(2019) AHWW 24 Chapbook

MANUSCRIPT February 23–25, 2019 Balay Indang, Cavite

COMPILED BY Cat Aquino & Sophia Bonoan LAYOUT BY Diana F. David

heights 24th Ateneo heights Writers’ Workshop Catalogue Copyright 2019 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 reprinted or reproduced in any means whatsoever without 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 PO Box 154, 1099 Manila, Philippines Tel. no. (632) 426-6001 loc. 5448 heights-ateneo.org

Cover Design by Jana V. Cordera and Pilar H. Gonzales Layout by Diana F. David Typeset in Freight Text and Akzidenz Grotesk Extended

TABLE OF CONTENTS GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar • 4 BANYUHAY • Emmanuel Lacadin • 24 KUNG PAANO MAGSINUNGALING • Gewell Llorin • 30 HOW TO TAKE PICTURES ON SESSION RD. (AFTER “SESSION ROAD” BY BUTCH PEREZ) • Marty Nevada • 34 THE CHILD IN TIME • Camille Ong • 38 TAWAS • Franchesca Palattao • 48 RESTING PLACES • Aisha Rallonza • 58 UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis • 70 LET’S PRETEND YOU’RE JOHNNY APPLESEED • Nico Santana • 92 AN ATTEMPT TO TELL THE STORY OF THE LITTLE MERMAID BY A MAN WHO MEANS WELL • Miguel Santiago • 98

DIRECTORS’ NOTE

A

s readers, we are often made witness to works of literature in their final stages. The writer’s creative process, to many, may at first glance seem solitary and elusive—the image of someone mulling over their own thoughts and typing away at a desk in the comforts of home is undoubtedly the case for any writer caught in the first few stages of creating a new work. Hardly do we ever personally see other writers’ initial shaky steps or have access to a writer’s first drafts. However, spaces and opportunities have been set up to help young writers share their processes and grow in their craft, and the Ateneo Heights Writers’ Workshop is one such space.

2019 marks the 24th year of AHWW, which continues to strive for the fostering literary excellence in young Filipino writers. While every year we are met with outstanding works, we are also still confronted by certain challenges. As with the years that preceded it, this AHWW faced a lack of Filipino submissions, particularly in the prose category. The problem here is double-sided: how can we determine all the factors that contribute to this apparent lack of Filipino writers on campus, and how can Heights, as the university’s foremost literary publication, help alleviate this predicament?

We hope that future AHWW directors and committees continue to go out of their way to find and cultivate talents that write in Filipino.

The fellows were noticeably interested in writing about the lives of others, particularly of marginalized peoples. Questions concerning the ethics of representation were common discussion points during the workshop’s critique sessions. The discussions didn’t yield any easy answers, but it was clear that many of this year’s works brought to light urgent issues (e.g. ejks, lgbtqa+ discrimination, the everyday experience of people with special needs, and mental health concerns) that concern more than the solitary writer at their desk. Hence, the workshop roundtable setting became more than just a space for creative growth.

To our readers and panelists: thank you for poring over work after work and for sharing your invaluable critiques and knowledge in order to help form young writers in the name of literature.

To the volunteers, for being undeterred in the hectic days prior to and during the workshop. And of course to the fellows, for opening themselves to the experience and striving to better themselves in their craft. We hope your workshop experience was fruitful and valuable to your personal journey as burgeoning writers.

CAT AQUINO SOPHIA BONOAN ASSOCIATE EDITOR WORKSHOP DIRECTOR AND WORKSHOP DIRECTOR

6 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

ALVY ALVIAR 3 BFA Creative Writing

I

first began writing scripts when I was in high school. One thing to consider when looking at my works is the way they’re very “slice of life” but in the weirdest ways.

I used to love writing my day-to-day plans in a journal I’d keep around with me. This journal usually contained poems or scribbles of plans or notes from different professors and teachers.

The weirdest twist to how I encoded my day to day life would be the fact that I had a “what if ” section. I was always someone who would love to imagine “what if ” scenarios by means of identifying the choices I made, and what choices I didn’t choose. Playing out scenarios in my head about what ifs was always one of my past times.

A script is such a bold and tiring piece of literature to create. It takes so much effort to conjure up a world and set up context within all your characters. One thing I learned about writing scripts is that these characters you’re playing with have gone through many things, and one of those is the plot and story you’re writing for them. That doesn’t mean you necesarily have to just let them do what you write. You establish a connection between them and write as if they were alive all this time.

In “Graduation Jitters” these characters all have a small piece of me within them. It’s about these 4 high school teenagers who are approaching graduation, yet still have the energy and time to bicker and quarrel about all their pent-up frustrations about themselves and their interest in each’s romantic preference.

At first, this piece was meant to be some sort of “what if ” scenario of a time I had during my 1st year in college. All these events would play inside my head, but none of them were necesarrily true nor false. I used to love someone and admittedly, it was never reciprocated the way I wanted. When deciding to show this piece with everyone, it was a big step for me as I always agreed with others about how that part in my life wasn’t the most amazing. I came to grips with my emotions and decided to pour it all into a scenario where everything went crazy but at the same time, right.

It took me a lot of courage to write and release this to the world, as this piece was always something that I hated reading. Not because it was so horrendous or disgusting. But because it will always be painful to lose someone stable in your life due to petty disagreements.

Even so, I continue to live life and love it, while writing brings out the best and worst in us.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 3

GRADUATION JITTERS Alvy Alviar TAUHAN ACE ­–

17 years old. Matalik na kaibigan ni Mark. Palaging stressed. Honour student.

MARK – 19 years old. Patapon na estudyante.

MAXINE – 18 years old. “Rich girl”.

GERALD – 9 years old. Parte ng baseball team. Boyfriend ni Maxine.

TAGPUAN

Sa labas ng classroom ng 12-K sa isang mataas na paaralan na matatagpuan sa Katipunan Ave sa gilid ng Miriam College. Nakaupo si Ace at may hinahanap siya. Nakahiga sa sahig si Mark.

ORAS

Hapon, pauwi na ang lahat ng estudyante.

4 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar

ANG DULA Tapos na ang klase. Last day na ng graduation practice. Tutunog ang bell. Makakarinig ng mga lumalabas na estudyante. Pagliwanag sa entablado, Matitira sa classroom si ACE and MARK. Nakaupo si ACE at may hinahanap siya.

Naka-upo sa sahig si MARK. ACE

Saan ko siya naiwan?

MARK Ace,

samahan mo ko.

ACE

Saan? Busy pa ako bih.

MARK

Mabilis lang naman eh. Sige na. Iihi lang ako.

ACE

Bes, mamaya na.

Babatukan ni MARK si ACE sa ulo.

ACE

What was that for?

MARK

Sabi ko samahan mo ako. Hindi ko na kaya.

ACE

Ikaw ba narinig mo na busy ako?

MARK

Oo na, gago.

Babalik si ACE sa paghanap sa locker niya. Aalis si MARK para umihi. Tutunong ang cellphone ni ACE. Sasagutin niya.

ACE

Ma. Napatawag ka.

Ah, opo. Opo. 8am po ’yung start ng baccalaureate mass.

Opo, may mga upuan na po para sainyo.

Yes po. Tapos hanggang gabi po ’yung ceremony.

Saglit.

MARK

Ay oo nga pala. Nagyayaya mag-outing si Mark. Ok lang ba kung sumama ako?

Friends lang. ’Di ko pa alam sino isasama niya.

Papasok at Lalapit si MARK kay ACE at tatabihan.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 5

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar

MARK

Sino kausap mo?

ACE

Shhhh.

MARK

Sino kasi kausap mo?

ACE

Shhhh. Nanay ko.

MARK

Ah. Eh ’yun naman pala.

Hahablutin ni MARK ang cellphone ni ACE. ACE

Gago. Akin na ’yan!

Tatakbo paikot ng classroom si MARK habang hinahabol ni Ace. Kausap niya nanay ni ACE. MARK

Hi po tita.

Opo si Mark po ito.

Naku, I’m doing super fine po. Musta na po si Tito Eric?

Ah yes po, ininvite ko po si Ace na sumama. Ok lang po ba?

Opo. Opo.

Ah ganun po ba? Pwede ko naman po siya iuwi bukas po

Opo. Sisiguraduhin ko na makakauwi ng buhay si Ace.

Of course. Thank you po. See you po sa 31. Bye po.

Ibababa ni MARK ang tawag.

ACE

Bes nuna? Sana naman pinakausap mo ako.

MARK

Pwede ba? Napaalam naman na kita para sumama. Oks na ’yan.

ACE

Eh nakokonsensya lang ako. Hindi ko pa nasasabi kay mama na nawawala ’yung toga ko.

DAVID

Ah ok po. Pasensya na po, medyo makalat pa po eh.

Hindi pa ako nakakapaglinis.

MARK

Ano? Saan mo naiwan? Suot-suot mo lang ’yun kanina sa grad practice sa cov courts.

6 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar ACE

Hindi ko alam eh. Nakasabit lang ’yun sa bag ko. Baka nahulog ko nung tumakbo ako pabalik ng classroom.

MARK

Eh ’di check mo na sa covered courts. Kaka-dismissal lang. Baka may pumulot pa nun.

ACE

Ok. Bantayan mo gamit ko ah.

MARK Geh.

Aalis si ACE. Hihiga sa sahig si MARK. Pasok MAXINE. MAXINE

Mark. Why are you still here? You messaged me na sasabay ka pauwi? Or susunduin ka ba ni Tita?

MARK

Hi Princess Max. Sorry pero nagpa-hintay si Ace sakin.

MAXINE

Will you sabay pa ba? Gerald is waiting sa parking.

MARK

Ah. Siya mag-dridrive?

MAXINE

Duh. Malamang. I don’t have a license yet. And nag-paalam na ako kay mommy na siya mag-dridrive sakin.

MARK

Kailan pa ’yan nagka-lisensya? Trust mo na ba siya as a driver.

MAXINE

Mark, boyfriend ko siya. What else is there to discuss?

MARK

Max, iba ang boyfriend sa skilled driver.

MAXINE

May problema ka ba sa boyfriend ko?

MARK

Hindi puta. Sinasabi ko lang naman. 6 months pa lang kayo ni

Gerald. Kilala ko si Gerald. Baka naman ’di pa ’yan sanay mag-drive.

MAXINE

Awwww, so concerned ka lang sa well being ko? Ganun? Or baka naman hindi ka pa nakakeget-over sakin?

Saglit.

MAXINE

Sorry. I didn’t mean it like tha—

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 7

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar MARK

Pake ko? Tagal na nun. Past is past. Oks na ako dun.

Pasok si ACE, dala-dala ang toga niya.

ACE

Mark. Nahanap ko na ’yung—

Saglit.

ACE

Maxine! Long time no see girl.

MAXINE

Ace. How are you? Penge naman ng hug diyan!

Yayakapin ni ACE si MAXINE. Tatahimik silang lahat.

ACE

Uh, Mark samahan mo ako sa banyo.

MARK

Bakit? Ayaw mo nga akong sama—

Aapakan ni ACE ’yung paa ni Mark. Mapapasigaw si MARK, pero pipigilin niya.

MARK

Sige. Naiihi ako ulit.

Lalabas si ACE at MARK. Maririnig ang usapan nila ng audience at ni MAXINE. ACE

Bakit nandiyan si Maxine?

MARK

Bro, hindi ko ata nasabi sayo. Sasabay dapat ako sa kanila pauwi.

ACE

Baklang ito, bakit? Akala ko ’di pa kayo ok.

MARK

Goods naman na kami. Ok lang ’yan. Ininvite ko nga sila sa outing natin eh.

ACE

Sila? Sinong sila? Angkan ni Maxine, ganun?

MARK

Si Maxine at Gerald.

ACE Beh. MARK Bro.

8 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar ACE

Bih sure ka ba? I mean best friend natin si Maxine and

natotolerate ko naman si Gerald kasi pogi siya, pero alam mo

naman may history kami ni Gerald diba? Tagal na niya ako hindi kinakausap.

MARK

Ok lang naman sakin. Over na ako kay Max. And sabi mo sakin

na over ka na kay Gerald. This should be a good exercise in

moving on. Graduating naman na tayo. What else is there to lose.

MAXINE

Guys. Medyo slight lang pero I can hear you.

Pasok ACE at MARK. ACE

So oo no. Ang saya umihi no. Anyways, I guess pwede na kayo mauna. Sabay pa kayo uuwi right?

MAXINE

Yeah pero we might eat out first. You wanna come ba?

Sama ka na Ace.

Pasok GERALD. GERALD

Maxine?

MAXINE

Gerald. You’re here na pala. Sorry natagalan. Mark had to wait pa for Ace.

GERALD

You mean wait for this fag? Grabe Maxine pinaghintay mo pa ako. Joking.

(Tatawa si GERALD.) ACE

Di na ata correct ang term na fag pero yes, Hi Gerald.

Susuntukin ni GERALD ang balikat ni ACE. GERALD

Grabe. Harsh natin. Nag-bago naman ako. Pero thanks for noticing. ’i talaga madali makakuha ng abs.

ACE

Wow. Sige nga kung brave ka, flash mo kay Mark.

MARK

Oy oy oy, wag mo ko idamay dito.

GERALD

Gago ka eh. Flash ko sayo etits ko eh.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 9

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar MAXINE

Guys, tama na. ’Di na kayo nahiya na may girl dito. So vulgar.

Graduating seniors pero parang grade school boys.

Tatakbo papunta sa gilid ni MAXINE si GERALD. GERALD

Sorry na Maxine. It won’t happen again.

ACE

Wow. Submissive ka na pala. So top si Maxine? Sabi na nga ba bottom ka Gerald eh.

Itataas ni GERALD ’yung middle finger niya kay ACE.

MAXINE Uy Gerald. Ok ka lang ba? What’s this patch sa leeg mo? Na paano ka?

GERALD

Ah wala, Natamaan lang leeg ko sa poste during practice.

MARK

Sa poste? Pero leeg mo lang ’yung may tama? Ok ka lang?

Naka-drugs ka ba?

GERALD

Bakit ka pa nagtatanong. Basta I got hit, that’s it.

MAXINE

Pero bakit ka nandito? I thought you were waiting inside the car.

