoulder of Claire Dimawala. “Try asking nicely. You do know the guardian’s name now.” heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 14

Claire Dimawala fell screaming to the ground, with Tinaya drifting as leaves down and landing nearby. The roots started to grab at her ankles, and so Claire Dimawala thrashed about to shake herself free.

“Please,” she screamed, “I already know your name.”

The trees were still once more, and the animated appendages retreated slowly. In her left ear, Claire Dimawala heard the voice of Kinaligtaan say, “Speak it, my name. I will speak yours.”

“Kinaligtaan,” she spoke as she propped herself up.

“Claire Dimawala,” Kinaligtaan uttered, “if you seek the treasure I watch over, then you are free to claim it.” Before she could snark back, Tinaya cut in, “It’s not that high of a climb, is it?”

Claire Dimawala was sore and bleeding from cuts, but she obliged and proceeded to climb the tree she had fallen off from. The treasure was within sight at the top of the trunk. She reached out to a high branch and found it solid. Claire Dimawala examined it by the moonlight—a bracelet of some sort, made from strips of lustrous black metal woven into each other. It was so smooth as to reflect even the twinkling stars.

After climbing back down, she asked Tinaya what it was. “You might want to ask Hinanap about that. I think my job here is done.”

The form of Tinaya burst back into a pile of leaves, and the last stray root found its nook.

Claire Dimawala called out to Kinaligtaan, asking about the bracelet, but heard no response. Only a faint wind blowing in from the south.

“I have a question,” she says in the middle of scribbling. “Is the bracelet considered anting-anting?” I respond in the affirmative, and she asks, “Then why not call it that in the story?”

“Because I don’t think it counts as anting-anting when it is not corporeal at all times,” I respond. She seems to accept this answer and resumes her scribbling. “I still think it counts as anting-anting,” she says, loud enough for me to hear it. I chuckle.

“What are you writing?” I ask. “Notes,” she quips. I leave her to it, taking out a book from my bag and proceeding to read. A few pages in, she asks about which book I’m reading for philo. I raise the book

15 · Aces Amor

I’m holding, and she shrugs, “I chose the first thing on the list, and I’m already halfway through. I guess we can’t be groupmates, then.”

“Yeah, I guess not.”

As she sprinted back to the sculpture garden, Claire Dimawala noticed that her wounds were disappearing, as if the coagulating blood was retreating back into her skin. Halfway through Lovers’ Lane, it was as if she had not been injured. “Thanks,” she said, assuming her healing to be the work of an anito.

Claire Dimawala slowed down, and by the time one of her feet crossed the threshold into the sculpture garden, she heard Hinanap.

“Claire Dimawala. New keeper. Of the Panlimot.”

“The what, now?” Claire Dimawala asked, splaying herself on a bench.

“That bracelet. Wear. Touch others. Left. And they forget. Who you are. Right. And they remember. Your name. Choose wisely.”

Claire Dimawala traced the edges of the bracelet as she slipped it on to her wrist. As soon as she let go, it dissolved into her skin, appearing as an intricate tattoo separating her forearm from her palm. She remained silent, the wind still blowing motes around her. “So the choice. Has been made. Claire Dimawala. Go now.”

She rose from the bench, slinging her bag over one shoulder, and walked into the night.

“So that’s the forgotten pond over there, right?” she asks, pointing with her pen at a pit in the soil, “I could have sworn in your writing that it looked different.” I laugh, and she just smiles. “Yeah,” I add, lowering my book, “there used to be streams in this area that would collect at two ponds—this one, and the one over where the new library building is.

The one over there was called Meron Pond, and the fountains on the ground floor are a tribute to it. This pond wasn’t as popular, I guess.

I remember reading somewhere about how this area used to be swa—” “Wait,” she interjects, “that seems like a lot to take in all at once.”

She laughs her laugh yet again, and I turn sheepish. “It’s fine, though,” she reassures me. “I think the bell is about to—”

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 16

“Oh, yeah,” I start, picking up my bag. “How about I walk you to your classroom?” She nods, putting away her things. The bell goes off, and we have to navigate a short path through the swelling throngs of people. She points at a door, and I open it for her, lingering for a little while at the threshold.

She takes me by my wrist with her left hand and thanks me. “It was an eventful lunch.” I agree, and she goes on, “Guess I’ll see you after class next time.”

At the second bell, I make my way to the cafeteria for a late lunch.

17 · Aces Amor

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 18

Kjerrimyr R. Andrés ab political science

Hanapin si Kej habang nawawala sa Maynila o sa anumang bayan sa Filipinas, naghahanap ng mga bahay-na-bato, lumang simbahan, at historical marker. Therapeutic para sa kaniya ang paglalakad at pagdanas ng lungsod—habang nagagalit sa neoliberalismo at sa urban planning (o kawalan nitó) ng bansa.

Sa puwang na ito, nais kong magpasalamat. Una, kay Jian Yumol (bs hs 2013), matalik na kaibigang nambola upang mag-Ateneo. Nanay at Tatay. Mga Sir at Ma’am Vene, Popa, Pulan, RR, Oris, Salazar, Abao, Banasihan, Cande, Lim, Ocampo, Lagliva, Lao, Tolosa, Manzanilla, Calano, Bolano, Cogburn, Fr. Catalan, Dean Cande, at marami pang iba. Ma’am Sally at Kuya Resty. José Rizal, bílang iyong numero unong fanboy. Virgilio Almario at Nick Joaquin. Kant at Aristoteles.

Ateneo Assembly at Baybayin, lalo na’t nanilbihang punòng stalker at taga-away (Director of Research and Advocacy) ng dalawang ‘to.

ConCon. Heritage Conservation Society-Youth at Children’s Museum and Library, Inc. Nais ko ring magpasalamat sa Office of Campus Ministry at kay Sir Gotidoc sapagkat naisulat ang akdang isinumite habang nag-a-rdl (retreat in daily life).

Pati rin sa aking high school: Paaralang Lourdes ng Mandaluyong.

Nang pinili ng Heswitang Santo Papa ang pangalang “Franciscus,” napahalagahan ko lalo ang mga turo nina Francisco at Ignacio.

Salamat din sa lahat ng alaala sa apat na taon sa Ateneo. Masasaya, gaya ng naging karanasan ni idol. Kay sarap talagang maging (Jeje) nista. Ibig ulitin, ngunit, consummatum est.

Non sub homine sed sub Deo et lege. Para sa Diyos at bayan(g aking asawa).

Lagi.

Blinds Kung ano pa ang nakikita, may kadiliman; Kung ano naman ang tagô, naliliwanagan.

23 • Kjerrimyr R. Andrés

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 24

Roxette Joy Angelia ab psychology

“At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.”

—T.S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton” in Four Quartets *** I’m not good with the ~senti~ stuff, but I want to express my gratitude to the following individuals and groups that have been a part of my four years in Ateneo: To my Overly-Attached Friends: Aileen, Alyanna, Ayana, Clarice, Syd, Tricia, and YL. I'm sorry. I’ll always be here for you. I love all of you to death.

To my eternal support baes: Christian, future National Artist in Literature, and Syd. I am always so proud of you two. There’s still half a year to make #LoveLife2016 happen. Chekka.

To Fil-Honors 2012-2013: Ameera, Benro, Christian, Earl, Gilana, Hovve, Jeuel, Karla, Leslie, Misha, Nep, Pam, Patty, Robbin, Syd,

Tricia, Ygi, and YL. No matter where each of you may be now, may our tubero days never die.

I am also thankful to have been part of the following: Block Y 2016, M03 2012-2013, jsp3 A Sem 1 A.Y. 2015-2016, Team Gangstar 2015, Kythe-Ateneo, Matanglawin Ateneo, Baybayin, and the Loyola Schools Assessment Team. Shoutout also to the #Familton, you crazy bunch.

To dear friends, acquaintances, Jollibee buddies, etc. in heights Ateneo, in particular the following awesome people: Manuel, Jeivi, Josh, Regine, Cathy, Nikki, Mayelle, Phil, Renzi, Krysten, Selina, Jonnel, Reina, Marc, Karla, Paula, and Oey. To all my professors, for being instrumental in my learning and development as a person. To the oaa, for the blessing of my scholarship and an Atenean education.

To my Ma and Pa, for making it possible for me to be me; to my sister, my true sunshine.

And always, always, to God, for every single day of my life.

The Makings of Dysfunction

The biting cold was gone in a snap.

No one talked about it: not the weatherman, the news always, always telling of other trainwrecks, betrayals, mudslingers.

Not my mother or father, as they, laughing, took the coats off each other’s backs for the last time that winter, the hallway light making the coat stand glint like metallic thorns.

Not me, but always watching, always waiting, for a pause that would give it away at the dinner table, for a light in the house that someone left on, for unfamiliar scents lingering in the waters.

The closet where we keep our coats rattles on its hinges, splinters breaking off the doorframe from the force with which it was last slammed closed.

I can tell by the way my mother now makes our beds too tidy and our coffees too sweet that she’s filling the cracks in the wall with honey plaster.

There are no chinks in my father’s smiles, gone are the wrinkles on his shirt that my mother ironed smooth.

We are nowhere near finding out which one of us is the biggest pretender.

In the evening my mother asks me why I keep turning to the news, but I am my father’s daughter and say I’m still waiting for word about the cold that was gone in a snap.

29 · Roxette Joy Angelia

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 30

Luis Wilfrido Atienza

bs biology, minor in creative writing

Billy is, if you’re reading this, no longer a student studying Biology.

Crazy, right?

Thank you to heights; all the people, in all its incarnations. Five years is a long time, but if you told me I could do this for another five, I’d say yes in a heartbeat.

Thank you to all my friends. You know who you are. All the usual stuff.

Let’s hang out soon.

Won’t name any names here; there’s too much to be said. If you would like a more personal message, let’s do lunch some time.

This is the final call for big ups (“props,” “shout-outs”). Fist bumps will no longer be available from my office from this point forward.

Electronic double high fives will be made available instead. Or, call.

Later, friends.

Expedition Let’s imagine for a second that you’d come with me if I asked. Don’t worry about packing, I think we can buy what we need when we get there.

I’d imagine this is a journey that begins on a dock.

We’d have to take a boat to get there, probably planes don’t go that far out.

Let’s imagine that you showed up on time, that all this goes off without a hitch.

What I’m offering you is an adventure: Come watch the snow never melt.

Six months, maybe twelve.

Let’s imagine that I asked at all.

They say that you can get lost, that you can’t tell how far things are from you. But we can navigate with the stars, the sun is down for months at a time.

And how hard can it be to build an igloo for shelter?

To share chocolate bars we’d hide in our coats, until rescue comes on dogsled.

33 · Luis Wilfrido Atienza

Let’s imagine it’s cold enough to freeze clocks back home.

I wouldn’t expect you to stay if your work starts calling, or you start to miss the sun.

I know you’ll be able to find your way back by yourself. I’ll try to send you a text every so often, in the snow I’ll walk in circles, and pretend to follow your footsteps.

I’ll imagine that you had come with me, I’ll have all the time in the world.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 34

The Recovery “We weren’t really expecting to find anything. The conventional wisdom had been, until recently, that there were very few consequences.”

—Timothy Mousseau, on his first visit to the Chernobyl exclusion zone It comes off of everything here: tips of antlers, horses’ hooves.

They can’t be fine on their own.

Before we jump to conclusions, we should start small: dragonflies, spiders, birds, before we move on to wolves, deer, wild horses.

Case in point. Our maps are colored red where radiation is stronger. The birds are fewer there, their feathers are bent.

We think the mammals follow this map as well, but count the tracks, you’ll see that there are many of them now.

Don’t forget that irradiated spiders weave strange webs; they collapse around antlers. Tests on elk meat show increased levels of radiation, which means not safe to eat. Still, even birds with misshapen tail feathers fail to fall out of the sky, and we let that give us hope.

The cameras we left behind give us data:

35 · Luis Wilfrido Atienza

Today, one deer, a wolf, a pack of wild horses and all the courage we ascribe to them.

Tomorrow, we head in, dosimeters at the ready, check the cameras, hang up microphones.

We try not to linger and rush home to process our data.

Meanwhile, the wolves prey on elk, the elk forage for mushrooms, mushrooms absorb the fallout.

Meanwhile, we argue about the birds, if they will ever recover, and if we can stop feeling sorry for all this.

Papers are published, conclusions are drawn, forest engulfs the city.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 36

Shiph Belonguel ab development studies

Thanks are due to each and every professor, orgmate, random person who found their way into my life in the last four years, but especially to: Sir Leland dela Cruz, for introducing me to Development Studies.

Sir Allan Popa, for introducing me to Poetry.

Gabayanos, for keeping me grounded.

ConCon Central Team and Delegate Assembly, for allowing me to imagine.

Josh and Jeivi, for agreeing to take care of my offspring in the event of my death.

Best friends, Cebu and ncr chapter, for keeping me sane.

Hello, Shan, Meyn, EJ, and Rob. Rafa, for being Rafa.

Mother, for allowing me to be who I am today.

A beautiful boy drives me home almost every day. Some days he wishes not to deal with the guards; I understand. He parks right outside the village, walks out, and walks with me the rest of the way. Some days, we stay in, take twenty turns around because conversation is too important not to have. Each time, he walks back and drives home alone. I wonder if it ever gets lonely.

John Wayne Gacy Jr. asked for his last meal: a bucket of KFC Original Recipe Chicken, twelve fried shrimp, french fries and a pound of strawberries. He was an overweight man who managed a KFC and forced himself on teenage boys. Teenage boys with cars and summer jobs and girlfriends who wondered about what they last ate.

39 · Shiph Belonguel

After Kevin Carter Eyes rifle-keen on target, the vulture and I stalk the child face to the ground, all hands, feet, knees and elbows, crouched into himself. His head, digging through, heavier than the rest of him.

Aperture. Things that close in on themselves. I insert myself where I can. I adjust my lens.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 40

Christian Jil Benitez ab literature (filipino), minor in creative writing “Sapagkat sa loob ng panahon, ang bawat segundo ay mayroong maliit na pinto na maaring paglagusan ng Mesiyas.”

—Walter Benjamin, Hinggil sa Konsepto ng Kasaysayan, salin ni Ramon Guillermo Si Christian Benitez ay kasalukuyang patnugot para sa transit at naging patnugot ng Bagwisang Filipino ng heights. Naging fellow siya para sa tula sa Ingles at Filipino sa iba’t ibang palihan, nagawaran ang kanyang tula ng parangal sa Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, Maningning Miclat Poetry Awards, at Loyola Schools Awards for the Arts. Sa ngayon (ibig sabihin, sa bawat pagbasa ng talang ito), nais niyang pasalamatan ang lahat ng mga nagbukas ng pinto para sa kanya, muli at muli, sa iba’t ibang pagkakataon sa nakalipas na apat na taon.

Sa Kagawaran ng Filipino, na kumupkop sa akin at nagturo ng pagmamahal sa panitikan; lubos na pasasalamat kina Sir Derain, Doc Je, Ma’am Ulit, Sir Aris, Sir Popa, Sir Maki, Sir Egay, Sir Ariel, Ma’am Kristine, Sir Jett, Sir Gary, Sir Jason, at Miss Julz. Kay Sir Joseph, sa tahimik na pag-aalaga sa amin. Kina Ate Mel at Kuya Allan, sa parating mainit na pagtanggap sa akin. Kay Ma’am Beni, sa lahat ng pagbabahagi at sa pagsulat sa “Sa Aking Mangingibig,” na nagtulak sa akin na magtangkang tumula. Kay Sir Vim, sa pakikinig sa lahat ng kahibangan ko at tumulong sa akin sa pagbukas ng sanlibong pinto sa pag-aaral.

Sa Fine Arts Program, na tumulong sa paghubog sa akin at sa lahat ng pagtatangka ko sa pagsulat. Kina Sir Mark at Sir Martin, sa kanilang pagtuturo sa akin sa disiplina ng malikhaing pagsulat. Kay Ma’am Nikay, sa kanyang pakikinig at pagturo sa akin sa isang napakahalagang payo (“Be water, my friend,” mula kay Bruce Lee).

Sa lahat ng aking mga naging guro na nagbigay-daan sa pagpapalalim ng sarili, lalo na kay Doc Gus, sa pagtuturo ukol sa kabuuan, pag-ibig, at pag-asa; kay Sir Bobby Guev, sa lahat ng karunungan, katanungan, at bagabag; at (Sir) Ray, para sa pagpapaalala sa akin sa isa ring napakahalagang payo (“Let it go,” mula kay Elsa).

Sa heights, na kumanlong sa akin sa malaking bahagi ng buhaykolehiyo, sa bawat alaala sa pubroom; pasasalamat lalo na sa huling dalawang patnugutan, sa hirap at ginhawa, sa bangayan at halakhakan.

Sa Bagwisang Filipino, sa lahat ng bagay na hindi ko na mababanggit pa (dahil ganoon naman talaga yata ang mga pinakamagagandang bagay).

Kina Ace, Abner, Gwen, Ariane, Matt, Nicko, at Pao, sa inspirasyon.

Kay Selina, sa tahimik na pagkakaibigan. Kay Reina, sa pagtawid-tawid sa iba’t ibang bagay. Kay MarcLo, sa lahat ng angst. Kay Oey, sa lahat ng feelings. Kay Martina, sa lahat ng feelings. Kay Jonnel, sa lahat ng feelings. At kay Jeivi, sa lahat.

Sa aking mga pinakamatatalik na kaibigan, na nakita ako sa iba’t ibang anyo. Sa Fil-H 2012-13, sa bawat pagkikita natin sa McDo at sa bawat pagkaudlot ng mga plano; espesyal na pagbanggit kay Ameera, sa bawat sabaw na pag-uusap, at kina Syd at Rox, sa bawat sabay na pag-uwi… at iba pang mga bagay.

Sa aking mga magulang, sa kanilang yakap na muli’t muli kong inuuwian.

At sa lahat ng mananatiling hindi ko rito papangalanan o mapapangalanan, sa bawat segundo at magbubukas pa lang na pinto.

Sa Ilalim ng Punong Namumulaklak Noong sinabi niya sa aking, Tatakbo ako kasama ka, alam kong hinding-hindi na ako makahihindi pa. At bago pa man ako makapagdalawang-isip, nadatnan ko na lang ang sarili kong hinahabol siya. Nadatnan ko na lang ang sarili kong humahabol sa gitna ng mga kalsadang walang laman. At bagaman hinahabol ko siya, hindi rin kami isang larawan ng paghahabulan: hinahabol ko siya at nagpapahabol siya, ngunit hindi dahil sa ayaw niyang mahabol ko siya. Tumatakbo lang kami nang may sapat na layo sa pagitan naming dalawa. Kung kaya bagaman hinahabol ko siya, sapat nang masabing sabay kaming tumatakbo. Sabay kaming tumatakbo, bagaman hindi magkapantay—siya sa aking unahan, at ako sa kanyang likuran. Ganito kami tumakbo. At tumakbo nga kami nang tumakbo, at hindi ko na nagawang maisip pa kung bakit nga ba walang laman ang mga kalsadang tinatakbuhan namin. Ang alam lang namin, tumakbo kami.

Kaya tumakbo lang kami nang tumakbo, hanggang humahagibis na lang ang liwanag ng mga ilaw-poste sa gilid ng aming mga paningin.

Hanggang sa tuluyang mawala na ang mga liwanag ng mga ilaw-poste maging sa gilid ng aming mga paningin. Hanggang sa bumalik din ang mga ito, at mawala muli. Tumakbo kami nang tumakbo hanggang sa hindi ko na sila napansin. Tumakbo kami nang tumakbo nang walang hinto, nang animo hindi ko magagawa kailanman ang huminto.

Tumakbo kami hanggang sa naramdaman kong lumipas na ang mahabang panahon. Tumakbo kami nang tumakbo hanggang sa madatnan na lang naming lumipas na ang mga taon. At saka ko nakuhang huminto. Napahinto ako sapagkat doon ko lang naramdaman ang bigat ng panahon, sa mga binti kong pagal na, sa mga lalamunan kong natutuyo na, sa mga baga kong pilit naghahabol pa rin ng hininga. Doon ako napaupo. Hindi ko alam kung nasaan kami, ngunit doon ako sa ilalim ng isang malapit na puno napaupo. At sa pagkakaupo ko, saka ko lang napansin na nawawala na ang matagal 45  ¡  Christian Jil Benitez

ko nang hinahabol. Mag-isa ako sa ilalim ng puno, at hindi ko alam kung nasaan na ang matagal ko nang hinahabol. Saka ko sinimulang ihiyaw ang ngalan niya. Ihiniyaw ko ang ngalan niya, kahit hindi ko sigurado kung may nakaririnig sa lahat ng paghiyaw. Ihiniyaw ko nang ihiniyaw, tinatanong kung nasaan na ba siya. Hindi ko alam kung naririnig niya ako noon, ngunit tinanong ko na rin sa kanya: Ano ang gagawin ko sa lahat ng mga damdaming ito? Saka ko tiningnan ang mga palad kong namamawis, kumakatal sapagkat hindi ko na rin alam. At sa pagkatal ng mga ito, hindi ko na sila mahinto pa.

Nais ko na talagang huminto. Ito rin ang sinabi niya sa akin noong gabing sinabi niyang maaari na raw siyang lumipad patungong buwan.

Na maaari na raw siyang lumipad patungong buwan kasama ako.

Kaya noon, iniabot niya sa akin ang mga kamay niya. Inilahad niya sa akin ang mga palad niya. Tiningnan ko ang mga nakalahad niyang palad sa dilim. Tiningnan ko lang ang mga ito, at ang mga linyang nakaukit doon. Binasa ang mga linya bagaman hindi ako marunong bumasa ng mga ito. Ngunit tiningnan ko pa rin ang mga palad niya.

Tiningnan ko ang mga ito dahil hindi ko alam kung ano ang nais niyang gawin ko sa mga palad niya, at kung ano ang nais kong gawin sa sarili kong mga palad. Hindi ko alam kung papaano ko nanaisiing ilapat ang mga palad ko sa mga nag-aabang niyang mga palad. At habang iniisip ko ito, saka niya sinabi sa aking gustong-gusto ko raw siyang paghintayin. Gustong-gusto ko raw siyang paghintayin na nakaabang ang mga palad niya sa hangin para sa wala. Hindi ako kumibo. Gusto kong sabihin sa kanyang hindi ko siya gustong paghintayin, ngunit gusto kong maging perpekto kapag iniabot ko na ang mga palad ko sa mga palad niya. Ngunit higit sa lahat, gusto kong sabihing mas gustong-gustong-gustong-gustong- gustong-gusto ko siya.

Ngunit alam kong sinabi kong masyado akong takot para magtangka.

Kaya hindi ko nasabing gusto ko siya. Kaya ninais ko man magtapat heights Seniors Folio 2016 ¡ 46

sa kanya, sinabi ko na lang sa kanyang Bigyan mo ako ng pag-ibig. Hindi ako umiyak. Hindi ako lumuhod sa kanyang harapan. Ni hindi ako napangiwi nang marinig ko ang sarili kong sinabi ito. Hindi ako nagtapat sa kanya. Sinabi ko lang sa kanyang bigyan niya ako ng pag-ibig, at wala nang iba pa—na, kung tutuusin, hindi naman kaagad nangangahulugan ng pag-amin na gusto ko siya; bagkus isang utos lang ito na bigyan niya ako ng pag-ibig. Hindi na rin naman masama iyon.

Sa paghingi ko sa kanya ng pag-ibig, ang ibig ko lang sabihin, bigyan niya ang aming mga sarili ng isang silid. At doon, tutugtog ang isang awit. Iisang awit. At sa silid, makukuha kong sabihin ang nais ko talagang sabihin. Na nais kong iparinig sa kanya itong isang awit sa bawat sandali. Na nais kong iparinig sa kanya sa tuwing nararamdaman namin ang pagkahapo at pagkagamit. Na nais kong siyang maging sa kanyang pinakamabuti, at higit pa. Saka ko sasabihing, Hayaan mo lang ako sa iyong mga bisig.

Ngunit sa kabilang banda, hindi ko siya pipilitin. Sasabihin kong Kung aalis ka, umalis ka.

Hindi siya umalis noon. Ngunit sakali mang umalis siya at magtungo kung saan, handa akong tumakbo sa kanyang tabi sa sandaling ihiyaw niya ang pangalan ko. Ngunit hindi ito ang nagyari. Sa halip, sinabi niyang Iibigin kita habang sinasamantala natin ang bawat sandali ng gabi.

At sa pagsabi niya nito, wala siyang masamang balak sa isip. Ngunit tinupad niya ang sinabi niya, nang sabihin niyang tatakbo siya kasama ko. Hanggang sa tumakbo na nga kami nang tumakbo, hanggang sa hindi na namin namalayan ang gabi, maging ang bawat butil ng pawis at hamog na kumapit sa damit namin sa pagtakbo namin. Tumakbo kami nang tumakbo, hanggang sa hindi na namin namalayan ang gabi, at ang umaga, at ang sumunod na gabi, at ang sumunod na umaga, at ang mga sumunod na gabi at umaga. Tumakbo kami nang tumakbo hanggang lumipas na ang panahon, ang mga taon. At nang namalayan ko na ang paglipas na ito, saka ako napaupo. Doon sa ilalim ng isang malapit na puno. Saka ko napansing nawawala na siya. Saka ko sinimulang ihiyaw ang pangalan niya. Saka ko hindi huminto sa kahihiyaw sa pangalan niya.

Hindi ko alam kung gaano katagal akong nagpatuloy sa paghiyaw.

Hindi ko rin alam kung gaano katagal ang itinagal ng alingawngaw 47  ¡  Christian Jil Benitez

ng mga paghiyaw ko sa pangalan niya. Sa paulit-ulit na pagdaan ng tunog ng pangalan niya mula sa lalamunan hanggang sa dila, palabas sa mga labi kong nagsisimula nang magbitak-bitak sa pagkatuyo, hindi ko na alam kung gaano katagal akong namalagi sa ilalim ng puno na humihiyaw sa pangalan niya. At muli at muli, parating alingawngaw ang sumasagot sa akin, alingawngaw kahit pa man wala akong makitang dulong hangganan. Ngunit gaanoman kaulit ang pag-uulit-ulit ko sa pagtawag sa pangalan niya, at gaanoman kaulit ang pag-uulit ng mga alingawngaw sa pagtawag ko sa kanya, hindi ako huminto. Ihiniyaw ko nang ihiniyaw ang pangalan niya, at kung gaano ko gustong siya naman ang mangulila para sa akin pagdating ng pagkakataong ako naman ang mawala. Doon ko naisip na sa pagkakataong iyon, habang ihinihiyaw ko nang ihinihiyaw ang pangalan niya bilang paghahanap sa kanya, nawawala rin ako sa kanya sa pagkakataong iyon, nasaan man siya. At doon ko rin naisip kung ihinihiyaw nga rin kaya niya ang pangalan ko sa pagkakataong iyon, nasaan man siya. Hindi ko alam ang sagot. Ngunit, ano pa man, nagpatuloy lang ako sa paghiyaw sa pangalan niya, sabay ng ilang pagmumura sa hangin dahil uhaw na uhaw na ako sa paghiyaw para tawagin siya. Ngunit ano nga ba ang magagawa ko. Sinabi ko na lang sa kanyang hindi pa rin ako tumitigil, Lilikha ako ng panahon para sa iyo, sabay mura, sabay hiyaw muli sa pangalan niya.

Doon ko naalala ang kagustuhan niyang sumayaw sa pagkawala.

Noong minsan, hiniling niya sa akin, Tahakin natin ang mahabang daan pauwi, at sinunod ko siya. Kaya sa halip na dumaan kami sa mga nakagisnang naming daan pauwi, nilibot namin ang siyudad hanggang sa pinakalaylayan nito, binali-baliktad na namin sa daan ang bawat bato, maantala lang namin ang aming pag-uwi. Sabi niyang sa pagkawala lang nalalaman ang pagkatagpo, at hindi na ako tumutol. Hindi na ako tumutol dahil hindi ko alam ang isasagot ko. At marahil, dahil sino nga ba ang gugustuhing makipagtalo sa kanyang gusto?

Kaya tinahak namin ang lahat ng mahahabang daan pauwi.

Ginalugad namin ang bawat abenida, nakipagpatintero sa mga ligaw na ilaw ng mga sasakyan. Naaalala ko ang pagiging hubad, bagaman hindi namin kailanman inalis ang mga damit na suot namin. Anong masasabi kong hindi mo pa nalalaman? Ang tanong niya sa akin nang heights Seniors Folio 2016 ¡ 48

marating na namin ang huling kalsadang magdadala sa amin sa kung saan dapat umuwi. Tinanong niya ito sa akin nang tinitingnan niya ako nang tahasan, mata sa mata, mukha sa mukha. Doon niya ako tinanong kung ano nga ba ang nais ko. At doon ko siya sasagutin, sa pagsabing sa kanyang bigyan niya ako ng pag-ibig. Na nangangahulugan ng isang silid. Kung saan maaari kong sabihing hayaan niya ako sa kanyang bisig. Kung saan hindi ko siya pipiliting manatili, ngunit kung saan siya mananatili, sasabihing samantalahin namin ang bawat sandali ng gabi, sasabihing tatakbo kami nang magkasama, hanggang sa tatakbo kami nang tatakbo, hanggang sa mapaglipasan kami ng panahon, hanggang sa mapapansin ko ito at mapapupo sa ilalim ng isang malapit na puno, kung saan ko ihihiyaw nang ihihiyaw ang pangalan niya.

Ano nga ba ang masasabi niyang hindi ko pa nalalaman. Ngunit bago ko pa man makuhang sagutin ang tanong niya sa akin, pinutol niya ang patlang sa pagitan namin sa pag-amin: Mayroon akong isang yungib ng mga lihim, at wala ni isa mga ito ang para sa iyo. At bago ko pa man sabihin sa kanyang ayos lang ito—na hindi ko pilit na kukunin mula kanya ang mga lihim niya—sinabi niyang sakaling nanaisin ko mang pilit na kunin mula sa kanya ang mga lihim niya, may silid ba akong mapagtataguan ng lahat ng mga ito? Sa sandaling iyon, doon ko naramdamang hindi ko nga siya tunay na kilala—na bagaman naroon kami, mata sa mata, mukha sa mukha, hindi ko siya tunay na mapapangalanan. Kung kaya sa kanyang tanong, sasabihin kong hindi ko pa nalalaman kung sino nga ba siya talaga. Kung kaya hihilingin kong ibigay niya sa akin ang kanyang pag-ibig. Na nangangahulugan lang ng isang silid, kung saan maaari kong masabi ang mga ninanais kong sabihin. At kung saan maaari ko ring maisilid ang mga lihim niya.

Hindi dahil gusto kung kunin ang mga lihim niya. Kundi dahil gusto kong kunin ang mga lihim niya bilang bigat na dinadala niya. Halimbawa, ang bigat noong itinanong niya na sa akin, sa pagkakataong magkikita kaming muli, matapos ang walang humpay kong paghiyaw sa pangalan niya: Papaano kung maaari tayong bumalik?—na nangangahulugang paano kung maaari naming bawiin muli ang mga salita namin. Kung maaari ko raw bawiin muli ang pag-ibig niya, at kung maaaring isukbit ko muli ang ilang naliligaw niyang buhok sa kanyang mukha pabalik sa likod ng kanyang tainga.

49 · Christian Jil Benitez

Hindi ko alam kung ano ang isasagot ko sa tanong niya. Marahil, mapapatda ako. Ngunit marahil, sasabihin ko sa kanya, papaano ko babawiin ang wala naman sa akin sa simula. Kaya ko nga hiniling sa kanya na ibigay niya sa akin ang pag-ibig niya. Wala naman ito sa akin sa simula. Paano maaaring bumalik kung walang babalikan.

Ngunit sa ngayon, wala pa ang tanong kung papaano sakaling maaari kaming bumalik. Sa ngayon, hinihiyaw ko pa rin ang pangalan niya sa ilalim ng isang puno. Hinihiyaw ko pa rin ito, at ihihiyaw nang ihihiyaw nang walang kapaguran sa ilalim ng punong kinaroroonan ko. Sa ilalim ng isang punong namumulaklak, ang sasabihin niya kinalaunan, noong nagising ako at nadatnan siya sa tabi ko, noong tinanong ko siya kung saan niya ako natagpuan at kung papaanong magkasama na kami noon, gayong ang huli kong alaala ay ang paghiyaw ko nang walang tigil sa ilalim ng isang puno. Sa ilalim ng isang punong namumulaklak, ang sagot niya sa akin muli kinalaunan, noong tinanong ko naman siya kung nasaan kami noong mga sandaling iyon, noong nagising na lang akong magkatabi na kaming nakahiga at nakatiyaha sa langit.

Doon ko lang mapapansing nasa ilalim nga kami ng isang punong namumulaklak, at doon ko lang din mapapansing iba-iba ang kulay ng mga dahon ng punong ito na namumulaklak. Pagmamasdan lang namin ang mga dahong ito. Pagmamasdan namin habang nakahiga, hanggang sa mag-iba- iba pang muli ang mga kulay ng mga ito.

Kasalanan mo ito; ikaw ang nagsindi sa mga ito.

Hindi ko na maaalala pa kung sino ang nagsabi nito kanino—kung ako ba, bilang pagsisisi sa kanya sa kanyang pagkawala; o sa akin, bilang pananahilan sa nag-iiba- ibang kulay ng mga dahon noong tinanong ko kung bakit nga ba paiba-iba ang mga kulay ng mga ito. Ngunit iyon ang mga eksaktong salita. Ngunit gayunpaman, mananatili kaming nakahiga, pinapanood ang mga paiba-ibang kulay ng mga dahon ng puno iyon na namumulaklak. At sa pagiging matalik ng hangin sa mga dahon—sa pag-ugoy sa mga dahon—naghahalo-halo ang mga kulay, hanggang sa hindi na namin ito mapangalanan pa, animo tinutuya kami ng bawat isa sa pagsasabing Ipinta mo ako.

At marahil, magagawa ko ngang maipinta ang mga kulay ng mga dahong iyon, lalo na iyong sandaling maghalo ang mga ito sa kulay na sinabi niyang paborito niya. Kinalaunan. Marahil, maipipinta ko heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 50

nga ang kulay na iyon kinalaunan. Sapagkat sa ngayon, bago pa man mawari na namumulaklak nga ang punong kinaroroonan naming dalawa, nag-iisa muna ako. Sa ngayon, bago ako magising at madatnang magkatabi na kaming muli, humihiyaw muna ako nang humihiyaw muli para sa pangalan niya sapagkat sa ngayon, nawawala pa rin siya.

Na sa mga nakalipas na panahon lang, kasama kong tumatakbo nang tumatakbo. Nang sinabi niyang sa bawat sandali ng gabi, na naging umaga, na naging mga gabi, na naging mga umagang muli, hanggang sa nalimutan na namin ang paglipas ng mga araw, at mga taon. Siya na una kong nakita sa gitna ng bagyo, kung saan ko unang sinabi sa kanyang Hindi kita mahahawakan. Na kailanman, hindi ko magagawang mahawakan.

At tinapos niya rin kaagad ang kailanman kinalaunan, nang hinawakan niya ako. Noong sinabi niya sa aking Bakit hindi ka sumayaw kasama ko? Noong sinabi niyang may dahilan ang bawat kirot ng bawat sugat at galos. Noong sinabi niyang matututo akong magmahal, at muli.

Noong sinabi niyang dadalhin akong muli ng panahon sa paniniwala, saka niya sinukat ang paniniwala ko sa pagtatanong kung ano pa nga ba ang masasabi niyang hindi ko pa nalalaman. Ano nga ba ang masasabi niyang hindi ko pa nalalaman. Na kinalaunang sinabi ko bilang pag-ibig. Pag-ibig niya. Na nangangahulugang isang silid. Kung saan maaari kong masabi ang lahat. Kung saan kinalaunan sasabihin niyang mamuhay kami sa bawat sandali ng mga gabi at mga umaga.

Kung saan tatakbo kami nang tatakbo nang magkasama. Tatakbo nang tatakbo hanggang sa lumipas na sa amin ang panahon. Hanggang sa datnan kong lumipas na nga ang mahabang panahon, kaya ako mapapahinto. Mapapahinto at mapapaupo sa ilalim ng isang malapit na puno. Kung saan mapapansin kong nawawala na siyang kanina kong kasamang tumakbo. Na nagtanong sa akin kung ano pa nga ba ang masasabi niyang hindi ko nalalaman. Na tumawag sa akin upang samahan siya sa pagsayaw. Na siyang tinatawag at tinawag kong muli sa paghiyaw—ang paghiyaw bilang ang amin nang sayaw sa ngayon.

Ako na humihiyaw sa pangalan niyang nawawala rito, at siyang marahil humihiyaw rin sa pangalan kong nawawala saanman siya naroroon.

O marahil, ako lang na humihiyaw sa pangalan niyang nawawala 51  ¡  Christian Jil Benitez

saanman sa akin dito. Ngunit alin pa man ang totoo, humihiyaw at humihiyaw pa rin ako, humihiyaw at hinihiyaw ang pangalan niya, minumura, sinasabing lumilikha pa rin ako ng panahon para sa kanya, naririnig niya ba ang mga alingawngaw na ito, itong mga alingawngaw na nagsasabing may nalilikha’t lumilipas ngang panahon para sa kanya, naririnig niya ba, sabay mura, sabay isa pang mura, sabay mura pang muli, sabay sabing naririnig ba niya, naririnig ba niya, naririnig pa ba niya, itong nililikha ko, itong nililikha kong panahon, mga panahon sa paghiyaw, ang aking paghiyaw, ang mga paghiyaw sa pangalan niya, ang pangalan niya, ang mga pangalan niya, muli’t muli, tinatawag ko, ang pangalan, ang pangalan niya,

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 52

53  ¡  Christian Jil Benitez

sa mga salita. Nabura ang mga alingawngaw. Nabura

sa mga bantas at kanilang antala

Ngunit hindi kawalan.

Kundi katahimikan

mula sa salita.

kundi katahimikan.

Hindi kawalan. Katahimikan

Walang natira

At Noong Binura Ko ang Aking mga Paghiyaw sa Ilalim ng Punong Namumulaklak

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 54

*

balang-araw, maisusulat ko rin, ang katahimikan, balang-araw, matututunan ko rin, ang pagmamahal,

ang bantas, ang pag-antala patungo pa rin—

sa iyo. Ngunit hindi ang katahimikan:

nabura itong lahat sa pagbura sa lahat sa mga paghiyaw ko patungo

may isang punong namumulaklak—

sa mga alingawngaw. At doon kung saan

maging ang lalamunang lumikha

Balang-Araw Mamahaling Kita

Alinsunod kay Frank O’Hara

Ngunit sa ngayon, sumasayaw muna ako sa pagkawala. Nananatili sa kawalan mo ng pangalan. Kumakain ako ng papel at nagpapaumid sa mga salita. Humihiyaw upang manghula ng salitang maipapangalan sa iyo. Hindi ko totoong alam kung ano ang pangalan mo. Bagkus, ikaw ngayon ang propetang inaawit sa isang oratio.

Sa paghiyaw, inaawit ang pangalan mo bilang Siyang Parating Mag-isa at Hindi Kailanman Mawawala. Ihinihiyaw ito tulad nitong isang sangggol na sumuso sa isang lobo, pumatay sa kanyang kadugo, banyuhay, saka kinalaunan ding naglaho.

Sa ngalan, kung gayon, ng pagsayaw ko hanggang sa maglaho. Humihiyaw ako sa pagsasayaw hanggang sa maglaho.

Dahil umiiwas ako sa lahat ng patibong sa aking bawat paglukso. Humihiyaw ako at kinakain ang sariling loob. Sa ngayon nananatili sa kawalang-katiyakan sa iyo.

Sa ngayon sa tingin ko mag-iisa muna ako.

55 · Christian Jil Benitez

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 56

Regine Cabato ab communication, minor in creative writing “Baby, I can build a castle / out of all the bricks they threw at me.”

—Taylor Swift, “New Romantics” Regine Cabato is graduating with a track in journalism and minor in creative writing. She covered events such as the 2015 Papal Visit and EDSA 30 anniversary for The GUIDON, represented the Confederation of Publications at the 2016 Constitutional Convention, and served as the editor-in-chief of heights from 2015 to 2016. She also received a Loyola Schools Award for the Arts and a Raul Locsin Scholarship and Award for Explanatory Journalism. Her work has been published in Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry, Kritika Kultura, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, and Asian Cha Literary Journal. She hails from Zamboanga City. * Thanks are due to the following, who have made university life worthwhile: To God, who always lets me wander off without hurting myself too much.

To my parents and my siblings, for the ceaseless support. To Ate Ja, my bedtime storyteller: Thank you for introducing me to Heights, and for pushing me to my potential.

To heights and editorial board 2015 – 2016, for taking me to the depths of myself, and teaching me to love. Thank you for trusting me with the drive. To Phil De La Torre, who is better late than never; to Joshua Uyheng, for believing in me, too; to Mayelle Nisperos, for all the poetry trades; to Billy Atienza, my rock and teddy bear; to Cathy Dario, the Glinda to my Elphaba. A special shout-out to: Christian Benitez, Jeivi Nicdao, Marco Bartolome, Manuel Angulo, Selina Ablaza, Ida de Jesus, Renzi Rodriguez, Lasmyr Edullantes, Lorenzo Narciso, Micah Naadat, Anja Deslate, Clarissa Borja, Nikki Blanco, Jonnel Inojosa, Reina Adriano, Rox Angelia, Leona Lao, Paula Molina, Krysten Tan, Robert Tiong, and Ayana Tolentino.

To all my previous editors and friends from higher batches—especially Jam Pascual, Tasha Basul, Joe Ledesma, Audrey Ferriol, Carissa Pobre, Paolo Tiausas, Deirdre Camba, Nicko Caluya, Alfred Marasigan, JV Calanoc, Cedric Tan, and Sab Cuerva, model upperclassmen. To friends in the lower batches: Keep writing, and making good art.

To the fellows, panelists, and staffers of the 5th Western Mindanao Writers Workshop and 12th Ateneo National Writers Workshop; to the late Antonio Enriquez, the first writer who told me my work could work.

To mentors and professors in creative writing and publication: Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta, Mikael de Lara Co, Glenda Oris, Alvin Yapan, Nikay Paredes, Edgar Samar, Allan Derain, Allan Popa, Mark Cayanan, and Martin Villanueva. To Vincenz Serrano, for the time you told me to grab kairos by the mane, and the time since then.

To mentors in communication and media: Isabel Kenny, Avie Olarte, Chay Hofileña, Jimmy Domingo, Ayo Supangco, Beaver Flores, Maitel Ladrido, and Severino Sarmenta.

To other professors who have shifted my perspectives: Fr. Edwin Castillo, S.J., Justin Badion, Dennis Temporal, Fr. Marcos Louis Catalan, S.J., Jacklyn Cleofas, and Bobby Guevara. To friends from osa, especially Chris Castillo and Rem Casino.

To Fr. Patrick Vance Nogoy, S.J.: Thank you for seeing my true worth since 2011 and—in times when I didn’t see it—for always cleaning the mirror. For teaching me to be as vulnerable as my poetry.

To Dane Ancheta, Diane Lim, Prince Mallari, Ameera Tungupon, and Lauren Vargas, my home away from home. We’ve come a long way from Sun Street, Tumaga, and it’s a long way back; I look forward to the homecoming.

To JC Aquino, Raizza Bello, Axel de Lumen, KD Montenegro, Chynna Santos, and Robbin Dagle, thank you for keeping vocation a letter away from a vacation. From New Bilibid Prison to Simariki Island, here is to finding stories that are still waiting to be told. To Robb: I had the time of my life fighting dragons with you. You know the rest.

To our neighbors in Matanglawin and The GUIDON, especially Ray John Santiago, Ralph Manuel, Eugene Ong, Janelle Paris, and my co-staffers from Beyond Loyola: Know that if you shall need anything—a cup of coffee, tips and leads, or air conditioner adjustment—I am always only next door. All you have to do is knock.

To Dwight Tan, Edbert Ragadio, Julio Rivera, Fredrick Cruz, Lyka Aguilar, Mark Ordoñez, Mawee Ng, David Garcia, and other friends—old and new, in and out of university.

To all those who believed in me, caught me at a crossroads, parted ways with me at intersections, gave directions on the drive, and taught me to drive—to all those who made me who I am, or showed me: Thank you for your time. What is after graduation, but the next great adventure?

Deliverance* When I first met the artist Tawasil, he narrated how, as a child, he escaped from Jolo with the beginning of a painting. He recounts: Once we reached the boat, I turned to see Jolo burning. The moral of the story is to never look back.

He moved to Zamboanga, and I moved here. I imagine his exodus: The waterlogged signage pointing toward the peninsula, reading “Twenty more miles to the promised land.” Until then, nothing to eat but scant milkfish and stale manna. I cruised through my trip: sojourning at gasoline stations and stakeouts where I’d fry my golden calf into quarter-pounders, always looking forward to the next convenience store.

I think of how we are always asking for deliverance, how it costs only as much as the next piso fare, how each new country is always over there, an escape from what plagues. I once dreamed that dying is the opposite way: The boats ease toward the shore and my grandfather extends restored hands. There is an absence of crosses and crescents, only children laughing in the plaza, the whirr of motorboats and Papang beckoning, See, the rest of our lives starts here. A year after I left Zamboanga, I open the television to see Sta. Barbara burning. Already I am brought to a boat clutching a painting, my legs giving way to salt.

*Previously published in Kritika Kultura, No. 24

61 · Regine Cabato

Murphy’s Law The car broke down in the middle of nowhere. Everyone took turns pushing when the tow truck came too late. It weighed a ton. You said you’d bring a bonsai, but you planted a baobab in the car.

Everyone brings all this baggage we don’t need, including me, but at least I’ve stuffed mine in my pockets, so no one sees how heavy it is. Please stop watering the trees. Please stop shouting directions from the backseat, I know where we’re going. It’s not my fault your license expired; can’t you trust me not to crash? I can hear someone’s hiphop too loudly, all the way from the back row.

Someone else takes too many bathroom breaks. Someone else says, I spy with my little eye, buko pie. I have no time for this, we are running behind schedule, and the hitchhiker we felt bad for keeps trying to sidetrack us to Vegas. We can’t afford that—there are too many deliveries to make, and didn’t we pass his stop two hours ago?

If anything has the slightest possibility of going wrong, it will. Sometimes I feel like Doctor Dolittle, but I didn’t ask for all these animals. This is a Suzuki, not an ark.

So no, you can’t stage a mutiny. You can’t bring your dog. We already have a snoozing porcupine, a cricket that won’t stop chirping, and an elephant heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 62

in the room. You say, I spy with my little eye, a typo— I say, leave it. Everyone keeps talking about this Officer Murphy, but what authority does he have to warrant an arrest? Epigrams shouldn’t hold this much power, it’s prone to abuse. Words are tricky, so misunderstanding follows.

The car broke down because of the overheating of patiences, everyone’s engines revving up and conking out. It’s the middle of the afternoon and pushing forty degrees. At the garage, the hitchhiker says to watch my back, and he keeps feeding the elephant gin. I’m tempted to toss you the keys, walk out and give up, because hey— isn’t this what you want anyway? It’s pride, not love, that keeps me there at first. I’ll never tell anyone how I’m always expecting the worst to come driving out of the side mirrors.

By evening, we’re pulled up on the roadside. I stammer—but my license hasn’t expired yet. I never drive over the speed limit, I always wear my seatbelt. Policeman says, that guy in the backseat is wanted. He handcuffs the hitchhiker, and all the animals turn stuffed. We stomach it in silence.

He’d become loosely part of this deranged family, like a third cousin twice removed.

When everyone’s asleep, I drive at sixty kilometers an hour, headlights on. I turn on the radio and host an interview with myself: Are you sure you aren’t lost? Am I the bad guy? How difficult it is to be made of sixty percent water. Even suffering, I must rationalize into a law, to convince myself that somewhere, there is some madman at a typewriter, losing ratings 63 · Regine Cabato

for tomorrow’s episode, and an invisible audience that roots for me. When I refill the tank at midnight, I empty my pockets. It looks like I’m about to jump ship, but really, I’m just unpacking. You step out of the car. I say how can I help you, when I actually mean, what is it this time. You say you heard me calling for advice on the radio, and do I want to talk about it. You convince me to spill my idiosyncrasies on the table. The trouble with sincerity is how quiet it is, how it is often missed. Before we go back inside, I leave a shoebox at the bin for someone else’s rummaging.

I never got to say sorry, but thank you, I guess, for throwing in a wrench for all the loose screws. For staying up the latest.

Here, take the keys, take the wheel for the hour, and I’ll catch up on lost sleep. It’s an exercise of trust that should not have been so difficult—we’re all headed in the same direction anyway. Policeman said, if anything has the slightest possibility of going right, it will, but only if you try hard enough. When we take turns again, I’ll wipe the fog off the rearview and side mirrors.

The important thing is to keep your eyes on the road.

My legs are killing me, but I’ll keep driving until we run out of gas. Maybe even learn all the lyrics to Hamilton. I’ll watch the sunrise while everyone’s asleep. When they stir, I’ll say, I spy with my little eye, something—

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 64

Tiffany Corinne Conde bfa creative writing

“At least I thought the answer would be linear, that a chain of events would reveal itself, one link leading to another. Instead, I found a bunch of people whose stories were all pretty different.”

—Sarah Koenig Tiff Conde is a senior creative writing major who will be leaving university by the end of June. She is a recipient of the Loyola Schools Award for the Arts in the Literary Essay and the Myrle Clark Award for Creative Writing from the University of Hawaii at Manoa. Her work has appeared in heights. Outside the Ateneo, she is a freelance writer for several publications. Had a bit of a late start, but she’s here now. * I am immensely grateful to all the people who have helped me grow, both as a writer and as a person. Many thanks to the Fine Arts Program and the teachers who shaped me—Nikay, Martin, Laurel, Vince, and Glenn. Thank you to the new and old friends I’ve found in the last four years—Jireh, Abby, Josh, Shaira, Emil, Isabela, Anthea, Gabbi, Christine, Ayana, Ysa, Selina, and Kitkat. To Stef, my non-biological mother, for keeping me awake at strange hours of the morning.

To Nicole, who was, and still is, a firecracker all on her own. Go kick

ass in law school, darling.

I dedicate this to my Mom and Dad, for raising me well. Thank you for supporting me through college, for believing I can be more, and for making our small circus-tent family run like a well-oiled machine.

If anyone thinks otherwise, let my life be the proof.

Thank you to the man up there, for giving me new dreams.

T.C.

I Dream of Genghis Khan prologue The summer clouds hanging over Angono held the blue of a deep, clear lake. All the children splashing in the river that flowed behind the trees, the currents taking a little girl in a wooden raft. The late afternoon sun pouring over the space between houses. Angono, cradle of artists and their families. In one painting, a rice field. Another, the sketch of village life in the stretch of Laguna de Bay, the mountains rolling in the distance. cold open The film begins with a congregation of warring tribes, arguing with each other to decide which tribe would take ownership over the pastures and water pools. Initially Temujin seized victory over his competitors, but when the festivities took place, Temujin’s village was invaded and set aflame by men from a neighboring tribe, slaughtering Temujin’s father. Far off, in the scratchy grain of the film, the cemetery of Angono was transformed into the grassy steppes of Mongolia. grandfather, minor character Shooting from the margins, my grandfather lifted the microphone so as to hear the lilting voices of the actors better. He was a boom man and film technician, the occasional extra pushing his way through the crowd, a lost face in the time of early black-and-white cinema. After long hours at work, he used a middling income to feed his growing family of six in a cramped house beside the river. film 69 • Tiffany Corinne Conde

A kingdom of shadows, the parallel worlds running through the marblefloored theaters of the movie houses occupying Avenida Rizal. Small incandescent light bulbs glowing in the night, the glass cases in elegant art deco style reading “Now Showing” and “Next Picture” and “Coming Soon.” meeting the director He was still Manuel Urbano then, when my grandfather met him on the set of Sawing Gantimpala under lvn Pictures. Afterward, my grandfather would swear that the director told him he liked his last name so much he borrowed it for his alias onscreen. There was nothing to verify this but I believed him all the same, having felt a vague glimmer of excitement at coming across so unusual an encounter, however vicarious it might have been. researching at the library I was on my third reading my grandfather’s war memoir when a group of about fifteen to twenty academics entered the historical collection at the same time, weaving a trail of murmurs after the tour guide who told them how we had been freed from Spain, how we had regained our independence. In the lull of the afternoon, a few took photographs of the collection on artifacts and paraphernalia left from the American occupation, remnants of the war gathering dust.

I kept going over parts of my grandfather’s memoir detailing his escape, if only to feel the same spark I did when he first told me about working with the director, or that brief and glorious tale about the

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 70

famished soldier who ate a whole chicken and died. In his encounter with the director, I had hoped for a glimpse of something more lurking behind all the books and newspapers and curtains, and perhaps it was this possibility of some wonderful nowhere which enthralled me, a brush with something bigger than himself and the insular world we lived in. It felt exciting, dangerous even. temujin Conqueror of kings, emperor of all men. Ruler without peer in the desolations of the Gobi plain. No Mongolian could say absolutely where the boy Temujin came into the world, but many believed he was born by the Onon River, some miles northeast of Ulaanbaatar. Through valleys of grass, Genghis Khan’s cavalry was a stipple of gray horses tearing through the steppes. On the first night of a siege, the leader of the Mongols pitched a white tent in the beige grasslands outside the city. If the city surrendered, everyone would be spared. On the second day, a red tent took its place. All men would be killed, but the women and children would be left alone. On the third, a black tent. No mercy would be given. horses Temujin in the films was still a callow youth. The problem of his horses was handled with ingenuity and a bit of desperation behind the scenes.

Conde had requested Angono-based artist Botong Francisco to round up and corral all the kalesa-pulling horses he could find in Angono and Taytay, Rizal. When the actors rode them, the sight of the horses drew rip-roaring laughter in the darkened theater. So short were the horses that the feet of the actors dangled only six inches from the ground, but this proved to be a fortuitous event, as reports turned up that the horses resembled Mongolian steeds closely enough. abuelo

71 • Tiffany Corinne Conde

“Buenas, hija. ¿Como estas?” These were the words he spoke every time I would visit him. Hello, child; how are you? It was a routine, one that we had been practicing all too often since he flew from Florida to be with family. “¿Cómo te va en tus estudios?”—how are your studies coming along? Out of respect, I choose to respond in crisp and laconic phrases—“buenas dias, mi abuelo; muy bien, mi abuelo”—the kind that I would rehearse over and over again so as not to commit any mistakes, because by that time, I was one of the few left in the family who still knew how to speak Spanish at all. hiatus When the Asian-Pacific theater of World War II arrived, we lost all but four of the pre-World War II films and most of the films in the 1940s from the major studios, Sampaguita Pictures and Premiere Productions. the soldier The Japanese had blocked all transportation from the outside, forbidding ships and relief planes from entering the island. Sometimes my grandfather ate the seeds of strange fruits that he thought looked like tamarinds, but he could not be sure; he was only certain that whatever the monkeys ate they would gladly consume and lick with their fingers. By the time he fell into the hands of the kempei-tai, he had already experienced his first taste of battle. On the day before the firing started, a shell shook a bamboo tree above them and another emptied in a man’s thigh, sending him howling under the long grass.

The shrapnel hit an artery, and rumors spread that the shells contained poison when the blood pouring from wounds turned pink. That day was the first time he heard about Bataan, where they were ordered to reassemble. memorial Recorded for the Magazine of the American Defenders of Bataan and heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 72

Corregidor, my grandfather spun his memoir: “When we reached Guagua, we saw a row of small houses across the rice field. As the sun was beginning to set, we made a dash for freedom.”

In a lonely shack along Antipolo, my grandfather pressed chapped lips to his first lunch in a long time: boiled egg and fresh carabao’s milk.

Victory came to him in the dawning of the sun in the east, in the cool winds that blew from the hill tops, as though he sipped from the sweet elixir of life itself.

But after the war, the records for his military service would never be found in St. Louis, Missouri with the rest of the veterans. There would be no place for his name anywhere. He returned from the war with a bullet embedded in his shin, no college degree, a metal hip, and from there, began a long journey back to the movies. in quest of genghis khan Among the lost films of Asia was Manuel Conde’s 1950 historical epic Genghis Khan, which for many years had no existing print in the country.

Filipino archivists declared that the prints of the movie were stashed not here, but in several film vaults in Europe, and only recently have these reels returned to Philippine shores. burial Some thought the tomb could be found from space, but Temujin didn’t want anybody to know where he died. And so the soldiers escorting him to his burial killed everyone they passed, including those who had built the tomb, and then they were killed themselves. the secret death All I could think about was how he looked that day, bandages wrapped

73 • Tiffany Corinne Conde

around his eyes, covering the place where the needle had pierced his forehead; the tight cerulean blanket pulled calmly over his limbs. I could not make out what he was saying. The tube had muffled his windpipe so that all he produced was a sibilant hiss. What had happened to the cadence of my grandfather’s voice? The sonorous lines of verse that had charmed my grandmother, the same vibrant Spanish that had once been customary for young educated men to learn in their schools. Were they now only the hoarse whispers of a man who knew he was about to die?

My grandfather said he was proud to have served his country and the United States well. He closed his eyes on the world, however, ordering his grandsons never to become soldiers, even as he bequeathed around their necks the medals he had won for his outstanding service. “Uno es suficiente,” he whispered.

One of us was enough.

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Modern Love I wish my mom would date again. The three of us are watching Modern Family, one of the later seasons where most of the kids have gone through puberty. Dr. Ablaza is the third dentist I know who loves this show and will pause whatever she is doing in my mouth to watch the kitchen drama unfold. Mom sits on a chair beside me, eyes on the television screen. Where I lay prone on the dentist’s chair I can glimpse the wrinkles on her face, the loose auburn tangles in her hair she forgot to soothe with a brush. Shadows carve half-moons under her eyes, heavy with the weight of sleepless nights on the sofa when I didn’t think to call her upstairs. She seems more tired these days, with the look and bearing of someone in her middle age who has few dreams left that do not converge with family.

I hold my breath and try to do nothing that will dislodge the tube dislodging saliva from my mouth. In this sterile nook surrounded by bone-white walls, a photograph of my yellowed teeth on the table is the only source of color, aside from the television screen.

Over the sounds of my teeth being drilled, Dr. Ablaza reaches for another tool beyond my vision and asks me if there are any boyfriends in the picture. Mom thinks the dentist is asking about her life instead of mine. Before I can interrupt, she tells us no. No boyfriend.

Perhaps the reason for my mom’s haste has to do with the recent conversation we had in the car, when I reminded her, yet again, that I would be okay if she had a secret boyfriend and just wasn’t telling me.

In fact, I would cheer them on.

I don’t think the rapport between us is anything unusual, that I can say things like this and expect her to respond honestly. It’s quite common for single mothers and daughters to be closer than most, for them to share everything together, from stretchable clothes to personal quips to thoughts about the gorgeous men crossing the street, whether

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we would rate them a seven or a ten. In many ways she is like an older sister to me, and we have been mistaken for siblings in the past, often by people who cannot understand that we don’t mean what we say when we slam the door in each other’s faces. Other days, I feel distinctly parental, listening to her shame-faced confessions about past lovers, while I help her manage the family budget my dad provides every month. In any of these moments I sometimes feel as if our roles have been switched, like she’s the one who will be graduating college next year, and I am the one who has to prep for a tearful send-off, feeling her absence wind through the rooms of a house too big to contain just two people.

“Why not?” Doctora Ablaza still has her mask on. If it came off, I’m sure she would be laughing.

“Yeah,” I gurgle, and it feels like success. I don’t know why dentists insist on having serious conversations with their patients while a major procedure takes place. Underneath the cherry red bib that hides my crossed arms, I raise two very supportive thumbs-up in my mom’s direction.

“Wala eh,” my mom says. “There’s no desire. Nobody’s asking.”

The dentist and I are bummed, myself even more so. It’s almost painful to imagine how the woman who appeared in Angono’s newspapers as the newly crowned queen of the procession, that electric belle who stepped over her potential suitors like the flowers beneath her feet, has somehow become my mom. My mom who still covers my eyes during mild sex scenes, who leaves for the bank without combing her hair or putting on a bra. The kind of tita who drives by my cousins’ apartment to ask them if they will be joining her for church this Sunday.

While my dad, who is turning sixty next year, has never missed an appointment at the barber’s to soak his white hair black. He refuses to use a wheelchair in fear of what it implies, even after the recent surgery

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on his ankle left him with a permanent scar: a purple gash and a hefty bump, like bone jutting outside the skin. Both of them are equally ridiculous in their own way.

Part of me, the hypocrite, wants to shake my dad’s feeble shoulders and tell him, get a grip, man. Pull yourself together. That same part of me is going to write my mom’s name on one of the singles’ retreat this year. Last year they stayed for three days in Bohol, one of the many places shehas always dreamed of visiting. I will do all of this without telling her, of course, because mom still believes that you don’t have to put yourself out there to search for love, it just finds you miraculously like in the movies.

So now I have to do all the work.

77 • Tiffany Corinne Conde

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 78

Catherina Dario

bfa creative writing, minor in literature (english)

Cathy is graduating with degrees in creative writing and literature. She was granted writing fellowships to the 19th Ateneo heights Writers Workshop and the 10th ccp Virgin Labfest Fellowship Program. More recently, she was conferred the Loyola Schools Award for the Arts for fiction. Her short stories have been featured in Reader’s Digest Asia, plural, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, and back issues of heights.

“Manananggal” was previously published in her chapbook Behind the Trees. * My heart goes to Mom and Dad, whose faith and support know no bounds. Thank you for giving me a life full of love and passion. I am always grateful; I am always hopeful that someday I will return to the world all the happiness you’ve given me.

To my best friends in the Ateneo: Regine Cabato, Christine Imperial, Chab Ocampo, Marga Olivares, Mika Pamatmat, Xenia Sebial, Ayana Tolentino. I’ve known two of you since we were brace-faced and twelve years old, met another two in OrSem, got close to one in carpool and in EnLit, bumped into one in Gonzaga, worked with one in heights—it’s been one crazy ride since then. I cannot begin to thank each of you for

all the love and support you’ve given me, for being there during the tough times, for celebrating my good times, for all the patience and understanding when I make mistakes, for the time you’ve chosen to spend with me. I have the rest of my life to continue loving each of you with all that I have.

To heights, the organization that nurtured my love for art and literature, I cannot possibly imagine what college would have been like without each of you. I hope I have given back what you have given me. To the two editorial boards I worked with, thank you for giving me the opportunity to be part of literary and artistic tradition. Shoutout especially to Christian Benitez, Billy Atienza, Manuel Angulo, Selina Ablaza, Joshua Uyheng, Marco Bartolome, Jeivi Nicdao, Lasmyr Edullantes, Lorenzo Narciso, Nikki Blanco, Ida de Jesus, Renzi Rodriguez, Micah Marie Naadat, Krysten Tan, Jonnel Inojosa, Mayelle Nisperos, Phil de la Torre, Celline Mercado, Robyn Saquin, Lazir Caluya, Alex Tuico, Guigi Galace, Oey Mira, Clarissa Borja (it’s impossible to memorize each and every one, please remember that I tried my best)—I met some of you in freshman year, others in senior year, everybody else in between. Know that you hold a special place in my heart, and I’ll always be here if you need me!