GERALD

Ah yeah. Nadiskarga ’yung battery ng car ko. Naiwan ko kasi naka-on ’yung headlights. Nagpa-deliver naman na ako ng battery pero mamaya pa siya so.

MAXINE

Hala? Anong oras pa ’yun darating?

GERALD

Umm, in mga one hour.

ACE

Bobo kasi.

GERALD

Ansabe mo?

Tatabunan ni MARK at tatakpan ang bunganga ni ACE. MARK

Sabi niya “naku po” Nakaka-hinayang sa battery. Diba Ace?

Pilit na tatango si ACE.

10 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar MARK

Oh eh ’di ano na gagawin natin? Magtititigan hanggang manigas tayo dito?

GERALD

Eh we don’t have choice. Beats commuting. No offense Ace.

ACE

Alam mo kumoquota ka na eh. Isa pa sayo, jojombagin na kitang bakla ka eh.

GERALD

Who’re you calling gay bro? Ikaw lang ata ’yung kaisa-isang bakla dito kaya shut the fuck up.

ACE

Bakit ka naman defensive? Na hurt ka ba sa sinabi ko?

MARK & MAXINE

Guys, tama na.

Magkakatinginan si MARK at MAXINE. Maghihiwalay.

ACE

Sabay kayo? Galing galing naman. Oh Gerald take note. Mas in-sync pa sila kesa sa utak at bunganga mo.

Susuntukin ni GERALD si ACE. Gaganti ng sapak si ACE. Susubukang awatin ni MARK ang dalawa. Magdudugo ang ilong ni ACE. MAXINE

Fuck this. Graduation na bukas and this is what I get. A stupid argument and another bloody nose. Thanks Gerald. Thanks Ace.

Magdadabog paalis si MAXINE. MARK

Max wait lang— Putangina. Magbati na kayo bago ko kayo

parehas ihagis palabas ng bintana.

[Kay ACE.]

Kukuha lang Ako ng ice pack. Please, mag-usap kayo.

Labas MARK. Katahimikan.

ACE

Kahit kailan, ang sakit mo pa rin talaga manapak.

Katahimikan.

GERALD

Ok lang ba ilong mo?

ACE

Well ayun. Ok in a sense na sana hindi siya sira during graduation.

GERALD

Gago ka.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 11

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar

Katahimikan. Kukunin ni GERALD ’yung panyo niya at lalagyan ng yelo galing sa jug niya.

GERALD

Tangina mo kasi eh. Wala kang censor talaga. Always and again and again. Palagi na lang lait at joke lumalabas sa bibig mo.

ACE

Sa ‘yo lang naman ako ganun. O diba, special ka.

GERALD

Here we go again.

Saglit.

ACE

Kaya ba ’di mo na ako kinakausap?

Saglit.

ACE

O dahil ba nag-come out ako as gay?

GERALD

That’s not the reason, Ace.

ACE

Hindi ganun pero ganun na nga?

It’s fine. ’Di ko naman sinasadyang i-bring up.

Saglit.

ACE

Saglit.

GERALD

I guess I made it awkward lang.

ACE Huh? GERALD

Yung friendship natin.

ACE

Di na ako affected dun Gerald. Tagal na akong naka-move on. I mean, parehas naman tayong happy sa kung nasaan tayo.

Graduating na tayo. May girlfriend ka na. Ok na ako dun.

Saglit.

GERALD

Do you remember that night we drank?

Talaga ba? Ipapaalala mo pa sakin ’yun?

ACE

12 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar

Not in that way naman. Sobrang stressed mo nun. Amoy alak pati damit mo. Then by the end of the night, ano ’yung nasabi mo? Naalala mo pa ba?

ACE

Papaulitin mo sakin?

GERALD

Sige na. It was funny. Ano ’yun? “God Gerald—“ ano ’yung last part?

GERALD

Saglit.

GERALD

Sige na. For me?

ACE

Hinde. Hinde. Hindi na ’yan gumagana sakin.

Tatahimik silang dalawa. Uupo si GERALD sa tabi ni ACE. ACE

I love you.

GERALD

Ayun. Finally. Inamin na niya. Well inamin na niya ulit. Lasing ka naman nun eh.

Saglit.

ACE

Lasing pero totoo.

GERALD

Huh? Totoo yun? No joke?

ACE

Oo na nga totoo ’yun. Ok na ba? Sinapak mo na nga ako, tapos ngayon papaiyakin mo pa ako?

No Ace. I didn’t mean it to be something funny. I just wanted to ask abo— GERALD

Oo na. So funny topic na pala ’yung idea na “oh I actually did love you” sige. Funny pala nung halos gabi-gabi nakikitulog ako. Nung araw-araw sinisigurado ko na nagagawa mo home work mo. ’Yung araw-araw na sinamahan kita kumain kasi na-enjoy ko bawat segundo na magkasama tayo. Oo, funny na nga siya for me.

GERALD

Ace, let me explain muna.

ACE

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 13

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar ACE

Hahanapin ko na sina Mark at Maxine.

GERALD

Wait lang. Kausapin mo ako.

Ok na diba? You made it awkward. That’s it? Wala na akong masasabi sayo.

ACE

Labas ACE. GERALD

Ace. Let me explain.

Susundan ni GERALD si ACE. Mababangga ni GERALD si MARK at MAXINE. MAXINE GERALD

Gerald? Where are you going?

Not now Maxine.

MAXINE

Gerald?

GERALD

Sorry Maxine. I really need to be excused.

MAXINE

Gerald? Say it please.

Katahamikhan.

MAXINE

Please say it. Say what you want to say. Spit it out. I just want to make sure na we’re on the same page.

Katahamikhan.

MAXINE

Gerald? Please.

Katahamikhan. Naluluha si MAXINE. MAXINE

Say it.

Katahamikhan. Lalabas si GERALD. MARK

Ok ka lang ba? Winalk outan ka ni Gerald.

MAXINE

I’m not angry. I’m not angry. I’m not angry.

Saglit.

14 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar

Ugh! It’s been a while since Gerald and I actually had a nice time together. It’s like I don’t even know him anymore.

MARK

Mahal mo pa rin ba siya?

MAXINE

Mapapatahimik si MAXINE. MARK

So nagdududa ka? Baka naman ’di mo naman talaga siya minahal?

MAXINE

I don’t know. It never felt right to begin with.

MARK

Hindi ba kayo nag-kikiss or kahit ano.

Ay bastos ka. I don’t think thats something you ask a lady in broad daylight.

MAXINE

MARK

Bobo. Pwede naman kasi ’yung like mga sweet nothings like we used to do like send letters.

Mapapatahimik si MAXINE. Tititigan niya si MARK. MAXINE

Just kiss. Just that. He goes with me and helps me shop and pays for it pero ’yun lang. I don’t know. I just always thought na oh kasi boyfriend ko siya. Kasi job niya iyan.

MARK

So ginawa mong P.A./ Sugar daddy si Gerald?

MAXINE

Grabe, ’di ba pwede na he’s just super generous and kind.

MARK

Well Hindi kay Ace.

MAXINE

They’ve always been like that from the start.

MARK

Alam mo naman what happened between them diba?

MAXINE

Alam ko ’yun.

MARK

Minahal talaga ni Ace si Gerald no?

MAXINE

I guess. They had some weird connection na parang si Ace lang naka-feel but then again, Gerald would always just talk about the times they did stupid stuff like that time he won Ace a stuffed

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 15

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar

toy for no reason, or when he went out of his way to pick up Ace after getting too drunk.

Katahimikan.

MAXINE

That amazing feeling that no one else can give you. Only the guy of your dreams can.

Saglit.

MAXINE

Maybe I just forced the feeling to come out with Gerald.

Maybe I haven’t actually kissed him. I’ve kissed his lips, but not him.

Papasok si GERALD at ACE sa kabilang dulo ng entablado at uupo si gilid nina ACE at GERALD, tila parang nasa ibang silid. Magdidilim ang gilid ni MARK at MAXINE. GERALD

Ace, wait lang. You could’ve at least waited for me?

ACE

I did Gerald. Tatlong taon akong naghintay. Tatlong taon para ayusin mo friendship natin. Tapos ngayon ineexpect mo na ok na lahat and funny na siya?

GERALD

Ace, just please calm down.

ACE

Kung kailan naka-move on na ako, tsaka ka babalik at manggu

gulo. Kinalimutan na kita eh. Planado na buhay ko eh.

Graduate high school. Take Information Design sa ADMU or

Arki sa UP. Mag-come out ng mga 23 na ako. Mag-asawa ng

sobrang hot na guy. Magka-bahay sa QC muna then sa abroad.

Tapos ikaw dumadagdag ka pa sa pagbabalik ng lumang anxiety ko.

GERALD

GERALD

ACE

Aling lumang anxiety?

Ikaw. Ikaw na wala nang ginawa kundi umepal sa buhay ko.

Ikaw na wala nang ginawa kundi paguluhin utak ko at pag-isipin ng regrets ko na minahal pa kita. Ikaw na— Ace, shut the fuck up.

Mapapatahimik si ACE.

GERALD

Alam mo, this can’t go on any longer. We need to settle this na Ace. Hindi ako titigil hangga’t hindi tayo honest sa isa’t isa.

16 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar

ACE

I’ve done nothing but be honest with you. Ano ba gusto mong sabihin ko? Hindi mo pa ba nahahalatang nakakasakit ka na?

Hahalikan ni GERALD si ACE. Hihiwalay si ACE pero bibigay siya at yayakapin si GERALD. Magdidilim ang gilid ni ACE at GERALD. Magliliwanag ang gilid ni MARK at MAXINE. MARK

MAXINE

MARK

Anong ba nangyari sainyo ni Gerald? May gumitna ba sa inyo?

Akala ko ba siya na ’yung better me?

You still remember that?

Eh paano ko malilimutan? Sakit nun ah.

Saglit.

Sakit talaga nun. That moment na tinry ko pa rin magkabalikan tayo tapos sinabi mo na nakahanap ka na ng “better me”

MAXINE

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.

MARK

Deins. Oks na ako dun. Wala naman sakin ’yun. Alam ko naman nagkaroon ako ng pagkukulang sayo.

MARK

Saglit.

MAXINE

For what it’s worth, I would’ve said yes.

MARK

Yes? Yes saan?

MAXINE

If hindi ka naunahan ni Gerald.

MARK

Tinadhana ’yun mangyari. ’Yun na lang iniisip ko. Baka naging better tayo na tao nung naghiwalay tayo. Parang sinampal ako ng katotohanan na hindi pa talaga ako ready magka-relationship.

MAXINE

Is that what you’ve been think? Kaya wala pang nag-rereplace sakin?

Magdidilim ang gilid ni MARK at MAXINE. Magliliwanag ang gilid ni ACE at GERALD. GERALD

Ok na ba? Makikinig ka na ba?

ACE

All this time?

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 17

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar GERALD

All this time.

ACE

So all those times na pinagtanggol mo ako or sinamahan sa weird shit ko or pinabayaan mo akong matulog katabi ka?

GERALD

Sabi ko nga all this time diba?

ACE Pero

bakit?

Magdidilim ang gilid ni Ace at Gerald.

MAXINE

You never got to move on?

MARK

Yeah. baka hindi nga. Baka mas malalim pa kasi ’yung pagka-fall ko sa sayo kaysa sa ibang babae na naka-fling ko. Baka kasi nung first year college pa kami nagkakilala at hanggang ngayon nasasaktan pa rin ako everytime naaalala ko na may iba naman na nagpapasaya sa kaniya.

Katahimikan.

MARK

Wala naman nag-replace talaga sayo. ’Yung saying na “first love never dies.”

Tatahimik sila. Bigla silang magtitinginan at magtatawanan.

MAXINE

You were never sweet, pero you always knew how to make me laugh.

Katahimikan.

MAXINE

Why? Why are you still thinking about things like this?

Magliliwanag ang buong entablado. Makikita si ACE at GERALD magkaharap at si MAXINE at Mark magkaharap.

GERALD & MARK

Kasi I love you.

Mananahimik ang parehong dulo. Magtititigan lang sila. Magliliwanag ang entablado kung saan makikita si MAXINE at MARK magkaharap.

ACE

What?

GERALD

Oo ikaw.

ACE Bakit

ako?

18 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar GERALD

Hindi ko rin alam. Basta

ACE

So wait lang. Bakla ka

GERALD

For you, Yes. Well mostly bisexual ako.

ACE What?

GERALD

Sorry. Basta I love you.

ACE Oh.

Magliliwanag ang entablado kung saan makikita si MAXINE at MARK magkaharap.

MAXINE

What?

MARK

You heard me naman. Ikaw. Ikaw ’yung gusto ko.

MAXINE

Still?

MARK Why MAXINE

MARK

not?

But why?

Bakit ba? Ayaw mo?

Mabibigla si MAXINE at tatahimik.

MARK

O, bakit ka tumahimik?

Sasampalin ni MAXINE si MARK. MARK

What was that for?

MAXINE

Sorry. Mark this is all to sudden.

MARK

I’m sorry. That was selfish of me.

MAXINE

We should tell Gerald and Ace kagad. This is serious. Ayoko gumawa ng gulo Mark, all these things about Gerald and well…

MARK

Yeah, I understand.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 19

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar MAXINE

I mean I’m surprised. You never reached out after our break up.

You never showed any signs.

MARK

I guess sobrang galing ko magtago ng feelings.

MAXINE

Let’s go back. They might be looking for us.

Paalis na si MAXINE pero hahatakin pabalik.

MARK

Why are you avoiding the topic?

MAXINE

Well, what do you think? You just said na you wanna get back together and that you still love me. What do you want me to do?

Makipag-landian with you to make amends?

Saglit. Magliliwanag ang entablado kung saan makikita si ACE at GERALD magkaharap.

ACE

So mahal mo talaga ako?

GERALD

Sinasabi ko nga. I did have a crush on you. Nawala siya when I thought you just drunk “loved” me but then it came back again today. I don’t know why today. It’s been an on and off thing.

Yung feelings ko for you.

ACE

Hindi light switch ang crush. Hindi siya binubukas sindi kung kailan gusto mo.