To the heights alumni, most especially Audrey Ferriol, Joe Ledesma, Alfred Marasigan, Pao Tiausas, Nicko Caluya, Deirdre Camba, Abner Dormiendo, Deo Mostrales, JV Calanoc, Matt Olivares, Jam Pascual, Reg Geli, Steph Shi, Carissa Pobre, Sab Cuerva—I will continue to look up to each of you like the wide-eyed freshman I once was! Thank you for being an inspiration to my writing and for being fun colleagues to work with.

To the English Staff, especially to the babies I hold in my heart and worked with this year: Rayne Aguilar, Jeremy Alog, Helena Baraquel, Alie Unson, Chaela Tiglao, Geca Arambulo, Bee Leung, Ryan Molen, Sophia Bonoan, Tim Yusingco, Jamz Guiterrez, Karl Estuart, Frances Sayson, and Erika Villa-Ignacio. I look forward to seeing each of you

grow and become the writers and readers that you can be. I am already proud of you, and I hope that we continue to stay in touch. You are golden.

To the friends I made in college, especially Belle Mapa, Angela Natividad, Tiffany Conde, Emil Hofileña, Shaira Mazo, Gabbi Campomanes, Angela Go, Thurees Obenza, Kael Noriega, Chay Ty, Theo Catalo, Kevin Maske, Marco Javier. We made it, fam! Thank you for an incredible four years.

To Woodrose Batch 2012, long gone are the days we could throw Moddess across the room and skip pe because of “cramps.” I’m proud to have witnessed each and every one of you grow and become #womenofcharacter and #womenofstrength. It’s time to move back to the south, but this time we can wear any length of socks we want.

Congratulations, girls!

To France Study Tour 2015, I think about our adventures all the time.

You guys will always be part of one of the best experiences of my college days. Shoutout to my #TitasofStrasbourg, especially Paola Liboro, Denise David, Monica Lorenzo, Dana Sianghio, Kato Lim, Karina Jalandoni, Chaela Dee, Nicola Lichauco, Yenn Aguirre, Alex Atienza, Inna Magpantay, Caycay Chua, Josh Chua, Marcus Moulic, and Shai Nacino. We’ll always have Paris.

To my creative writing and fine arts teachers Egay Samar, Vincenz Serrano, Mark Cayanan, Allan Popa, Allan Derain, Marco Lopez, Sarge Lacuesta, Gisella Garcia, Glenn Mas; my literature teachers Alona Guevarra, Jillian Tan, Miguel Lizada, Francis Sollano; my other humanities teachers Stephanie Puen, Ray Aguas, Ria Bautista, Doris Faylona, Lovelyn Paclibar, Jacklyn Cleofas, and Rowie Palacios. I am so grateful for my Ateneo education, and so thankful to have studied under each of you. Thank you for opening me up to our beautiful world, for inspiring me to be a better version of myself, for shifting my perspective, for troubling the comforts I once held dear, for changing

me. To my thesis adviser Martin Villanueva, who encouraged me to study creative writing, thank you for believing in me even before I entered Ateneo. Much of my journey would not have arrived at where it is without all your help. The learning does not end here.

To that guy who sat two rows in front of me in first semester pos class, who would greet me around campus, who caught me off guard at my chapbook launch, who surprised me outside the FA department after my thesis defense, with whom I shared an umbrella during Blue Roast.

Once upon a time, you told me that you would work your way up to my acknowledgments page. Here you are—one school year, two semesters, and three tulips later.

Manananggal i met ching before picking season, when the trees rained mango flowers and made a tender, golden carpet on the grass. Her thin, brown legs curled around a thick branch; her long, black hair dangled like the hanging roots of the old balete—the one at the edge of the orchard, the grotesque rivers of trunks looking starkly misplaced among the mango trees. She had in her hand an unripe mango, which she tossed in her palm like a bright, green gem. “What’s your name?” she had asked me, staring at my white muslin dress and the pink ribbon that Abuelita had clipped behind my neck. I thought: shouldn’t I be asking you that—this is my house. Instead, I told her “Isadora,” and that was how we became friends.

We were both fifteen years old. One might have mistaken me for much older, only because I was tall and looked a lot like Abuelita: broad shoulders, high cheekbones; delicate lips that she proudly called the “sliver of the moon.” Ching was the daughter of one of the farmers, though I never knew which one. The farmers worked in the fields, with their straw hats dipped over their forehead and cotton pants rolled up to their knees. I did not talk to them, because I was not normally allowed anywhere past the garden that Abuelita had fashioned for me. She had planted oleanders and orchids. I had also requested for bright red gumamelas, from which Ching had taught me to drink.

She picked one out of the bush and, taking its pistil, pressed out the nectar that dripped from a pink cluster of soft beads. The nectar was sweet like honey, and we spent the afternoon in the garden, picking and drinking flowers. My pale skin had become red and sore in the April heat. Abuelita did not know this. She was in Spain for business.

Our family has occupied the plantation for over seventy years. My great-grandparents had originally used some acres for tobacco—the specialty of the Ilocos province, with its large leaves fanned out at the sun during the summers—and the others for rice. It was my Abuelita, 85 • Catherina Dario

my namesake, who had seen the potential of the mango trees that grew at the edge of the land. When I was younger, she would bring me to the grove and point out the large, golden mangoes that hung from the trees like bright Christmas ornaments. She would have young boys—darkskinned and big-eyed, with taut muscles rippling below their scraggy ribs—climb the trees with nets in their hand. I watched them balance carefully on the veins of branches, waiting for them to miss a foothold and plunge into the undergrowth. They never did; they always came back with basketfuls of mangoes. Abuelita would smile, inspect each of them with her ivory fingers, and then have us chauffeured back to the main house. She would have a few of the ripest and yellowest cut open, their cheeks sliced into perfect, symmetrical cubes. I had seen some of the boys peel and eat them with their fingers, and asked Abuelita if I could do that too.

“Don’t do anything you’re not supposed to do,” she said, raising an eyebrow, looking out at the plantation. Under the sun, some patches of land were green; others were brown, some yellow. They lined up before us like an open chessboard.

I never told Abuelita that I was friends with Ching. I timed everything perfectly. When Abuelita was away, I would run down to the kitchens and call for her. She was usually with the children of the farmers, sitting on their haunches as they gutted chickens or tossed rice in tubs of water.

The farmers’ wives would be folding clothes or stitching garments. Some of them would be cooking. The first time I went down to the kitchens, they stared at me as if I were a stranger in the house. “You cannot be here,” one of them said. I tried to speak to them in their language, which my Yaya had somewhat taught me as a child. I only had a Yaya until I was seven years old, just before my parents died. After that, she was sent away. I still remembered a few words like basang or bain or pakawanennak, which always crawled out my throat and onto my tongue, heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 86

resting in my mouth like a lethargic amphibian before climbing out.

Ching did not care for English or Spanish, which were the languages I spoke fluently. Ching spoke and moved quickly and energetically; she was like a fast monkey, except when I told her to slow down and keep quiet. We would usually stay in my room, underneath my bed, which was high and large enough to lie underneath. We did not always talk about ourselves, though she once asked me if I sometimes got lonely.

Always. I said it in English, and then, slowly, in her language. She stared at me. It must have looked strange, with the mattress pressed against our faces as if we were in a narrow, dark cave.

It was a Sunday afternoon when Ching told me about the manananggal that lived in the grove. Abuelita and I had heard mass in the morning; we always attended the service in the old, stone-paved church, which had been built in the city some centuries before. It was quite a drive from the plantation, especially with the bumpy roads that had been further narrowed by mats of drying rice.

Abuelita always wore her white veil, which curtained her pale, European face like a glossy spider web. She always prayed the rosary before mass, clutching her rosary against her chest. I was made to do the same: place my fists against my forehead and mutter “Hail Mary full of grace,” as my legs itched underneath my petticoat.

We had our lunch in the terrace, and then Abuelita went to have her nap. I was in my room when Ching scampered in, her skin smelling like chopped onions and fried fish. She told me about the manannggal that lived at the balete tree—the other children had seen it flying in the night.

At that time I had known nothing about monsters and ghouls, except for the ones in the English storybooks that Abuelita had shipped from America and lined up in the library shelves. She knew I was puzzled, so she took out a piece of paper and a pencil from my desk. She squatted over the blank sheet and etched a very crude drawing of a winged woman whose body grossly cut off at the end of her torso. “She leaves the lower half of her body somewhere in the forest,” she whispered in Tagalog, “And then goes hunting for babies to eat.” She drew the heads of dead babies, circling around the manananggal in morbid veneration.

I looked at it for a moment, then snatched the drawing from her hand 87 • Catherina Dario

and tore it up into tiny pieces. Later on, when Abuelita would inspect my room, she would ask me why I had made such a mess. “When will you start acting like a proper lady?” she said icily, before shutting the door behind her. I could only think about Ching, who was hiding underneath my bed once again.

The mayor visited the following day. He paid visits to the plantation frequently. He always arrived with two or three other men, and sported a large watch that clamped around his entire wrist like a bejeweled urchin. He and Abuelita would sit in the sala. Her pale ankles and taut, woven slippers would be pressed against each other. She would offer him cigars, and they would meditate over coffee and rice cakes.

Sometimes they would talk to each other in low whispers; sometimes they would not talk at all. They would sit on the solehiya settee in silence, with only the whir of the ceiling fan making a distinct sound.

On other occasions, the mayor would arrive with somebody: a lawyer, and he always carried with him a suitcase filled with stacks of papers; a bug-eyed woman who followed the mayor around like an eager fly, or sometimes—on that particular day—his son.

The mayor’s son was mestizo, which is why all the young girls in the plantation would come out of the kitchens and the wash area, dabbing their bandanas and cloths around their necks and their bosoms. Ching was one of them. That morning, when Abuelita announced that they would be coming for merienda, Ching dashed into the women’s quarters. I snuck into her dressing room and saw her brushing her coarse, black hair. “Help me decide what to wear,” she said, flinging open a drawer and tossing out piles of clothes. She pulled out a thin, yellow dress with gumamelas on it. She held it up at me and then pressed it against her chest. “Is this pretty?” she asked, but didn’t wait for me to reply. She began to strip, exposing her bare chest and her stomach, which were paler and pinker than her brown limbs. I suddenly became aware that it was only her and I alone in the room, and the spotted, stained mirror on the wall reflected both of us, showing the curve of her underside that dipped below her underwear, and then me, looking unsuitably fully-clothed in a navy blue dress.

I think she might have asked me what was wrong, but I felt as though heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 88

my tongue had been clipped to the back of my throat. When I finally found the words to say it, the latch of the door unfastened and there came the humid swell of other women.

When they finally arrived, Abuelita immediately ushered the mayor into the sala. She gave me a look, and I knew I was to entertain the son.

Somehow, I completely forgot his name, and avoided to have to address him by it. “Hello, how are you, how is the summer treating you?” I felt my words ooze out of my house like tar. I felt even slower and stickier when we sat down at the terrace. We talked about the thriving mango business, how it was particularly hot for March; the mayor’s home in Manila and how perhaps I could visit it sometime soon. I nodded politely, gazed at the rivulets of heat that rippled over the grass, fanned myself with the brightly dyed cloth fan that Abuelita had given me. I had somewhat spaced out when the mayor’s son tilted the glass to his lips and muttered: “My father tells me that they’re getting difficult.”

His voice was so soft, that I almost only heard the clink of ice cubes against each other.

“Who?” I said, leaning towards him.

The mayor’s son gestured to quilt of fields that lay further out beyond us. I placed my palm over my brow and squinted some more. I could barely see the dozens of men stooped over the paddies.

That night, I found Ching by my bedroom window. I had just taken a shower and changed into my nightdress when I found her perched by the capiz panels.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. The door was locked, and so I imagined that she had climbed the bamboo trellis that lined the walls of the main house.

She told me that she and the other children were going to hunt for the manananggal. It was half-past eleven, and she was certainly on the prowl. Before I could say anything, she assured me that Abuelita was fast asleep. I stared outside the window; beyond it were the large expanse of darkness and the silhouettes of hills and fields.

I had been outside the main house at night, but only once. I was eight years old; it was firefly season. It was a few months before my grandfather—Abuelito—died of a heart attack. I had not known 89 • Catherina Dario

him well, and I barely remember his face. He was a stout man with a cotton white beard. He took me out after dinner and we drove around the plantation. It was a year after the death of my parents, but I only knew this because he told me that among the fireflies were their souls.

I watched the gentle current of light glow amid the trees. I vaguely remember asking him how my mother and father died. He said that they had gone out into the forest one night. It was their favorite pastime to walk among the trees; my mother, according to my grandfather, loved the smell of mango flowers. On one night, they did not return.

“Did anybody get them?” I asked. I never imagined asking anything so dark.

“Isadora,” he said. I distinctly remember him saying my name. He sometimes called me Isa to distinguish me from Abuelita, but this time he didn’t.

“Some stories are shared. Others are left in the dark.” We sat on a hilly mound and watched the fireflies surge and scatter. He also died, and because I barely have any memories with him, there isn’t much about him to tell.

I followed Ching down the trellis, carefully feeling my way down the tangle of bougainvillea vine. She held a flashlight in her hand. As we tiptoed out of the house, I felt the cool, smooth sandstone path turn into warm, muddy grass. I asked her how we were getting to the grove. It would take at least two hours; because it was dark, it might take longer. She told me that one of the older kids, Benjo, knew how to drive one of the delivery trucks. We came to a thicket, and I saw that there were half a dozen children there. When they saw me, they greeted me politely and turned away. I felt out of place, and Ching probably knew this. She took my hand and pressed it against hers. The night was cool; a breeze blew in between my thighs.

I heaved myself up the truck. Along with Ching, the other children followed. They looked at me with beady eyes. I could not understand why they appeared so disturbed. It was not the first time I had interacted with them. Every time I visited Ching in the kitchen, they—along with several other children—were usually there. I assumed that by now, they had grown accustomed to my presence. But we rode the truck in heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 90

silence. The headlights dimly flickered at the clouds of dust.

At night, the plantation looked different. I never realized the sheer number of trees; the sky was no more than a narrow strip of stars.

It closed above us like a roof, and the walls of trees seemed to twist and turn as we drove further. It was as if I were in a foreign place, or in the hallway of the house, which also somehow behaved like a maze in the dead of the night.

I do not know what time we arrived. I had fallen asleep on Ching’s lap, and had only woken up because the truck’s wheels had gotten caught in the mud. Benjo told us to go down, and so we obediently filed out. Except for me, all the other children had flashlights. Somehow, I remembered Abuelito’s words again.

“The manananggal is somewhere in this area,” whispered Benjo. “I say we split up so we can find her body faster.” He held up a small sack of garlic in his hands, cut it open and distributed the small, white bulbs equally among us. “I also brought vinegar.”

“We’re going to kill her?” I said, in Ilocano. The other children laughed, probably because of my poor accent. Someone scoffed, said: “What else are we here for?”

We dispersed. Benjo went with an older girl, and four others went together. It was me and Ching by ourselves. I was afraid, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her palm was hard but smooth, like a pumice stone enclosed around my fist. We navigated the grove in silence, staring up at the umbrella of leaves. I couldn’t tell if the things hanging from the branches were mangoes or bats contained within their leathery capes. Ching had her eyes on the ground, waving her flashlight at anything that appeared dark and clumpy: a mound of rotting fruit, an upturned rock; a mass of roots. I imagined the manananggal was flying somewhere near, entrails splaying from the cage of her chest, leaving a trail of black liquid wherever she went. And somewhere: her lower body, palpitating like a winnowed heart.

We stopped walking; she told me she was tired. We sat down by the trunk of a balete. It occurred to me that we were probably at the edge of the grove, and we had walked very far. There was no sign of manananggal anywhere; our nerves had considerably calmed down.

91 • Catherina Dario

The grove had turned violet in the predawn light. She pressed her body against mine and said that she was cold. “Feel my face,” she said, in a language that I knew but could not name at that moment. Her cheeks were cold against my palms, and I almost retracted when I touched them. She held them closer. We looked at each other. I shifted my gaze downward and saw that the hem of my dress was now dirtied with mud.

She was only inches away from me; the only thing between us was the sheer drape of roots, the color of blood.

I kissed her—first, gently; the second time, my tongue swelled from my mouth and into hers. She resisted for a moment, and then kissed me back. I felt my ankles dig into the soil. We kissed some more; I imagined that the mud had fully smeared the underside of my dress.

I had just pulled away when somebody, a young girl in the distance, shrieked. It was a loud, deafening scream that resounded throughout the grove. The kiss, which had taken me and momentarily settled on my mouth, had now vanished. Ching and I both got up and ran towards the voice, which continued to cry out along with several others. It was now dawn, and the sun was now breaking overhead like a bleeding yolk.

The voices belonged to the children, as I had imagined, and we found them writhing on the floor in pools of their own vomit. Benjo was curled up against the side of the truck, slamming his back against one of the wheels. Tears streamed down his eyes. Shards of garlic lay scattered on the undergrowth. The smell of vinegar hung in the air.

It took me only a moment to realize what had happened and what they had seen. A few yards across the children was a lumpy, dark object.

At first I thought it was a dead animal, but when I looked closer I saw a hand, a withered, blackened thing stiffly outstretched on the ground.

It might have been a branch, but one could not have doubted the blood encrusted on its severed bottom, the sheen of bone that glittered within.

Suddenly, it was Ching and I screaming. We collapsed on the ground; my dress ripped at the seams. I felt the contents of my stomach well up inside of me, as if somebody had punched it through. I retched, staining the carpet of mango flowers that lay repose beneath my trembling body.

They found us later on—the men, and then the women—when the sun was high in the sky. They carried us to the back of the truck. heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 92

The women accompanied us back to the living quarters, crying and whispering among themselves. One of them cleaned my face with a washcloth and brushed my hair with a toothcomb. She said that Abuelita was looking for me. The men stayed behind, staring at the hand. I watched them grow smaller and smaller, until the trees completely covered them.

The other children, along with Ching, were brought to their families.

I was accompanied to the house. I kept my head low, watching my muddy feet soil the marble floors. Abuelita waited for me in the sala.

She sat on the couch, a blanket draped over her knees, her silver hair neatly tucked behind her ears. She watched me as I entered through the door. She waved at the women, who promptly left without a word.

When the door clicked behind me, we looked at each other in silence.

Abuelita curled her lip and smiled. I remembered how she always told people that I got my lips from her. A sliver of the moon.

“Where were you last night?” she said.

I opened my mouth, which was sore and dry. I closed it immediately.

“Did I not tell you to never do anything that you are not supposed to do?”

I looked down at my feet. “You did, Abuelita.”

“So why did you go out last night?”

“I don’t know, Abuelita.”

“Have I not taught you well? Did I not raise you properly?”

“You have, Abuelita.”

She continued to talk, but I was no longer listening. She spoke so fast; she spoke only in Spanish, and I could no longer understand a word that she said. Finally, she got up from her seat and took me. She held me by the shoulders and brought me up to my room. She said something, about my parents, how much she had sacrificed to keep me alive after the revolt, everything that she and the mayor are doing to keep me safe.

When she shoved me into my room and locked the door, I still felt her hand on my shoulder. It was the claw of a bird, perched on my skin.

I did not see Ching for more than a few weeks. Abuelita moved me to one of the guest rooms, which was situated at the further end of the house. It had not been used for years—the windows had been 93 • Catherina Dario

barred; the only visible furnishing was the single bed that was pushed up against the wall. My meals were sent upstairs, usually by a servant who was not allowed to speak with me. When Abuelita was not out (and when she decided to, I would hear the metallic turn of the lock), she spent most of her time in the room with me. She had a wicker chair brought up, and she would sit on it as she did her cross-stitching or afternoon reading. She felt sorry for me, because she had my books—the Spanish novels, at least—sent over. I read sometimes, though my mind often drifted to the kiss I shared with Ching – how her tongue, until now, seemed to struggle into my mouth and reach to the pits of my stomach as if it were trying to seize something deep inside.

This exhausted me, and when I did fall asleep I would dream of the hand.

In one dream I was sitting below a mango tree, my palms wide open as I waited to catch the bright yellow fruit gems. When a gust of wind came rushing, the branches shook and down came hands—several of them, crushed, bleeding, disfigured, grabbing at my ankles and neck.

I woke up screaming. Abuelita was by the windowsill, threading a small needle, focused on the eye as it glinted between her fingers.

On the sixteenth day, Abuelita told me that the mayor and his son would be visiting that evening. She allowed me to return to my own room. Though they remained in its place—my bed, my desk by the window, my full-length mirror beside my bookshelf—everything seemed vastly different. Abuelita returned to her room and locked the door, said that she had to rest before the mayor and his son arrived that evening.

I seized the opportunity to have Ching brought to my room. She, too, had somehow changed. Her hair was thicker and darker, and it twisted around her neck like a shadowy vine; her eyes, which had always been deep set, also appeared more beautiful. She had been working in the fields. She missed me. She told me all of that while we lay in bed.

We kissed more vigorously than before, as if we were animals depraved in the midsummer heat. Outside, beyond the cluster of flowers that lined my window, the fields were pleats of brown and gold; they rolled and rippled over each other. When we were naked in the sheets, our clothes on the floor or hanging on the bedpost, I examined heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 94

her body. Against mine, it was small: delicate and rough like brown sugar. Her ribs poked out of her belly. She admired my light brown hair, my fair skin; admired the birthmark at the back of my thigh, a blotchy archipelago on the curve of my leg. I never really paid attention to it until then.

We were there for hours. Time darkened the room. And when she finally stood up from the bed, her legs thin and nimble as she gingerly picked up her clothes from the floor, she asked me what the mayor’s business was, why he was coming for dinner.

“What?” I said. I was still sitting on bed, undressed.

“My father says that he and Señora talk about the plantation.”

“They do; it’s for the business.”

“Do they talk about the farmers?”

That was the first time she had ever brought them up. She was standing across the bed now, fully dressed. She suddenly looked very serious.

“I don’t know,” I said, after a while. I remembered the hand in the grove. I asked her about it, if they knew whose it was.

“They found a body in a river, but in another part of town.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but we were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Isadora,” said Abuelita from behind. “Who is that?” The door trembled, but it was locked. I imagined her bird claw roosting on the brass knob.

Ching did not say anything. She was out the window before I said “Nobody,” rather loudly. Abuelita demanded that I open the door.

I told her to wait. “What are you waiting for?” her voice was icy.

I haphazardly put on my clothes, and then let her in. Abuelita entered and switched on the lights. I winced, and then saw myself in the full length mirror. My blouse was put on backwards. Abuelita raised her eyebrow, her lips turning downward as she folded her arms against her chest.

“The mayor is downstairs,” she said, “Put on something decent.”

Her voice cracked. I had expected her to shout at me, like before.

95 • Catherina Dario

I knew that she knew I had done something—that the messy, dirtied sheets splayed on my bed reeked of someone. Not Ching, but me.

I showered quickly and dressed up, selecting the whitest dress in my closet, and brushed my hair back. When I went downstairs, the mayor and his son were already there. I greeted them politely and joined them at the table. Abuelita, who sat at the end, watched me as I filled my plate. She traced the glass with her finger.

I did not talk much over dinner. The mayor, his son, and Abuelita talked about the mango business, the quality of rice exports around Southeast Asia, the expected monsoon rains. Not once did they mention the farmers or anything about the hand in the grove.

I stared at my plate, kept remembering Ching, how she squinted at me in the dark room. I was pushing my food back and forth when Abuelita mentioned that I should take a more active part in the business, just as the mayor’s son was.

I looked at her blankly. Her face was stony, almost as gray as her hair.

“What about the farmers?” I said.

“What about them?”

“The hand in the grove, who did it belong to?” I was speaking in English, but it was if my voice was Ching’s and not mine.

Abuelita laughed and then looked at the mayor apologetically. “I’m sorry; my granddaughter has a strange imagination sometimes.”

“No,” interjected the mayor, his hands closing around his glass.

“Señora Isadora, you said yourself that she should have a more active part in the business.”

Abuelita’s eyes widened. Her brow wrinkled.

“Mayor, she is still young. She won’t understand.”

“Ah, but Enrico here is only a few years older. He knows about the demonyos that lurk in the fields, the ones that— “The ones that we found outside her bedroom window?” said the mayor’s son, his lips curving into a smirk. He rested his chin on his elbow.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 96

“One of our men found a girl climbing down her window.”

“When?”

“Just before dinner.”

I felt Abuelita stare at me. I looked down. My heart slammed in its cage.

“You should really check your servants. Some of them might be thieves.”

I no longer knew who was speaking. Somebody said something.

“Isadora is still a child,” quipped Abuelita. The room fell silent.

I could not sleep that night. My legs ached to walk, but I was afraid that Abuelita would hear my feet against the floorboards, my guilt pacing restlessly until morning arrived. I had expected her to throw a fit, to seize me from my room and lock me in another. But after the mayor, his son, and their men left, she retired to her room. “Wake up early for mass,” she said. I had forgotten that the following day was Sunday. When she found me up at dawn, holding my Bible and my rosary, she looked unsurprised. She put on her veil and nodded her head towards the car. We were silent throughout the entire trip to the church.

She closed her eyes and fell asleep, leaning her head against the glass.

We sat at our usual pew, which was right in front of the altar. The mass was scheduled to start half an hour later, and so I expected her to raise her rosary to her chest and begin praying.

“I had the girl dismissed,” she said.

“What?”

“The girl climbing down your window. The one they found last night.”

“Nobody was climbing down my window.”

“She could be a thief.”

“She is not a thief!” I retorted. Her eyes remained fixed on the altar.

“Isadora,” she said, her voice quivering as she spoke, “I want only what’s best for you.”

I couldn’t wait to leave the church. The mass proceeded sluggishly, and the music from the organ droned in loud, heavy hymns. When mass was done, I stormed out the doors and sat in the car. Abuelita walked slowly and gracefully, her handbag poised around her elbow as she ambled down the stone steps.

97 • Catherina Dario

In the car, I could only think of the kiss: aimlessly floating across my lips like the body in the river. In my mind, I envisioned the nightmare that my dreams had fabricated: the hands reaching down from the mango trees, the manananggal swooping at my mouth. I could feel my heart crawl out of its cage and up to my throat, pushing its way upwards like the amphibious thing that slid out of my tongue every time I spoke a different language. When we arrived back at the house, I jumped out of the car and ran past the main house. I heard Abuelita shout my name. She could have been calling out to herself; I do not know anymore. I ran to the maidservants’ quarters, and looked for Ching among the women.

They looked over their washing bins and fruit baskets, looking at me, knowing I did not belong there. One of them sat against a tree trunk, peeling a green mango with her fingers and tearing its meat into little pieces. “Are you looking for Ching?” she asked, dipping one of the pieces into a bowl of shrimp paste and scooping up the gunk with her fingers. She ate with relish.

“Where is she?” I asked.

“She left.”

“Where did she go?”

The woman shrugged. She looked like everybody else—dark skin, large eyes, full lips that hid rows of yellowing teeth. “How are we supposed to know? Nobody knows what goes around here anymore.”

I went into the rooms just to make sure that it was true. She was in neither of them. I saw the children that I had gone with to the grove.

They were in one of the courtyards, kicking a plastic ball high in the air and watching it block the sunlight from their gaze. I asked them if they had seen Ching. No, they said, but they had finally seen the manananggal.

I couldn’t listen to them; I ran back into the house and saw Abuelita waiting for me. I knew that she would be waiting there, like the queen of the chessboard—this cursed plantation that I was a prisoner of. She waited for me up the steps, positioned like a glass figurine. Before I could throw myself at her, she grabbed my wrists and held them. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 98

“I love you, Isadora,” she said, struggling to get up. “You’re young so you don’t understand.” She held me firmly in her bird claw hands.

In my peripheral vision, I saw that some of the children had gathered below the steps. They watched as I kicked and screamed.

I heaved my body against hers, but she remained firm. She scolded me, ordered that I act like a woman. “Everybody is watching!” she screamed, holding me against her.

I grabbed the bird claw and twisted it. It cracked between my fists.

She shrieked and let go of me, immediately crumpling to the floor.

The children continued watching. I let the amphibian crawl out of my mouth. I cursed Abuelita, I cursed Ching; I cursed my parents lost in the hand of the grove. I might have been heard throughout the whole plantation. I might have burned it down.

99 • Catherina Dario

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 100

Luigi dela Peña ab economics

“Confusion is a luxury which only the very, very young can possibly afford and you are not that young anymore.”

—James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room “Or are ‘being’ and ‘having’ thoroughly inaccurate verbs in the twisted skein of desire, where having someone's body to touch and being that someone we're longing to touch are one and the same…”

—Andre Aciman, Call Me by Your Name Laging mapagpalaya ang pagsusulat para sa akin. Ninanais ng mga likhang itong tupdin kung pag-ibig nga ang siyang simula’t hantungan ng pagnanasa. Tutula akong nakikinig sa tinig ng balat, sa pagkaluoy at pagbangon nitong muli. * Maraming salamat sa mga nanindigan. Block F1 ’16. Kay Cristine at ang walang-hanggang pangungulit na kaya ko raw magsulat (kinaya ko nga, Sis). Kay Aldrin at sa kanyang matalim na pamumuna (oo, ikaw na talaga ang nag-Lit Theory). Kay Francis at sa walang-maliw na pagkakaibigan. Kay Jessa na laging nakabantay sa malayo ngunit nananatili pa rin. Kay Belle/Bernice at sa pagbibigay ng lakas ng loob. Kay Paulette at mga gabi sa Marais. Kay Raissa at sa kanyang kadramahan (pati na rin kay Mabi na ayaw sumakay ng FX).

Mga minamahal sa aea. Mga naging kaklase sa ibang kurso (Ena at Jonnel, alam niyo yehn). Mga naging kaibigan sa Paris.

Pasasalamat din sa lahat ng naging guro sa pamantasan, lalo na kina Sir Max Pulan, Sir Mitch Cerda, Sir Maki Lim, Sir Jet Tenorio, Ma’am Beni Santos, at Dok Je Respeto. Maraming salamat at tinuruan niyo po akong mahalin ang panitikan (sana mahalin din ako pabalik). Sa mga pinakaiibig kong guro sa Economics Department, pati na rin kina Ate Sai at Ate Rhea. Sa mga nakasamang fellows at mentors sa ahww 21, maraming salamat din.

Sa mga mukhang sinaulo sa dilim at tinalikdan sa liwanag, maraming salamat. Sa mga lumisan at lumimot, nilisan at kinalimutan. Ang nagmamalay ng kawalan ay hindi siyang umalis, kundi ang iniwan.

Huli, para kina Mama, Papa, Joan, Nanay, at Lolo (pati na rin ang mga aso naming sina Prince, Tiger, at Loki), dalangin kong makilala niyo rin ang tunay na manunulat sa takdang panahon. Mahal na mahal ko po kayo.

Umibig sa makata dahil tapat siya sa mga salita. Charot.

Ilang

Para kay Xavier

Dumapo ang balinsasayaw sa sanga ng iyong balikat, namugad, nanikit ang lupa’t laway sa bawat uka ng aking katawan.

Nasilo ang paruparo sa sapot ng iyong buhok, nangintab ang mga talukap ng mata sa kanyang pakpak, tinugis ng aking mga daliri.