GERALD

Sorry? No, wait. Ok.

ACE

Ugh. Maybe, Maybe we just need to clear our minds. We should

wait for Mark and Maxine to come back. You need to start explaining.

GERALD Ok ok.

Pasok MAXINE and MARK. ACE

Ayan na pala sila.

Magakakaroon ng katahimikan sa gitna ng mga kaibigan. Walang iimik. Hindi nila kayang tingnan ang isa’t isa.

MARK & MAXINE

May sasabihin kami.

20 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

GRADUATION JITTERS • Alvy Alviar ACE & GERALD

Kami rin.

MARK & MAXINE

Sige. Kayo muna.

ACE & GERALD

Hindi kayo muna.

MARK & MAXINE

Hindi kayo muna.

GERALD

I’m gay and I like Ace.

MARK & MAXINE What?

ACE & GERALD

We can explain. Pero, ano ’yung sainyo?

MARK

I still love Maxine

ACE & GERALD

What? Still?

MARK & MAXINE

Tingin mo alam rin namin?

Saglit.

ACE Teka,

ano?

MARK Bakla

ka?

MAXINE

What’s the meaning of this? Explain.

GERALD

Mark. You explain too.

ACE

What’s going on?

Magdidilim ang entablado. Magkakaroon ng maingay na sagutan ang magkakaibigan at unti-unting tatahimik. Aalis ng entablado ang apat.

WAKAS

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 21

EMMANUEL LACADIN 4 BS Environmental Science

N

agsimula akong bilang mamamahayag pangkampus. Nagsusulat at nag-uulo ako ng balita at kolum kasabay ng pagwawasto ng sipi sa aming pahayagang pampaaralan noong elementarya at hayskul na naging pasaporte ko sa iba’t ibang antas ng Schools’ Press Conference. Kalaunan, namulat ako sa iba pang genre ng pagsulat kabilang na ang sanaysay, tula, at dagli. Makailang beses akong nakapakinig sa mga seminar ng mga tulad nina Mark Angeles at Eros Atalia tungkol sa mga genre na ito at kritisismong pampanitikan. Dahil dito, nahumaling ako sa tula at dagli ngunit patuloy na lumilitaw ang aking pagkakasanay sa peryodismo sa aking mga gawa kung saan makikita ang aking paglalayo ng sarili.

Nang pumasok ako sa Pamantasan, bilang mag-aaral ng agham, nahirapan na akong humanap ng panahon sa pagtula o pagdadagli, liban na lamang kung kahingian sa mga kurso sa humanidades.

Ngunit sa klase ni Dr. Allan Popa sa Fil 14, muli akong nagkaroon ng udyok na sumulat nang labas sa klase matapos matutuhan ang mahaba at mayamang tradisyon at kasaysayan ng ating panitikan.

Dagdag pa rito, lubos na tumimo sa akin ang kakayahang maging subersibo ng panitikan. Mula noon, bumaling ang aking mga gawa sa sosyopolitikal, pinaigting pa ng lagay ng bansa sa ilalim ng kasalukuyang rehimen.

Malaki ang pasasalamat ko sa mga kaibigang aktibo sa parlamento ng lansangan na may higit na gagap sa lipunan na tumutulong sa aking mamulat at magsulat sa panahon ng ligalig. Ngayon higit kailanman, sa aking palagay, nagiging imperatibong moral sa manunulat na gamitin ang pagsulat bilang kasangkapan sa pakikibaka. Mula rito, ipinanganak itong tula.

Naisulat ko ang ‘Banyuhay’ matapos naming talakayin sa Teolohiya ang katarungang panlipunan at liberasyon. Naging pambungad sa amin ang mga salita ni Lila Watson na nagsasabing, “If you have come here to help me you are wasting your time, but if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.” Sa talakayan, nabanggit ng isang kaklase na hindi naman talaga tayo malaya, mahaba lamang ang ating mga kadena. Mula sa klaseng ito ni G. John Paul Bolano, natanto ko na hanggang may hindi malaya sa isang lipunan, huwad ang kalayaang naroon.

Lubos ang aking kagalakan at pasasalamat sa mga nakilala sa AHWW – panelists, fellows, volunteers, at mga direktor. Napakalaking ambag sa aking pagsulat ng mga puna at payo ng mga kagalanggalang na panelist. Lubha rin ang aking pagpapasalamat sa aking fellows na ang presensya pa lamang ay sapat nang pampagaan ng loob, ngunit higit ang aking pasasalamat sa kanilang mga kritisismo. Gugunitain ko nang may galak sa puso ang karanasan sa palihang ito. Nagpapasalamat din ako kay Dr. Michael Coroza, aking hinahangaang makata, sa kanyang mga mabubuting salita.

Higit sa lahat, walang hanggang pasasalamat sa aking itinuturing na mentor na si Dr. Popa. Mula sa pagiging estudyante, tungo sa pagiging katulong sa Kuwentong Pambata, at mentee sa AHWW – napakalaking impluwensiya niya sa aking pagsulat at pagkamulat..

Para kay Jema na tinahak ang landas na hindi gaanong nilalakbay—makata at makabayan.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 23

BANYUHAY Emmanuel B. Lacadin

Kasáma, ikakawag ko ang aking kaliwang bisig pagkat ang kana’y ngalay na nakagapos sa rehas ng ating bartolina.

Paaagusin sa bigat at kapal ng ating tanikala ang sasapát na pintig upang iyong madama sa iyong pupulsuhang namimitig ang ating magkakarugtong na pagkakakadena.

Dinggin sa dilim ang pagkaladkad ng tanikalang sumasalungat sa gaspang ng baku-bakong sahig tulad ng kakoponiya ng pagsambulat ng barya sa patag na lapag.

Langhapin ang lansa at damhin ang limahid ng magkahalong dugô at kalawang na bumabalot sa mga lumang bákal na ito.

24 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

ANG BANYUHAY NG TANIKALA • Emmanuel B. Lacadin

Muli, dinggin sa karimlan nitong sílong ng matayog at nabubulok na istruktura, ang di mawaring hilik o kahol ng berdugong nagpipiit sa atin.

Hungkag ang paglayàng pansarili’t makasarili.

Walang laban ang iisa sa matayog na istruktura.

Iyong ramdam at alam na kawing-kawing mga tanikalang bumibihag sa iyo, sa kanila’t, sa akin.

Sa katapusan, parehong berdugo ang bibitay sa atin.

Ngunit kung ibubuhos ang natitirang lakas ng nanlalatâng katawá’t sabay-sabay na pipiglas nang bigla’ y hihilig ang rehas, kawing sa pader malalagot, mapipigtas!

Sunod na bibigay mga haligi’t biga.

Sariling papabagsak na bigat ang gigiba sa nabubulok na istruktura’t lalamat sa mismo nitong pagkakaugat.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 25

ANG BANYUHAY NG TANIKALA • Emmanuel B. Lacadin

Bago gumuho nang tuluya’y kakalagan mo ako’t gayundin ang gagawin ko. Karipas!

Ang ngayong kadenang kinalas ang siya ring ipambibitay sa berdugo’t kasabwat niya, sakaling sa guho sila’y makatakas at tangkang muli tayong irehas.

Tutunawin parehong tanikala upang hulmahing pluma at sinsel, kawali at kutsilyo, asarol at gulok, karit at maso, tungo sa pagpapanday ng ating bukas Tulad ng wika ng pantas ‘gabi ma’y anong tagal, daratal ang umaga.’

Ngunit kung tayo’y mananatiling lanta’t nakagapos sa hiraya lamang ito magtatapos.

Kasáma, ipása mo sa katabi’t kahanay, ganito ang lilikhaing bágong anyo ng ating búhay.

26 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

GEWELL LLORIN 2 BS Applied Physics with Materials Science Engineering

K

ung itatabi ang mga tulang isinulat ko sa Filipino sa mga tulang tinangka ko sa Ingles, kapansin-pansin ang kakulangan sa pangalawang pangkat. Hindi ko maunawaan kung bakit wala akong mahugot na damdamin mula sa mga salitang Ingles sa kabila ng pagkakapareho ng mga paksang pinanghuhugutan ko. Sa ganitong paraan naging malinaw sa akin ang kapangyarihan ng mga salitang napakalapit sa aking pang araw-araw na buhay.

Dito na pumasok ang konseptong tinangka kong ilarawan sa mga tulang nilikha ko para sa palihang ito: ang kapangyarihan ng mga salita hindi lang sa mga nakaririnig dito, kundi sa sumambit na rin ng mga ito. Sa unang bersyon ng Kung Paano Magsinungaling, naglahad ako ng isang napakaikli at simpleng paglalarawan sa pagbitaw ng isang salita. Sa pamamagitan ng mapaglarong pagsasatao ko sa bunganga, ninais kong idiin ang katotohanan na sa mundong ito, maaga tayong natututong magsinungaling. Sa isang pananaw, ang panloloko ay naging isang laro.

Ngunit mula sa karanasan ko sa 24th Ateneo Heights Writer’s Workshop, kinailangan kong harapin ang aking mga kahinaan: sa pagpili ng mga salita, sa epektibong paglalarawan, at sa mismong pagdinig sa boses ng aking mga tula. Nagkaroon ng maraming tanong ukol sa tiyak na karanasang pinanghuhugutan ng tula, sa mga pandiwa at ang pagkalatag nila, at sa nais kong iparating sa pagwawakas ng tula. Nagbigay ang aking mga kasapi ng mahahalagang mungkahi ngunit maraming araw ang kinailangan kong igugol sa pagmumuni dahil mistulang iba-ibang dako ang nararating ng bawat isa. Inuna ko ang pagsasagawa ng pananaliksik tungkol sa bawat detalye ng pagsisinungaling, isang pagpapatunay na siguro sa aking pagiging disipulo ng agham.

Nagbasa ako ng ilang mga piyesa, nagtanong-tanong sa mga kaibigan, at humingi ng tulong kay Miss Bebang Siy na nagkaroon ng mahalagang papel sa aking pagtuon sa pangkalahatan ng aking proseso. Binalikan ko ang ilan sa aking sariling mga karanasan upang mas maigi pang marinig ang boses ng tulang ito. Ako’y natuto.

Ngayon, napakalaking pasalamat ang nais kong iparating sa lahat ng mga nakasama ko sa palihang ito at sa pag-iral nito mismo. Bago ko ito naranasan, nakuntento na ako sa simpleng paglalarawan na nagpapahiwatig ng nais kong talakayin. Ngayon, alam kong sa likod ng bawat tula, mayroong boses na hinuhubog ng aking pagsulat. Ngayon, sisiguraduhin ko nang maririnig ito ng aking mambabasa sa pinakapurong paraan na aking makakakaya.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 29

KUNG PAANO MAGSINUNGALING Gewell Llorin

Magsimula sa katotohanan.

Namnamin nang maigi, papasukin Sa utak, sa bawat sulok ng katawan, sa mga panaginip Pasunurin hanggang manahan ito sa iyong dila.

Angkinin mo ito, panghawakan Ang katotohanan mo.

Ngayon, ihanda ang sarili sa pagsambit nito: Isabay ang paghinga sa pang-apat na tibok ng Iyong puso, paloob, mata, pagpikit, Pagmulat, malalim, palabas, paloob, mahinahon Ang salitang binubuo, iyan ay kaibigang Pareho ninyong hinihintay.

Ilatay ang kamay, walang nginig, sa tabi ng katawan, Tahimik, dito ipuwesto ang paa, ngiting Kaaya-aya. Ito ang kailangan nilang Tandaan: sangkot na silang lahat.

Isipin mong hindi ito para sa iyo hindi Makasasakit ito hindi Lalabas na laro lang ang lahat at— Tanggapin ang bago mong katotohanan.

Ibuka mo ang bibig at Pahabulin na ang dilang Lulukso papuntang ngipin Sabay tatakas ang hangin Lalaya ang salita.

30 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

MARTY NEVADA 3 BFA Creative Writing

W

hen i started writing “How to take pictures on Session Rd.,” I was approaching it merely as an exercise on ekphrasis. As I was searching for a work of art to write about at the Ateneo Art Gallery, I came across “Session Road,” a photo series by Butch Perez, which featured over 50 photos that Perez took while walking up and down Session Road, was fascinating to me on a personal level. For me, the photos seemed to concretize some of my childhood memories in Baguio City that I had long suppressed. It was the recurring presence of a woman with a pram in several photos that ultimately drew me to this project.

Throughout the process of writing, I saw that more than being an act of ekphrasis, the poem was my attempt at disclosing what I found dreadful about these childhood memories, which I could only recall as blurry vignettes at the back of my mind. And although I consider myself as an autobiographical writer—largely because of my exposure to confessional poetry and the New York School—this was my first attempt at writing about trauma.

I began to realize that writing about trauma is more than just retrospect. There is a certain paradox that comes with it: the act of writing is a way to face this trauma directly, but fear remains, forcing the self to want to deny that any of the trauma ever happened. This was something that I struggled with in this poem—it resulted in a meditation in which I unconsciously wrote to confess but actively thwart the necessity to do so.

Fortunately, the workshop helped me become more conscious of the complications I experienced with writing about trauma with resistance, and how it may or may not translate well to readers (literature, after all, is not only a craft of writing, but also a text to be read).

The comments from the panelists and fellows made me consider being more strategic with my ambiguities and full disclosures. Admittedly, I was not even aware of the pataphorical nature of my poem, which caused me to be more careful with the poem’s leaps in revision.

I am extremely grateful to Heights Ateneo for this workshop, and to the English Staff for deepening my relationship with literature. I would like to thank my co-fellows and the panelists, especially my mentor Conchitina Cruz, and to my former professors Mark Cayanan, Allan Popa, and Martin Villanueva, for helping me sort out my preoccupations as a writer. And finally, to my Creative Writing block mates and the Parpenguins, who deserve this opportunity more than anything. You’re next.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 33

HOW TO TAKE PICTURES ON SESSION RD. AFTER “SESSION ROAD” BY BUTCH PEREZ

Marty Nevada

The hike up Session Road is special for any man who wants it to be. This is how a father tries to find love and make it work or why mother loves the cadets and Country Club boys more, or so he thinks. The Pines father, before the Cathedral father, park his car by McDonald’s on a quiet Good Friday father. A pocket-sized pouch of pot from a bush to calm him down when the kids are crying. Whiskey and a cunt singing live and beautiful, she sounds sweeter than aspins and his youngest daughter begging for a Happy Meal.

For a bit of pity, not hush money. For him to just stop the next day when he forcefully spoons his daughters with care on the stained sheets that bear the same scent as the trees. The trees that students would hate-fuck against to learn where babies shouldn’t be coming from.

Where leaving used condoms feels cleaner than father smashing another bottle. Than Hill Station steak going cold as mother waits for him to put his giant phone down. Than non-apologies only when convenient.

This is the father with music friends who remember what his kids look like better than he can drunk, or sober when he drives. He knows the name of his wife if she were polite enough to smile. But this road makes them walk. He likes the rickety stride downhill where he can watch his girls. Freeze on the other side. Father makes sure to take pictures of them running; I go so quickly.

34 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

CAMILLE ONG 4 BFA Creative Writing

I

grew up reading young adult fiction and this led me to take Creative Writing as a course.

This was why I initially planned to focus on fiction when I first learned that I had to choose one out of four writing tracks. I used to think nonfiction meant writing academic papers or how-to books, so I avoided the nonfiction section in bookstores because for me, they were synonymous with boring. It wasn’t nonfiction’s fault. I merely had a misconception of what nonfiction meant.

I was introduced to the nonfiction I know and write today through a required introductory class during my second year. I started reading essays that were as engaging as the short stories I loved, and I found that I enjoyed writing personal essays. I wrote events from my life and thought that was all there was to it. They ranged from talking about my love life to recalling my drunken adventures—topics that were light; essays that weren’t serious.

I only started taking nonfiction seriously when I read “The House on Zapote Street” by Nick Joaquin. It’s one of his many reportages on crime. It was a required reading and it influenced the way I revised my essay about the death of my cousin. My essays before were mostly expressive, but reading more of Joaquin’s nonfiction eventually changed my writing style into something more serious and informative.

The Child in Time, the essay I’ve chosen to be included in this chapbook, parallels the progression of my brother’s life with my own—how he stays the same because of his developmental disorder while I do not. It shows symptoms of the diagnosis, and how this has impacted me and my family. It was only during the Ateneo Heights Writers’ Workshop that I realized the scope of my essay, and the importance of representing issues like this because it also educates the reader. I didn’t expect that in writing about my brother’s condition, I’m inquiring into the nature of a disability in the context of our society.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 37

THE CHILD IN TIME Camille Ong

PAST

my brother was born without the physical characteristics that would mark him with a specific genetic condition. He was born a plump little baby—so red that he reminded me of a reindeer’s nose. My parents named him Giancarlo, after an Italian Formula One driver my father liked at the time. I, on the other hand, was named Camille because it rhymed with my father’s name, Neil. At only two years old, I was an older sister.

With my brother’s birth came the renovation of my parents’ room. The wooden floor was covered with safety paddings so the risk of Gian breaking his head open on the floor would lessen. A crib now stood beside my parents’ bed and I was moved to a mattress on the floor so I wouldn’t be in their way.

When he wasn’t crying or doing other baby things, he would stare at the ceiling until he turned purple. The reindeer’s red nose suddenly turned into a grape. My parents and my yayas would crowd around him and fuss over him in his crib. I didn’t know what was happening. They didn’t know what was happening. My father took a video of him every time my brother froze so they would have something to show to the doctor. His pediatrician concluded that he was having seizures.

When I heard that word—seizures—I thought of shaking bodies and frothing mouths but seizures did not only manifest in convulsions because they could be as simple as a lapse in memory or a sudden electric shock to the body. It might even look like nothing at all. In the case of my brother, he was turning purple because he couldn’t breathe. His chest muscles tightened along with the seizure and this usually lasted for up to a minute. I imagined it to feel like holding one’s breath. I used to hold my breath just to see if I could last longer than him.

It was during this time that we started moving from one hotel to another in Manila while Gian stayed in hospitals and had electric patches stuck to his head.

I got used to the carpeted floor of our room that often looked like the color of my brother’s puke. The white linen the hotel provided replaced the Winnie the Pooh sheets I used back at home and housekeeping took the cleaning job of my yaya, giving her more time to focus on me.

38 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

THE CHILD IN TIME • Camille Ong

The doorknobs in the hotels we stayed at were nothing like the ones we had in our house. They were magical doors that could only be opened outside with a tap of a card and not with a twist of a key. There were some instances when I would be locked out of the room. Hot tears would stain my cheeks and snot would run down my nose until my parents or my yaya found me.

When we finally found out what was wrong with my brother, we returned to Lucena to continue on with our lives. My parents didn’t give me specifics about Gian’s condition—only that my brother was a special child that we needed to take care of. My parents and my yayas became preoccupied with him. Gian had to take meds and undergo therapy just so he would have a chance to grow up normally. I didn’t need any of those things so I didn’t understand what the fuss was all about. *** Gian wasn’t like most babies that could learn through instinct or through watching. He had to be taught by a therapist how to crawl and walk. I used to join their sessions in his designated therapy room. My parents put alphabet puzzle mats in different colors on the floor and I used to jumble the letters to form words—to show them what I had been learning in school.

My brother’s therapist stretched his limbs while distracting him with toys and goofy expressions. Sometimes, she laid him down on a mat and stuck electric patches on his head. Sometimes my brother cried, sometimes he just stared at the ceiling. I always wondered how that felt. *** I tried falling down the carpeted stairs of our house when I got too jealous of my brother. My mother was in one of the bedrooms taking care of Gian when I screamed and propelled myself forward. The act itself wasn’t as bad as it looked because I only rolled down three or four steps. I did it slowly as to not hurt myself but it was enough to get their attention.

My jealousy manifested itself in other ways. Aside from trying to get my parents’ attention, I also tried antagonizing my brother. He was a fat baby so I couldn’t get enough of pinching his cheeks or arms. The urge to pinch him escalated to the point that I started biting him.

Gian usually took naps in the maid’s room with his yaya. One afternoon, I crept into the room, sidled up to his slumbering form, and then bit his arm hard.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 39

THE CHILD IN TIME • Camille Ong

A bite mark was left and he began wailing as soon as he woke up. My parents must have heard the crying because a few seconds later, they came rushing down the stairs. They checked on my brother and my mother tried to appease him.

My father, on the other hand, took one look at me and then walked over to the storage room under the stairs. He came back with a pair of pliers. The handle was a shiny red, even though the metal was already starting to rust.

He said he would remove my teeth with it.

That was not the first time I bit my brother so I believed him. I ran around the house and he followed me with his long strides and his rusting pliers. I tried to hide behind my mother, behind the furniture, behind anything that would cover me. I was crying the whole time, the sound battling with my brother’s own cries. *** I eventually grew out of this one-sided sibling rivalry. My parents decided not to have any more kids after Gian was born. Taking care of him would be hard enough, and they were worried their third child would have a similar genetic disorder. As the only sister of my brother, it was my duty to take care of him and I took on this role with gusto. If I was going to be an older sister, then I was going to be good at it. I looked forward to taking care of him in the future, and imagined a good life with my brother at my side.

FUTURE

My parents bought an empty lot in a village that was five minutes away from their house. The location was perfect, and I would build a house there after I finish my studies. I would take a pre-med major in De La Salle University, the alma mater of my father, and continue on to medical school. My father said that if I wanted to be rich enough to support my brother, then I would become a doctor. And so I would.

I would work in one of the hospitals in Lucena and there I would earn my fortune. I would also take care of the family business, so I would be a hotelier and a doctor at the same time. It wouldn’t be long for me to earn enough money to build my own house on the property my parents bought.

I imagined the house to be all sharp edges and glass windows—reminiscent of the contemporary house designs I used to make in The Sims. It would be big enough that my brother would have his own room.

We would live in that big house, after my parents had grown too old to

40 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

THE CHILD IN TIME • Camille Ong

take care of him. My brother was a late bloomer but by that time, he would need no assistance from me or other people. While I worked, he would play Counter Strike on the playstation like my father used to do in our house. Aside from Gian, I would have a family of my own. My husband would treat him like a brother and my children would love him as their uncle. We would take our dinners together, without a caregiver to spoon-feed my brother.

Since Gian had a developmental disorder, he would act childish around my kids but never to the point that he was more of a child than them. We would live in harmony, and my parents would reminisce the days when I used to bite Gian out of jealousy.

I imagined all of these before I realized my brother would act like a baby for as long as he lived.

PRESENT

​ ian likes opening doors. Barefoot and in his diapers, he would walk around the G house and open closed doors that were in his way. If it’s a doorknob that tended to get stuck, he would scream and jump up and down in excitement. Gian would keep trying to get it open until someone turns the knob for him.

My brother is already 17 years old but he still needs someone to guide him when he walks. He is prone to seizures so we have to make sure he’s safe. He’s such a fragile boy—his skin dry despite the lotion his yaya puts on him, his body so thin even though he can finish a plateful of rice. He also isn’t capable of sweating which means his body has no way of cooling itself.

He entertains himself with magazines. It doesn’t matter if it it’s FHM, Good Housekeeping, or Seventeen because what matters to him is that they have pages.

I would read a book beside him while the cat alternates between our laps and Gian would rip the pages of the magazine into pieces. The shredded images of celebrities smiling at the camera would fall to the floor, which his yaya would clean up eventually.

Every day, food must be spoon fed to him. He never eats at the dining table because it is easier to feed him on the couch or on his yaya’s bed. Maybe that’s why I feel uncomfortable eating with him because I’m not used to it. On the instances that we took our meals together, I always looked away whenever I saw remnants of food stuck to his face as if it was rude to stare.

I never spoon-feed him a meal, only hand him chips or peanuts. He would shakily bring the food to his mouth and smile if it was his favorite. He hasn’t developed full control of swallowing yet so I have to wipe drool off his face every AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 41

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time I’m babysitting him. I always reach for the alcohol every time his drool touches my hand. *** I only learned that his disorder is called Global Developmental Delay when I joined an organization that advocates for persons with special needs in Ateneo, where I am studying Creative Writing. It became embarrassing for me to keep saying my brother is a special child when there is an official term for it. I called him that for years and even compared his disorder to autism. It was like autism, I used to say, but worse.

I joined the organization for two years but found it hard to be active. I hoped to go to the area visits so I could befriend special kids but I never pushed through with it. I guess that was for the better. Seeing people like my brother made me sad because I pitied and envied them. I pitied them because they were kids who had certain disabilities that kept them from living a life without restrictions. I envied them because they were much better off compared to my brother. The fact that they can interact with students from Ateneo was proof of that. *** I usually hide in my room whenever I visit home for the weekend. I find comfort in the brick walls that I had requested to look faded on purpose and I had tolerated the feel of dust in my nose because they rarely clean my room. Gian would just enter my room every now and then and walk around—my mother holding on to the back of his shirt like a leash to make sure he wouldn’t fall.

I try to be indifferent to all of these and mostly I succeed because I rarely see him. Even when I used to live with him, I’d find ways to avoid him. The only times I get to bond with him is when my mother asks me to watch him when she needs to go to the bathroom.

My mother always made it a point to remind me that my brother is a special child that needed to be taken care of. It was already a given that I would care for him in the future.

I accepted it before, when I was still a child and my mother was just starting to make me promise these things. That was before I knew that the term late bloomer didn’t apply to my brother. It was easy then, to imagine providing for Gian.

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*** Vanessa, Gian’s yaya, has stayed with us for almost 20 years. She is the person who knows my brother the best. She knows how to calm him down whenever he’s throwing a tantrum and she’s familiar with his bowel movements since he still needs assistance with that. I don’t know how my family can take care of my brother without Vanessa’s help. She’s more of a parent to my brother than my mother and father are.

Vanessa used to have a husband. She had a house made for them in a tiny island called Perez, using the money she earned from taking care of my brother. Vanessa and her husband tried to have kids but found that they were unable to conceive.

The distance between them grew wider and it wasn’t long before her husband decided to call it quits. A few years after their marriage ended, she finally got the house painted.

When I had been old enough to realize that I couldn’t take care of my brother on my own, I began asking Vanessa her plans for the future. She told me she would only leave if she becomes too sick or old to take care of Gian. She has to retire eventually.

I’m reminded of my cousin who has autism. His name is Joshua and he also has his own yaya—someone who takes care of him like Vanessa takes care of my brother.

Joshua’s yaya has stayed with them for years. Even when she was diagnosed with cancer. Joshua’s mother offered to pay for her chemotherapy on the condition that she would have to stay and continue taking care of Joshua. They had other yayas to help her out but she is Joshua’s favorite.

The reason why I asked Vanessa about her plans for the future was because I wanted her to stay with Gian. I pleaded with her jokingly not to leave me with Gian and that I would double her salary in the future. Life with my brother would only be bearable if he had Vanessa to take care of him. Not only for me but also for my parents. *** In the process of writing this essay, I have been noticing people who I thought to be in the spectrum: a boy beside me in a restaurant, focused on eating his third bowl of fried rice while his family talked to each other, completely excluding him from conversation—it was in the way he moved and glanced above and around him that made me think he was different; a man with eyes that looked like they were in

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a perpetual squint, walking down the aisles of the grocery store—it was in the way he bent his body with each step as if he was dancing that made me think he was different; the person behind the counter at the sushi place I frequented, greeting every customer loudly while his co-workers stayed quiet—it was in the way he greeted me with too much enthusiasm that made me think he was different.

I could be wrong in my suspicions that they had certain disorders but I couldn’t shake the twinge of pity. I suppressed my feelings about my brother so much to the point that they spill over to other people.

One of the important things they taught us in the organization I joined was that I shouldn’t treat persons with disabilities as lesser people. I should focus on their abilities instead of disabilities. This is easier said than done. It’s hard not to look past the disabilities of my brother. He has so little abilities that they are overshadowed by the things he can’t do.

My father recently called to tell me that my 17-year-old brother finally learned how to hug. I could hear my father’s voice at the end of the line, telling my brother to give him a hug. Gian finally opened his arms, my father said. He sounded proud of that simple fact.