105 • Luigi dela Peùa

Gumapang ang alupihan sa ugat ng iyong bisig, kumislot ang kanyang butil-butil na sikmura, tumindig ang aking mga balahibo.

Umalagwa ang kuliglig sa lusak ng iyong balat, humagkis ang kanyang huni sa hangin, binantasan ang aking mga hingal.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 106

Nanuklaw ang ahas sa lungga ng iyong mga binti, bumaon ang kanyang pangil sa aking palad, dibdib, leeg, naghasik ng kamandag, sintamis ng pulot.

107 • Luigi dela Peùa

Lihim

“We dance round in a ring and suppose, But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.”

—Robert Frost Matagal na nila akong ikinubli sa madilim na piitan ng gunita, nakagapos kasama ng mga saglitang titig, halik, hipo— At ngayong muli silang nagkita, tahimik akong nagmamasid, hinahanap ang duda sa bawat baluktot ng kanilang tinig, inaaninag ang takot sa bawat anino ng kanilang mukha.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 108

Nakakulong sa mga tinging hindi magtagpo at ngiting nakapinid, nagpupumiglas subalit pinipigilan ko— mga kapwa bilanggo.

109 • Luigi dela Peña

Rosario

Kumagat na ang gabi sa mukha ng liwanag.

Nagdugo ng mga anino ang balat ng langit.

Niyapos ng dilim ang silid-dasalan.

Sinindihan ni Rosario ang mitsa at nag-antanda sa noo, sa labi, sa dibdib.

Ipinulupot niya ang rosaryo sa puwang ng mga daliri.

Taimtim na lumuhod sa harap ng altar.

Titig na titig ang santo sa pawisang mukha ng birhen, mahigpit ang hawak ng dalaga sa krus habang heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 110

natutunaw ang kandila, tumutulo ang mga patak sa sahig.

Pisil-pisil ang mga butil, umusal ng buong diin: Aba Ginoong Maria.

Napupuno.

Sumasaiyo.

111 • Luigi dela Peùa

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 112

Mark Christian Guinto

bs chemistry with materials science and engineering

“In other words, one never ascends from ‘the world’ to art, even by the movement of refusal and disqualification which we have described; rather, one goes always from art toward what appears to be the neutralized appearances of the world—appears so, really, only to the domesticated gaze which is generally ours, that gaze of the inadequate spectator riveted to the world of goals and at the most capable of going from the world to the picture.”

—Maurice Blanchot, The Space of Literature Sa pagbagtas nitong buhay na kalugod-lugod na pinayayaman ng agham at sining habang higit na nagiging kasama sa larawan (marahil, kahit paunti-unti), ako ay mapalad na nakatagpo ng mga taong mabubuti at tunay na umiibig sa kanilang mga ginagawa. Nais kong gamitin at sulitin ang pagkakataong ito upang ipahayag ang aking lubos na pagpapasalamat: Sa Block M/M1. Mabilis lamang talaga pala ang apat na taon; hindi na natin namalayan kung gaano tayo napatibay ng mga lab report. At ang mga galak na napagbahaginan sa loob at labas man ng Schmitt—sana ay dumami pa.

Kay Dr. Enriquez, sa matiyagang paggabay sa aking thesis research.

Maraming salamat din kina Ate Anna, Kuya Harry, Kuya Nikko, Joshua, Ate Denden, Steph, Ella, Jill, Kuya JM, at Dr. Bingo sa masasayang

panahon sa lab (at dinners minsan) at sa lahat ng inyong mga itinuro.

Kina Dr. Macahig, Dr. Fabicon, Sir Henson, Ma’am Val, at Sir Japhet sa pumupukaw na pagtuturo ng Chemistry. Gayundin kina MJ, Sheena, Angelo, Magin, Paul Col, Cris, at siyempre, kina Kuya James at Kuya PJ sa pagsisikap sa pacs. Salamat sa patuloy na pagpapatunay na makahulugan ang Chemistry.

Kina Sir Egay, Ma’am Lalu-Santos, Sir Respeto, Ma’am Beni, Sir Sollano, Sir Escaño, at Ma’am Cabochan. Salamat sa masisiglang talakayan sa pakikipagtalastasan at panitikan. Naging lubha pong makabuluhan ang mga ito para sa akin. Kailangang magsalita pa.

Sa mga nagtaguyod ng 5th ahaw at 21st ahww, sa panelists—lalo na kina Sir Alfred at Sir Popa na aking naging mga mentor—at sa aking mga co-fellow. Salamat sa hindi matatawarang talisik at naangkop na bagsik. Marami akong natutuhan at napagtantong lalong marami pang aspekto sa sining na kailangang pagbutihin. Dalisayin pa nawa ang ating mga tatangkaing paglilikom.

Sa heights, sa Bagwisang Filipino at kina Selina, Christian, at Jeivi.

Salamat sa nakapagpapalagong pag-ibig sa panitikan at sining. Kina Jonnel, Karla, Roxette, at Reina, salamat din sa maiinam na delibs!

Sa Blue Symphony, lalo na kay Tito at kina Ate Elva at Ate Nat. Salamat po sa pagkakataong makibahagi sa pinag-iisang pintig nitong nagpapakulay sa ating buhay.

Kay Sir Tim, aming Tatay rito sa Ateneo. Gayundin, salamat kina Aaron, Joshua, Roy, Karla, Trisha, at Ima: mga companion sa dorm.

Kain ulit tayo minsan.

Kina Roy, Roel, at Cris. Sa mga hindi lumilipas na tugtugin at mga kuwentong may extra rice.

Sa aking pamilya. Sa paglingap, galak at pagsisikap.

Balot masarap daw sa lalamunan ang maninipis na balahibo ng nilalang na balot, nahuhukot sa loob ng itlog—lango sa sarili nitong pawis at luha.

Siya ngang tunay. dumidikit ang mga balahibo sa bubong ng ngalangala, kumakanti, mamasa-masa animo’y daan-daang daliring nakikipagsiksikan upang mapunasan ang pulang roba ng Nazareno: nagbabakasakaling sa paligsahan ng pagpahid biglang mapakinggan ng langit itong pangarap ng itik: matikmang muli kahit isang saglit ang liwanag na nasilip bago niya nasapit ang nakatunghay na bibig

117 · Mark Christian Guinto

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 118

Emil Hofileña

bfa creative writing

Emil Hofileña is a creative writing major, film enthusiast, and future Los Pollos Hermanos employee. He believes all stories are worth telling. He has previously been published in 100: The Hundreds Project and various chapbooks from the Pugad Literary Folio and WriterSkill.

This is his first time getting published in heights. “Designated Driver” was originally published in his thesis chapbook, Hesitation.

Designated Driver if i tell myself a lie over and over again, I eventually end up believing it.

Tonight I am trying to convince myself that this beer in my hand tastes good. I am trying to convince myself that there is nowhere else I would rather be than here: standing next to the mini bar in Albert Tasio’s living room on a Saturday night. His enormous house towers around us—the drunken girls, stoned jocks, and nervously sweating class outcasts clumped together on a dance floor that smells like a pigsty.

I look straight up and estimate that the ceiling must be at least fifty feet high. I have a fear of heights. Rather, I have a fear of looking at heights. I have never actually been close enough to a ledge myself for me to determine if I could take it, or if I would just faint, slump over the banister, and fall. Just the idea of people standing on solid ground that high in the air is enough to get me. Why take the risk? Why not stay as close to the ground as possible? At least if you trip, it will not hurt that much. If you are lucky, people might not even notice that you have lost your balance. No need to lie to myself about that one.

The beer can in my hand has lost all of its moisture. I give it a little swirl. It is about three-fourths full. That means there must still be at least three hours of party time left. I raise the can to my mouth.

Given the number of times I have been forced—or have forced myself—to come here, I could swear that this spot in particular on the Tasio family carpet has formed two depressions that exactly match the shape of my feet. The music changes to Justin Bieber or Ed Sheeran or someone similar. People cheer. A girl with heavy eyeliner is sitting on the couch to my right. She turns to the boy next to her and mouths the words “i love this song” as if it is the first time she has ever heard it outside her earphones. She takes the boy by the hands and pulls him up to the center of the living room. She blinks and blinks and blinks.

The boy pulls on his too-tight maroon pants as he looks for a place to put his drink.

121 · Emil Hofileña

A group of girls stumble by to get to the newly vacated couch. As they pass me, I see Mark round a corner across the room. I tell myself that the beer tastes great and that the music is right up my alley, and I think I believe it this time.

Mark, with his oversized Uniqlo jacket and slim-fit jeans, with his stained striped shirt and dirty Chucks. Mark, with his short hair and light stubble on light skin. Mark’s smile that only shows the top row of his teeth, Mark’s eyes that I know are telling a lie as well. Mark’s right hand holding a beer can just like mine, Mark’s left hand pressed against the waist of a girl in a black dress.

But Mark is a liar as well, and that gives me relief. He is much better at it than I am. I know this because I have been driving him home week after week for what feels like a school year. I know this because he talks in his sleep, and I overhear him on nights when he is unconscious in the passenger seat. I know this because I have stayed late enough at Albert Tasio’s parties to see him lock lips with another boy in some dark corner. Most of all, I know he is a good liar because he comes back every single week, and he finds a new black dress to hold against him.

I do not hold this against Mark. I can see in his eyes—the way he avoids eye contact, the way he looks over his shoulder—that he is constantly trying to convince himself of something. I raise my glass to my mouth again and wish him cheers.

There is giggling and there are muffled utterances of “oh my god” coming from the couch. The girls sitting there, pretty in gold and bangles, have their eyes on me. Only when the beer can makes contact with my lips do I realize that I have been smiling the entire time while looking at Mark. One of them makes the sign of the cross and licks her lips. I know what she means by this. They all know whose son I am.

There is no need to bring my father into this, but they do so anyway.

I remain smiling. I have been in this situation before. I take a quick

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 122

sip, lower the can, and raise my eyebrows at the girls. They roll their eyes and continue whispering to each other and pointing into the crowd.

I take one last look at Mark—who is now holding the black dress with both hands—and I take a step backwards. *

The day I found out Mark ended up in my father’s Theology class, I was afraid to come home. The most irrational part of me expected to be greeted by a belt to the wrist. I thought my father would press a crucifix against my forehead. I thought I would bleed and burn. God would finally have His vengeance for my sin—and Mark was Judas kissing my cheek.

But the truth is not so dramatic. Of course my father would never suspect. The most oppressive thing my father has done is suggest I wear a scapular around my neck. He smiled when he handed it to me, and I embraced him. I wish I had some sort of sob story about the way I am so I could blame somebody else for once. I wish my father’s voice could be in my ear right now—shouting, telling me to leave some space for the Holy Spirit. But the only voice in my head is my own. I wish my father could be the kind of conservative Christian that believes alcohol is the devil’s urine, and I shouldn’t know its taste. But Jesus drank wine, so my father does too. He does not suspect a thing. He is at peace, and he does not even know it.

Why take that away from him?

Behind the party, the Tasio household is cavernous and foreboding.

Everyone has been funneled into the living room—leaving the dining room, hallways, and stairwells looking dark and worn. I make my way to the ground floor bathroom.

Mark and I are not friends, exactly. We live close to each other. It was after the third party (and the first in Albert Tasio’s place) when I noticed Mark limping down the sidewalk. I stopped the car next to him, lowered the window, and offered to take him as far back as I could.

Only in the dim light inside the car did I seem to notice Mark for the first time. I only really noticed him when he was seated twelve inches away from me. We were alone in my car.

123 · Emil Hofileña

I do not know why I continue to lie to myself about Mark—that one day we could be seated next to each other in places other than my car. Maybe on a beach, under a tree, or even just on the same couch at a party. I have no reason to enjoy his company this much. I have no reason to give him the looks that I give him. Maybe it is because I know that we are one and the same. Just knowing that there is someone across the room also performing for an audience. Knowing that, when I am home, he is home as well—neither of us taking off the masks we need to survive.

He is not the kind of person you would bring home to introduce to your parents. This does not mean that he is a person not worth investing your time in. We have shared jokes, sung along to songs on the radio, shared high-fives and handshakes. Maybe that is not enough to want to be with someone, but maybe it is. Maybe it is enough to know that you are not alone.

I have seen what this world of big houses and pubescence and sexual activeness has done to liars like me. I would rather not be found out.

Allow me to continue coming home to a father whose credibility as an educator remains unchallenged. I would rather be constantly at a distance from Mark than spend one moment risking everything.

Honestly, I would much rather be given opportunities than be forced to fight for them. Maybe it is enough to know that there is even just the slightest possibility of not being alone—so long as I keep on lying.

I arrive at the bathroom. I turn on the single light over the sink.

My face looks back at me: straight hair, small eyes, bumpy nose, thin lips. I reach down and feel around in my right pocket for the smooth cylinder that I always bring with me. It is my mother’s.

I take the lipstick and run it lightly against my bottom lip. I smudge it. I twist the cylinder until I have the entire thing sticking out. I drag it across my right cheek. Smudge. I tuck the lipstick back into my pocket.

I cup my hands under the faucet for a moment—just enough to make them damp, but not wet. I bring my fingers up and rake them through my hair. I unbutton the top of my polo shirt. Position the scapular so that it is right at the center of my chest. Pull up a bit of my sleeves.

Wring the edges, crease the flaps. I stand back to get a better glimpse of my entire upper body in the mirror. I tell myself that this is me. heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 124

I have to believe it if I expect others to believe it. I imagine one of the girls from the couch pressed up against me, wiry hands clutching at my chest, her leg pushing its way in between my own. It’s a disgusting image to have in my head.

I exit the bathroom and head for the living room once more. The house seems to come back into focus. Color drains into the frame. I remember where I am. The smile returns to my face. I believe I am who I say I am.

I know the performance by heart: back straight, arms flexed, walk slightly bow-legged. I clap a guy on the back without looking at him.

Look girls in the eye. And just like that, I disappear. I am now part of the crowd. My feet no longer seem to fit in that spot by the bar.

Across the room, I see Mark sitting with a group of boys tossing around a basketball. He has a glass bottle sticking straight up into the air, his mouth on the other end of it. He was always so much better at lying. * The first time I ever tried my mother’s lipstick, I thought that it would taste like cherry or apple. I applied it in my bedroom. My back held the door shut. I was not yet brave enough to look at myself in a mirror as I did it. So I ran it up and down and across my lips over and over again. I thought I would know when to stop when I finally tasted it. I stuck my tongue out and could only feel a thick layer of paste over my lips—but I could not taste anything. So I pressed the lipstick harder, applied it further back until it touched my teeth.

I went to the mirror in the hallway to look at myself, and immediately burst out laughing. My lips were too red, my teeth looked like they were bleeding, I had smudged the lipstick too far out from the corners of my mouth. I laughed and laughed and laughed. I laughed so much that I heard my father begin marching up the stairs to see what had happened. I ran into my room, hid the lipstick into my school bag, and locked myself in the bathroom to scrub off the red paste.

The next day at school, mother’s tube of lipstick fell out from my backpack as I was bringing out my recess. I made the mistake of 125 · Emil Hofileña

freezing before picking it up, because by the time I had it in my hand, my classmates had noticed. Jeers of “Is that yours?”, “You going on a date?”, and other creative taunts came from all sides.

And then Mark passed by, looked at me, and said, “That’s Amy’s, right? Thanks for holding on to it, man.” He picked it up from my open palm and pocketed it without saying a word to our other classmates.

The circle they had formed around me gradually vanished, and I was left alone with my cookies and my math homework. I looked across the room at Mark and thought to myself, “He’s good. He’s really good.”

That was the first time he had said something to me of actual substance. We were not friends then. I could not say now if he really was seeing a girl named Amy then. But I worked up the courage to approach him after class. The plan was to thank him quickly—a passing remark, even, if possible—and then leave with my head down.

It was Mark who spoke first. He patted me lightly on the shoulder like we had known each other since grade school. He passed the lipstick back to me discreetly. And like it was no big deal, he said to me quietly, “It’s a nice color.” It really was. That, I am sure, was the truth. * It was one in the morning when I finally decided that Mark had had enough. Bottles littered at his feet, he stood and jabbed a finger straight into Albert Tasio’s face. Albert Tasio, the hulking, six-foot-tall varsity player, holding a bottle of his own. Mark slurred something, spat in Albert’s face. The bottle came down and flew past Mark’s head. It shattered on the wall directly behind him. Mark grabbed Albert by the collar and tried to push him backwards, but Albert pushed back, digging his fingers into Mark’s scalp. Fists flew, people screamed and cheered. I was back at the bar scrubbing off the lipstick from my cheek when I heard the glass shatter. Mark’s performance would have to be cut short tonight.

I am now trying to convince myself of a lie that Mark can use to tell his parents when they wake him in the morning for Sunday Mass.

Maybe the redness of his hands is an allergic reaction to the alcohol. heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 126

I grasp Mark around the shoulders and pull him towards the front door.

The sound of bangles. Golden girl from the couch approaches and grabs Mark’s wrist. “Share him with us!” I shoot her a glare and slap away her hand. I half-drag half-shove Mark outside, and I shut the heavy wooden door behind us. I can just barely hear their voices through the wall, jeering, “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts…”

My car is at the end of the line of vehicles parked by the sidewalk.

Mark likes arriving late to these parties. He tells me that he lost track of time and rushes to get ready when I come to pick him up. But even I know that the last person who arrives at a party has the best chance of raising the bar, of becoming the topic of conversation. That makes sense, given the grand illusion Mark has so skillfully been building for himself.

I hold the car door open as Mark climbs into the passenger seat. I am halfway to the driver’s seat when I see a figure approaching us: it is the silhouette of a girl, lit from behind by the Tasio house’s lights. She staggers from one foot to another. Three-inch heels, hands in the air waving, her voice calling Mark’s name.

Mark puts down the passenger side window and calls out the name “Sasha.” They are laughing. She comes closer to Mark and I recognize the black dress on her skinny body. She leans in and gives Mark a kiss.

I get into the car and start the engine.

“In a hurry to leave?”

“No, no, hey,” Mark in his drunkenness waves his hand around, trying to connect with my shoulder. His fingers end up on the side of my face. “Sasha can come along. She needs a ride too.” Before I can answer, Sasha is in the back. She pokes her head into the space between the front seats, looks around, observing my dashboard. We lock eyes. Her face is oily, makeup messed up at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She gives me a wide smile. Sasha turns to Mark and lays her head on his shoulder. *

The ride back to Mark’s home is usually my favorite part of the night. It is the only time I will not go beyond the speed limit on 127 · Emil Hofileña

an empty avenue with no traffic cops. Nothing ever happens between Mark and myself during these return trips. In fact, for the most part, I keep my eyes on the speedometer—making sure I am well below the limit so I can keep Mark safe. Every time we approach a stoplight, I hope that it goes red. I roll to complete stops at stop signs. I sit for a good five seconds with the handbrake up and the gear on neutral just to be really sure. Sometimes I look up at the rosary hanging from the rearview mirror, and I think about stopping to offer a Hail Mary before moving forward. Mark’s house is only about twenty minutes away by car. I make sure we get there in no less than forty.

The road to Mark’s is similar to my trip to Albert’s first floor bathroom. At one a.m., the city seems to shed its skin. Deep down beneath its lights and noise are grey surfaces flecked with puddles here and there. My vision goes black and white. I can no longer tell if we are driving in the shadows of condominiums, or if we are ants scuttling in the shadows of great, tall headstones. Mark told me a ghost story once, of a woman in a white dress waving from one of the condo windows. If I see her, I will have to wave back—or else she will appear in the back seat. I appreciate this story. It takes my mind off the buildings’ heights.

All I can imagine when seeing these condos are bodies falling off of their rooftops. That’s what they get for coming in so close to the edge.

But if this were any other night, I would turn to Mark, and I would remember that I was not alone. There are nights when I want to tell him all that I know about him. All that I know about myself, and how he and I can take off each other’s masks—even if for only forty minutes a week. But my grip tightens around the steering wheel. The rough leather brings me back to reality: sitting in front of a stop sign, yielding to traffic that will never arrive at one a.m.

But tonight, I turn to face Mark and see Sasha instead. Her head still on Mark’s shoulder. She is humming something. I tighten my grip around the steering wheel. I remind myself of the lie that I have to give Mark: he is getting an allergic reaction to the alcohol. He got an allergic reaction, then accidentally fell—no, slipped on the dance floor. No harm done to anyone else. I attempt to conjure up the same sort of redness in my knuckles by squeezing tighter. In forty minutes, I need to believe my lie. I keep my eyes on the speedometer. heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 128

Sasha’s hand comes up in my peripheral vision. It seems to be making a repeated upward-downward motion. I slow down in front of another stop sign to get a better look. Sasha is stroking Mark’s bruised face.

But this is not the touch of a drunken girl slobbering over a boy. She touches lightly, her fingers lingering for just the right amount of time before moving on to the next patch of skin. My palms begin to sweat.

My touch would be barbaric by comparison.

How is this woman able to do this? How does he allow her to do this to him? I do not ever remember seeing Sasha before tonight—at least, not around Mark. What has she done to be allowed to hold him where it hurts?

Here I am, thinking of lies for you, Mark.

We are about three intersections away from Mark’s subdivision.

Sasha’s voice sounds in the car. It takes me a while to realize that she is talking to me.

“Don’t worry about dropping me off anywhere.”

I half-nod. Understood. I will not worry.

“You know, I think it’s really sweet what you do. I figured someone should tell you sooner or later.”

What?

“What’s he been doing?” Mark’s voice, somewhat in jest.

“I mean,” Sasha continued, “schoolboy crushes aren’t really a thing anymore, but it just makes things more romantic, you know?”

What?

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a gay guy this sweet.”

My right foot immediately reaches for the brake pedal, but I slip, and the car continues to cruise along in momentum. My hands are glued to the wheel.

“You should have heard Ada scream about it when you slapped her hand off of Mark. She was more kilig than angry, or anything else.”

Red light. Stop.

Her fingers grasp my right shoulder. Her voice drops to a whisper, “Hey, no one’s gonna tell your dad. Don’t worry.”

There is an explosion of distortion in my eardrums, and yet the night remains silent. But my vision distorts and I see myself falling straight smack onto the windshield of my own car.

129 · Emil Hofileña

It is then that I notice how silent Mark has been.

He is silent because he knows that this accusation towards me is just as much of an accusation against him. He is speechless. Compromise your privacy with me, Mark. Tell her what she refuses to see about you.

Let us remove our masks.

That is what I tell myself, at least.

I look to my right. Mark and Sasha burst into laughter.

I do not even see Sasha at this point. I squint. I try to recognize this young man sitting in my passenger seat. Mark, with the unkempt hair and unshaved moustache. Mark, with the crooked teeth and crow’s feet. No, he is laughing. Mark would never.

“I wouldn’t blame you for going for Mark,” Sasha says, as she squeezes Mark’s arm.

I want there to be something in his eyes that tells me that he hates what he is doing to me. I want there to be a split second wherein his eyes droop, and he mouths the words “i’m sorry”. My mind goes back to the image of the first time I saw Mark kiss another boy.

“I’ve always wanted a gay friend,” Sasha says.

I am in front of the bathroom mirror again. The lipstick in my hand is embarrassing to be caught holding. I drop it. Mark is not here to cover for me this time. I look at myself in the mirror and I see nothing but makeup caking the surface of the glass. I take a step back, two steps back. I cannot stand the sight of it.

Mark’s laugh is the hearty kind of laughter. As if every joke he hears is the first, last, and only time he will ever hear humor in his life. Maybe that is why I have gotten so caught up on him. Maybe that is what assured me that I would not be alone in my lying. His is the kind of laugh you could wake to and fall asleep to. And here it is again, clawing itself into me.

They laugh and laugh and laugh. Sasha places her hand around Mark’s shoulders, and the two place their lips on each other.

I step down on the gas pedal.

I hear them kiss.

I take my right hand off the steering wheel.

I hear Sasha whisper.

I take my left hand off. heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 130

I hear Mark laugh again.

The gas pedal is now flat on the floor. The city races by. My forty minutes are racing by faster than ever before. The gate of Mark’s subdivision flies overhead. We are going down a hill street bordered by modest houses. I look forward, eyes no longer on the speedometer.

There is a dead end at the end of the road. Racing towards us. Lead all souls into heaven, especially those in most need of Your mercy.

I hear Mark laugh.

My foot eases up on the pedal.

Mark laughs.

The car rolls to a halt in front of Mark’s house.

Sasha’s voice bubbles to the surface of my consciousness. She is thanking me. By the time I can finally distinguish one color from another, Sasha is already on the passenger side, helping Mark to his feet. He turns to me, smiles, and says, “Next week again, man?” I begin to search his eyes for a hint of regret or understanding, but I know that it is not there. He walks off with Sasha. They climb the stairs to his front door. He is such a good actor that I do not think even he knows it.

I close my eyes and I listen to the echoes of his footsteps. I see him and Sasha entwined in each other’s arms. They have their mouths wrapped around each other. I can feel them fumbling with his belt buckle, with her bra strap. I trace their footsteps from the front door all the way up the stairs and to his bedroom. When I feel them collapse onto his bed, my head falls back. I open my eyes and remember where I am. “Next week again, man?” His question hangs in the air. * The shadows of the city on the way out of his subdivision are even longer than they were just a while ago. As I careen down the empty road, I stare at the rooftops. I am waiting for a body to fall, I am waiting for a lady in white to wave at me, I am waiting for the shadows to embrace me completely until I become black and white as well. But they know I have a father at home who is awaiting the sound of my arrival.

131 · Emil Hofileña

A hint of red enters the picture: the redness of Mark’s knuckles. I realize that I never got to tell him the lie that I had prepared for him.

My hands tighten around the steering wheel. They burn crimson.

I enter the gate to my village. “Sure,” I answer Mark’s question, far too late. I will think of better lies next week.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 132

Jerome Ignacio

ab humanities / bfa theater arts

Jerome finished a double degree in humanities and theater arts in the Ateneo de Manila University. His play “Kublihan� was featured in Virgin Labfest XI: Sariwa last year. He was a fellow for drama in the Ateneo National Writers Workshop this year and the Virgin Labfest 10 Writing Fellowship two years ago. Also, he was an actor for various stage readings of past fellowships. Other than writing plays, Jerome is an actor and occasional director in numerous productions for Ateneo entablado, which he has served as company manager two years ago, and Teatro Baguntao in the Ateneo High School.

Perfecto Gomez: Bagong Bayani ng Lansangan mga tauhan rudy– 30, Chief City Traffic Operations Officer gener– 25, clerk ng City Traffic Operations Office kristi—30, isang journalist ding– 25, isang karaniwang local government traffic aid mayor—45, ang mayor ng lungsod johnny—23, anak ng mayor chief—40, hepe ng police force tagpuan Sa opisina ni Rudy, sa City Traffic Operations Office. May dalawang mesa sa silid, isa para kay Rudy at isa para kay Gener at isang telebisyon.

May mga larawan ng asawa at anak ni Rudy at telepono sa kanyang mesa. Nasa gitnang taas ng entablado ang pinto patungo sa labas. Sa tabi nito, may bintanang matatanaw ang labas ng opisina. panahon 5:00 PM, Oktubre 2015.

ang dula Liliwanag. Papasok si RUDY, may dalang mga mamahaling sitsirya. Uupo at tahimik na kakain. Bubuksan ang telebisyon. May makikitang balita ngunit ililipat sa istasyon ng basketball. Maaaliw. May magte-text sa kanya. Tatawag sa telepono. rudy

Oo nga darling, nasa headquarters pa rin ako, wala pang six, darling … Darling, kailangan kong hintaying mag-six … Ano ba naman, siyempre kasama sa trabaho ko ‘yung debriefing ng mga

135 · Jerome Ignacio

bata, kailangang malaman—si Ding? Hindi pa, pero pabalik na rin ‘yun ... oy, hindi ah! At kahit na ba, hindi puwedeng special treatment siya. Porke’t kapatid mo siya, dapat pantay ang … oo babantayan ko siya, darling … oo, alam kong pinagdaanan niya! Ano ba akala mo sa akin at paulit-ulit mo na lang—ha, hindi ah, ‘di kita tinataasan ng—shh, relaks lang … sorry na, sorry na, sorry na darling. Lab na lab kita, alam mo naman ‘yan darling … eh lagi mo naman ‘yan sinasabi sa akin; lagi nga ako tumatakas dito, buti ‘di nahuhuli, pero pagdating ko naman diyan, wala, false alarm, nasa tiyan mo pa rin si baby … alam kong nine months na ‘yan, pero ‘di pa talaga ako puwede umuwi, importante ang araw na ito—Darling? Okay ka lang?

May maririnig na tunog ng motor mula sa labas. Magugulat at maaaligaga si RUDY. Mabilisang itatago ang kinakain, papatayin ang telebisyon, at ibababa ang telepono. Papasok si GENER, may dala-dalang attaché case.

gener

Good afternoon, ser Rudy!

rudy

Pusang gala, ikaw lang pala.

gener

Ser Rudy… success!

Ipapatong ni GENER ang attaché case sa mesa ni RUDY.

rudy

(Matatauhang binabaan ang asawa sa telepono) Anak ng tipaklong!

Tatawag ulit sa RUDY telepono.

gener

Sila bossing po sa taas?

rudy

Si Bossing sa bahay.

gener

Iba ka talaga, ser! Sobrang alaga ang misis niyo sa inyo—

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 136

rudy

(Sa sarili) Punyeta, manganganak na nga yata talaga…

gener

Aba, e walang araw na ‘di niyo siya tinawagan, ser, a.

rudy

Siya’ng tawag nang tawag. Alangan namang ‘di ko sagutin?

gener

Office hours ser, bawal ang—‘yung ‘di office-related.

rudy

Asawa ko e.

gener

Wow, dream husband ka siguro, ser, ano.

rudy

‘Di. Nightmare wife lang ‘tong si misis.

gener

Pero, tinatawagan niyo pa rin o.

rudy

Hinayupak ka, ikaw kase e.

gener

(Titingin sa cellphone) Hala, ser.

rudy

(I-da-dial ulit ang telepono) Hindi na sumagot…

gener

Wala pang go signal, ser.

rudy

(Nakadikit pa rin ang tenga sa telepono) Hinaan mo boses mo, hayop ka.

gener

Puntahan pa rin natin kahit ‘di pa tayo tinetext?

rudy

Malamang. Sabihin pa ‘nun, tinakasan natin.

gener

Bakit wala pang text si bossing? Eh laging hayok ‘yun makuha ‘yung—

rudy

(Dadagukan si GENER) Punyeta!

137 · Jerome Ignacio

gener

Relaks lang ser. Tayo lang naman dito. Tsaka, mapagkakatiwalaan niyo ‘ko. Trustworthy.

Ibababa ni RUDY ang telepono. Mag-aayos ng gamit.

gener

Puntahan na natin ngayon ser? Wala pang seven a, ser.

Magsisimula na ring mag-ayos si GENER. Pipigilan ni RUDY.

rudy

Gener, ikaw na bahala.

gener

Ser?

Ililipat ni RUDY ang attaché case sa mesa ni GENER.

rudy

Ikaw na lang ngayon.

gener

Ngayon, ser?

rudy

Alas-nuwebe. Hintayin mo text ni bossing. Kung wala, puntahan mo pa rin.

gener

Ako lang mag-isa, ser?

rudy

Sabi mo “trustworthy” ka, ‘di ba?

gener

Pa’no time out niyo, ser?

rudy

Nag-time out ako ng alas-siyete.

gener

Five’o clock pa lang ser.

rudy

Nag-time out ako ng alas-siyete.

gener

‘Di ba seven ang siyete …

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 138

rudy

‘Di mo ba kaya? Akala ko gusto mo ma-promote? Sayang, ikaw pa naman ire-recommend ko sa mga bossing na pumalit sa akin.