My heart broke at how pathetic it sounded. *** The future doesn’t seem as far away as it was before. If everything goes according to plan, I would be graduating in a few months. After that, I have a few years to do whatever I want in life but in the end, my father expects me to return to my hometown.

He said he wants me to start my own business but I know he also wants me to take care of my brother. It has been years since they brought it up but by now, I feel as if I’m required to do as they say as a sister of someone with a developmental disorder. I try to think of ways to escape this future but I always come up with nothing.

I can’t possibly leave him in a mental institution. Patients are treated like animals there: If deemed dangerous, the patients aren’t allowed to wear underwear because they could easily be used to strangle oneself. If the case was really bad, then they are tied to a bed where they pee and defecate as they please. When food was scarce, they cut down their usual two or three meals a day and instead serve them food in a bucket.

The moment I stepped into the grounds of a mental institution for a feature

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article I was writing, I knew my conscience wouldn’t let me leave my brother in any institution. My only real option was to take care of him myself, hopefully with the help of Vanessa.

Despite this acceptance, I couldn’t stop myself from looking up the lifespan of people with developmental disorders. I learned that the average life expectancy among people like Gian was around 20 years. I was looking for some kind of assurance but instead of relief, I only felt disgusted with myself.

The reality of his condition hit me as I read more about it. He might not grow old enough to form a simple sentence, to express what he really wanted to say instead of just yell in pain or delight. He might not grow old enough to learn how to bring a spoon to his mouth, or to drink from a glass without spilling something. He might not be able to do a lot of things.

My brother is three years away from turning 20.

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FRANCHESCA PALATTAO 4 BFA Creative Writing

I

’m in a position where I see both sides of the social class spectrum. Part of my family is considered to be that of the lower class. Not only do I see their interactions and their lifestyle as an outsider, but I am part of it as well as someone living it. Even now, I feel stuck between two polarities of the social classes I am constantly exposed to. How do I fit myself in the two worlds I live in? However, the fact that I am thinking and writing about this matter makes the difference between those two. From this grew a particular inclination to help and understand further the situation that I am in the way I know how—writing.

In the face of the possibility of appropriating this struggle of the impoverished, I look at poverty, the situations I see and read about, and the people I interact with, and I see stories worth telling. And so this project is born from that attempt to emulate such experiences with added insight and meaning. All these issues and problems did not come from a vacuum nor did it come naturally. It manifested in how the woman is perceived or if she is even being seen at all as woman. She is not born into this world to be treated as just a housewife or a hole a man fucks into—she is not a machine made of flesh, contrary to how she is perceived. The fact that these issues are still prevalent today prompts me to write about such matters. Fiction then for me becomes an avenue for narratives that aren’t voiced out. It attempts to simulate what is happening in the edges and crevices of reality.

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TAWAS Franchesca Palattao the bus terminal in Olongapo was surprisingly busy on a Wednesday afternoon.

People had their suitcases, backpacks, and straw bags clutched by their hands even as they dozed off under the afternoon heat. The buses had their own schedules of departure but due to the inevitable traffic it always seemed to be at least half an hour off. Maya could’ve been doing her school requirements, but there she was covered in a light sheen of sweat on every exposed limb. She watched the golden chain dangling from her mother’s earlobes swing as she turned her head left and right, the folds of the fat under her chin protruding with every movement. They were supposed to meet a woman her mother had been in contact with for six months now. It would be the first time they would meet in person. After nearly three and a half hours of bus and jeepney rides, her mother’s wish would finally come true.

“Is she coming any time soon?” Maya asked after twenty minutes of sitting and waiting. A part of her wished for the meet-up to be postponed—the woman thought it was tomorrow, they went to the wrong bus station, her mother finally realized that what they were doing is a waste of time and money. Her mother turned to her sharply.

“She’s on the way. Diyos ko, can’t you wait a little longer?” her mother nearly snapped. The circles around her eyes got darker and the wrinkles on her forehead and eyes grew more pronounced as they waited. Sweat trickled down her forehead and Maya fought the urge to stand up and wipe it off—looking at her made her feel warmer than she already was.

Maya stopped asking after that.

She had only been ten years old when she first experienced a hilot by a fortune teller and a faith healer. The reason behind this was that her mother had grown terrified of her attitude. Maya hadn’t been scratching walls, or sleepwalking, or hurting herself. In fact, she wasn’t doing anything at all. She was just quiet. She was the kind of girl who didn’t really talk much in school, always by themselves as if too engrossed in their own world. She wasn’t interested with the gossips the other girls busied themselves with or the taps on her shoulders feigned by the boys around her. The teachers, too, were gossiping about her, how she was “a sad girl, acting too much like an adult” as she would often hear outside the door of the principal’s office whenever her mother was being called.

Maya had been too grounded in the moment as if she could feel everything

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at the same time—the squeals of her classmates as one scares her with her a booger on a finger, the scraping of the chairs, the sound of the ball hitting the jackstones by mistake by a classmate. She had been too much there and she had seen everything the world in front of her could have shown her. A fifteen-year-old trying to explain to her mother that she the voices she had been hearing in her head weren’t demons in the corners of her room. It was her own.

For a while, her mother kept buying her stuffed toys, Maya’s favorite food as pasalubong from whenever she goes out, and dresses from H&M and Cotton: On. Maya didn’t understand it at all. She was showered with many things but she would oftentimes see her mother hunched over the dining table with a bunch of papers, whispering and snapping to herself, not minding her at all.

Maya had once asked what she was doing when she saw her typing down on the calculator with a pair of glasses on, but all she saw were numbers on the papers before getting shooed away.

Her mother was wearing a pair of jeans and a shirt she bought in a sale in the department store with no accessories on—she wasn’t really invested in jewelries, watches, and shoes unlike her friends she would sometimes meet in a cafe somewhere in Trinoma or SM Megamall. Maya didn’t understand how they could pay for the many times her mother brought her to a faith healer.

She knew it wasn’t cheap at all judging from the amounts of one thousand peso bills her mother would pull out from her fake Louis Vuitton bag she got as a pasalubong from her sister in Hong Kong. Her mother would spend thousands for her while typing down hard on the calculator on their dining table at night with piles of bills. Maya couldn’t understand it at all. She felt guilty.

Twenty minutes more passed and more sweat dripped down Maya’s calves.

Her phone battery was on twenty-one percent, and it was only one in the afternoon. Maya locked her phone and put it in her pocket, prioritizing the music she would listen to on the long ride back home. Minutes after that before a woman approached them. She was wearing skinny jeans with diamond studs covering the outside of the pockets, a pair of black boots, and a graphic t-shirt under a denim jacket. One look at her and Maya could already feel the sweat pouring out from every pore on her body. Although there were no other signs of aging on the woman, her face held a different story—wrinkles and dark bags around her eyes made her look at least ten years older than her actual age. With her was a small girl around her age, probably thirteen years old, wearing a pair of jeans and a pink shirt. Her straight hair went past her waist and Maya felt even warmer. Her mother clutched her handbag tighter to her stomach at the sight of the two in front of us.

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“Are you Miss Del Rosario?” she asked.

“Why?” her mother asked in return clutching her bag closer to her.

“My name is Amie,” she said with a hand on her chest pronouncing her name as Ah-mee.

“Ay! Miss Amie!”

The two then proceeded exchanging kamustahan’s sounding as if there had been an initial meeting preceding the moment. As they were left to their own devices, Maya remained sitting at the bench. The girl stood still in front of her as well, her eyes boring into her. Her lips had darker tints than usual, and the bags around her eyes were also dark. Everything about the child looked so. Maya couldn’t help but think about the very assumptions her teachers had imposed on her mother. Maybe it was this kind of children that they were talking about.

The thought that maybe the woman was using the child as a bait for pity and sympathy crossed Maya’s mind. The next thing that came to her mind was why she was here in the first place. It was a Wednesday afternoon, right in the middle of class hours. Then another crossed her mind—maybe she’s not studying. Maya eyed the girl warily as they walked to a jeepney station hoping she wasn’t being used as a pity bait. The girl didn’t cling onto the older woman nor did she hold her hand. She walked behind her, falling into step beside Maya while the two older women walked in front of them still chatting with each other.

They were headed towards the house the process of healing was supposed to take place. On the jeepney ride, the two argued and joked about who pays the transportation. Of course, her mother insisted. Amie eyed the hundred-peso bill her mother pulled out from her handbag with a small smile as it got passed up to the driver. Maya read their faces and every movement. She didn’t want her mother to get scammed again. They’ve already tried their luck with the amount of times they had gone to different fortune tellers and faith healers. She would be with her nearly in every single one of the meetings. Even in times that she wasn’t the one getting healed, she would still be there as her mother’s anchor in the real world, or at the very least, her rational mind to avoid getting scammed.

They reached the gate leading to the house of the woman’s sister. It was the nearest place where she could undertake the healing. The woman had forewarned and apologized to them on the way about the ruckus that her nieces and nephews would make to which her mother had waved her hand nonchalantly with a laugh as response. They walked up the steep and rocky dirty path past houses with doors open, and stray dogs and cats lying in front.

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As they walk further and turned more corners, Maya grew uncomfortable. The little kids, some naked and playing, stared at her and her mother as they walked past them as if they were foreigners.

“I think we’re getting lost,” her mother joked.

“It’s been so long since I last visited my sister. Please bear with my memory.”

Before Maya could grab her mother and make a run out of there, they finally reached a small house made of concrete blocks. A man with basketball shorts and a tank top came out of the house to greet them, followed by a woman in a pair of pink shorts and pink tank top. After seeing them, the woman quickly scrambled to fix their house and went back inside while the man greeted us with a huge grin. There were other people starting to gather quite a crowd around them. Maya wasn’t sure but she could feel that the girl with them was also starting to feel uncomfortable with the way her eyes flitted around the area.

They finally went inside, far from the gazes of the crowd.

Inside, there was one electric fan and an old television, the ones that look like huge boxes, a monobloc bench, and some tables as well as tablewares. The bedroom was separated and the lights weren’t on so Maya couldn’t investigate much. It was then that Amie brought out her materials from inside her own handbag: candles, papers, a pen, and her special massage oil. There were some things that needed to be acquired from the house itself such as a plain white bowl of water, and oranges. She lit the candle and stood it up on the top of the table with its own wax.

Amie touched her hand as she sat in front of her. She looked at her straight in the eye blankly, a first in their many experiences. She didn’t close her eyes shut and furrowed her brows in extreme focus, and whispered gibberish under her breath. Instead she held Maya’s hands at the palm of her hands and stared into her. Sometimes she would catch her eye twitch and mouth quiver ever so slightly. After that, Amie took a piece of paper from the stack she placed on top of the table and drew straight lines all over it. She then put oil on top of the paper and spread it with the palm of her hand. She brought the flat of the paper directly on the fire of the candle and started moving it around in circles. Part of her wished for the paper to burn so that her mother would prompt them to leave. But it didn’t.

“Look, look! Someone did this to your daughter. Does she have enemies?”

Amie asked as she showed us the piece of paper which showed a vague silhouette of a person from the candle’s flame.

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“No! My daughter’s very quiet at school. She doesn’t even have friends,” her mother quickly responded sitting forward from her seat. Maya wanted to slap her mother’s leg as she felt the heat rise up to her cheeks but she stayed still under the heavy gaze of the woman.

“Lift your shirt up, iha,” Amie ordered her to lift the back of her shirt up to the nape of her neck in order for her to massage her back.

“What?” Maya drew back in surprise. She turned to the gathering crowd through the open doorway. There were shirtless men in basketball shorts and other children watching their every move. Amie repeated her order but Maya couldn’t hear. She felt like their eyes were touching every part of her body under her clothes and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t the first time she was asked to lift her shirt up, but the previous times were always in the safety of the wall of someone’s house. But the one they were in didn’t even have a door.

She could hear her mother prompting her from behind her but the children outside were too loud for her to focus and breathe. They wanted to know what was happening, who is she, why are they here, Amie’s healing someone again!

Maya could feel herself start to shake, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Maya didn’t Amie move but suddenly she was behind her with her mother at her side, and she was pulling her shirt up. She didn’t have time to gasp or react before Amie placed the same paper onto her back.

“Look! The paper’s ice cold, look!”

The paper was hot, too hot, placed directly on the thin skin of her back. She finally felt the pain and she arched her back just as Maya felt her mother’s hand on top of the paper. Her mother gasped in agreement, and then clapped her hands with a squeal. Maya couldn’t even touch the paper to check. She didn’t want to. All she could hear was her mother’s praises to the woman and the laughter of the children from outside. Amie continued to massage her back with the paper, and found tiny bits of sand coming out of the paper. She heard her mother gasp and clap her hand again in delight.

“Someone did this to your daughter that’s why she’s like this now. You’re a bit quiet, aren’t you?” Amie asked her.

“Ay nako! She’s too quiet as if she has her own world inside that head. She wasn’t like this before, you know! That’s why I’m here, it’s worrying,” her mother quipped quickly.

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“This is easy to resolve. Just do as I say,” Amie then proceeded to list down ingredients and instructions for them to do at home in order to ban the bad spirit away from within Maya’s body.

Her mother listened attentively as she wrote every word down on a notepad she brought. Half of the pages were already written down with other instructions from different fortune tellers, and they’ve tried each one. Maya had already had egg broken down on her head three times a day, drank freshly boiled lagundi leaves, worn amulets inside her bra, and massaged mayonnaise all over her stomach.

Once the massaging was finished, Amie ordered her to burn the piece of paper outside the house and pray over it. People outside watched her as she stared at the burning paper she accidentally dropped on the ground. She could hear her mother talking to Amie about her again. They had already gone to doctors to see what’s wrong with her, but nothing about her vitals showed any sign of danger. She was healthy, even. They didn’t know what to call it. For a while she thought that there’s nothing to call something. There was nothing wrong. There shouldn’t be. She dared stare back at the people basking in her black cullottes and white blouse. Men wore baggy clothes while women wore clothes that their maids at home wore. Some of the children didn’t even wear anything. She didn’t say a word when she got back inside five minutes after.

There shouldn’t be something wrong.

“You’re lucky. Mary is guiding your daughter. She has good intentions.,” Amie added when they were starting to pack up.

“Oh, I know. My daughter’s an angel. She loves us very much.”

They walked back the same path they took when they entered. Surprisingly enough, they didn’t get lost on the way. They reached the gate and waited for a jeepney at the sidewalk. It was still extremely hot outside and all Maya could think was the air conditioned bus she would be in in a few away from the crowd who had just watched her. She muted the conversation Amie and her mother were having. The little girl, whose name she never really learned of, stayed silent all throughout going about her way around the area. Amie didn’t mind.

They returned to the bus terminal and the air had gotten slightly cooler and the mass of people seemed to decreased in number with the terminal feeling a little less stuffy. Amie and her mother gave each other one last hug and last exchange of thank you’s and goodbye’s before they finally parted unsure of when the next meeting will come or if there ever will be. The lips of her

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mother stretched more upwards and for a moment, she was reminded of the moments they would wait in bus terminals as well to go to Tagaytay, Baguio, Subic, anywhere. Maya hoped this would be the last time.

It was true that Maya hadn’t been always been the way she is now. Before she had always been the sweet one in the family. With just one child, Maya’s parents were lucky to have such a sweet and intimate daughter. They would always go out, and travel together. Her relationship with her mother was most special to her. With her father out almost every week, it was only her that she get to spend ample time with. They would travel together, just the two of them. They would discover exotic food, meet new people, and have new hobbies together. She was almost like the sibling Maya never had. But over time she got tired - of the walking, the eating, the everything. Her mother was terrified.

When they got their seats on a bus on the way back to Manila, her mother kept smiling. The dark spots on her skin disappeared, as well as her wrinkles around the corner of her eyes and forehead. Maya sat back on her seat and looked out the window as the bus started to move. She closed her eyes and felt the remnants of the flames on her back and the coldness of the other side of the paper. She recalled her mother’s gasps and the way her face lit up at every grain of sand found at the back of her body. She opened her eyes and watched the trees pass by slowly. Maybe it is real.

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AISHA RALLONZA 3 BFA Creative Writing

W

hen i first wrote Resting Places, its primary goal was to show the intricate details of the cemeteries I visited with my family. From that point, the piece grew in several directions. Afterall, places did not exist in a vacuum, and instead they were informed by space, time, and people. In writing about places, I had to wonder why these places were so important to me, and through that, I began to look into the concept of death and what death means to those left behind.

The workshop excited and terrified me in equal measures because the original piece left me with roughly four thousand words and no clue where to go next. The ensuing discussion pointed me in specific directions for fine tuning the work. There were comments to tighten the writing but to possibly lengthen the piece, to clarify the aspects of time and when memories and insights are being told from, and to connect more of the sections. A number of these comments were unexpected, and because of that, incredibly helpful in my revision.

Coincidentally, my interest in the genre of nonfiction is just as unexpected as the course of this essay. I started out writing fiction, had read and written it for years, and had fully intended to pursue it, but along the way, I found myself drawn to the essay and how it engages with its subject matter. I felt certain in fiction, but I find myself questioning in nonfiction.

And that’s what draws me to it; this constant inquiry. A want to understand. A questioning that doesn’t always lead to solid answers or ideas, but definitely leads to a process of thinking that uncovers something new.

Through writing this piece I see that, thus far, how I experience death is ultimately an experience of life. Death is the moment, but the persistent ritual and devotion that occurs after is where I find meaning to explore. This is a connection I wouldn’t have made had I not entertained the essay as a way to write and to think, and personally, I find this exciting. To think about what else can be connected. What else can come to light.

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RESTING PLACES Aisha Rallonza Out on marcos highway, there’s Paraiso Memorial Parks, Incorporated. Up in Concepcion Uno, the Iglesia Filipina Independiente Cemetery is nestled between the always-busy streets of J.P. Rizal and J. Molina. Follow J.P. Rizal down past bayan and the surroundings turn into swatches of time. Three-story buildings from the 80s with their peeling paint, old wooden houses with the capiz shell windows riddled with cavities of rot, warehouse surplus stores passed down from generation to generation. Sta. Elena Old Cemetery sat among them all. Scattered across Marikina are places for the dead, quiet and unassuming.

Backtrack from J.P. Rizal and there’s an intersection with Sumulong Highway, a road that cuts through the city and leads to Marcos Highway, a road that leads out and away from Marikina. Before that road turns into Sumulong Highway, it first starts as A. Bonifacio Avenue. Along A. Bonifacio Avenue, less than a ten-minute walk away from each other, Loyola Memorial Park and Barangka Municipal Cemetery hold their dead in different worlds. *** Death, among other things, is a confounding event. As inevitable and expected as it is in theory, endings aren’t as easy to place in reality. My Lolo lived for eighty-two years, but he spent that last year wracked with terminal illness, dying so slowly in our own home that when his heart finally stopped beating, I didn’t notice the difference. I was there in the room, watching him, when Lolo took his last breath and I couldn’t see the threshold between living and dying.

The wake was held at Loyola Memorial Park. Loyola Memorial Park was established in 1964 and The Loyola Chapel set up its services in 1999. They boasted nine air-conditioned chapels complete with a viewing area, a family room, a bathroom, a pantry, a water dispenser, however many monobloc chairs you requested, and, in the super deluxe and premier chapels, a bed, a microwave, and a hot and cold shower. The Loyola Chapel was well known for their crematory services, assuring you that the whole process can be done in under two hours.

This, I knew from experience. Three years ago, I slept through forty minutes of those two hours, head leaning against the bone-white wall where, on the other side, a fire burned Lolo’s body to ashes. Just hours after that, the urn was put into a lot in the ground, just one of many on the flat lands of the park.

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Last Undas, my family and I left for Loyola Memorial at night. Or at the edge of night. We took a trike to the bridge. Another trike to rumble across A. Bonifacio Avenue. By the time the stuttering engine wound through enough homes for me to see of ashen walls of the cemetery, the sky was purpling with dusk.

We get dropped off outside of Tañong High School and the road is already lined with pop-up stalls. A Dunkin Donuts stall, a PLDT stall, a St. Peter Chapels stall all clustered together on the roadside. Near the gated entrance of the cemetery, were two whole streets of flower shops, Inday’s Flower Shop, Ojay’s Flower Shop, Tessie’s Flower Shop. An entire basketball court had been converted into a place to store endless rows upon rows of bouquets. From the outside, I saw even more stalls inside the cemetery, crowded alongside all the people. Undas made the cemetery a commercial business, a bustling cacophony of food and drink, of flowers and candles.

As my family and I got inside and walked along the road, the scenes passed by.

Near the entrance were the graves of those who had a lot of money. This I knew because there were literal buildings among the graves. Some were a single floor, just enough to house the entire family clan, but others were three storeys high.

Through the clear windows, I saw a beds, a fridge, a dining table. A whole house to live in. In one building, I saw an entire chapel inside. The buildings taper off as we walked further, replaced instead by tents and plastic chairs. Kids were running around, in and out of tents, hopping over graves, screaming in delight until one of their family members called them over.

The walk took a few minutes. The park was large, and we were hindered even more by the slowly driving cars looking for a parking area, by the food stalls set up inside, by the rest of the people also walking at a glacial pace. Having just sprained my ankle a day before, my older brother piggybacked me the rest of the way, giving me a view of the large, sprawling lands of Loyola Memorial drowned with people, cars, and lights.

The night had finally set in after minutes of merely loitering about in indigo. The new darkness gave us this; twinkling candles speckled over the flat expanse of land.

My family and I finally reach the grave. We carefully walk over the other graves to make our way to it. We laid a blanket over the grave, bought food and a couple cans of soda, and ate peacefully while Nanay lit candles for our dead. The candles sat next to a bouquet of flowers, flanked on each side.

The flickering flame gave enough light to make the lapida readable. Sesinando M. Veneracion. July 16, 1933 - July 28, 2015. Dead for three years after eighty two years.

Under Lolo’s name was Myren. Michael Lauren V. Rallonza. December 29, 1990.

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RESTING PLACES • Aisha Rallonza

*** I never got to meet Myren. He was the firstborn child that died just minutes after taking his first breath. I never knew why or what he died from. Perhaps I asked at some point, but the answer is lost to the rest of my memories, and so many years after the fact, I didn’t see the point in asking again. I never got to meet him, but I grew up with him. Nanay had told us all about him by calling him our guardian angel, and every year, as a thank you for watching over us, we’d visit him.

Myren wasn’t always in Loyola Memorial. When Lolo died, we had Myren transferred to Lolo’s lot. Myren died three days after Christmas, just a month after Nanay turned twenty one and five months after Tatay had turned nineteen.

Both still in college, they couldn’t exactly afford to cash out the tens of thousands of pesos needed to buy a lot in Loyola Memorial. Thankfully, just a ten minute walk away, the price of Barangka Municipal Cemetery was much a more feasible one hundred pesos per year, a fee we paid for twenty five years of the total twenty eight Myren had been dead.

The last time I had been there, I was sixteen years old. And I remember this: The mass of people breathed in and breathed out. Not all at once, but the crowd teemed with it. Gasps, wheezes, and breathy noises, rattling under the 10a.m. sun.

Hot enough to sweat but cool enough that nobody popped open an umbrella. A moment frozen in toleration before the crowd surged into the movement it never stopped, trying to funnel into a small nook at the side of the road.

The entrance to Barangka Municipal cemetery wasn’t big enough for the hundreds of people crowding to come in and it certainly wasn’t big enough for the hundreds crowding to get out. It was an opening just wide enough for a car to enter, its only possible method of leaving being a slow and halting reverse. People bumped into each other, pushed against everybody else, getting lost in the sea of people funneling into this crevice, all to see their dead.

The small road only had one marker dictating it as more than just a road. An arched sign held up by metal poles. Three or four steps past that sign, there were a few stores selling candles of all colors and one stall selling small stickers with the year on it. Quickly, before she could get swept away, Nanay bought one candle and one sticker.

Past these stores, the graves begun, and the crowd pushed its way forth.

It wouldn’t be correct to say that bodies here were buried. Graves here weren’t underground, but over. And when they ran out of space, they just kept building upwards, higher and higher.

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RESTING PLACES • Aisha Rallonza

Graves near the entrance were as high end as they could get in this cemetery.

They had their own space. Sometimes a whole roof and walls built around them, protected with metal bars and a padlock only the living family had. It was a semblance of privacy, however flimsy. The further I walked into the cemetery, those tiny houses whittled away, leaving only the towers.

I called them towers in the most literal sense. Apartment style graves, each about as large as an oven door, began on the ground. They would stack one over that and another over that, over and over, side by side, until some graves were so high that they had to build a ladder at the side. At the side of some towers, there were pieces of rebar bent into brackets stuck through the concrete, makeshift steps you could climb up to wherever your dead was to light a candle. Some graves were so high and in the middle of these towers that it would be impossible to get to them without scaling the graves by their tombstones, which some people did, just to stick a few flowers into the metal candle holders wedged into the graves of their beloved. Others would simply stand, look up, and pray.

The main pathway diverged at points. Like arteries that split into veins, smaller, thinner pathways branched out to the side, leading to more graves and towers.

There were no signs here. The only landmarks being a certain grave of a certain color that meant that it was time to turn. It probably would’ve been smart to remember a name of a grave instead of a vague color and the assurance that I’d know where to turn, but it seemed too personal and, more importantly, that I was doing something terrible. A stranger’s life and death turned into a street sign. To remember somebody’s name just to know where to go and where to walk away from them.

Our family managed to traverse the maze twice every year with no trouble. It was easier to navigate in December, when the cemetery was empty and we had the luxury to get lost and take our time, but the flow of the living pushed us, pulled us, and finding the right fork in the pathway was the only way to break free.

These smaller pathways were no longer paved. The ground was a mix of soil, rocks, chunks of concrete and cement, plastic bags now empty of the chips their brand advertised, and graves themselves. In my head, a constant litany of ‘excuse mes’ and ‘I’m sorrys’ rattled off. Some made it past my lips whenever I felt a pronounced curve of a grave digging into the soles of my shoes. Often, I’d trip over a tree root, still surprised after all these years that a few had managed to grow past everything in its way, casting a low shade over a section of the cemetery.

Myren’s grave was in the middle of the tower we got to. It was just about at my eye level, but I knew that slowly, it would sink like it did last time. His grave wasn’t always in this exact spot. It was once located deeper in the cemetery, so

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 61

RESTING PLACES • Aisha Rallonza

deep that even during Undas, it would nearly be nearly empty. There, the grave started at a height taller than I was, but year after year, the ground would get higher. The graves wouldn’t sink so much as stand, frozen and unmoving, unable to do anything as more graves were piled on, as the earth slowly rose and buried them. By the time the ground was touching his grave, our family had to have him exhumed and placed elsewhere. Here.

Nanay put the sticker on my brother’s grave, shiny, new, and right above last year’s sticker. A yearly fee of one hundred pesos for marker that told everybody that people were still visiting him. That he wasn’t allowed to get swallowed up by the earth or destroyed to make way for another lot, because we were still coming.

Beneath him, the stickers were old. 2008. 2004. There was a 1999 that barely peeked out of the ground. The graves were faded. The ink of their names and dates weathered away with day or rain and sun. The only reason Myren’s was so bold was because we’d always pay somebody to touch it up, to bolden the letters and wipe the dirt and grime off. Clear as day, both the words and the message we were trying to say: we’re still here. *** Monuments of our persevering presence had to stay small enough to fit in places so filled with the dead, but big enough to be seen and noticed. I don’t mean this necessarily in size, but more in what it means. The passage of time in cemeteries, after all, is something that seems to constantly be in flux. Our little stickers on the lapida fade with each year, but one day there’s a new one, and some visitors place their stickers over the previous one, as if those past years had never had happened at all. Barangka Municipal Cemetery marks time by rising dirt and debris, by sinking forgotten loved ones, by footfalls that stamp the ground down as it goes up, obscuring the movement into a slowness that nobody could see until twenty-five years after 1990, and by that point, there was a new body to be buried elsewhere.

Time in Loyola Memorial was different. The land here stayed at the height it always was. The grass stayed green and the horizon was as constant as the dead in foreground. The only real thing to keep track of was how the bouquets by the graves would slowly wilt, then rot, then disappear. Time wasn’t an issue for the deceased. Time was for us, the living, who were bound by it until we didn’t have to care about it anymore. I guess this meant that all the gifts we left for Myren and Lolo were for as us as much as it was for them.