Generoso Bolanos—Chief City Traffic Operations Officer.

Bagay, ‘di ba?

gener

Bagay! Kaysa naman Generoso Bolanos—City Traffic Operations Office clerk.

rudy

Ano, kaya ba?

gener

Kayang-kaya, ser.

rudy

Buti. Mauna na ako.

Kikiriring ang telepono ni RUDY. Magpapatuloy mag-ayos si RUDY. Sasagutin ni GENER.

gener

City Traffic Operations Office … O, Kristi babe, miss mo na ‘ko ‘no …? Si ser ba talaga o ako…? (Kay RUDY) Ser, si Kristi po.

rudy

Sabihin mo nagra-rounds ako.

gener

(Sa Telepono) Ay sayang, wala si ser, nag-ra-rounds, pero sakto, kung gusto mo mag-milk tea may coupons ako—(Kay RUDY) Ser, hintayin ka raw niya bumalik.

rudy

Ano na naman kailangan ng babaeng ‘yan.

gener

Ikaw, ser.

rudy

Kukulitin lang tayo niyan sa budget ng office natin. Sabihin mo tantanan niya tayo, ‘yung City Treasury pestehin niya!

gener

(Sa telepono) Mahirap ang lagay, Kristi babe. Bukas ka na lang bumalik. Pero, kung libre ka mamayang gabi, eh … Bakit?

139 · Jerome Ignacio

(Kay RUDY) Urgent daw, ser.

rudy

Mas urgent pamilya ko!

gener

(Sa telepono) Mas urgent daw pamilya niya.

rudy

Punyeta ka, akala ko mapagkakatiwalaan ka?

gener

(Sa telepono) May meeting siya with the mayor e—ha? Anong video? Oo na, nakuha ko na na urgent. Anong video ‘tong—ha?!

(Kay RUDY) Ser! Urgent nga—

rudy

(Paalis na) Wala nang mas urgent pa kaysa sa—

gener

Ser, na-viral-video si Ding.

rudy

(Mapipigilan) Ano?

gener

May video raw na kumakalat ngayon. May hinuli si Ding do’n sa video—

rudy

Punyeta, sa lahat pa naman ng—

gener

…‘yun pala, si bossing ‘yung nahuli niya, kaya ayun—

rudy

…ha?

gener

…pinagmumura at pinagsasampal si Ding sa video. Buti na lang—

rudy

Si bossing? Bossing natin?

gener

Opo, ser.

rudy

Si Johnny Valdes?

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 140

gener

Opo.

Mamumutla si RUDY. Aagawin ni RUDY ang telepono kay GENER.

rudy

Kristi, hayop ka, kailan pa ‘to?! Wala na. Hanapin mo nga ‘yung video.

gener

Ser, ‘di ko kaya.

rudy

May Facebook ka naman ‘di ba?

gener

Opo nga ser.

rudy

O, pinagyayabang mo ‘yang iphone mo nung isang araw.

gener

Wala pong internet, ser.

rudy

Wala kang kuwenta.

I-da-dial ang cellphone.

gener

Kaya pala wala pang text si bossing.

rudy

Susugurin tayo no’n.

gener

Alis na kaya tayo, ser?

rudy

Hayop, walang takas. Hahabulin tayo no’n.

gener

Pa’no na tayo—teka, bakit naman tayo hahabulin, ser? Wala naman tayong kinalaman diyan. Si Ding lang ‘yan.

May kakatok sa pinto. Mapipigilan ang dalawa. Sisilip sa bintana si GENER.

Gener

Si Kristi na po.

141 · Jerome Ignacio

rudy

‘Yung attaché case.

Itatago ni GENER ang attaché case sa drawer ng mesa niya. Bubuksan ang pinto at papasok si KRISTI. Titingnan ni KRISTI si RUDY nang pangutya.

gener

Kristi Babe.

kristi

(Kay RUDY) Rounds pala ah. Echusera.

rudy

Anong laman nung video?

gener

Kristi Babe, gusto mong tikman ‘yung—

kristi

Hinga mga ‘beh. Wala pa‘ng media. One step ahead ang lola niyo.

Kukuha ng sitsirya si KRISTI.

kristi

Tsugi ka kay papa mayor. Gets? Chinorva ng bata mo bata niya.

rudy

Hoy babae, ano nang laman ng video?

kristi

Ay beh, hindi mo pa na-watch?

rudy

Hinayupak ka, magtatanong ba kami kung napanood na namin?

kristi

Usong mag-Facebook ngayon, beh. Try mo.

gener

May Facebook naman ako, Kristi babe. Wala lang kaseng wifi dito.

kristi

(Interesado) Pa’nong nangyari ‘yun e kayo pinakamalaking budget sa Public Order Department?

rudy

Ipapakita mo ba sa amin ‘yung video o hindi?

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 142

kristi

Excited si beh.

Maglalabas ng tablet si KRISTI at tila tutuksuhin ang dalawa sa nilalaman nito. Tatakpan ang tablet.

kristi

Hep, hep, hep, hinay-hinay, teka muna mga beh.

rudy

Punyeta, ano ba?

kristi

(Seryoso) Ako ang unang i-interview diyan sa bata niyo a. Gets?

rudy

Oo na, oo na.

kristi

Kahit dumating ang media, sa labas sila muna. One-on-one interview muna ‘tong si beh sa akin dito, ha?

rudy

Anak ng tokwa i-play mo na!

Ipe-play ang video. Maririnig ang pangyayari.

kristi

Na-post ito sa top gear kaninang alas-tres. Nag-trending ng alas-kuwatro. Anonymous ‘yung sender. Wala pang statements ‘yung dalawa. Ako unang makakakuha ng statement nila.

Ngayon. Dapat.

gener

Haharap si bossing agad-agad? Aba.

kristi

Aba, perfect ang lelang mo. Pagkatawag ko sa office nila, na-excite si koya. Niyaya ako agad. Ite-text daw ako pag ready na, may inaayos pa raw. Cheh. Malamang si papa lawyer na ‘yun.

rudy

Eh pa’no lawyer ni Ding?

kristi

Afford ba niyang magka-lawyer, beh?

143 · Jerome Ignacio

rudy

Walang may alam ng nangyari?

kristi

Basta ang sabi, nabangga sa traffic light ‘yung kotse ni Valdes.

rudy

Anak ng pating, pa’no nangyari ‘yun?

kristi

Sabi ng iba, lasing. Sabi ng iba, bangag daw.

gener

Patay.

kristi

Posible ring tanga lang siya. Cheka. Tinawagan ng bata niyo ‘yung police force. Tinawagan naman ni Valdes ang tatay niya.

Porke’t anak ng mayor. Yabang ng lola mo, o. ‘Di alam ni koya, na-video-han siya.

gener

Aray ko po, ayaw paawat nitong si Ding.

kristi

Ready na rin kayo. Sigurado papunta na rin dito ‘yung ibang journalist. Mga echosera.

rudy

Eh kahit anong sabihin naman ni mayor sa kanila, babaluktutin din nila.

kristi

Kaya nga friendship niyo ‘ko, mga beh.

gener

Friendship lang?

kristi

Echusera ka! Basta ako, ilalabas ko lang ang sasabihin ni mayor, ng anak niya, niyang si Ding. Walang halong pulitika! Kakaiba ‘yang … Ding, name niya ‘no? Kung ibang traffic aide ‘yan, ay kumembot na ‘yan sa takot. Tapang, o! Ay! Alam ko na ang perfect headline bukas: Ding—ano whole name ni koya?

rudy

Perfecto Gomez.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 144

kristi

Perfecto Gomez … perfect! Perfecto Gomez—Bagong Bayani ng Lansangan! Antaray!

rudy

(Tapos na ang video) ‘Yun na ‘yun?

kristi

Hindi pa ba nag-time-out ‘tong si Perfecto Gomez?

gener

Siya na lang ‘di pa nag-time-out.

kristi

Patay.

gener

Patay?

kristi

I mean, anak ng mayor ang kinalaban niya. Malamang…

gener

Patay na siya?

rudy

Tumakas na ‘yun.

kristi

Patay si mayor. Kita mo ‘yung tapang niya sa video? May alas ‘yun.

gener

Ano? Eh traffic aide lang siya.

kristi

‘Yung video mismo. Tingnan mo ‘yung comments.

gener

Daming galit.

kristi

Sira ang campaign ni Mayor. Dahil sa video na ‘yan. Kumalat na e.

rudy

Sa tingin mo, mapapabilog ni Ding ito?

kristi

Mapapabilog?

145 · Jerome Ignacio

rudy

Ibig kong sabihin … baka kailangan muna niya ng lawyer bago magbigay ng statement?

kristi

Hoy, beh! Kung may lawyer mang ma-afford ‘yang si Perfecto Gomez, nabayaran na ‘yun ni mayor para pumabor sa kanya ‘yung statement. Ang tanong, magpapabilog ba siya? Parang hindi eh. (ipe-play ulit ang video) Kita mo si beh o, antapang.

Isang langgam, hinarap ang isang higante—uy puwede ring headline ‘yun a! Paninindigan niya ‘yan. ‘Di tatakas ‘yun. Alam niyang walang mangyayari sa kanya kase ayan o. Ang kagat ng langgam, may kamandag—ang ebidensiya.

gener

May ebidensiya siya…?

May magte-text sa cellphone ni KRISTI.

kristi

Ayan, handa na’ng lola mo magbigay ng statement! Hah! Ako’ng unang makaka-interview sa higante! Babalik ako—pagdating ni Perfecto Gomez, ‘wag na ‘wag niyong patatakasin, mga beh!

Nagmamadaling lalabas si KRISTI. Agad na da-dial si RUDY sa telepono.

gener

Hala ser, may ebidensiya raw…

rudy

Tarantado, ‘yung video ‘yung sinasabi niya.

gener

Si Ding po?

rudy

‘Di rin sumasagot.

gener

E baka tumakas na nga?

rudy

Kailangan ko pa rin kausapin.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 146

gener

Bakit pa ser? Kabobohan ‘yang ginawa niya. Dapat nga sisantihin niyo na.

rudy

Kapatid siya ng misis ko.

gener

Ano ngayon ser?

rudy

Patay ako sa misis ko pag may nangyari sa kanya, hayop ka.

gener

Lady pleaser, ser ah.

rudy

‘Di ko na alam anong uunahin ko, leche…

May maririnig na motor sa labas. Matitigilan ang dalawa. Sisilipin ni GENER ang bintana. Sesenyasan ang nasa labas na bilisang pumasok.

Papasok si DING.

ding

Kuya Rudy…!

rudy

Huwag mo akong i-kuya dito.

ding

Alam mo ba—

gener

Oo! Alam na ng buong Pilipinas! ‘Di mo ba naisip na—?

Sesenyasan ni RUDY si GENER na tumahimik at lumabas.

gener

Pero ser Rudy—

rudy

Abangan mo sila. Sa labas.

gener

Sino pong sila?

rudy

Alam mo na.

147 · Jerome Ignacio

gener

Si Kristi po ba, si bossing o si—

rudy

Basta lahat sila!

Lalabas agad si GENER. Ilalabas ni RUDY ang sitsirya at aalukin si DING.

ding

Thank you na lang, kuya. Pero nag-text sa akin si ‘ma, talaga na ngang manganganak na si ate!

rudy

Tantiya ko nga.

ding

Puntahan na natin, kuya.

rudy

Paalis na nga dapat ako eh.

ding

O, tara, kuya.

rudy

‘Di pababayaan ni ‘ma ‘yun. May kailangan kang sabihin.

ding

Kuya?

rudy

Ang lagay.

ding

Gano’n pa rin. Mga motorista. Walang disiplina.

rudy

Tapos?

ding

Akala pa rin nila hinuhuli ko sila para mangotong.

rudy

Hinayupak ka, kilala mo ba sinong nakaaway mo kanina?

ding

Sino?

rudy

Si Johnny Valdes!

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 148

ding

Ah, siya.

rudy

Anak ‘yun ni Mayor Valdes.

ding

Sabi nga niya ‘yun.

rudy

Alam mo pala, hayop ka.

ding

Akala ko nagkukunwari lang siya.

rudy

Nasa plaka na niya ‘yun! Pinatulan mo pa!

ding

Oy kuya, siya ‘yung pumatol, ‘di ako.

rudy

Kumalat na raw sa Facebook ‘yang nangyari sa inyo—

ding

Buti naman, kuya. Para alam ng—

rudy

Ganito kailangan mong gawin—

ding

… mga taong mayabang ‘yang gago—

rudy

… humingi ka ng patawad para—

ding

Ha?

rudy

… hindi na lumaki pa ‘yung problema—

ding

Bakit ako?

rudy

… tamang-tama, ‘yun ang statement mo mamaya, mag-public apology ka pag—

ding

Teka, teka, teka lang kuya! Ako ‘yung inatake.

149 · Jerome Ignacio

rudy

Kaya nga.

ding

Ako ‘yung agrabyado. Sa akin dapat humingi ng tawad!

rudy

‘Yung anak ng mayor? Hihingi ng tawad sa isang traffic aide?

Hayop ka rin, ano. Basta gano’n ang sasabihin mo mamaya kay Kristi. Ta’s puntahan na natin si darling—

ding

Ayoko nga.

rudy

Wala akong oras para makipagdebate! Baka—

May maririnig na wangwang sa labas ng office. Mapipigilan ang dalawa.

Sisilip sa loob si GENER.

gener

Si mayor, ser!

rudy

(Kay RUDY) ‘Wag ka muna dito.

gener

Baka makita siya, ser, pag lumabas pa siya.

Sesenyasan ni RUDY na magtago si DING sa ilalim ng mesa ni GENER.

ding

Bakit kuya?

rudy

Basta gawin mo na!

gener

Pababa na ng kotse si mayor!

ding

Anong sasabihin ko—

rudy

Ako na’ng kakausap, ‘wag kang maingay.

ding

Bakit ba parang mali ‘yung—

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 150

gener

Daldal ka pa nang daldal, pumasok ka na!

Ipipilit nina GENER at RUDY na ipasok sa ilalim ng mesa ni GENER. Iuupo ni RUDY si GENER. Saktong pasok ng MAYOR, may kasamang body guard.

Titingnan nang masama ng mayor ang pagkakapuwesto ni GENER at RUDY. Kakalas si RUDY palayo kay GENER.

rudy

Mayor Valdes, good afternoon po…

gener

It is a great a pleasure to have you in our present, mayor!

mayor

Ah, magandang hapon, mister… ?

rudy

(Makikipagkamayan) Hernandez. Rodrigo Hernandez po, Rudy na lang po.

mayor

Chief City Traffic Operations Officer, ‘no?

rudy

Yes po, mayor.

mayor

And you are…?

gener

Bolanos po. Generoso Bolanos—MMDA Traffic Enforcement Office North Division office… clerk. Gener na lang po.

mayor

How do you do?

gener

I’m fine, thank you. How about you?

Iaabot ng mayor ang kanyang kamay ngunit hindi makagalaw si GENER. Tititigan ng mayor si GENER. Asiwang tatayo at iaabot ang kamay ngunit hindi aalis sa mesa. Titingnan nang masama ng mayor. Aalukin ni RUDY si MAYOR ng sitsirya. Hindi kukuha si MAYOR.

mayor

Sa tagal ko rito e ngayon ko lang narating ‘tong satellite office.

151 · Jerome Ignacio

rudy

Okay lang, ser mayor. Likod na likod pa ‘to ng city hall, abala pa sa inyo.

gener

And we know you are a busy.

mayor

Busy. Oo. Lalo na ngayong palapit na’ng eleksyon. Mga sakit sa ulo. Alam niyo na. Nauunawaan niyo ako?

rudy

Opo, ser.

mayor

Andami kong iniisip ngayon, Mr. Hernandez. Mahirap na kung madagdagan pa ang sakit ng ulo ko.

gener

May aspirin po ‘ko dito mayor.

rudy

May problema po ba, mayor Valdes?

mayor

Wala ka bang Facebook, Mr. Hernandez?

rudy

Wala po.

gener

Wala rin po kaseng wifi dito—

rudy

Ser mayor, baka gusto niyong pag-usapan na lang ito sa office niyo—

Ipapakita ng MAYOR ang kanyang iphone. Maririnig ang boses ng dalawang nagbabangayan.

rudy

Hala, sino ‘yan ser?

Sesenyasan ni RUDY si GENER na itakas si DING habang nakatingin sa iphone.

mayor

Isa sa mga bata mo ‘yan o. ‘Yan ang pinapakalat na video ng kabila ngayon. Gusto ko siyang makausap. heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 152

rudy

Tara ser, check natin doon sa area niya. Baka andu’n pa—

mayor

Dumaan na ako doon. Wala.

rudy

Ah … baka nakauwi na.

mayor

Nang hindi mo alam?

Haharap ang mayor sa may pintuan at saktong matitiyempuhan na nakahawak dito si DING.

gener

O, andito ka na pala, Ding!

mayor

Perfecto Gomez?

ding

Good afternoon po, ser mayor.

Asiwang iaabot ni DING kay mayor ang kanyang kamay ngunit hindi ito aabutin ng MAYOR.

mayor

Alam mo bang nagawa mo?

ding

(Tinatago ang takot) Marami po akong ginawa ser—

mayor

‘Yung kumakalat na video. ‘Yung nakaaway mo kanina.

ding

Ah … ‘yun, ser?

mayor

Ako ang ama ng nakaaway mo.

ding

‘Di ko po inakala, seryoso pala siya …

mayor

Hindi ka takot sa kung anong puwedeng mangyari?

ding

Ginagawa ko lang po trabaho ko, ser …

153 · Jerome Ignacio

mayor

Anak ng mayor ang pinatulan mo.

ding

(Seryoso) Ser, ako po ‘yung pinatulan niya.

mayor

Nagtatrabaho ka para sa ama ng kinaaway mo.

ding

Sa lungsod po ako nagtatrabaho. Hindi sa inyo.

Saglit. Papalakpak ang MAYOR. Magtitinginan sina RUDY at GENER.

mayor

Bihira ang katulad mo.

ding

(Hindi makapaniwala) S-salamat po, ser mayor.

mayor

(Kay RUDY) Matuwa kayo. May bata kayong ganyang katigas.

rudy

Opo ser, pinagmamalaki namin ‘yang si Ding.

gener

(Kay RUDY) Nalilito ako.

mayor

Ding. Palayaw mo?

ding

Opo, ser.

Makikipagkamayan si MAYOR kay DING.

mayor

Ding. Gusto kitang kausapin nang masinsinan. Lalaki sa lalaki.

ding

Po?

mayor

Alam mo namang papalapit na ang eleksyon. Bawat galaw ko, papansinin ng kabila. Kahit na ‘yung wala namang katuturan.

Naiintindihan mo?

ding

Ser?

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 154

mayor

Ini-interview ngayon ng media si Johnny. Ano kayang tanong nung babaeng ‘yun sa kanya? Tapos may iba pang mediang sumugod sa office ko. Mga pakawala ng kabila. ‘Yung lalaking ‘yun, andaming tanong tungkol sa nangyari sa inyo ng anak ko.

Eh kung anu-ano na ang sinasabi. Pinapamukhang demonyo ang anak ko, que lasing na kami sa kapangyarihan.

gener

Wala silang alam, ser mayor!

mayor

‘Yun na nga! Maski ako. Walang may alam sa totoong nangyari labas doon sa video na ‘yun. Eh iisang minuto lang naman ‘yun.

Ding, ano ba talagang nagawa ng anak ko? Bakit mo siya hinuli?

ding

Bale, nag-beating the red light siya, ser. Ayun. Nabangga sa traffic light. Muntik pang makasagasa.

mayor

Muntik. Pero wala namang nasagasaan talaga, ‘di ba?

ding

Wala naman po, opo.

mayor

Walang nasaktan, walang naagrabyado, wala. ‘Di ba?

rudy

Totoo ‘yan ser mayor.

gener

Pero palalakihin lang ng media ‘yung nangyari, sensationalism.

mayor

Mismo! Pakawala sila ng kabila eh. Para sirain ang pangangampanya ko.

gener

Mga inggit lang mga ‘yun kase anggaling ng mayor natin, opportunism!

mayor

Kailangan pa bang ibalita sa TV ‘yung nangyari, wala namang nasaktan?

155 · Jerome Ignacio

gener

Paninirang-puri, black propaganda!

ding

Pero ser, batas po ‘yun ng lungsod natin. Sinusunod ko lang ang tungkulin ko—

mayor

Ang batas, ginawa para sa tao. Hindi ang tao, para sa batas.

ding

Pero ser, batas-kalsada po ito. Para sa kaligtasan nating lahat. Suwerte lang na walang nasaktan sa pagkakataong ito.

Andaming nasaktan, nawalan ng buhay, kase buong Pilipinas ay walang disiplina sa kalsada.

mayor

Kami na nga ang nasaktan, kami pa ang pagmumukhaing masama.

ding

Kung sa ibang tao nangyari ‘to ser? ‘Yung hindi niyo kaano-ano.

Okey lang na hindi ko hulihin?

Saglit. Maglalabas ng sobre ang MAYOR.

ding

Ano po ito?

mayor

10,000 pesos. Pampalubag-loob.

gener

Uy …

ding

‘Di ko po matatanggap.

mayor

20,000 pesos.

gener

Puwede na …

ding

‘Di po talaga puwede.

mayor

50,000 pesos.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 156

gener

Kunin mo na.

ding

Para saan ba ‘to ser?

mayor

Para sa salita mo. Sang-ayunan mo lang ang sinasabi ng anak ko. Kung anong statement niya, gayahin mo. Pupuntahan ka rin ng media, sigurado. Sabihin mong hindi nakuha ng video ang buong katotohanan.

ding

Pero ser, nasa video na mismo. Sinigawan niya ako. Sinampalsampal pa.

mayor

Sabihin mong may mali kang nasabi sa kanya kaya’t nagalit siya. Mali niyang sinaktan ka niya, oo, pero sabihin mong may dahilan ang kanyang galit.

ding

Wala pong dahilan, ser.

mayor

Sabihin mo ang totoo, bago pa kayo ma-video-han ay nasigawan mo siya. Hiningan ng kuwarta. Sinampal. Kaya siya nagalit, dahil sa ‘yo!

ding

Ang galit niya po ser, dala ng pride, ‘yun na ‘yun!

mayor

100,000 pesos.

gener

Hoy Ding, kunin mo na!

mayor

100,000 pesos din ‘yun. Salita mo lang ang hinihingi ko.

Hindi ako titigilan ng kabila kung hindi pa ito maayos.

Kaya tanggapin mo na. Wala namang nasaktan, ‘di ba? Ano? Magkano ba kailangan mo, ha? Sa salita mo, panalo tayong lahat, ‘di mo ba naiintindihan? Sa salita mo, mapapayapa na ang pangangampanya ko. Walang masasabi ang kabila. May pera ka pa para sa pamilya mo. Isipin mo sila, Ding.

157 · Jerome Ignacio

Iaabot ni MAYOR ang sobre. Hahawakan ni DING. Saglit. Ibabalik ni DING ang sobre. Saglit.

mayor

Isipin mong pamilya mo.

ding

Kaya nga po ako humihindi, ser.

mayor

Hindi mo alam kung anong kaya kong gawin.

Lalapitan ng MAYOR si DING at titingnan nang masama. Hindi aatras si DING. Saglit. Kikiriring ang cellphone ng MAYOR.

mayor

(Sa cellphone) O? Anong sabi mo…? Siguradong pinagpipiyestahan ng mga tarantad-… sige, sige. Nasa office ka pa…? Kausap ko siya. Sige, punta na ako diyan, hintayin mo ‘ko. Wala munang kakausap sa kanila, ako muna. (Kay RUDY) Hernandez.

rudy

Ser.

mayor

Kapatid niya asawa mo, tama?

rudy

(Tinatago ang gulat) Po?

mayor

Kilala ko ang mga bata mo. Alam niyo ang kaya kong gawin.

rudy

O-opo.

mayor

Siguraduhin mong tama ang sasabihin niya mamaya.

rudy

Opo, ser.

mayor

Aabangan ko ‘yan mamaya.

Aalis ang MAYOR. Sisilip sa bintana sina RUDY at GENER.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 158

ding

Akala niya mabibili niya ako, ah.

rudy

Hayop ka Ding, sirang-sira na ako …

ding

Bago ka masira, masisira muna siya. ‘Di na siya mananalo.

rudy

Tarantado ka, mananalo siya kahit anong mangyari.

ding

Ano, idadaan niya rin sa sobre ‘yung eleksiyon?

rudy

Pati ako, dawit na sa kalokohan mo. Pag matanggal ako dito …

ding

E ‘de maghanap na lang ng ibang trabaho.

rudy

Hinayupak ka, hahabulin at hahabulin tayo nu’n. Wala tayong takas. Yari tayo.

ding

Mas yari siya.

rudy

Hah! Naririnig mo ba sarili mo?

ding

Wala silang magagawa sa akin, kuya—

rudy

‘Wag mo nga akong i-kuya dito ‘pag may ibang tao!

ding

Bakit, ano bang gagawin nila sa ‘kin hah, ser? Papatayin nila ako, ser? Sige lang! Salita lang ‘yun. ‘Di nila magagawa ‘yun, ser. Alam na ng lahat na sila lang ang may dahilan para gawin ‘yun. Subukan niya lang talaga. Mas lalong masisira pangalan niya. Akala nila. ‘Di nila alam. May hanggahan din ‘yang kapangyarihan nila.

rudy

Hindi mo naiintindihan, Ding …

159 · Jerome Ignacio

ding

Kuya, ser … iba na ang kapangyarihan ng internet ngayon.

Huwag kang matakot kay mayor. ‘Yang si mayor, ‘di niyan makakayang isugal pa—

rudy

Anak ng pating, hindi ako kay mayor takot.

ding

Eh kanino?

gener

(May matatanaw sa bintana) Si bossing!

rudy

(Mamumutla) Punyeta.

gener

Kasama si chief!

ding

Sino?

Sisilip din sa bintana si RUDY. Susubukang sumilip ni DING ngunit natatakpan ng dalawa.

gener

Pa’no si Ding, ser?

rudy

Hindi puwede …

ding

Sino ba ‘yun

gener

Malapit na sila, ser.

rudy

Pusang gala.

Susubukan ulit piliting itago si DING sa ilalim ng mesa. Papasok sina CHIEF at JOHNNY.

gener

Ser Chief, ser Bossing, good afternoon—

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 160

rudy

Pupuntahan na sana namin kayo—

Aalukin ni RUDY ng sitsirya, ngunit hahampasin ito ni JOHNNY.

johnny Nasa’n na siya?! rudy

Sino po?

johnny Andito lang siya dapat! chief

Kung nakaalis ‘yun, nakita na natin.

gener

Bossing, nakuha ko na pala …

Iaabot kay JOHNNY ang attaché case.

rudy

Gusto niyo pong pumunta sa—

Ihahampas ni JOHNNY ang attaché case kay RUDY.

johnny Nasa’n na siya?

Itutulak ni CHIEF si RUDY at si GENER. Hihilahin mula sa ilalim ng mesa si DING.

chief

May daga sa ilalim.

Lalapitan ni JOHNNY si DING.

johnny O, nasa’n ang tapang mo, hah? rudy

Baka madadaan naman ito ser sa—

johnny Hindi ikaw ang kausap ko! (Kay DING) Sinet-up niyo ako! Alam mong may nag-vi-video!

161 · Jerome Ignacio

ding

Ginawa ko lang tungkulin ko, ser …

johnny Sinong kumuha ng video, hah? ding

Hindi ko alam, wala akong kinalaman sa—

johnny At ano, ganyan ka talaga? Wala nang video o. ‘Wag ka nang magpanggap. Hindi na uso ‘yang ganyang … “ginagawa lang ang tungkulin.” Gago! ding

Ano pa bang gusto mo, ser? Umalis din naman ako.

johnny Vinideo-han mo naman ako, pinakalat pa! Tarantado ka, ngayon sinisigaw ng mga kalaban na magsampa ka ng kaso laban sa akin. Dahil sinaktan at pinahiya kita. May karapatan ka raw.

Ulol! Plinano niyo ‘to eh. Para madala ako sa korte. ding

Ser, ‘di ko kayo guguluhin kung sumunod lang kayo sa—

johnny Huwag ka nang magtanga-tangahan pa. Pera lang nagpapabilog sa mga katulad mo. ding

Teka lang, ser.

johnny Pero hindi ka nakuntento sa binibigay ng tatay ko. ding

‘Di ko ‘yun intensyon, ser.

johnny Puwes bakit ka pa pumalag? Puwede namang umalis ka na lang, umiwas sa gulo, nung nagpakilala ako. Nagmamadali ako, nabangga na nga ako, kinulit mo pa akong ibigay ang lisensiya ko. Vinideo-han mo pa’t pinakalat. Ayaw mo naman tanggapin ‘yung inaalok naming pera. Ano bang habol mo? ding

Ang pagtupad sa tungkulin ko, ser.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 162

Tututukan ng baril ni JOHNNY si DING.

rudy

T-teka lang naman bossing—

Tututukan din ng baril ni CHIEF si RUDY.

johnny Huwag kang magsampa ng kaso. ding

Sige.

johnny Pumalag ka rin. ding

Barilin mo na ako.

johnny Putangina mo!

Ihahampas ni JOHNNY ang baril kay DING.

johnny Pag binaril kita, wala na akong problema. ding

Gawin mo na.

johnny Nauubusan na ako ng pasensiya. chief

Gomez. Kahit magsampa ka ng kaso, hindi makukulong si bossing.

ding

Hindi mababago ang nangyari.

chief

Intindihin mo ‘tong sinasabi ko. Buhay mo na ang kapalit ng salita mo. Hindi namin makukulong ang mga Valdes.

Pero ‘yang si Hernandez. Kaunting magic lang. Mapalalabas naming si Hernandez ang bumaril sa ‘yo. Asawa ng kapatid mo.

Mawawalan ng kabuhayan kapatid mo. Maging praktikal ka.

163 · Jerome Ignacio

ding

Huwag mong idamay ang iba dito!

johnny Lumabas din takot mo.

Kukunin ni JOHNNY ang attaché case, bubuksan at ibubuhos kay DING ang laman—pera.

johnny Hernandez, saan galing lahat ng ‘yan? rudy

Sa benta ngayong buwan, ser.

johnny Anong benta? rudy

Shabu.

johnny ‘Di ba illegal ‘yun? chief

Opo nga, ser, eh.

johnny Ayan, Gomez. Sige. Magsampa ka ng kaso. Malalaman nila ang pupuntahan ko, ang laman ng kotse ko. Pero ‘di nila ako makukulong. Eh ‘yang si Hernandez? Si Bolanos? Sisiguraduhin ko. chief

Maging praktikal ka. Posible namang iwasan ito. Kung hindi ka magsampa ng kaso. Walang imbestigasyon ang kelangang gawin. Hindi na malalaman ang laman ng kotse ni bossing.

Hindi rin makukulong itong si Hernandez.

Saglit. May babasahing text si CHIEF sa cellphone.

chief

Ser, nasa center na raw kotse niyo, pero ‘di pa nabubuksan ng mga bata. Hinihintay na lang kung itutuloy pa ang imbestigasyon.

johnny Hindi matutuloy ang imbestigasyon, ‘di ba, Gomez?

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 164

Maghihintay ng sagot si JOHNNY.

johnny Sa bagay, ‘di mo rin naman ako makukulong, ‘no Chief?

Matatawa si CHIEF.

johnny Bolanos. ‘Yung pera.