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RESTING PLACES • Aisha Rallonza

For Myren, there were the candles, of course. Fire burning until either the wind blew them out or the wax melted and dripped to the ground below. Flowers were easier to leave in Loyola Memorial because we didn’t have to stick them through a grate stuck into a tower of graves, now happy with the privilege of flat, steady land. On his 18th birthday, back in Barangka Municipal, my older brother left Myren a bottle of Ginebra. Loyola Memorial felt a little more formal than Barangka Memorial, so when Lolo’s ashes were put into the ground, instead of his favorite alcoholic drink, we left him his favorite food—a Jollibee Champ, pristine in its bright red box—-on the newly set soil.

I don’t know how long those gifts last. I don’t know who takes them, because eventually, somebody must. I don’t know what we’ll leave next along with our flowers and candles. All I do know is that visiting is implicit in the later act of leaving, and even if it doesn’t matter to the dead, it matters to us that we leave something, anything, as a sign that we were there and that we’d be back.

The last words Lolo heard were actually my own. I was about to leave for school, so I told him “See you later.” His heart stopped beating then, just about as easily as I walked out of the room, oblivious to the fact of his death, something I’d only get told a few minutes later. In a sense, I wasn’t wrong. I did see him later.

We all did, year after year. Time moving forward didn’t discount the possibility of coming back.

Death is confounding, but perhaps it was more an instant than an event. A moment instead of a lingering. It doesn’t begin, it just occurs, and it’s everything surrounding it that changes and fluctuates. The body is moved from a room to a grave, the people start talking in past tense instead of present, and time barrels on forth in spite of the ending. Those left behind pick up their flowers and walk onwards for the next year, and the next, and the next.

Lolo died three years ago after eighty-two years. Myren died twenty-eight years ago after none. In three years, a child would have learned how to say his own name. In twenty-eight years, an old man could die. In all those years, four more Rallonzas are born, the family grows older, the graves move and sink and rise.

The numbers keep coming and I wonder what they added up to. What the constant returning in the midst of slow, relentless change really meant. Lolo would turn eighty-six in June. Just a month before, I would turn twenty. When Tatay was my age, he had a son, and then lost him. ***

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RESTING PLACES • Aisha Rallonza

We weren’t the only people in the cemetery. Undas crowded every cemetery in the city with a reminder of this, but Undas wasn’t the only time we’d visit.

Myren’s birthday was in December and Lolo’s was in June. In December and June, cemeteries weren’t heaving with every Marikeño seeing their dead. December and June were for visitors like faint gusts of wind and handfuls of people walking around with umbrellas to shield from the afternoon sun.

In Barangka Municipal Cemetery, there was always a grave caretaker named Hapon. He would hang around the graves near the entrance, would hop down from whatever grave he had climbed when we called after him. He would clean the lapida and repaint the thin letters, and once he was finished, disappear using routes of the cemetery I never got to see.

In Loyola Memorial, Robert was always there on our visits in December and June. He would never failed to materialize from the distance just as we settled down by our lot. Robert often wore a cap, always brought garden shears, and never did his job the way Nanay wanted him to. Nanay paid him to keep the grass over our lot trimmed before we arrived, but we’d always find the grass unruly and unkempt. Nanay and I would watch him smile, apologize good naturedly, and bend down to cut the grass away. The wind passed by and caught blades of green, blowing it past us, past anything we could see.

Lola came with us in June. Her short cropped hair would always catch the light, revealing the grey close to her scalp, undyed by the brown she usually used.

When I asked her how long she and Lolo had been married, she laughed, sound lilting like a bird call, and said she couldn’t remember anymore. We’d bring a little folding chair for Lola, her bones too creaky to sit on the ground, and she’d sit with an air of soft contentment much like how she sat next to Lolo’s bedside that last year as he was hooked up to countless beeping machines until they beeped no longer.

Nanay always visited. Sometimes she’d visit with nobody else. Myren was her son, and Lolo was her father. She was the one who immediately made arrangements for Lolo’s wake a mere hours after his passing. She’d be the one to buy the flowers, to light the candles, to take the pictures. She bought the stickers, but if I remember correctly, the purchase of the lot was between her and Tatay.

Once the life was over, the now, she’d take care of the after.

“You know,” she said. I had asked her about the stickers when we visited for this year’s Undas. After talking about the yearly fee, she put her hand to her face, pensive. “When I had Myren moved, I wasn’t there.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I told them we were going to move him but I told them not to open the grave unless I was with them,” she told me. There was an odd smile Nanay 64 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

RESTING PLACES • Aisha Rallonza

would get, sometimes, when she was angry about something but didn’t want to look it. She wore that smile now, frayed around the edges with use. “They didn’t listen to me.”

“Oh.” “So I’m not actually sure.”

“Of what?”

“If that’s Myren.” Nanay’s smile persisted as she went on. The graves in Barangka Municipal are so close to each other, so crowded. The ground is made of dirt and debris, and the remains of a newborn baby worn down by a decade and a half of time could look like anything. She wasn’t actually sure. “That was all I had left of my baby, and now I’m not sure if the remains are even his.”

The sky was dark. The air was cool. The words stuck in my throat. I didn’t know what to say to that. Twenty-five years, and whoever was tasked to do the moving couldn’t wait a day or two. Before I could ask her anything else, we started walking forward through the crowded sidewalk to leave the cemetery the way we came.

The way we kept coming.

She might not have been sure but yet here she was along with the rest of us. It wasn’t about being sure, then. It was about showing up anyway. *** I’ve lived with the tradition of the dead for all my life, so I wonder about the power the hold. How telling it is that the dead could keep us visiting for so long.

It could all be pinned on habit, perhaps. A tri-yearly routine ingrained in our minds, in our bodies that kept making the trek to and through the cemetery.

But ingrained elsewhere, thrumming with the same energy of heaving crowds and slow driving cars, moving forwards in spite of everything, was some kind of devotion. If anything, dying often means leaving people behind, and most are never content with staying where they were left, choosing to trail after their dead year after year. A grandfather can die, a brother can die, but the people around them didn’t. Lives are usually the center of attention, but the after bits hold just as much weight. The dead can wake the living, can make us wait for sunrises and sunsets, can carve out cities in shapes and planes just for them.

One time in Barangka Municipal Cemetery, the space where Myren’s grave was congested with people. There was a section of the cemetery farther than this, so people walked by, overwhelming in quiet ways. Nanay motioned for me to climb the ladder at the side so I could breathe easier. With stilted, awkward hefts, I

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RESTING PLACES • Aisha Rallonza

climbed. I climbed past my own height, past the heads of the passerbys, past the top of a smaller tower, and I wondered how far I could go. How high up. Barangka Municipal cemetery was right against the edge of Marikina, right next to where a sudden incline of land marked the ascent into Quezon City. Huddled here like a shelf, it was being built up, stacking graves and drowning more, and it would go on endlessly so long as people kept living and dying in the way people always did. The dead here were lifting Marikina higher, a watchtower over the city they called home.

66 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

MIKAELA REGIS 3 BFA Creative Writing

M

ay pagka-duwag ako. paminsan, bigla kong maiisip ang ilan sa mga pangyayari, mga tao at relasyon lalo, na sana ipinaglaban ko pa, at saka susunod ang mabigat na pakiramdam ng pagsisisi. Kaya ko naman sana, pero nagpalamon ako sa takot na tumaliwas sa mga pamantayan ng lipunan, nanatiling tahimik, at hinayaang mangyari ang mga nangyari. Sa nakaraang taon ko na lamang nagawang tunay na usisain ang mga nangyari, ang pagkatao, at mga paniniwala ko, at ang Unica Hijas ang nagsilbing unang hakbang upang magawa ko ang mga ito. Nanggaling sa mismong karanasan ng isa sa malapit kong kaibigan ang kuwento nina Nikki at Mitch, pero hindi ko rin mapagkakaila na bahagi ng pagkatao nina Nikki at Mitch ay pagkatao ko rin. Ngunit, kuwento rin ito ng mga kapareho naming nag-aral at nag-aaral pa rin sa isang all-girls Catholic school, isang institusyon na may ilang mapagkunwaring paniniwala at patakarang hangad lamang ang pagpapanatili ng nais nilang imahe, kahit na ang kapalit nito ang pagpapatahimik sa mga batang nais lamang magpakatotoo at magmahal. Saksi ako mismo sa sakit at walang katuturang sakripisyong hinihingi ng ganitong baluktot na pamamalakad sa mga batang babae, at ito ang nais kong isalamin sa dula. Ngunit, sa kalagitnaan ng pagsusulat, higit pang lumawak ang abottanaw ko sa aking nakaraan at napagtanto kong natunton ko na pala ang tunay na sanhi ng mga pagkakamali at takot ko. Sa ganitong pag-unawa ko nakuha ang lakas ng loob na tanggapin at ihayag ang tunay kong pagkatao, nang hinayaan kong mapanood ng mga magulang ko ang staged reading ng Unica Hijas noong una ko itong nasulat bilang ten-minute play sa Virgin Labfest 14 Fellowship Program. Ngunit, higit pa sa paglalarawan lamang ng mga hindi makatarungang katotohanan at higit pa sa pagiging purgante ng akda, sa tulong ng AHWW, ng mga co-fellows at panelists, higit sa lahat sina Sir Allan Derain at Sir Jerry Respeto, napaalalahanan ako sa higit pang mahalagang layunin ng sining. Sa kuwento ko at sa kuwentong nasaksihan ko kina Nikki, Mitch, at ng aking matalik na kaibigan, nakalimutan kong maaari din palang maging celebratory ang ganitong mga paksa, at mahalagang iyon ang ipakita sa nakararami upang hindi ma-normalisa ang ganitong mga katotohanan, upang makamit ang tunay kong hangarin na subuking wasakin ang mga hindi makaratungang pamantayan ng lipunan. Salamat Heights, salamat panitikan, at higit sa lahat, salamat teatro sa tapang at sa isang tila simple ngunit ubod na mahalagang paalala, na kahit gaano pa kadaya ang lipunan, ang tadhana, ang buhay, ipagpatuloy ang pagtatanong ng “What if?� Siyasatin ang maaaring maging mga sagot dito, dahil dito nag-uumpisa ang hakbang patungo sa kalayaan.

Para sa mga nangangati nang mag-graduate ng high school para makapagpa-pixie/boy cut, para makaasta at manamit ng kung kung paano nila gustong umasta at manamit, at higit sa lahat, para malaya nang magmahal ng kaparehong kasarian. Para sa aking mga kaibigan, pamilya, Lola Aure, at Lolo Ber, ang bukal. Lagi’t lagi.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 69

UNICA HIJAS Mikaela Regis MGA TAUHAN

17, senior high school student na running for honors. Outgoing student council president. Mahinhin.

NIKKI SANTOS – 16, junior, consistent academic awardee. Class officer. Galawgaw.

SISTER ELISE – 56, matinis at malakas ang kanyang boses, paminsan-minsa’y pumipiyok at masakit sa tenga.

MITCH CRUZ –

*Hindi kailan man makikita si SISTER ELISE sa kabuuan ng dula, boses lamang niya mula sa loob ng principal’s office ang maririnig ng manonood at tauhan tuwing sumisigaw siya.

TAGPUAN

Sa labas ng principal’s office ng isang all girls catholic school. Sa tabi ng pinto ni Sister, isang bangko na nagsisilbing waiting area.

ORAS

Pagkatapos ng dismissal time, 4 PM, sa kasalukuyan.

70 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis ANG DULA

Liliwanag. Nakaupo si MITCH sa dulo ng bangko, si NIKKI sa kabila. Sa tabi ang mga backpack at filecase nila. Hindi mapakali si MITCH na pabalik-balik ang tingin sa pinto.

MITCH

Ano nang gagawin natin Nikki?

Tatahimik lamang si NIKKI. MITCH

Anong sasabihin natin?

Tatahimik lamang si NIKKI. MITCH NIKKI

MITCH

Pa’no kung ipatawag parents natin?

Wala tayong ginawa.

Pa’no kung ‘di sila maniwala?

Saglit.

MITCH

Subukan ko kayang makinig sa pinto?

Akmang tatayo si MITCH. NIKKI

MITCH

Hindi tayo guilty.

Pero mas papaniwalaan ba tayo ni ma’am kesa kay Sister Elise?

Dahan-dahang lalakas ang tawa ni NIKKI. NIKKI

Sorry, sorry, naaalala ko lang pagmumukha niya nung sinubukan niya tayong picturan. Gagayahin niya si Sister na hirap sa dalang malaking iPad. Bagong-bago iPad ‘di marunong mag-take ng pics.

Matatawa si NIKKI. MITCH Nikki...

NIKKI

Narinig mo ba sinabi ko paglapit natin sa kanya?

Iiling si MITCH. NIKKI

“Sister naka front cam po kayo.”

Lalakas ang tawa ni NIKKI. Mapapangiti si MITCH. NIKKI

Sorry, ewan ko ba, tawang-tawa talaga ako ‘pag kabado.

MITCH I

know.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 71

UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis

NIKKI

At least nakangiti ka na.

Hahawakan ni NIKKI si MITCH, pero babatukan din niya pagkatapos.

NIKKI

YIEEEEEE! Kilig siya ih.

Mahinang tatawa si MITCH, pero mapapatingin ulit sa pinto. Katahimikan.

NIKKI

Sabihin nating nagrereview lang tayo ng Math sa sahig, kasi ‘yun naman talaga ginagawa natin.

MITCH

Maniniwala ba sila?

Tatahimik lamang si NIKKI. MITCH

Kung i-deny natin the whole time?

NIKKI

Maniniwala ba sila?

Katahimkan.

MITCH Last

NIKKI

year, ’yung kina Frances tsaka Chesca, bago sila maggraduate todo deny lang sila diba?

Oo. Pero nagawa lang nila ‘yun kasi wala namang naglaglag sa kanila.

MITCH

May maglalaglag ba sa’tin?

NIKKI

‘Di natin sure, kilala ka ng buong high school department.

Saglit.