Sisimulang ibalik ni GENER ang pera sa attaché case. Lalapit si JOHNNY at CHIEF kay RUDY.

chief

Ikaw nang bahala.

johnny Alam mo ang dapat mong gawin. (Kay GENER) Bilisan mo.

Lalabas sina CHIEF, JOHNNY at GENER. Saglit.

rudy

Anong gusto mong patunayan, hah, Ding? Punyeta. Kung … kung tinanggap mo na lang ... hindi sana ganitong kagulo.

ding

Kuya, hindi ko alam …

Sasampalin ni RUDY si DING.

rudy

Antigas ng ulo mong gago ka.

ding

Hindi ko alam gagawin ko, kuya.

rudy

Sundin mo si mayor, si bossing, ‘yun na ‘yun!

ding

At maging katulad ko rin sila? ‘Di puwede.

rudy

Nahihibang ka ba? Isipin mo naman ang pamilya mo, Ding.

ding

Ang pamilya ko? Sila’ng iniisip ko lagi, kuya. Ang asawa ko,

165 · Jerome Ignacio

ang anak ko, sila’ng buong buhay ko, sila’ng ikinabubuhay ko kuya! Pero dahil sa mga tulad niyang si Valdes, ‘yang mga hindi kayang sumunod sa simpleng batas, ‘yang mga ginagamit ang pangalan para lusutan ‘yung batas, eh nawala sila! Wala na akong ikinabubuhay dahil sa mga tulad nila, kuya. Gusto pa nilang kunin kabuhayan ko? Sige. Pati buhay ko, balak nilang kunin, kunin na rin nila. Pero hinding-hindi nila ako mapipilit bitiwan ang tungkulin ko.

rudy

Tama nga si Darling, nasisiraan ka na nga …

ding

Kung baliw ako dahil sinusunod ko ang tungkulin kong siguraduhing ligtas ang kalsada, e ‘de baliw na nga ako.

rudy

Wala nang ganyan mag-isip, Ding!

ding

Kahit mag-isa lang ako. Magpapatuloy pa rin ako. Patayin na nila ako kung gusto nila akong tumigil. Ito na lang din ang mayroon ako na hindi nila makukuha kahit kailan—ang siguraduhing hindi mangyari sa iba ang nangyari sa akin.

rudy

E pa’no ako?

ding

Anong pa’no ka?

rudy

‘Di mo ba ako pamilya? ‘Yung ate mo? ‘Yung pamangkin mo?

Ding, hindi mo na lang buhay ang nakasalalay dito, pati buhay ko, buhay ng ate mo, buhay ng pamangkin mo! Akala mo ba mag-isa ka lang? Andito kami … kung anong kagaguhan ang magawa mo, lagi’t laging damay kami diyan.

ding

Magpapatuloy pa rin naman kayo kahit wala ako …

rudy

Baliw, hindi mo ba naiintindihan? Dawit ako pag madiskubre ang raket namin ni Bossing! Ako ang malalagot, hindi siya!

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 166

Masuwerte na nga kung kulong lang abot ko. Pa’no na ang asawa’t anak ko?

Saglit.

rudy

Ayan na nga. Napabayaan ko na. Nanganak na yata si Darling.

Hindi ko na naasikaso, dahil dito sa kagaguhan mo.

ding

(Sa sarili) Hindi ko mabibitiwan … ang pagkamatay ng asawa at anak ko …

rudy

Mahal ka ng ate mo. Pinababantayan ka niya sa akin.

ding

Pero paano kayo ni ate …

rudy

Mas kawawa ang ate mo pag sinuway mo si bossing, si mayor.

Saglit. May kakatok sa pinto. Sisilip sa bintana si RUDY. Papasok si KRISTI.

kristi

Perfecto Gomez!

Makikipagkamayan si KRISTI kay DING.

ding

Good evening po.

kristi

Kristi Tinsay, friend ako niyang si Rudy, ‘di lang halata. Hoy Rudy, naunahan ako ng mga echusera kay mayor.

rudy

E ‘de papunta na sila dito.

kristi

Cheka nilang lahat, at least nakuha ko statement ni papa Johnny … at ngayon, itong si Perfecto Gomez. Wala pang dumaan ditong journalist, ‘no?

rudy

Wala pa nga, oo.

167 · Jerome Ignacio

kristi

Perfect! Ready na ba siya?

rudy

Handa na ‘yan.

kristi

Perfecto Gomez. Kailangan mo lang tandaan, huwag kang matakot sabihin ang totoo. Kung anong nangyari. ‘Wag mong baguhin ang totoong nangyari, ha? Kung may itanong ‘yung iba tungkol sa hindi naman nangyari, ‘yung tipong makakasira sa pangalan ng mayor, malamang hinihintay lang nilang may sabihin kang mali. Mga buwitre ‘yung mga ‘yun e.

ding

Marami nga pong buwitre sa labas.

kristi

Pero nag-pinky promise ‘tong si Rudy e, akong unang makakainterview sa ‘yo. Ganern. Okay lang sa ‘yo ‘yun?

ding

Okay lang naman po.

kristi

Perfect! Sige—

Papasok si MAYOR.

mayor

Magandang gabi sa inyo.

rudy

Ser mayor … ano pong sa ‘tin?

mayor

Napadaan lang.

kristi

Ah, ser mayor, mag-i-interview lang po ako.

mayor

Interview? Ako ulit?

kristi

Si Perfecto Gomez po ang i-interview-hin ko po sana dito, kung okay lang.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 168

mayor

Nag-i-inspection lang ako ng offices. Huwag niyo akong pansinin.

kristi

Ah, gano’n po ba?

Papasok si JOHNNY, CHIEF, at GENER.

rudy

Magandang gabi po, ser Valdes, Chief …?

kristi

Good evening po sa inyong lahat … pero kung puwede po sana eh … may i-interview-hin po kase ako.

johnny O, bakit, nanggugulo ba kami? chief

Government premises ‘to tapos paaalisin mo kami? Ikaw ‘tong bumibisita.

gener

Kristi babe, may aayusin lang kaming mga … papeles. Kung okey lang sa ‘yo.

kristi

Hay …

ding

Kung gusto niyo po miss Kristi, sa labas na lang—

kristi

Ay echusera ka, hindi! Baka dumating na ‘yung mga press at agawin ka sa akin!

ding

Dito pa rin po?

kristi

Naman. Kung okay lang sa ‘yo?

Nakatingin ang lahat kay DING.

ding

Okey na po ako.

169 · Jerome Ignacio

kristi

Perfect! Buweno …

May kakatok muli sa pinto. Magpipigil si KRISTI. Sisilip si GENER sa bintana.

gener

Andiyan na ‘yung press. Anong sasabihin ko?

kristi

Sabihin mo wala na si Ding!

mayor

Hindi! Harapin na niya ‘yang mga ‘yan!

johnny (Sisilip sa bintana) Andito siya, handa na niya kayo kausapin. mayor

Labas.

kristi

Teka lang, ser! Pa’no naman ako, yung interview ko …

mayor

Sumama ka na lang din sa ibang nasa labas!

johnny Ihatid mo nga palabas ‘yan.

Ihahatid ni GENER palabas si KRISTI.

mayor

Tandaan mo ang kaya kong gawin.

johnny ‘Yung pinag-usapan natin. chief

Maging praktikal ka.

Lalabas na rin sina MAYOR, JOHNNY, at CHIEF. Magtitinginan sina DING at RUDY.

rudy

Paninindigan mo pa rin, ‘no?

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 170

Malungkot na ngingiti si DING. Lalabas na rin si DING. Maririnig ang ingay ng pag-interview sa labas. Sasalampak si RUDY sa kanyang upuan.

Titingnan ang litrato ng kanyang asawa.

rudy

Punyeta, nanganak na nga yata …

Magmamadaling mag-alsabalutan, ilalagay lahat ng gamit sa bag.

Maririnig ang galit na boses ni JOHNNY at mahinahong boses ni DING, katulad ng tunog ng bangayan na narinig sa viral video. Sisilip sa bintana si RUDY.

rudy

(Nakangiti) Baliw ka talagang hayop ka.

Unti-unting didilim. Bago tuluyang mamatay ang ilaw ay lalabas si RUDY sa pintuan. wakas

171 · Jerome Ignacio

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 172

Christine Imperial

bfa creative writing

Christine Imperial was a fellow for poetry at the 21st Ateneo heights Writers Workshop. She received the Loyola Schools Awards for the Arts in Creative Writing (Poetry). Her poetry has appeared in heights and is forthcoming in NoTokens Journal.

Dedicated to a few people: To the friends I love dearly. To Ayana and Cathy, the two people I never get sick of spoiling. Cathy, you’re more than enough. Ayana, maybe this is worn out but there’s no other way to put it: I wish everybody knew what’s so great about you. To Tiff for the jta talk and other talk.

To Isa and our wonderfully platonic relationship. To Kael for all the sunshine and shade. To Chay, my best buddy. Chay, when people said we were alike in first year I thought they were exaggerating; now we spend too much time together and make pretty okay music. To Sienna, the Kelly Rowland to my Beyoncé, I’ll always find my way back to you.

To everyone in ucka for sticking around.

To my professors, especially Martin Villanueva, Nikay Paredes, Mark Cayanan, and Vince Serrano for all the guidance.

To my family for never letting me forget that I matter.

Collections of Francesca “Am I in the picture? Am I getting in or out of it?”

—Francesca Woodman when the room falls apart—concrete

walls stained by mold

crawling on the frames of glassless windows.

You in the corner

of a room where light

can be trapped for your liking, where it settles on charcoal blur. Francesca, shaking

in a jar, shadow stretching

into matter. At first glance, it happens as thighs squeeze a mirror—

But it can’t be. Instead, glass: the appearance

of a belly button. Naked not nude: the intent to let ourselves be There, the appearance

of labia—slight moist opening, creased pubic hair

175 · Christine Imperial

like your head: strands form a crevice, a valley—the hint of a face

scrutinizing angles. But it’s not just you,

Francesca. You, here, slouched on pillow tattered,

almost modest—one bare breast

beside faceless unclothed woman who spreads out fingers over belly like it’s ugly.

Francesca, you’re looking too straight

at me. Into me. It’s there. It’s hung. I can’t help you when the door falls

like you wanted it to and you cradle

yourself like fetus. A gasp. So left hand covers your mouth, and you lift up the polka dot blouse

to show me where it’s safe

to be held. Taken in Providence, Rhode Island, you wear schoolgirl shoes

while crossed legged on white metal chair. A shadow—

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 176

but not natural, more like figurine for the painter flattened on creaking wood. Then sunlight

enters just enough for the ray to be held

like long-sword by erratic hands—again, blurs so I can’t tell if you’re sweeping the autumn leaves

folded like fortune cookie origami

or bringing them into the rubble you always find yourself in. A chimney singed

from the outside and you

tilting as he, you call “Bunny bun,” runs to you in the photolab uncertain

if you’ve stayed still

177 · Christine Imperial

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 178

Jonnel Inojosa

bs management, major in legal management; minor in literature (filipino)

Maaari.

Tubong-Lucena si Jonnel.

Taos-puso ang kaniyang pasasalamat sa kaniyang pamilya at mga kaibigan sa kanilang patuloy na paniniwala. Gayundin sa mga gurong nakilala niya sa Ateneo. Paumanhin kung hindi niya mabanggit isa-isa.

Inaalay niya ang akdang ito kina Jeivi Nicdao at Christian Benitez.

Alam na nila ‘yan.

Maipagpatuloy nawa ni Jonnel ang pagsusulat at pagtataya, at nang lumaki.

At Nang Lumaki Matagal mo na itong kinabisado. Sa natatanging pagkakataon, sa simula ng taon, ihahanda ang bahay sa pananalakay. Magtitipon ang lahat ng nagsasalo ng apelyido. Gaya ng nakagawian: pagkain, pangungumusta, pangungutya. Hahalinhan ng dilim ang liwanag sa papawirin. Magtatalaga ng tutulugan. Sa sala, mga matatanda’t bata.

Sa kabilang silid, mga dalagita. Sa silid mo, kayong dalawang binatilyo.

Mananatili kang nakahimpil sa ilalim ng kumot. Nakakandado ang pinto. * Napanaginipan mo na naman. Tinatawag ka ng pares ng bayag sa may pintuan. Hindi ba sabay pa kayong magpinsan na pinagsabihan: laging sarhan ang mga lagusan. Babala ni lola noong bata ka pa: kapag hindi kayo makinig sa kanya, makakakita kayo ng pares ng bayag na gumugulong sa sahig. Papasok ito sa loob ng kulambo’t tatabihan kayo sa banig. Hindi ka nakinig. * Ayon kay San Lukas, mabuting balita ang kawalan ng labis na balat: “At nang makaraan ang walong araw upang tuliin siya, ay tinawag ni Hesus ang kaniyang pangalan, na siyang itinawag ng anghel bago siya ipinaglihi sa tiyan.” * Taimtim na naghihintay ang tandang sa tarangkahan ng silahis ng umaga. Nagising ka sa isang hapding hindi mapangalanan. Tumungo

181 · Jonnel Inojosa

ka sa banyo upang masipat. Pinamumukadkaran ng nakausling balat ang kinagisnang lagusan. Hindi nagsisinungaling ang katawan. * Walang paglalanggas sa takot ng pagpitas. Nanghihina ang mga tuhod, nauubusan ng salita. Ang banta: “Patutulian kita”. Animo sinasabing, kinaumagahan, alaala na lang ang laman ng pagitan ng mga hita.

Sapagkat sa bata, mahalagang hindi ito mawala. Saan pa lalagos ang ihi palabas? * Nasa isang silid ka sa bahay nila. Nakahimlay siya sa kalatagan ng sahig. Imbakan pa itong silid ng mga lumang gamit. Nakasampay sa lamlam ng kuwarto ang tanaw ng mga larawan sa dingding. Ibabaling mo ang tanaw sa sira nang ilaw at mag-iiwan ng siwang sa pinto. Hindi siya mumulat at uupo ka sa gilid ng natatastas nang banig. Wala siyang salita. Aalimuom ang pawis sa iyong mga hita. * Tangan-tangan ang gaan ng hiram na saya, taimtim kang naghintay.

Bitbit-bitbit ang bigat ng loob sa pagpila, tila iniihaw ka ng init ng araw. Gaya ng iba, naiipon sa iyong noo, leeg, dibdib, braso, at binti ang pawis at pagkabahala. Ganito aniya nila puputulin ang sobra: titipunin sa dulo at doon papaluin. Kalaunan, mapapalitan ang takot ng panandaliang kirot. Bago umalpas ang anumang tunog o salita, pangunguyain ka ng dahon ng bayabas. Mapapapikit ka.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 182

* Banas kapwa noon ang panahon at katawang mahinahon. Nakituloy ka sa kanila upang magbakasyon. Naglalaro pa rin kayo ng bahaybahayan. Ilalim ng mga unan ang magsisilbi niyong tahanan. Huwag ka raw matakot. Ikaw man ang taya, siya naman ang bahala. Bawat kinabukasan, nakahanda ang pinainitang tubig sa banyo. Magtipid umano ng tubig, sabay na kayo maligo. Hindi sumasapat sa inyo ang bawat buhos ng tabo. * Hindi na sukat sabihing, “Meron akong titi.” * Napadaan ka muli sa bahay nila habang walang ibang bisita. Marunong ka pang kumatok. Makalipas ang ilang sandali, nakasandal na sa hangin ang lahat. Ano nga pala ang iyong sadya? Wala. Lumisan na raw ang lahat maliban sa kanya. Walang salang lumilingon-lingon ang bentilador sa salas. At muli, kayo at ang patlang ang natitira. Uuna na rin ako. Wala kang masabi. Wala ka rin namang ibang maimungkahi. * Napag-iiwanan umano ang mga hindi nabibinyagan. Hindi na tatangkad. Ang panawagan: huwag lamang mabansot. Huwag lamang mabansagang supot. Sapagkat nararapat maranasan. Sapagkat kinakailangan. Mundo’y palikuran ng naglalakihang kalalakihan. * Bunsod ang paglaki ng pagkalalaki. Magiging punla ang binhing sinalin-salin sa saling-angkan. Huhugpong ang buwan, babawa ang kamusmusan. Iuurong ang kinamulatang balat, susulong ang 183 · Jonnel Inojosa

binalatang pagkamulat. Alang-alang sa lahat ng mapupunang sinapupunan. * Narito ang bigat ng biyaya ng bayag. Ang mausal sa sarili: lalaki ka pa, lalaki ka rin.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 ¡ 184

Marc Christian M. Lopez ab literature (filipino)

Magtatapos si Marc sa Hunyo sa kursong ab Literature (Filipino).

Naging fellow siya para sa tula sa 18th Ateneo heights Writers Workshop. Isa siya sa mga nagawaran ng Loyola Schools Awards for the Arts para sa Malikhaing Pagsulat (Tula).

Sa lahat ng nakilala ko sa apat na taon ng pananalagi sa pamantasan, ang pakikibahagi niyo sa aking buhay ang karanasang sabay na bumuo at nag-iwan ng puwang para sa aking pagtubo. Hindi sapat ang mga salita para maiparating ang aking pasasalamat.

Sa minamahal na mga propesor na nagpalalim ng aking pagpapahalaga sa panitikan at pagsusulat: kina Dr. Corazon Lalu-Santos, Sir Mitch Cerda, Sir Jethro Tenorio, Sir Gary Devilles, Dr. Joseph Salazar, Dr. Benilda Santos, Dr. Michael Coroza, Dr. Edgar Samar, Dr. Jerry Respeto, Dr. Alvin Yapan, Sir Louie Jon Sanchez, Dr. Joyce Martin, at Dr. Oscar Campomanes. Pasasalamat din sa mga naging karamay sa pagbababad sa panitikan sa iba’t ibang paraan, lalo na kina Gelo, Christian, Chanchan, Jeivi, at Jonnel. Patuloy na pagtatayaan ang paglikha, kritikalidad, at pangangarap ng mga bagong pangarap, saanmang direksyon mapadpad.

Sa lahat ng naging guro mula sa Math Department, sa halos tatlong taon ng pagpapamulat sa akin sa mayamang wika ng mga numero’t pormularyo. Nagpasya mang tumawid sa isang napakalayong larangan,

patuloy na babaunin at pagyayamanin ang disiplina ng pag-iisip sa paraang lagpas sa mga bagay na lantad. Gayundin, sa amf 2016/2017, salamat sa lahat ng all-nighters at sa lahat ng in-between’s nito. Mahal ko kayong lahat!

Maraming-maraming salamat sa mga naging guro ko sa Teolohiya at Pilosopiya, sa hamon ng pagpapakatao at sa paghubog sa maraming pananaw ko sa buhay. Kina Sir Lance Bolano at (Sir) Ray Aguas, na mapasasalamatan ko lang talaga sa patuloy na pagpapalalim ng pananampalataya at sa pagtugon sa aking pananagutan sa kapwa.

Kay Sir Eddieboy Calasanz, na hindi maipapako sa mga salita ang naidulot na pagbabago sa aking buhay (gayunman, susubukan ko pa rin po: salamat nang ualang hangga).

Sa Ateneo Mathematics Society (ams), lalo na sa ExeCuties at ExeCam. Maraming salamat sa biyaya ng pagkakataong makapagtaya, at sa maraming sandali ng pagpapasaibampalad. Hindi mahahagip ng imahinasyon ko ang buhay-kolehiyo na wala kayo (at ang mvp 216).

Lagi’t laging babaunin ang di-mabilang na mga saglit kung saan naipaunawa niyo sa akin na napakaganda talaga ng buhay.

Sa aking dorm friends/constant study buddies, sa literal na pagiging laging nandiyan mula umaga hanggang gabi. Kayo ang naging pamilya ko sa loob ng apat na taon, at naging saksi sa maraming (nakakahiyang) kaganapan sa aking buhay.

Sa Katipunan Avenue, na hinayaan akong mawala at mahanap; sa Starbucks Katipunan, na naging tahanan ng mahahalagang alaala.

At sa iyo na may pinuno na kung anong puwang sa mundong noo’y pinagtiya-tiyagaan lang, maraming salamat.

Katahimikan 1.

Noon tuwing pagtatapos ng klase, magkukumpulan sa labas ng sasakyang dyip at kapag nasiguro na walang guro sa malapit, magsisipaglabasan ng mga kahon ng posporo.

Ang nilalaman:

mga pambatong gagamba

na patutulayin sa istik hanggang sa magsalubong, hanggang sa may isang

mahulog, talagang mahulog.

Nakaabang ang lahat sa sandaling ito— hinihintay naming mamalas ang gaan-bigat sa grabedad

nang para bang kami ang nalulula…

At magigitla sa oras na sabay sa pagdausdos niyang nagpaubaya sa tayog, magdudura siya ng sinulid na sapot, ang lakas-rupok na para sa lamog nang gagamba

kapwa humihila at kinakapitan.

Wala ni isang umiimik (walang nakatitiyak, kung makababalik o kung ganap nang nahulog)—

ito: pagkabitin, pagsasabingit…

189 · Marc Christian M. Lopez

2.

Napansin ko ang kawad-kawad na sapot sa bintana doon sa aming kusina.

Nangingislap nang masikatan ng araw.

Napakatagal na palang hindi nagagawi sa bahaging iyon ng aming bahay.

Hinablot ko ang hibla-hibla at naramdaman ang pinong-pinong lagkit na pilit ipinagpag ngunit tuluyang kumapit At nagkabuhol-buhol sa akin.

Nahuli akong hindi mabigkas ang katunayan…

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 190

Pagsusukat (Sistemang Metriko) Nasasaklaw tayo ng lawak ng mga nakakuwadrong paglalapit. Lupaing tinatalunton ng nahahating pagtitig.

Natatawid man ang magkabilang-guhit ng bahagdan, walang-hanggan ang ating pag-abot, Ang pagpanhik-panaog, ang pangangapa sa tumpak na tibok.

Patuloy na daragdagan ang mga numero sa dulo ng iniuulat na sukat: Pira-pirasong gramo, isang liyab ng sentigrado.

Tinitipa nang tinitipa. At bigla, Umaalingawngaw ang guwang ng mga pagkukulang; tumatagas ang mga pagmamalabis— Pagmimintis: Mga pagsabog, kagimbal-gimbal na mga pagbabagong-anyo.

Isang munting patak

At nagdidilim, naghihiwalay ang sari-kulay

ng likido; nabubuo ang mga sedimento; sumisirkulong pag-usok;

dagling binabalot ng lamig ang rabaw;

nabibitak ang mga babasaging aparato…

191 · Marc Christian M. Lopez

* Kalkulado ang taimtim na pakikinig sa bawat pagsadsad ng paningin—

Gaano kabigat Ang bibitawang hakbang para masabing sapat ang pag-iingat.

Gaano katagal Maibibitin ang hininga sa pagmamatiyag sa pagi-pagitan.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 192

Halimaw sa Aking Loob* Hatinggabi nang lumabas ako ng aking silid upang magsipilyo bago matulog.

Binuksan ang gripo at sumalok sa nakatuping palad ng tubig pang-mumog.

Sandaling napasulyap sa salamin at natagpuan ang sarili sa pagitan ng dalawang salamin.

Walang-hangganang repleksiyon salamin sa salamin sa salamin… hinaharap ko’t tinatalikuran.

Iniliko-liko ko ang aking ulo, sinubok ang iba’t ibang anggulo.

Tinangka kong abutin ang sukdulan ng paningin.

Baka-sakaling may masumpungan.

Samakatuwid, natuklasan kong imposibleng makita ang hulagway ng mukha sa salaming tinatalikuran.

Pagbalik sa aking silid, sa akmang pagtulog nadama ang pagbigat ng mga talukap.

Hanggang tuluyang napapikit— *Sipi mula sa Vocabulario dela lengua tagala nina Noceda at Sanlucar ang ika-22 hanggang ika-27 na taludtod.

193 · Marc Christian M. Lopez

Naroroon ako Sa suson-susong dilim, sabay na humaharap at tumatalikod Sandaling-sandaling saglit ang kanina’y hinahanap Nang matakpa’y nakita nang mabuksa’y wala na Akong naroroon.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 194

Alimpungat Nagpakita siya sa akin sa panaginip, siyang tila may ipinapabatid ukol sa isang paparating.

Kung ano ang ipinapabatid, o kung may ipinapabatid nga o kung siya nga, tulad sa laro bago ang pagtulog: Papasok sa kuwarto ang magulang, sisiguraduhin ang paghimbing ng pilyong paslit— Tinatakloban ang salansan ng mga unan; patagong lumalayo sa hinubog na anyo ng natutulog na sarili.

Sa ganitong paraan ako binulabog ng bagabag: lumuluwag na kompresiyon ng hangin sa loob ng unan; may hinahabol akong hindi ang sariling hininga.

Pilit akong umaahon mula sa walang-hanggang lalim, nakapagitan sa akin at sa kisame Bagaman naiisip kong baka ako ang nakapagitan sa mga kasalatan.

Maaaring hindi ako

195  ¡  Marc Christian M. Lopez

Ang nag-iiwan ng guwang sa abandonadong hubog sa higaan.

Gambalang kumakapit ang pahiwatig na manatiling lihim kahit sa sarili.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 196

Metropolis “Many believe the bodies of the dead were never removed from the site and the angry ghosts are letting their presence be known and felt.”

—Mula sa isang online article

Sa pala-palapag na kompartimento ng pekeng bilihi’t transaksiyong lihim; Hungkag ang sinehang puno nang pasukin: ang moog ng lumbay, ineeksorsismo.

Gumagala sila sa mga pasilyo ng marubdob nating pagpapaalipingkarnal. Kumakapit sa gulugod natin ang klawstropobiko nilang moralismo At pinarurupok nitong panghihipo’t panakaw na halik: labing sinalimol ng lamig at gaspang; bigla, naglalaho.

Sa labas, sandaang ibong nagtitipon.

Ang gutom sa tuka’y inipong pagguho.

Mga dadagiting kuwento’y babangon.

197 · Marc Christian M. Lopez

Salita Aaquin aquinin cata tu seas mi propia hacienda sumaaquin aquin ca siempre estes junto a mi cerca

Namangha ka nang nakisabay sa galaw at kumpas ng iyong kamay at waring sumunod Ang inakala mong ikaw ang anino ang anino-ng-anino.

Iniabot mo ang iyong palad (at tila inabot ka rin nila) Hanggang natagpuan mo ang sariling pilit na sinusunggaban hindi na ang anino kundi ang layo. * Kung saan nagsisimula ang isang paglalapat walang tigil kung malusaw ang anino, ang anino-ng-anino…

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 198

Di mo maapuhap ang hanggahang sayo-na-hindi-ikaw, ang takdang ikaw-na-hindi-sumasaiyo.

199 · Marc Christian M. Lopez

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 200

Jeivi Nicdao ab psychology

Maraming salamat sa aking pamilya, sa mga kaibigan, sa mga guro, sa mga nanghiram at nagpahiram ng bolpen, sa mga nanghingi at namigay ng size 4, at sa lahat ng nakilala sa nagdaang apat na taon.

Salamat po sa lagi’t laging pagtahi ng mga bestidang maluwag o may tastas. Sa muli’t muling pagpapatawad.

Salamat po sa lagi’t laging paliwanag ng mga monumento at kalsada.

Sa pagtatangkang unawain na magkaiba ang pagpapabaya at pagpapaubaya.

Salamat sa minsan-minsang sabik na pagtirintas ng aking buhok.

Sa di-pagkainis kapag agad akong inaantok.

Salamat sa pagkanariyan mula pa sa mga sinaunang kasalanan, sa mga gabing hindi natin ininda ang mga lamok o mga pusa sapagkat lublob sa pag-uusap, at di man para sa akin, sa pag-awit ng mga awit.

Sa kaunawaan ng rupok at pangako ng mga panghalip.

Salamat sa alamat ng labindalawang bulaklak ng taglamig. At matapos ang pagkabigkas ng alamat, sa lahat ng nailuwal na sandali.

Salamat sa kadalisayan ng walang maliw na paniniwala sa mga sirena.

Salamat sa napakaagang pagsisigawan sa daan papuntang Laguna, sa mga birong nangangailangan ng pitong segundong palugit bago makuha, sa mga “di-sadyang� pagsasalubong sa kapihan bilang tanda ng inyong pagmamahal.

Salamat sa dalawang Paskong paanyaya. Sa minsang kawalan ng iba pang tanong liban sa masaya ka ba. Sa pagtanda dahil sa pag-inom ng tsaa, at sa panaka-nakang pag-aalala.

Salamat sa tuwa maging sa walang bahid na banggit ng mga salitang gaya ng gapang, puwang, sikip, dungis, pawis. Sa buntonghininga sa bawat taludtod o talatang mahapdi. Sa pagpapakita ng sari-sarili ninyong bagwis.

Salamat sa pagtakbo habang nagmamaliw ang mga ilaw, sa pagtungo rito hindi lamang para sumayaw, sa pagtahak natin sa mahabang daan pauwi. Sa ganitong mga luho, at sa lagi’t laging pagbuwag ng mga sarili.

Salamat sa pagpapakilala sa akin na maaaring maging gagamba ang mga daliri.

Salamat sa walang habas na pagkukuwento ng mga kuwentong iyong nalikom, at sa paghimok sa aking titigan nang tapat ang mga kahingian ng paglalaan.

Salamat sa kawalang-tiwala at sa pagtatangkang ipaunawa sa akin ang sarili kong kahihiyan.

Salamat po sa pagtitiwala, at sa lahat ng aking natutuhan. Sa halaga ng mukha. Sa pag-ibig bilang dasal. Sa mga salitang tumititig sa katawan, sumusumpong sa ilang, nakikipagtagpo sa kasukalan.

Salamat sa mga salitang yumakap sa 30 pahina ng mga orkidyang nagsasaplot-tula, o niyang nagpapanggap na tula sa pagsasaplot-orkidya.

Sa pagbasa at pagkilatis sa kahungkagan at kahubdan.

Salamat sa pagkilalang hindi natin lubos na makikilala ang isa’t isa kailanman. Sa kalubusan ng ilang sandali gayunpaman: sa mga magdamag ng kawalang-patutunguhan, sa mga paglalagalag kung saan maaari ang kawalang-pangalan. At sa kabila ng lahat, sa kariktan nitong tipan.

Salamat sa lahat ng hindi magawang pangalanan.

Salamat sa lahat ng nagawang basahin ito, sa mga nakarating dito sa dulo, sa kabila ng inaantalang paghantong. Salamat sa iyo.

Hush Refuse the roses. Refuse the daylight that untaints and glazes them immortal. Refuse this refusal to begin your avowal: I tremble. This tremble is praise. This tremble is grace. This tremble is to keep in the brightness: ever-caving walls, frilly dresses decorating the floor, the rippling and swelling of sheets unfolded yet still pristine, a porcelain muse by the bedside, strumming her lyre like a wistfulness, the contours of a daughter’s body, our precious promise, this body always prostrate or supine. Our precious promise: I shall not pine. A lie holds itself against a silence. This silence, held together by another lie. That lie holding itself against another silence. Another lie. Another silence.

Was it in this room we were taught how to be luminescent?

Was it here callowness named us her children? Mother, teach me light, teach me silence, teach me lie. Recall how you likened the frailty of thread to the threat of a lover’s breath. How I was horrified.

How you and your mother and her mother had sewn this skirt into a siren song. How I was drawn, and so learned to sew. Was it in this room we were taught the ugliness of our plural? The fragrance of our ugliness?

The necessity of our fragrance?

205 · Jeivi Nicdao

Mother, let me repaint these vases. Let me traipse into brittle, into delicate. But let me not peer into its emptiness, enter your disappearance. Let me not be entranced by how I can fill it not with roses but stories, though I know which of our stories shall please: I am in love, and so must stay still. Our plural allows this: Nomad drives a nail into her palms; scarlet shames her wrists. Huntress’ blood sings. The siren song bleeds. Each gesture of the heart becomes birdcage. Heart, gesturing, always. To be enraged.

Persuaded. The birdcage cleansed. Grief anew.

Drive anew. The birdcage rusting. Grief denied. Lips might not spill. A dress might not slip. Night slips into the griever’s voice. Her voice, unsailing. The wind sails into a silence. This silence, sweetly scented by the faint light of the wilderness. Wilderness, the possibility of flight. The flightiness of wants, the impossibility of unwanting. Or we might be mistaken.

Perhaps the story that shall most please: Daughter, I cannot hand you a womb anonymous, cannot hallow you unsung. But we shall not be undone: Mother, I am covered in feathers I want to shed. If I claw at my skin, allow the tear and sever, despair and disrepair, they would only bury deeper. To attempt to disrobe is to be sore. To be sore is to wallow in flight or nakedness. To sew stories that won’t please is to be

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in flight or featherless. Not to please is not to be in this room: I must sew for myself, learn how to lie: Nomad refuses the roses. Revels in the scarlet. Bathes in it. Perhaps here to have a beloved is to have your palms bleed. Perhaps the dripping is a new light. There is, perhaps, a brightness in letting the river caress your thighs, the earth lend your feet a tremble.

Perhaps a caress is a tremble is a song. Perhaps to allow scarlet is to sing is to seethe.

The bleeding might still yet be fragrant. Perhaps a huntress’ fragrance is in naming a lover’s breath frail. Perhaps here to have a beloved is to prey. Refuse the daylight. Perhaps the night might still yet allow our plural. Perhaps a daughter does not have to be immortal, nor this promise pristine: I shall not lie naked and live. To disrobe is to let grief.

Perhaps here to have a beloved is to sing endlessly. Perhaps here a siren song does not have to be an elegy. Griever refuses the refusal to spill. The river might yet receive your lips, your tongue, the earth might yet witness you undone, the undoing unforgiven because unforbidden.

But I must stay still. In this room, we were taught how to be fragrant. To be plural is to be kept in this luminescence. Under our luster, a coup de grâce that always almost is.

The almost, a requisite to keep the light dying. To keep me as I tremble in praise, tremble in grace, strum a lyre as a wistfulness. As we sew feathers to refuse ugliness. Somewhere the frailty of thread isn’t a threat, or somewhere thread isn’t frail. The roses, glazed 207 · Jeivi Nicdao

with daylight to look crisp, are in the right vase. Perhaps, the right garden. Perhaps, the wilderness. Somewhere, the song. Somewhere we are proper.

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Sa Hindi Pag-alpas Sapagkat nagmamadali ang dungis. Sapagkat nakabuklat na ang mga labis. Sapagkat hiling ng mga gulugod ang pagkalag. Sapagkat may garalgal sa bawat lumuluwag na singhap. Sapagkat tastas. Sapagkat may kagat ang pagtatago ng buwan ngayong gabi. Sapagkat lahat ng nilalang na may daliri ay kailangang mamanata sa lingid. Sapagkat panata ang hininga nitong bingit. Sapagkat

tahimik. Sapagkat kahit parusa ang yakap ng usok sa amihan, nakatutukso pa ring habulin ang hingal na sumasabay sa hagayhay. Sapagkat nakabantay maging ang hangin sa halimuyak ng bawal maganap. Sapagkat magaganap. Sapagkat bawal. Ngunit

bawal. Ngunit ritwal. Ngunit laging nagdadalos-dalos ang mga anino sa pagliyad. Ngunit naririndi ang abenida sa mga bulong ng ganitong magdamag. Ngunit di maaaring di marinig ang nginig ng mga nagbibihis-bituing ilaw, ang sagitsit ng siyudad na di mapitasan ng salita. Ngunit

sa magdamag lamang maaaring magmantsa. Ngunit sa pag-iiwan ng mantsa, nasa dahas ng pagpayag ang pagtagas ng tinta. Ngunit tumatagas ang hapdi sa tangkang huminahon. Ngunit mahapdi ang umahon. Ngunit kailangang umahon sa daplis ng rupok. Ngunit tuwing dadaplis, natutupok ang sahig sa kawalang-bahala. Ngunit biro na ang pagluhod nang walang bathala. Ngunit dilat. Ngunit dalit. Ngunit madali. Sa halip na magmadali. Sa halip na ihayag ang kabuuan ng inilalatag at

inilalaan. Sa halip na hayaan lang maghintay ang lihim na mailuklok sa bawat sulok nitong mga tanawin. Sa halip na sumapat bilang luklukan nitong lihim

209 ¡ Jeivi Nicdao

ang guwang. Sa halip na manatili ang sikip at dulas sa kawalangngalan. Sa halip na magbihis ng isanlibong pangalan na siyang mamamagitan. Sa halip ng pamamalagi

sa kaniyang silid, sa templong unang nilamnan ng pananalig. Sa halip niyang nanlulumo’t nalulumpo sa may pintuan, litong inaawitan ang lilong hirang. Sa halip nitong hiram, at ng karayom na tatagni sana sa balat kung sakaling magawang humimpil. Sa halip ng halik na hindi bigay-hilig. Sa halip ng dapat.

Sa halip ng marahil. Marahil.

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Lubos Itong nagsimula sa alipato ay kailangang hindi tustusan ng mga paltos. Hindi na kailangang hapdi ang pumuspos sa walang hanggang haplos kung saan tayo nakapako sapagkat nangako sa walang hanggang paglalaho. Maglalaho at maglalaho tayo sa kaputian ng magdamag, sa pamumulaklak ng mga sugat sa bangketa dahil sa alingawngaw nitong mga yabag, sa pag-alingasaw ng kapatawaran sa nagbabarang kanal, sa pamumugto ng mga bubog ng nabasag na hinahon, sa pagsipol ng unos sabay ng kalunos-lunos nating pamimintuho. Mahal, sa gitna ng lahat, pahintulutan mo akong magsulsi ng mga talulot mula sa abo ng sinilabang tagpo, ikuwintas sila sa iyo bago basbasan ng halik at bulong. Suyuin ang mga talulot hanggang isa-isang mahulog at maluoy. Mahal, iadya mo ako sa aking kinikimkim at pagmamasdan kita sa iyong nakaririmarim. Kung ikaw ang ikaw na nagtubog ng iyong mga daliri sa tinta ng aking buhok, saang lingid natin isasaboy ang mga tilad nitong apoy? Kung ikaw ang ikaw na nagluklok ng ating kalambutan sa abot-tanaw, paano tayo titihaya sa pagkatupok nitong purok ng mga pilat, nitong pook ng katapatan? Hipuin mo ang aking anino sa higaan at mabubuhusan ng panibagong mga sugal itong tipan. Hipan mo nang marahan ang aking mga hingal at papupurihan ko ang bagal, ang ating pagkapagal.

At sa walang hanggang pagkatibag nitong siyudad, sa pag-andap ng mga ilaw-kalsada sa bawat katog at kislot ng abenida, sa muli’t muling pagdadamit

211 ¡ Jeivi Nicdao

ng delubyo sa mga eskinita, tayo’y walang hanggang mapapagal.

Mahal, tayo’y mapapagal at walang hanggang magtatangkang huminga. Ipagkakait mo ba sa akin ang karingalan mula ngayon ng laging pagkasaksi sa iyong mga hikab, ang karangalan ng aking pagpapatirapa? Gagayakan natin itong silid, aangkinin sa pamamagitan ng palamuti, ihahasik ang mga sarili. Mahal, ipagkakait mo ba sa akin ang magparingas, ang magparikit ng mga awit sa harap ng iyong kariktan? Kung saan maaaring ibigin ang paglamlam ng iyong tinig, ang di-matakasang ligamgam sa sandali ng paghimpil, hindi na ako mangingiming manginig. Kung saan pinapawi na ng pag-uwi sa isa’t isa ang kapalaluan nitong unos, hindi natin panghihinayangan ang pananatili sa pagitan ng halinghing at hingalo. Sapagkat sa pagtunghay sa pungay ng iyong mga mata, maaari akong mapuspos. Sapagkat mapupuspos at mapupuspos tayo sa gitna ng lahat, sa pamumulaklak ng muli’t muling magdamag dahil sa pagyakap sa wakas nitong samyo, sa hinahon ng kalsada't balat sa kabila ng pagkasugat, sa kapatawaran ng mga alipato.

Mapapatawad rin tayo. Mahal, hayaan nating maglaho ang mga paltos sa kaputian nitong pangako.

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Caloy Reyes

ab-ma political science, major in global politics

Si Caloy Reyes ay magtatapos ng AB Political Science sa Pamantasang Ateneo de Manila. Malamang ay babalik pa siya para ituloy ang kanyang master’s degree sa Global Politics. Ito ang unang beses na mailalathala ang kanyang gawa sa isang literary folio.

Pasasalamat kina Mr. Allan Popa, Ms. Sol Cruz, sa Kolektib, sa Pare, sa Partido crusada, at sa mga magulang ko. Salamat na rin sa San Miguel Pale Pilsen.

Baon Kunin mo na ang kinang ng aking ngiting di magmaliw; walang alaherong bumibili ng iisang gintong ngipin.

Huwag mo nang pag-isipan ang bente pesos sa aking palad— Punuan ang biyaheng langit at hindi pa ako nakakasakay.

Nauna ang paa ko noong hinugot mo ako rito. Malas talaga ang mga suhi kaya siguro tayo nagtagpo: Ikaw ang sepulturero.

Dali’t ibulong mo sa akin ang iyong kahilingan, maaaring di pa huli ang lahat.

Marami-rami ring mga buntonghininga ang dumaan sa aking tainga, kung natupad ay hindi ko na malalaman. Saka mo bunutin ang aking gintong ngipin, silawin ang sarili sa kinang ng nakabaong kayamanan.

Ilang bungo ang iniwan mong bungal

215 · Caloy Reyes

ngunit nakangiti pa rin; di magmamaliw ang ngiti hangga’t magkatugon ang bao at panga.

Kung hindi ka mag-iiwan ng bulaklak, huwag mo nang ibalik ang palatandaang naririto pa ako— Hayaan mong ako na lang ang makaalala sa sarili ko.

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Ray Santiago

ab political science, minor in japanese studies

Isang mag-aaral si RJ ng Agham Politikal. Mahilig siyang magbasa, magsulat, maglaro, sumigaw sa kawalan, at lumuha sa piling ng mga paruparo ng lagot na liwanag. Kung hindi siya nagmumukmok sa vg, matatagpuan siya sa loob ng mvp 201; ang silid ng kaniyang pinakamamahal na Matanglawin.

Sa wakas Maraming salamat sa Bagwisan, heights, Regine Cabato, Gadpader Kolektib, Gino Trinidaddy (na walang sawang nagsasabing dapat akong magsulat), Grup of lyf (Toto at Zobaq), kina Eroll Yabut, Khalil Redoble, Maynard Chua, Jonnel Inojosa, Jose Medriano, Jerome Flores, Dyan Francisco, Ron Castillo, sa lahat ng kambing sa mundo, at sa buong Matanglawin na nagsilbing pamilya ko sa pagtigil sa burรณl na ito.

Sa Paghuhulma Pinapatag mo ang aking mga dibdib sa bawat paghulma mo sa akin kahit laman ng iyong laman buto ng iyong buto Kapag hindi akma ang hulma iyong tatabasan, paulit-ulit at magdurugo, masakit ang pagpasok ng mga daliri sa bawat butas At magdurugo nang magdurugo ang buto ng iyong buto ang laman ng iyong laman dinidikta mo lamang ang tabas ng ikaw at ako

ng tabas ko na parang ikaw

ng ikaw na gusto ako

ang hulma ng ikaw at ako

ang hulma ng ikaw na parang ako

219 ¡ Ray Santiago

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Francine Maria D. Sta. Ana bfa creative writing

Francine lives in a world of her own most of the time. She likes to write things and draw things, but is often too lazy to do either of them. She likes dessert foods, literary fairy tales, and music with pianos in them.

Her current concerns aside from graduating include where to find work and when Kingdom Hearts III is going to be released.

Francine would like to stop talking in third person and dedicate her work to the following people: My parents, who want nothing more than for me to succeed in life; Yanna, for putting up with my shenanigans in return for putting up with mine; Block E Batch 2016, whom I shared a lot of creative energy with (particularly during thesis); my professors, most notably my poetry professors over the years (Sir Cayanan, Ms. Katigbak, Ms. Paredes) who gave me ideas on what poetry should be like; Tori Amos, Charles M. Schulz, Walt Disney, Lewis Carroll, The Beatles, Hans Christian Andersen, and a lot of other people for influencing and inspiring my work; and E., who has my heart in his hands and won’t let go of it.

The best way to eat is bite off the head first The fish doesn’t squirm nicely in his hands or his mouth, but there’s no use complaining, especially since he’s hadn’t had anything this fresh in weeks.

Fish aren’t meant to be cooked in fire but enjoyed as they are: wet, white scales brushing his lips against his teeth, sinking into cold blood and salt water leaking down his chin with every bite, staining his hands red deep and strong as the brine that seeps onto his tongue from the fish’s muscles.

Its chapped scales remind him of his old ones; the smell of salt and spray and the danger of breathing air in every nook and crag of its limp drained body.

No one sees him feast in the darkness of the rotting tool shed abandoned in the yard, although his hands tremble slightly at the thought of the poor old woman counting the fish she bought from the wet market, wondering why she always bought less than she needed.

The bloody bones in the yard are blamed on stray cats the next day.

223 · Francine Maria D. Sta. Ana

Underworld Some stories end like this: no sight, no sound, no light. Eurydice, you have no candles here. What might you see tonight, Eurydice?

Marriage begins and ends when it must. I’ve never known winter, but this must be what it feels like. Was he a snakebite, Eurydice?

I can’t feel a thing. Long before, I thought the sky was beautiful.

Now I don’t even know why I did. Do you see my plight, Eurydice?

To whom it may concern: We all have expiration dates. Letters, songs, fathers, wives, feelings. I know this to be right, Eurydice.

Listen; I hear music that bears your name from a distance. Except what music moves stones and makes them weep? Alight, Eurydice.

The steps are long and narrow, and the exit you seek is far away.

Stones can’t cry for lost souls or searchers. Keep quiet, Eurydice.

Tell her husband—Down here there is no sight, no sound, no light, no wife to be found. She sleeps in the water, not quite Eurydice.

This is what it feels to lose someone—heavy water, sighs, empty air and no candles. Do not dream of your wedding night, Eurydice.

I can’t feel a thing. There is a girl with heavy eyes; she carves out a death with words. She knows winter now. Good night, Eurydice.

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Ayana Tolentino bfa creative writing

“Didn’t you love the part right before the dawn?

And now, silver moons belong to you.”

—Silver Moons, Sunset Rubdown

Ayana Tolentino leaves Ateneo with a bfa in Creative Writing and more memories of good times than she really knows what to do with.

She hopes her memory will hold. She was a fellow for essay at the 20th Ateneo heights Writers Workshop. You can find her other works published in heights, L’Officiel Manila, and Rogue. She’s interested in all forms of pop culture and art writing, music, and gender studies.

A version of “Girlhood” has previously been published in her senior thesis, Veils.

Some thanks: To my mom and dad, who made sure I got my education.

To Telle, Rachel, Feria, Andrew, and everyone else whose company I favored all through this last whirlwind year: let’s have many more

weekends and holidays together on residential rooftops, outside of smoky bars, at late-night sushi joints, in malls closing shop, on the carpeted floors of friends’ bedrooms, on beaches regardless of the weather, and wherever else might seem like a good idea at 2 a.m.

To Cathy and Christine, who couldn’t be any more different on the surface, but who both make me laugh all the same: from impromptu Ninyo dinners to Celine Dion impressions in 3rd floor bathrooms to bamboo and muslin three ways, we know how to do fancy. You are invited to the rest of my life. Bring cheap wine and salmon sashimi seasoned with tears.

To Allison, who’s already reshaping the film industry with her thriving production team: we haven’t collaborated on anything in years. I think it’s time we made something new. How about a story featuring two best friends, who love music from The O.C., dressing up for Halloween, and bleu cheese-dipped buffalo wings, growing up to be like all the writers and filmmakers they looked up to as children?

To Bianca, Dionne, Arielle, and Isa: you are three of the coolest and most intelligent girls I’ve ever vibed with. I really think we could rock it in a Josie and the Pussycats-type girl group. Darker and infinitely more cynical, though, like if France Gall met The National, featuring strong Amy Elliott Dunne sensibilities.

To Josh, Jeivi, and (Juan) Marco, whom I collectively refer to as “my favorite Js” whenever I get the chance: the four of us came into heights together, and over the years we’ve only become bigger nerds. May we all one day identify the points from which we scatter. And if we never do, so what.

To Christian, Regine, and Billy, who’ve each entrusted me, a few times, with reading drafts of their works and providing critique: I hope your faith has never felt misplaced. Know that, more than being your friend, I am also an avid reader and supporter of your writing. Turn your feelings into multiple Palancas.

To the rest of the english staff in every iteration: working with you for the last three years has been a continuous dream, despite all the 10-hour deliberations and unfortunate lack of Mountain Dew cupcakes recently.

I know it wouldn’t be realistic to expect every working environment I’m thrust into from here on out to be as open, efficient, and conducive to intellectual growth as the one we’ve cultivated here together, but damn it—I can hope.

To the rest of heights and (especially) the editorial board of S.Y. 20142015: every folio we’ve published, talk we’ve held, and collaboration we’ve helped along is a testament to this organization’s collective dedication to art and literature. Having been a part of this legacy spanning over 60 years, even briefly, will always be a point of pride for me. But all that aside, you are my home. EBon, the work-fun balance we managed to strike was golden and enviable. I hope for more of that in my future, too.

To Block E, especially Tiff, Emil, Angela, Gabbi, and Shaira: we did it. May those of us who were terrible at deadlines throughout thesis year be better at them when we leave school. Preferably sooner (I say to myself). Let’s all keep writing, especially when it’s hard.

To M02, whom I can’t help but think of every time I see the Pancake House along Katipunan or hear the phrase “note cards”: you were my first friends in Ateneo. Late-night research paper cramming, essays about Recto, and half-awake Kundera discussions made for an interesting year. But it was only while I was engaging in these things with you that I didn’t feel so placeless, then, as a freshman. So maybe that counts for a lot more than “interesting.”

To Jam, who once called me his stronghold: for all the good intentions.

To all my professors and the panelists at the 20th ahww, especially Vince, Martin, Sir Mark, Sir Bob, Ma’am Giselle, Fr. Catalan, and Ma’am Cleofas, who’ve each guided me through school and writing

in their own specific ways: thank you for all the revision notes and encouragement, both wordless and not. For all the gestures of faith.

To everyone else who’s helped me along or been a friend to me in the last four years.

And to you, reader, for taking the time to read this. I hope it makes a difference.

Girlhood i.

My Paulinian skirt bore knife pleats in a black-and-white checkered pattern, with the coarse texture of cheap tablecloth. There had been times when my skirt would rip and the buttons would become unsewn, and I would instead mend them with safety pins that dug into my hipbone. The rule was always: the skirt must fall two inches below the knee, never higher. Longer is better, but don’t make an exhibition of yourself by having it sway around your ankles. The rules were always.

The crisp white blouse worn with it necessitated a camisole, otherwise the crude outline of a bra would be seen peaking through.

What else could be under there? God forbid that stray glances fall on lace and ribbon, only ever in variations of white or cream, and bearing no playful pattern; polka dots and flowers saved for the weekend. Black and all other colors were strictly disallowed—after all, the fabric of my blouse could never hope to hide anything as garish as pink. Its collar was a modest V that buttoned at the base of my throat, and on hot afternoons I would tug at it until it dipped, revealing the upper-half of my chest, by then slick with sweat. I’d slide a handkerchief across to dry it, sighing at the layers. It had to do. The discomfort, too, was uniform.

My necktie would hang limply around my neck like a forgotten leash; the hand on the other end grown blessedly slack.

Under my skirt, I’d worn white cotton shorts. This is called a pantylet.

It was so, when my skirt lifted, on accident or otherwise, my underwear would be kept from view. I missed this step most days, but it barely made a difference: it took no extraordinary amount of effort to keep my skirt down. Of course I knew that being a girl came with a certain decorum; socks must be above the ankle, no heels on shoes, we maintain primness from the tips of our hair to the curl of our toes. Except lunch

231 · Ayana Tolentino

breaks were spent sitting cross-legged on the floor of my classroom, playing jackstones, counting 1, 2, 3, then backwards, trying to hold as much as I could in my hands. I’d watched the rubber ball bouncing up and down, working out all the different ways I can take. My skirt was a basket of stones. ii.

What’s black and white and red all over? I know this one.

I’d nearly fallen forward trying to get out of my clothes, even as I pressed a hand against the tiled wall for support. The stains on my school skirt were half-buried in the scramble of pleats, but I could still see traces of color in the light of the bathroom. White checkers now a faint pink. I was in the fourth grade when it happened: sharp pain shooting through my abdomen, the sudden constricting of my womb; at first like being speared open. What lingers is something like the feel of rough fingers forcibly closing the wound’s edges, to no success. Yet they keep trying. I’d sat on the toilet with my legs apart, staring at my stained underwear, wondering faintly if something had broken inside.

The blood had dried by then to become a dull, dark brown, almost black, and just as lifeless. I called for my mother.

She helpfully pointed out that it was only menstruation, quite natural, I should expect it monthly from then on. Everything will be okay, and this is how I knew. So the bleeding had a name and a purpose and it would settle into my body to rearrange it, twelve months out of twelve, like a house guest I never wanted. Of course I’d known what it was, by definition; we learned it in school and my mother kept maxi pads in the bathroom, and sometimes she would roll out of bed to find that

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they had not altogether done what they were supposed to do. But this knowing was different.

Ten years old and already learning the ropes of commitment: lightcolored bottoms are risky, avoid those. Keep your nice underwear tucked away in the bottom of the drawer. The trick is to stay underwater.

Your breasts may become tender like bruised fruit. Don’t fly into a panic when you’re late, it happens; God doesn’t dole out immaculate conceptions wholesale—unless, of course, there is sex, in which case there is also prayer. Some days you will need to double up on painkillers, but hopefully those days will be few. It’s true about chocolate. Lay a towel over your bed covers come nighttime, just in case. It’s hardest on the second day. If you stain your underwear, immediately soak it in soap and water, as when the blood dries it won’t scrub out as easy.

Don’t indulge your anger, even as it turns your eyes hot; you will come out of it quicker than you think. There are creams and gels you can use for breakouts: don’t pick at them, they will only scar. Crying spells are normal, but try to stay in control.

Now I’m coming to twenty-two, and menstruation doesn’t feel any less like my body working against me. I think, even my body? There is a stigma attached to bleeding so profusely that it soaks through your bottoms, and with stigma comes shame. Every time I stand up when I’m on my period, I have to twist to see if spots of blood have bloomed through the layers of maxi pad and underwear and fabric. At this point it’s compulsive: this from compuls- meaning “driven,” this meaning “controlled.” The body naturally expels this blood because it is dirty; this is biological fact. A woman who can’t handle this expulsion discreetly is dirty, or so it goes. This is another kind of fact. iii.

Whenever I think of the first time I had sex, the sexuality of it is my least thought. There’s no ruby red tinge to the memory, or sweat coating my body like the settling mist of after-sex, or even a Pavlovian toe-curl that might tell me belatedly that it was good. Instead, I find myself rejecting 233 · Ayana Tolentino

the image of me naked on an unframed mattress, the way a body might reject mismatched blood. There’s no internal collapse, nothing turning into poison, but my throat still constricts like wrung hands.

The value placed upon a woman’s intact virginity is premised on loose-leaf ideas about female propriety: that she is somehow only as pure as her body, this thing of skin and bones that overhauls itself once every seven years—this fragile human thing susceptible to the elements, they say, would be a ruined house if it were ever touched by anyone else. And when I say house, I mean something that shelters within itself what is woman about the woman. So when I say ruined house, that must mean ruined woman, because we are tethered to our bodies, and so, they say, we are them alone. That even in giving her body over willingly, the woman is participating in her own ruination.

I don’t recall ever believing this, but enough do, and so vocally, that when I lost my virginity I thought I should feel something like my body resting on cream and stars—but there was nothing to it. I don’t recall ever believing this, but perhaps I did, in that uncritical way we might accept non-truths that no one around us ever seems to counter, and so they congeal to become almost mythic in our minds. Senseless, and yet referred to again and again: Only engage in sex in the context of a loving and committed marriage. Loving and committed here may be negotiated, as sexually active yet loveless unions do exist. No matter. Any sex before that will leave your soul tarnished and your body undesirable. Sex is primarily for procreation; pleasure falls in second place, personal pleasure last. This is not about you. You will bleed the first time. Any form of contraception stands against the purposes of sex, so leave them at the pharmacy.

Diseases fall only on those who sleep with men who aren’t yet their husband. Wear your virginity like a white dress: to keep it unwrinkled and pristine, close your legs and straighten your back, and don’t move your body around.

Even the language of it is steeped in the assignment of guilt rather than a recognition of power. The phrase, after all, is losing your virginity, not giving it away. Someone else takes it from the woman, and the answering echo of what-was is hers to cradle alone. This, I think, is heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 234

where it becomes most vicious: in the language that surrounds our bodies. This, I think, is where I disengage. I gave my virginity to a boy who thought as much of me as I did of him; which is to say, we thought nothing of each other. My edges never softened at the sight of him, nor did my hands ache to reach—that was the missing word, ache—but we were warm bodies, and I was trying to expel my desire for someone else. When people speak of wrong reasons, I think of my back arching, and even in the act of it knowing nothing would be expelled, but continuing anyway. Because here was a warm body that wanted to take me. And I had wanted to prove that virginity could be spent like anything else, that there would be nothing wasteful about it, because there was nothing to waste. I was thinking of another boy while this one was stroking my thighs, while I had my mouth on him, and only here does a word like ruined read true. The sexuality of it will always be is my least thought.

After, I was a gutted torso, mulling over my sense of lack. Because there are distinctions between right and wrong reasons, after all, and these are rooted in the heart; in the honesty of it. I ached for a different boy. There was no need to use my mouth on another. Maybe I would’ve liked it more if I hadn’t been groping for my promised cream and stars; if my virginity hadn’t, for so long, signified a tether to God. If I had left my body alone, or if I could have. The text is all wrong: this is about me, but I don’t want this to mean about my body. Because it doesn’t feel less of itself, though I feel like my reasons have left me less of myself.

Here is what I know now: I would like sex to be like worship, if we’re insisting on the sacred; but what I mean is—sex might sustain my ravenous heart, but only if the body I’m with is sheltering a ravenous heart of its own, with both of these being given over to me, willingly. iv.

Giving up food when I was fourteen, I told myself, was only an exercise in control.

235 · Ayana Tolentino

To start, I’d thought of my body less like a temple and more like a lab rat that could handle all manner of experimentation: I wanted to know how long it could go without meat, and so I was a vegetarian for six weeks. I only reintroduced fish into my diet when I slipped and had a few bites of fried tilapia one afternoon, and even panicking I thought at least it wasn’t as bad as honey-cured bacon, which I’d been craving fiercely. An extra ten minutes on my father’s treadmill made up for it, then apples. Maybe fewer than before, this time. I was a pescetarian through most of high school, and when my friends asked for reasons, I told them I no longer wanted to eat anything with a face. But fish had that too, I knew; it was some relief when no one I told had bothered to point this out. So my reasons were set and they were good: I had a cause bigger than my body. At least this was the story.

When you don’t eat enough, you learn to live with recurring migraines and fatigue. I fought the latter with a steady flow of coffee, no milk and especially no sugar, enough to get me through my classes.

The girl sitting to my right would be munching on Cheetos and I would want to reach over and take some for myself, but there were apples in my backpack and I knew what cheese dust could do to my gut.

They seemed to do nothing to hers. As she coated her fingers in them, I could only think of when I could eat next, and what, and where, and naturally, it couldn’t be covered in cheese. She was a wisp of a girl with sharp features, bones all jutting out like a famished bird’s, and I felt something grating in my throat, something like it isn’t fair. At night I drank down Red Bull and pretended it tasted better than it did. Today it tastes like raspberries, I thought, a little manic. Tomorrow maybe kiwi. I still needed to run around the block, even as I cursed the night air for cooling me down too quickly: it was a good run if my clothes were soaked through, how else would I know I was burning anything?

It was a bad habit that started the way most of them do, with the express belief that I could quit anytime I wanted. It took a few spiraling years, and even now I still find myself slipping into familiar resentment for all the parts of my frame that are in excess. There is flab in my upper arms and my face is still too round in pictures, but mostly I hate how

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my belly has never flattened. The word unattractive buzzes like fruit flies around my head. At the height of it, I’d papered the inside of my closet door with printouts of celebrities in bikinis, every inch of skin thoughtlessly exposed and desired, their legs toned by years of doing what was still all new to me, but there was time. It could be simple, after all. There were lines to be followed and methods to be tried: three hundred calories a day could sustain someone hopped up on caffeine, hunger can be slept off, there are ways to make your full plate look touched so as not to worry your mother, replace some meals with only water; the body becomes cold when underfed, growing more hair all over as though sewing together a coat. Never mind the tenuous grip I had on control. I was set on breaking my wrist first before resting it.

You might say I’m better now and, in some ways, I am. My relationship with food isn’t nearly as obsessive—I’ve stopped keeping journals about my daily intake, have stopped tracking every morsel I eat, have stopped mentally deconstructing sandwiches so I can be sure that they really add up to this many calories or that. I freely choose regular milk over soy now; a mechanical non-choice, this time, like putting one foot in front of the other to get to another room. I’ve even stopped exercising, though maybe I should again, because in your 20’s you become softer around the middle and conscious activity is meant to combat this. And, I suppose, less sugar. I leave the celebrities in their magazines, held by handsome hands that want nothing less than their sleek torsos. I take long walks. But my body as framing device is no longer a thought I can shed like old skin. My constant attention to it is as willed as my walking: I dress only in things that flatter, and if a sweater should hang loosely around this frame, even that canvas sack look is calculated.

Sometimes I remember the girl in my class with the cheese fingers and I wonder if she still scarfs down Cheetos without once glancing at the nutritional content. I can feel that grating envy reseating itself inside my chest, settling into the seven-year-old outline that should be all that’s left of it now, but isn’t.

237 · Ayana Tolentino

v.

In the absence of makeup in grade school, we’d pinched our cheeks to stain them, the flush concentrating on their apples. We’d bitten down on our lips to match the blooming pink, first licking if they were chapped, sometimes tasting blood on broken skin.

And then we smiled for our school I.D. photos, white backdrop forcing the details of our faces dead center. The dark circles under my eyes belonged to someone more gaunt and hunted than I ever was at thirteen, and yet there they were, charcoal against my pale skin. People consider whiteness to mean light, to mean ivory and porcelain and snow, to mean a slew of things that essentially also mean “pure,” but there have been times when seeing my skin had only made me think of chalk and parchment. Something harshly scraping or being scraped against.

My cheeks, I’d noticed, only colored after a long day of exertion. At 6 a.m., fresh out of bed, they may as well be that of a rag doll’s for all the life that was in them.

And so I would eventually come to think of makeup as essential: it began with seeing another girl pinch at herself desperately and explain, with the air of someone who’s uncovered an important truth, that this was one way to look alive. Of course in high school we were only allowed Chapstick and moisturizer, and neither of them the tinted kind.

This hadn’t bothered me so much at the time, and I’d simply wished for ways to glow on my own, in the absentminded way one hopes for impossible things; though looking at old photos I sometimes wish I could retroactively scrub out past dullness with a few swipes of lipstick and dabs of concealer. It all could’ve been so easy. I reach for both on impulse now, every morning straight out of the shower, envying a version of myself that didn’t really bother.

Because makeup has come to mean some type of armor, a cushion for insecurity, the thing that keeps me from looking like a dead thing—despite how skeletal I don’t look; velvety lips and wing-tipped

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eyes, all me, but better. And this has always been the rule: keep the parts of yourself that can be stomached, discard the rest. I know this is dangerous, this tar pit perspective, this idea that enough pressure makes diamonds. But what is a raw diamond if not a cutting thing?

I want to say again that it isn’t fair, that I have a body that is made a spectacle of, delivered to an audience and then taken piecemeal, but for its ruination this audience claims no responsibility. That acting according to the whims of my body, even with heart and mind asking for the same, wouldn’t do; that I should instead be blushing about it and not ravenous and asking, must always be like a bride on her wedding night, the way I might blush upon staining my skirt on public transport—a flustered little girl covering herself up until she could be rid of it. Find a veil thick enough to obscure the body you were given, the one you might mutilate someday, the one you might restrict someday, because it never seems to curve the way you want it to. But to blame anyone and anything else means surrendering control, means to say I didn’t participate in what I’ve become. But this would be dishonest, to a point.

And so instead I will say: I am smarter than this, or else I should’ve been, and yet. Here I am, caught in the language of girlhood.

239 · Ayana Tolentino

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 240

Joshua Uyheng bs psychology / bs mathematics

Joshua Uyheng was a recipient of the 2016 Loyola Schools Award for the Arts in poetry. He was selected as a fellow for poetry in the 13th Ateneo National Writers Workshop and the 21st Ateneo heights Writers Workshop. His work has previously been published in Plural, transit, Kritika Kultura, and some back issues of heights. An aspiring scientist, he’s sometimes still not entirely sure how he got here, but he is endlessly grateful.

He apologizes in advance for the long-winded thanks: To my parents: Drs. Jerry and Geri Uyheng, who are my origin story. My brothers: Justin and John, my first partners in crime and imagination.

Thank you for being my home.

To the good people of the oaa: nothing less than the truest of gods and goddesses, witches and wizards, and superheroes extraordinaire.

I would not be in the Ateneo except for your generosity, your hard work, and your being the first people to believe in me, in what I could become. Thank you for being my home away from home.

To my professors in the core, especially: Max Pulan, Tintin MoralesAlikpala, Lucille Natividad, Fr. Adolfo Dacanay, SJ, Lance Bolano,

Jackie Tolentino, Tonette Angeles, and Ray Aguas. I am grateful every day for your excellence, passion, and compassion. For showing me that there is good in the world, and reason to hope in it, for setting my soul on fire, and for everything I will become: with my whole life, thank you.

To my professors in psychology, especially Sir Nico Canoy. Thank you for teaching me about my head, heart, and hands.

To my teachers in poetry: Allan Popa and Mark Anthony Cayanan.

To unexpected mentors, especially: Ken Abante, Ms. Tina Pasion, Ms. Tina Sollorano, and Missy Maramara. Thank you for the faith.

To the Secret Society of Awesome (Non-)Human Beings: The ezer to my missing rib, Jeivi Nicdao: may we stay witnesses to each other’s hunger. The round laughter to my jiggly bones, Ica Divinagracia: be mine, too. The unicorn to my donkey, Gilana Roxas: I’ll still clean the flesh off your wings any day. The A+ to my A-, Hadrian Ang: you remind me every day how much I still have to learn. Thanks, buds.

We made it. I love you all to death and back.

To my bh3s: Emma Guanco, Kim Vidal, Max Velazco, Harvey Parafina, Aeron Syliongtay, Gabe Estampador, Jay Ang, Tim Rufino, Ethan Maslog, Laura Que, Katherine Khoo, Raya Aquino, and Celina Gacias.

We have been so much to each other in the past few years. I look forward to everything there still is to come.

To Block Y. To M03, especially Selina Ablaza, who still teaches me about effort norm. To the Concon Central Team, especially Shiph Belonguel, my queen. To Rafa, too, both king and court jester. We will have our own show someday.

To surprising friends from here and there: ajss Batches 46-49, fcc Obi-Wans, Bio Lab Dream Team, Nico Ang and the rest of the Iphigenia Team, my Immersion Group. To Tatay Porfirio, Nanay Jennifer, Kenneth, Hannah, Heizel, Kurt Andrei, PJ, and the rest of

Sitio Dupax: one way or another, I will have something to give back.

To Caroline Carmona, and the late nights, the tears, and hitting the polypeptide: you’re a saint for surviving me.

To Karl Estuart, and all the streets we’re always teetering on the precipices of.

To Pang Delgra, and all the dragons we fought, slayed, and succumbed to, together, apart.

And finally, to heights: thank you for the home I’ve found in you.

Marco, mahal kita. Regine, thank you for believing in me, too.

Christian, for our shared prophet goals. Billy and Ayana, I will miss you. To all the children in the english staff: you are all beautiful and I believe in you.

“Then it was over: that which you fear, being / a soul and unable / to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth / bending a little. And what I took to be / birds darting in low shrubs.”

—Louise Glück, The Wild Iris

Protoevangelium after Frank Bidart

Hate the I that loves. See the crucified corpse shriveled down

to a husk, when struck down from the dogwood, still startle.

245 · Joshua Uyheng

heights Seniors Folio 2016 · 246

unrendered. There are no wild birds in this scene. No trees.

No harsh cleave in the firmament, no seas. No slough of rife

itself upon canvas, where suffusion, where everything takes

place, great senescence, where even the garden, this, still, remains, in this way

is: Creator in this scene where the panorama

diverges, where the stroke of the acrylic won’t unfold

of damp clay, pulls out a wrist, feels

a pulse. Not before what wasn’t there that now

seeming, where the omnipotent hand

of Creator reaches down, reaches slow into the mouth

Not here. Not this detail of blue hills. Not the body

replete atop it. Not this seeming, this quicken of

Creation of Man

247 · Joshua Uyheng

to touch it. He laughs. When Donato Bramante, the Pope’s architect,

presents to him the contraption that must suspend him with ropes

of the vault, paint over the blue of the old sky, gold evening,

Michelangelo must stand upon a scaffold that will allow him

It is 1508. Michelangelo setting foot in the Great Chapel

maps the myth. Tasked by the Pope to repaint the ceiling

is no longer a body—Let, and the dark ripple

of flesh beneath sinew beneath skin beneath

stitched seam of livid is, can no longer be, mere orifice—

away from him. To be Creator means everything

gets away from him, finally—Let, and already the body

Let: Let, he says, only, and already the light is getting

stars, no planets, no shudder of galaxies—

only one voice, his, here, commanding, almighty—

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Michelangelo works tirelessly. The Pope asks him

for twelve, the Apostles, but instead the artist gives him

and the Creation of Adam, two years already

since his first brushstroke in the Cappella Sistina.

the Great Flood, the Separation of Light

from Darkness—this one painted in the span of a day—

on his back. High above the marble floors, never swinging.

In the beginning: the progenitors of Christ, the prophets,

and platforms from which he can paint

as he pleases. He can reach for nooks. He can lie

So instead he builds his own. From the windows,

he lays down a foundation of wood, a system of planks

hanging from the ceiling, Michelangelo asks: Won’t this leave holes in my frescoes? The architect has no answer.

249 · Joshua Uyheng

they do not matter. The widow’s lips, the strength I feel

two shapely arms to fill which without motion moves

has just brushed against the apex of her girlhood.

Tommaso dei Cavalieri, or Vittoria Colonna—

the widow, whom on his deathbed he will regret never having kissed

in the mouth, the way once before he had kissed every one of her fingers,

love him, to never wish for a love more than his love

for Michelangelo, is being born. Or that the one woman,

and contrapposto. Little can he know that at this very moment

the boy he loves, the boy who will one day promise to

of Jerusalem. Michelangelo’s arms and legs

are the Libyan Sibyl’s, lifting a great book, standing lithe

with great care projects his own features upon them, onto the ceiling.

Michelangelo is Daniel, is Jeremiah, is contemplating the fall

more than three hundred figures to herald the coming

of the Messiah. Michelangelo studies them, their bodies,

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the space between two hands.

No. Do not trouble Michelangelo. Let him be. See: He is

busy now, painting a hand. He is busy coloring in

this horizon of dark wings, languid sky, the intimate kind

of madness that can possess only a god, this writhing horde of angels—

comes out right, comes out extrapolable—or whether his life

is getting away from him, is spiraling quickly beyond

still. Whether or not they will abide

by his instructions—or whether the portraiture

where he will ask them not to move, where he will ask them to move

again in minutiae, and he will demand, after the fact, that they remain

masterpiece, contours of warm flesh, set down, visible, nude, beside his own—

let him be. Here is the room where everything happens, the half-light

every balance—they do not matter. Whether he will one day

paint them, too, depict their studied bodies in another

Peavey F. Vergara ab communication

Lolos and lolas. Too many to thank. Aside from his lolos and lolas from Ilocos, Camarines Sur, and Isabela, Peavey would like to extend incense and (especially) pancit to his lolos and lolas from the Shaolin Temple, Kamakura-shi, Heian-kyo, California, Xavierville, Barangka and Ateneo housing, Provident village, the Ateneo de Manila High School faculty lounge, basic education hq, and Information Technology Center, the Loyola Schools pe Department, the Department of Sociology and Anthropology, the Offices of the Guidance counselors in high school and college, the English Department, the Communication Department, and the lolos and lolas from Gonzaga cafeteria, behind the counter or with me on the tables. Oh venerable patriarchs, matriarchs, and ancestors! I hope the sahog from this era cuts it well.

Namaskar!

Dark morning— dew drops cling to swaying bamboo.

253 · Peavey F. Vergara

heights Seniors Folio 2015 · 254

Manuel IĂąigo A. Angulo ab communication

Manuel graduated from the Ateneo de Manila University with a Bachelor of the Arts, Major in Communication. Taking subjects from the advertising and public relations and media studies tracks, Manuel hopes to participate in the telling of the stories that need help being told.

Manuel was a member of heights and of the Ateneo Association of Communication Majors. He joined the Ateneo entablado during his senior year, and participated in the launch of the Bagumbayani Initiative within campus. He was a fellow of the 4 th Ateneo heights Artists Workshop, and a delegate to the 13 th Ateneo Student Leaders Assembly congress. Outside of the Ateneo, Manuel was involved with the Escola Brasileira de Capoeira. If you are hiring, we can pretend this is a resume.

Looking at art as ways of navigating through issues and ideas, Manuel’s work here is his attempt at negotiating with his understanding and position around labor and identity. * Over his years in the Ateneo, Manuel has come to be thankful for the many people he has met, and the many experiences he has been through.

He’ll be making the most out of the space in this folio.

In particular, Manuel is thankful for his family: Eric, Rachel, Andrea, Paolo, Julia, for their love and support, especially over the last four years. For Daddy who has gone to rest, thank you.

He is thankful for his teachers, especially Sir Vince, Ma’am Jackie, Ray, Sir Bulaong, Sir Giron, Ma’am Yael, Sir Sev, Ma’am Inez, Sir Greg, Sir Capili for lessons in class and lessons for when he steps out of the classroom. He is thankful, particularly, for lessons in humility and patience over the four years. He is thankful also for Ms. Clar and Ms. Kai, for Kuya Resty and Kuya Kim for making his stay in the Ateneo kinder.

Manuel is thankful for friends made here: the M02rueFriends (they were first), Paula, Richard, Axel, Maia, Carms, Ella, Jean, Kaye, Ysa, Francis, Zoe (who he grew up with over the four years—we made it, friends); Nicko, Mo, Therese, JV, Begy, Pao, Deirdre, Meggie, Maan (who welcomed him into their space); the rEBels: Audrey, Tasha, Steph, Melissa, Moli, Joe, Bianca, Ace, Abner, Cressa, Carissa, Jam, Gino, especially Bianca, Cheska, and Jonnel (for the yearly evaluations and goal-setting; for introducing him to Service); the Heightsers: Ida, Nikki, Micah, Renzi, Mayelle, Lasmyr, Anja, Marco, Billy, Selina, Jeivi, Josh, Christian, Cathy, Regine, Lorenzo, Ayana, Lazir, Bee, Bernie, Reina, Rox, Oey, Nikki V., Corn, Kitkat, Alex, MM, Robyn, Celline, Beta, Max, Meryl, Patty, Ninna, Guigi, Kristoff, Alie, Nicole, Helena and the many other members he has had the pleasure of growing with (for being there—he’s excited for whatever theres we will find ourselves in); Clar and Yannah, and the id majors at the table where Manuel sometimes sits awkwardly (who made his stay with the FA Program less lonely); Jo, Cam, Kim, Marga, Richard, Steph, Ella, Mimi, Patty, Luigi, Lara, Jara, Lanz, Bianca, Pei, Dyan, Mara (for showing him what it means to live lives of love); Prio, Panda, Edna, I, Railey, Clauds (for the Monday nights; for the years ahead).

For everything, and everything else, Thank You.

Foundation 1. Dried grass and acrylic case.

259 • Manuel Iñigo A. Angulo

Foundation 1 (detail).

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 260

Madelaine Callanta ab literature (english)

To the canvas who would hurt me and hurt with me.

a trauma on the skin. Oil and acrylic on canvas. 12 x 16 in.

263 • Madelaine Callanta

god in three gradients. Oil and charcoal on wood. 12.5 x 23 in.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 264

Louie Balboa Cartagena bfa information design

Finally.

267 • Louie Balboa Cartagena

Tiyanak. Sculpture (inflatable doll, glitter, gift-wrapping paper, adhesive gems, felt cut-outs, embossed stickers). 8x8x8 in.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 268

Caroline Carmona

bfa information design / bs psychology

Sa tanan nga mga tawo nga na kilala ko, salamat sa mga yuhum.

Sa tanan nga mga maestro kag maestra nga nagtudlo sa akon, salamat sa pasensya.

Sa tanan nga mga abyan nga nagtinir, salamat sa suporta.

Sa tawo nga wala gid gakatak-an sa akon, salamat sa pag-intiende.

Sa mga ginikanan ko nga pirmi gasakripisyo para sa akon, salamat sa pagpalangga.

Kag sa eskwelahan nga nagbugtaw sa akon—nagpakita sa akon sang kanamion kag kalaw-ayon sang kalibutan, Salamat sa pagpukaw.

Salamat sa kamatuoran.

Salamat sa handumanan.

Amo na gid ni ya. Daw indi ko kapati.

To all the people I have met, thank you for the smiles.

To all the teachers who taught me, thank you for the patience.

To all the friends who stayed, thank you for the support.

To the person who never grew tired of me, thank you for understanding.

To my parents who always sacrificed so much for me, thank you for the love.

And to the school that had awoken me—that had shown me the beautiful and the ugly in the world, Thank you for the wake-up call.

Thank you for the truth.

Thank you for the memories.

This is really it. I can’t believe it.

273 • Caroline Carmona

Head In The Clouds. Clay, cotton, paper, and lead. 2.7 x 4.1 x 4.9 in.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 274

Juan Concepcion bfa information design

“I have never listened to anyone who criticized my taste in space travel, sideshows or gorillas. When this occurs, I pack up my dinosaurs and leave the room.”

—Ray Bradbury

277 • Juan Concepcion

Syncopation. Acrylic on canvas. 18x22 in.

heights Seniors Folio 2016 • 278

Philip De La Torre

bs management, minor in german

In one way or another, we are mere vagabonds—nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

To my mom and dad, Neddie and Freddie, my siblings, Bong, PJ, and Pia—thank you for the past 21 years. I love you, and I do my best to make you proud always, and in all ways—especially you, ma.

To my UB, otherwise known as Bianca—you are the sole witness to all of my changes, and I am happy to have gone through all of them with you. I am eternally grateful for the friendship that we have beautifully created and committed to.

To Ray John, the first among the few who go all the way back since childhood—thank you for your silent support. To Maynard, Josh, Migs, Audrey, Ron, and the rest of my high school friends, thanks for the memories—with or without beer.

To all of the members of Ateneo’s staff who helped me survive 4 years of college—from the guard in Dela Costa who allowed me to pass my Lit 13 midterm paper at 11:59 p.m., to the chefs of Sakamura who always gave me extra tofu in order to fulfill my vegetarian needs—I am grateful.

To Roy Agustin, John Recabar, Christa Velasco, Fr. Dan Sormani, Lianne Habana, Jaja Barriga, Mark Sioco, Bing Paraguas, and Marion Tan—thank you for equipping me with lessons that I will carry with me as I go down from the hill. Thank you Allan Ko for helping me navigate through what I can and cannot do, Dickie Soriano for pushing me to dream as big asI can, and Bobby Guev for reminding me to respond with love in everything that I do.

To Bea, my college constant; to Patrick, Mickey, Patfel, Mat Yuhico, and the rest of Block Q1 for being my first college friends; to Block Q for welcoming me and for always adopting me; to Frankie, Rache, Marti, and the rest of the Recabitches for the healthy dose of mischief back in freshman year; to Jad, Alyssa, and Francesca for Lovely (fil 14 - jafp), our yolo Wednesdays, and everthing else that transpired after; to Robert, Bernie, and Arthel for being my bros—you really inspired me to excel and to always do better.

To Cheska, Ger, and Clouds for introducing me to a whole new world of art and design, from our internship in vg to the Carpool Collective—one day, one zine shall be published; to Santi, Clar, Ross, Richard, Lazir, and the rest of my id friends—your works inspire me.

I'm glad that I met you all in my senior year.

To Grace, Cece, Danica, and the rest of ls 100 - Ko(B) for the unexpected friendships and for helping me grow as a person; to Jara, Cam, Archie, and the rest of Buklod Champs for making our journey through Bobby Guev and our immersion memorable and dear to my heart; für Jeni, Angelie, Cara, und die anderen Studenten aus dem deutschen Programm, für das viele Lachen und die schöne Erinnerungen.

To Enzo, Enix, AJ, and Kristel for our adventures with Brave Lifestyle Co., especially the laughter and tears when work turns to play—thank you for making my senior year fun and youthful.

To the Descendants, the Balchanatics, the Office of Campus Ministry and its volunteers, thank you for the fruitful 8-day retreat.

To the Bagumbayani Initiative, Ray, and the rest of the passionate people behind the project—thank you for giving me hope for our government and our country. To Angie, Nikki, Cam, Ninna, and the rest of the team—it wouldn’t have been possible without you.

To ama, for being my first home and famaly—thank you for introducing me to dedicated people and great friends: especially Tiuts, and the seniors of Batch 2014—Nica, Kristel, Alex, Neo, Esbi, Rigel, Jerico, Gelie, Kurt, Bryce, and Via. To heights, the 01-Bakit_Ngayon_Ka_Lang.mp3 of my college life—thank you for accepting me with open arms in my senior year. To Cathy, Ayana, Billy, Josh, Sel, Mayelle, Paula, Jeivi, Jonnel, Rox, Reina, Renzi, Troy, 1C, Krysten, Lasmyr, Lorenzo, Micah, Rayne, Janelle, Alie, Jeremy, Anna, Marco T., Celline, Yuri, Bee, Oey, and to everyone else—thank you. Special thanks to Marco Bartolome for sending me snaps of Sif—I’ve grown fonder of dogs ever since; to Regine for being the little sister that I never had; to Christian, for the countless processing sessions—with or without Carly Rae Jepsen; and to Manuel, for being my shady confidant—before and after the silent retreat. I am most thankful for Ida, to whom I can say much and nothing at all—you know the rest.

Für mein Koalabär, mijn Lief, für alles.

283 • Philip De La Torre

Ang Lagalag (series). Digital photography.

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285 • Philip De La Torre

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287 • Philip De La Torre

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289 • Philip De La Torre

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291 • Philip De La Torre

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293 • Philip De La Torre

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295 • Philip De La Torre

Ang Lagalag (series; supporting media). Digital photography.

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Ang Lagalag (series; supporting media). Digital photography.

297 • Philip De La Torre

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Arianna Mercado

ab psychology / bfa art management

tokugawa smile

301 • Arianna Mercado

postcards (series) you’d like it here. Film photography. 9x13 cm.

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postcards (series) I return home tomorrow. Film photography. 9x13 cm.

303 • Arianna Mercado

postcards (series) I hope you haven’t forgotten about me yet. Film photography.

9x13 cm.

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postcards (series) say hello to the kids for me. Film photography. 9x13 cm.

305 • Arianna Mercado

where is everyone?. Film stills.

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Josephus Theo Nugraha bfa information design

By the time you see this part of the book, I'll be thousands of kilometers away from you. By that time I might be cooking, I might be designing, or beating the drums at a music festival. But nothing will hinder me from doing a freelance project for your needs. Look me up online and contact me in case anyone needs a graphic designer.

Noodle Haus. Digital.

309 • Josephus Theo Nugraha

What’s for Dinner?. Digital.

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Renzi Rodriguez bfa information design

Para sa lahat ng umakay sa akin sa nakalipas na apat na taon, maraming salamat po.

Kina Nanay Maylin, Jenyca, Daniel, at sa mga taga-GK Concepcion sa Cabiao, Nueva Ecija, para po ito sa inyo.

Bamboo, sikat ka na! Maligo ka na araw-araw ah. <3

313 • Renzi Rodriguez

Iskrambol. Digital photography.

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Krysten Tan

bfa information design

Krysten Tan is an aspiring graphic designer and illustrator who loves to talk about branding and why Art Is So Important. In her free time, she enjoys making food and, recently, spending many hours mashing buttons on Tales of Zestiria without understanding how combos actually work.

She cannot be more grateful for her four years in the Ateneo and for being able to learn so many new things, about the world and about herself, for the people met, and the opportunities received.

She would like to thank her parents for working very hard to provide her with this opportunity. She can’t imagine how she could ever have deserved this but she is nonetheless grateful.

To all the people she’s met in the four years of college: Block E1, the M02ruefriends, heights (especially the Art Staff and eb a.y.

2014-2015), OrCom 2015, and And A Half Design Studio, it’s been such a fun ride.

To Khalil, Quina, Simon, RJ, Piso and the kind lurkers of Twitter, she extends her thanks to them for trying their best for her. *

May we always look toward what life has in store for us. Ever forward.

A special shoutout to Billy, whose poetry collection Contact inspired the published piece.

319 • Krysten Tan

Contact. Watercolor on paper. 9x12 in.

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Nicole Marie C. Vesagas ab history

Sleepy coffee truck dweller. Occasionally makes food.

Burn (series). Film photography. 17x25 in.

323 • Nicole Marie C. Vesagas

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325 • Nicole Marie C. Vesagas

float. Film photography (double exposure). 25x17 in.

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Loyola Schools Awards for the Arts 2016 Creative Writing: Fiction Catherina Maria Luisa G. Dario, iv bfa creative writing Creative Writing: Literary Essay

Tiffany Corrine Conde, iv bfa creative writing Creative Writing: Poetry Christian Jil. R. Benitez, iv ab literature (filipino) Regine Miren D. Cabato, iv ab communication Christine Elisa C. Imperial, iv bfa creative writing Marc Christian M. Lopez, iv ab literature (filipino) Juleini Vivien I. Nicdao, iv ab psychology Joshua Eric Romulo B. Uyheng, iv bs psychology Dance: Choreography Anthony C. Aguilar, iv ab interdisciplinary studies Dance: Performance Luis Miguel O. Bagos, iv bs management engineering Immanuel Zach J. Pacis, iv bs communication technology management Mark Kevin V. Toy, iv bs life sciences Music: Arrangement

Kevin Michael J. Maske, iv bsm applied mathematics, major in finance

Music: Performance

Sydney Nicole K. Calo, iv ab development studies Maria Ramona Regina G. Velez, iv ab interdisciplinary studies Theater Arts: Performance Miguel R. Almendras, iv ab communication John Benvir M. Serag, iv bs communications technology management Gabriel Maria F. Tibayan, iv ab psychology Visual Arts: Graphic Design Arturo Ricardo P. Alli, iv bfa information design Angela C. Chua, iv bfa information design Tanya Lea Francesca M. Mallillin, iv bfa information design Visual Arts: Illustration

Juan Carlos C. Concepcion, iv bfa information design Visual Arts: Photography Katrina Eunice G. Pajaro, iv ab communication

The members of the Awards for the Arts Committee:

Alexis Augusto L. Abola Belinda G. Adora Aristotle J. Atienza Christine S. Bellen Yael B. Borromeo Mark Anthony R. Cayanan Jonathan A. Coo Allan Alberto N. Derain Jayson P. Jacobo, Ph.D. Fr. Rene B. Javellana, S.J., Ph.D. Cholo F. Mallillin Melissa Vera M. Maramara Clarissa Cecilia R. Mijares Elbert T. Or Jema M. Pamintuan, Ph.D. Maria Inez Angela Z. Ponce De Leon, Ph.D. Allan C. Popa, Jerry C. Respeto, Ph.D. Edgar C. Samar, Ph.D. Jethro NiĂąo P. Tenorio Martin V. Villanueva Alvin B. Yapan, Ph.D.

Erratum In heights vol. 63 no. 2, Luis Wilfrido Atienzaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s name was displayed incorrectly in his bionote.

The heights editorial board would like to apologize for the aforementioned mistake.

Acknowledgments Fr. Jose Ramon T. Villarin, sj and the Office of the Ateneo de Manila President Dr. John Paul C. Vergara and the Office of the Vice President for the Loyola Schools Dr. Roberto Conrado Guevara and the Office of the Dean for Student Formation Dr. Josefina D. HofileĂąa and the Office of the Associate Dean of Academic Affairs Dr. Ma. Luz C. Vilches and the Office of the Dean, School of Humanities Mr. Danilo M. Reyes and the English Department Mr. Martin V. Villanueva and the Fine Arts Program Dr. Joseph T. Salazar at ang Kagawaran ng Filipino Mr. Allan Popa and the Ateneo Institute of the Literary Arts and Practices (ailap) Mr. Christopher Fernando F. Castillo and the Office of Student Activities Ms. Marie Joy R. Salita and the Office of the Dean for Student and Administrative Services Ms. Liberty Santos and the Central Accounting Office Mr. Regidor Macaraig and the Purchasing Office Dr. Vernon R. Totanes and the Rizal Library Ms. Carina C. Samaniego and the University Archives Ms. Ma. Victoria T. Herrera and the Ateneo Art Gallery The mvp Maintenance and Security Personnel Ms. Erin Feliciano and the Sector-Based Cluster Ms. Patty Carolino and the Ateneo Special Education Society Ms. Jara Amin and Kythe-Ateneo Ms. Celina Santos and tugon Ateneo Ms. Camille Dee and the Ateneo Mathematics Society Dr. Vincenz Serrano and Kritika Kultura Ms. Roxie Ramirez and The Guidon Mr. Ray Santiago and Matanglawin The Sanggunian ng Mag-aaral ng Ateneo de Manila, and the Council of Organizations of the Ateneo And to those who have been keeping literature and art alive in the community by continuously submitting their works and supporting the endeavors of heights

Editorial Board Editor - in - Chief Regine Miren D. Cabato [ab com 2016] Associate Editor Catherina Maria Luisa G. Dario [bfa cw 2016] Managing Editor for External Affairs Manuel Iñigo A. Angulo [ab com 2016] for Internal Affairs Luis Wilfrido J. Atienza [bs bio 2016] for Finance Selina Irene O. Ablaza [bs com tech 2016] Art Editor Lasmyr D. Edullantes [bs mgt 2017] Associate Art Editor Lorenzo T. Narciso [bs psy 2017] Design Editor Ida Nicola A. de Jesus [bfa id 2017] Associate Design Editor Renzi Martoni S. Rodriguez [bfa id 2016] English Editor Joshua Eric Romulo B. Uyheng [bs psy 2016] Associate English Editor Juan Marco S. Bartolome [ab lit (eng) 2017] Filipino Editor Christian Jil R. Benitez [ab lit (fil) 2016] Associate Filipino Editor Juleini Vivien I. Nicdao [ab psy 2016] Production Manager Micah Marie F. Naadat [ab com 2017] Associate Production Manager Angelica Bernadette P. Deslate [bs psy 2017] Heights Online Editor Anna Nicola M. Blanco [ab com 2017] Associate Heights Online Editor Ma. Fatima Danielle G. Nisperos [bs lm 2016]

Head Moderator and Moderator for Filipino Allan Alberto N. Derain Moderator for Art Yael A . Buencamino Moderator for English Martin V. Villanueva Moderator for Design Jose Fernando Go - Oco Moderator for Production Enrique Jaime S. Soriano Moderator for Heights Online Nicko Reginio Caluya

Staffers Art Arielle Acosta, A. A. Aris Amor, Francesca Ariana Asuncion,

Flo Bolivar Balane, Kitkat Barreiro, Ysabel Da Silva, Isabela de Vera,

Corrine Golez, Fernando Miguel U. Lofranco,

Marion Emmanuel P. Lopez, Anna Nieves Rosario A. Marcelo,

Arianna Mercado, Celline Marge Mercado, Veron Andrea A. Oliva,

Kimberly Que, Kristelle Adeline Ramos, Robyn Angeli Saquin,

Nicole Soriano, Krysten Alarice K. Tan, Yuri Ysabel Tan, Krizelle Te,

Alexandria Tuico, Ana Beatriz Fatima K. Venezuela, Fleurbelline Vocalan Design

Kimberly Alivia, Nina Atienza, John Lazir Caluya, Alex Chua, Juan Carlos Concepcion, Philip De La Torre, Zoe De Ocampo, Ellan Estrologo, Geraldine Fajardo, Patty Ferriol, Miguel N. Galace, Maxine Garcia, Iya Iriberri, Joan Eunice Lao, Ninna Lebrilla, Cheska Mallillin, Richard Mercado, Troy Ong, Arantxa Orig, Therese Pedro, Ianthe Pimentel, Marco T. Torrijos, Jonah Velasquez

English

Rayne Aguilar, Jeremy Willis Alog, A.A. Aris Amor, Geca Arambulo, Helena Maria H. Baraquel, Bianca Ishbelle L. Bongato, Sophia Bonoan, Karl Estuart, Jamie Anne Gutierrez, Leona Lao, Bee Leung, Ryan Molen, Janelle Paris, Frances P. Sayson, Chaela Tiglao, Ayana Tolentino, Natalie Ann Isabella Unson, Erika Louise Y. Villa-Ignacio, Tim Yusingco

Filipino Reina Adriano, Rox Angelia, Katrina Bonillo, Mark Guinto,

Martina Herras, Jonnel Inojosa, Marc Lopez, Patt Lucido, Jose Medriano iii, Jose Mirabueno, King Palmea, Alija Pandapatan,

Bernard Patrick Pingol, Karla Quinita, Ray Santiago, Roanne Yap Production

Madi Calleja, Dani Celis, Dea de Guzman, Luisa dela Cruz, Lara Intong, Jonnel Inojosa, Meryl Christine Medel, Paula Molina, Betina Santos, Max Suarez, Martin Tempongko, Chao Tiausas, Robert Tiong, Alex Tuico, Pia Zulueta

Heights Online Arielle Acosta, A. A. Aris Amor, Laura Ang, Rox Angelia,

Marianne Antonio, Gaby Baizas, Celina Julianne Chung,

Axel Christopher de Lumen, Ashley Martelino,

Meryl Christine Medel, Arianna Mercado, Mikaela Pamatmat,

Kristoff Sison, Ammera Julia Tungupon, Natalie Ann Isabella Unson, Ella Villaflor