NIKKI

Ba’t ka pa kasi tumakbong president. Sabi sayo mag-P.R.O. ka na lang ‘e, walang ginagawa.

Saglit.

NIKKI

Joke lang, I’m a supportive girlfriend.

MITCH Sshh!

Ibubulong ni NIKKI sa mukha ni MITCH. NIKKI

GIRLFRIEND! GIRLFRIEND! GIRLFRIEND!

Mapapatingin si MITCH sa pinto.

MITCH

Hindi ka na nakakatuwa.

72 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis NIKKI Maging

girlfriend?

Sisingap si NIKKI at aarteng sinasaksak ang puso. Puwedeng kantahin ang “Wag Ka Nang Umiyak” ni Gary V. Hahatakin siya ni MITCH. MITCH

May CCTV kasi!

Ituturo ni MITCH ang bandang kanan ng kisame.

NIKKI

Sila kuya guard lang naman nanonood niyan kung may nakawan ‘e.

Titingin muna si NIKKI sa paligid. Pagkatapos, mabilisan niyang ipapakita ang middle finger sa CCTV. Magugulat si MITCH at mapapatingin sa pinto.

Nikki please, baka lumabas na sila. Sabi sa’kin tayo naman daw kakausapin by five.

MITCH

Titingnan ni MITCH ang relo niya.

MITCH

Nikki, baka i-sanction or i-suspend nila tayo... and ikaw, pa’no na ‘yung academic awards mo?

Matagal bago makasagot si NIKKI. NIKKI

Shocks Mitch, sobrang madidisappoint sila mama and papa.

Sinayang nila pera nila sa “million-dollar baby” nila na.⎯

MITCH

9 years in the making dahil IVF. I know, palagi mong kinukuwento

sa’kin na palagi nilang kinukuwento sa’yo ‘yan.

Malungkot ang ngiti ni MITCH. NIKKI

Pramis, DL ako every sem ’di dahil gusto ko maganda transcript ko. ‘Di ko pa nga alam gusto kong gawin after high school e’.

Gusto ko lang proud sila sa unica hija nila. ’Yung mabalik ko ’yung mga numerong ginastos nila sa’kin sa ibang paraan.

MITCH

And they are.

NIKKI

Ngayon iisipin nilang wala na ’yung unica hija nila, dahil lang nagmahal ako ng unica hija rin. Pero anong magagawa nila?

MITCH

And anong magagawa natin?

Saglit.

NIKKI

Deny and deny until they recede? Parang sila Frances lang.

MITCH

Si Frances tinanggal sa honor roll, sabi technicalities daw pero

I’m sure… I heard it cost her a college scholarship… Si Cheska,

nag seself-harm na raw. During the investigation kasi halos

araw-araw daw siyang thine-threaten ng mga teachers. And her family…

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 73

UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis

Mahabang katahimikan. Manlulumo lalo si NIKKI. Makikita ni MITCH. MITCH

Alam mo tama ka… Sana nag P.R.O. nalang ako. Siya kasi ’yung nagbabasa ng [gagayahin ang tunog ng pagbukas ng PA at gagawing malumanay at pormal ang boses] “Corinthians chapter 1 verses four to eight” every after morning rights sa PA. Yung “love is patient...”

Itutuloy ni NIKKI ng mabilis at walang damdamin.

NIKKI

“Love is kind, it does not envy, boast, is not proud...” bla bla bla.

Kingina ‘di mo na kailangang basahin ‘yun, araw-araw kaya ‘yun sinasabi ever since Grade 1. ‘Lang kuwentang P.R.O.

Mahinang matatawa ang dalawa. Mahabang katahimikan. Seseryoso si NIKKI. NIKKI

Saglit.

“It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.”

O diba puwede na ‘kong pumasok sa kumbento. Kabogin ko ‘yang Siz Elise na ‘yan ‘e.

NIKKI

Magtatawanan ang dalawa. Saglit.

MITCH

Saglit.

NIKKI

Ang ironic ‘no, what they teach us here everyday is what they try so hard to keep us from doing.

Hindi siya ironic Mitch, hypocritical siya.

Mapapatingin si MITCH sa CCTV at sa pinto. Makikita ni NIKKI. Mag ko-korean finger hearts siya sa camera. Matatawa si MITCH. Saglit.

MITCH

Pero alam mo, tuwing naririnig ko ‘yun, naiisip kita.

Ngingiti si NIKKI. MITCH (Susubuking

gayahin ang boses ni NIKKI.) YIEEEEEE. Kilig siya ih.

Ngingiti sila. Sisikuhin ni NIKKI si MITCH. NIKKI Landi MITCH

mo.

Tapos naiisip ko rin ‘yung mga tulad natin sa school na imbis na pressures to overachieve nalang ’yung iniisip, nadadagdagan pa ng hiya, pag-ingat, at takot sa pagtago. Tapos it becomes too much na hindi na nila kinakaya.

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UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis

NIKKI

Kaya ba natin Mitch?

MITCH

As if naman may iba tayong choice…

Tunog ng paghampas ng lamesa mula sa loob ng office. Sumisigaw si SISTER ELISE. SISTER ELISE

We have to take action Mrs. Leon! This goes against the

code of conduct we set for the girls. Ano nalang ang sasabihin

ng iba if this gets out?

Maririnig ng dalawa.

NIKKI

Wala ba talaga?

MITCH Walang NIKKI

ano?

Choice.

MITCH Ano? NIKKI

MITCH NIKKI

Wala ba talaga tayong choice?

What do you mean?

I mean, wala na ba talaga tayong ibang magagawa?

MITCH

Right now, may dalawa tayong options. I-deny o umamin. Anong gusto mong gawin?

Saglit.

MITCH

It’s safer to deny, I doubt na magagawa talaga nila tayong i-suspend or i-sanction kung ganun. Puwedeng mawalan tayo ng awards, but at least hindi mag-rereflect sa records natin.

Kukunot ang noo ni NIKKI. MITCH

I mean, okay lang sa’kin na mawalan ako ng awards.

Mitch, ‘di ba sabi mo ipinaparamdam na sa’yo ng mga teachers na Valedictorian ka? Halos araw-araw mong iniyakan ‘yan, kahit mga ten-point quizzes lang. Alarm clock kita sa madaling araw ng exam weeks tuwing tinatawagan mo ‘ko habang humahagulgol ka.

NIKKI

Saglit.

NIKKI

Actually, normal pa nga ‘yan sa’tin e’, pero nakalimutan mo na bang hindi ka halos kumakain at natulog ng isang linggo dahil sa thesis defense? Sure, gold kayo for Best in Thesis pero para saan? Para sa pambihirang tapik ng tatay mo sa balikat mo?

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 75

UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis

Tatahimik lamang si MITCH.

NIKKI

Tapos ‘yung mga extra-extra-extra-curriculars mo? Akala mo nag-bibiro ako kapag sinasabi kong sana nag-PRO ka nalang? Grabe Mitch, sa dami ng bisita mo sa clinic sa oa mong pagpawis, sa sunod-sunod mong sakit ng ulo, sa kaka-hyperventilate mo…

MITCH I’m NIKKI

sorry.

Ano?

MITCH Sorry.

NIKKI

MITCH NIKKI

Bakit ka nag-sosorry?

Kasi pabigat ako.

Alam mong hindi ‘yan ang ibig-sabihin ko…

Hahawakan niya ang kamay ni MITCH, mapapatingin si MITCH sa pinto at iiiwas ang kamay kay NIKKI. MITCH Thank NIKKI

MITCH NIKKI

you.

Bare minimum pa lang ‘to.

You deserve more.

Ano? You deserve more.

Saglit.

Deserve mo ‘yung awards mo, and kung magsisinungaling tayo, lahat ng iyon…

NIKKI

MITCH

NIKKI

Pero kung magsabi tayo ng totoo, lalo lang nilang babawiin, tapos bibigyan pa tayo ng sanction.

Ako.

MITCH Huh? NIKKI

Bibigyan ako ng sanction.

MITCH Ako

rin.

Iiling si NIKKI. MITCH What?

NIKKI

Baka okey ka pa.

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UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis MITCH

Nasa sahig tayo Nikki. May katabi man tayong notebooks, dahil

nasa sahig tayo at tayong dalawa lang sa classroom, ‘yun na ‘yun for Sister Elise.

NIKKI

Paborito ka niya.

MITCH Hindi

NIKKI

na.

Paborito ka ng lahat. Ng teachers, ng admin. Hindi ka kasi marunong humindi. Goody-two-shoes, active sa lahat, overachiever… generous parents. “Model student.”

Mahuhuli ni NIKKI ang sarili. Mahabang katahimikan. Titingnan ni NIKKI si MITCH. NIKKI Masunurin, mabait, maaalahanin, mapagkumbaba, masikap, maparaan…

Ngingiti si MITCH at sasandal kay NIKKI.

NIKKI

Malumanay, madasalin, mapagkawang-gawa, malingap, mahabagin Street Teachers Village West, Quezon City.

Babatukan ni MITCH si NIKKI. Matatawa si NIKKI. NIKKI

Feeler siya ih.

Magtatawanan ang dalawa.

MITCH

Grabe, ang weird-weird mo.

Sisikuin ni NIKKI si MITCH. NIKKI

Yieee, type mo ‘ko e’.

Mag-ngingitian ang dalawa.

MITCH

NIKKI

Never ko na ata ma-gegets kung bakit of all situations sa mga ganito pa lumalakas humor mo.

Sa mga ganitong situations lang? Oy, funny kaya ‘ko ‘lagi.

Dahan-dahang iiling si MITCH, matatawa si NIKKI. Saglit.

NIKKI

‘Di ko rin alam Mitch, ang gago. Alam mo bang this week, nahuli ako ni mama na nanonood ng porn.

MITCH Huy!

Matatawa si MITCH at ituturo ang CCTV. NIKKI

Tapos hindi ko mapigilan tawa ko sa harap niya?

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 77

UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis MITCH ‘Di

NIKKI

nga?!

Na-curious lang kasi ako sa BDSM noon, pero pa’no ko naman i-eexplain sa kanya ‘yun?

Itataas ni NIKKI ang mga kamay niya.

“Gusto ko lang po malaman kung Dom or Sub ba ‘ko! Ikaw, what

do you think Ma?” Matatawa si MITCH. NIKKI

Pero wala e’ naunahan ako ng tawa dahil sa mukha niya…

(Gagayahin ni NIKKI ang itsura at ang sinabi ng nanay niya.)

“NIKKI!” NIKKI

Tatawa ang dalawa.

MITCH

Oh my god, tapos anong ginawa niya?

Pinalo lang ako sa puwet, sa harap ng altar. Pero gusto kong sabihin na halos walang difference ‘yun noong gusto niyang panoorin namin ‘yung “50 Shades of Grey.” Gago sa sinehan pa ‘yun a’! Tangina ang aawkwaaard! Nagka-stiff neck ako sa tension!

NIKKI

Magtatawanan ang dalawa.

NIKKI

Tsaka, it’s not like nahuli niya ‘kong nag-mamasturbate.

Tatakpan ni MITCH ang bibig ni NIKKI, natatawa.

MITCH

Bakit kasi bad timing humor mo… pantakip mo lang ata ‘yan sa fear of punishment mo ‘e…

Manlulumo si NIKKI. Mapapansin ni MITCH. Mahabang katahimikan.

MITCH

NIKKI

Sorry. Pero kung pagbibigyan man nila ako, ikaw din. Every year kang class president Nikki, and every year ka ring academic and deportment awardee. Kilala ka rin naman ng teachers, baka…

Council president.

Ituturo ni NIKKI si MITCH. NIKKI

Class president.

Ituturo ni NIKKI ang sarili niya.

NIKKI

Plus, graduating ka na, wala nang rason para i-suspend ka. Ako, may isang taon pa, so baka best of both worlds makuha ko.

Tatahimik lamang si MITCH. Mahinang kakantahin ni NIKKI ang “Best Of Both Worlds ni Hannah Montana.”

78 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis MITCH Nikki…

Maingay na tatayo si SISTER ELISE mula sa kanyang upuan sa loob ng office.

SISTER ELISE

Anong investigation?! Hindi pa ba sapat na nakita ko sila with my own eyes? I may be old but I am not that old. What we need to talk about now is kung anong gagawin natin sa kanila!

Sa boses ni SISTER ELISE, lalayo ng kaunti ang dalawa sa isa’t isa sa bangko.

MITCH NIKKI

Ano na, Nikki?

Sabihin nating, may kasama talaga tayo pero nauna nang umalis.

Ituturo ni MITCH ang CCTV. NIKKI

May CCTV din ba sa corridor na ‘yun?

Tatango si MITCH. NIKKI

I-checheck pa ba talaga nila?

Saglit.

MITCH

Kung i-check nila, then they’ll see na wala talaga tayong ginagawa!

NIKKI

Walang CCTV sa loob ng classrooms. ‘Di ba mga magulang din natin ang nag-push na huwag ituloy ‘yun?

Saglit.

Magbigay tayo ng mga pangalan ng couples sa school. ‘Yung mga hindi natin ka-close, in exchange for.

MITCH No.

Saglit.

MITCH

What else can we say?

Malakas ang boses ni NIKKI.

“Sister, saan po galing ang iPad Pro niyo? ‘Di ba naka vow of poverty po kayo?”

NIKKI

MITCH Nikki!

NIKKI “Nabilhan

na naman po namin kayo ng gadget, baka puwedeng bilhin na rin po namin kayo?”

Tatakpan ni MITCH ang bibig ni NIKKI. Pupuligwas si NIKKI.

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UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis NIKKI

Or…

Tatayo si NIKKI, tatanggalin niya ang sapatos at ihahagis ito sa CCTV, hindi ito tatamaan. Ituturo ni NIKKI ang nahulog na sapatos.

NIKKI

Ganun, pero dun sa isa pa. Kung sirain natin pareho, wala na silang magagamit laban sa’tin.

Pupulutin ni MITCH ang sapatos at ibabalik kay NIKKI. MITCH NIKKI

Ano?

MITCH NIKKI

Sure kang wala na silang magagamit sa’tin?

Paano awards natin?

Akala ko ba okay lang sa’yo mawalan ng awards?

MITCH Parents

natin?

Mauupo muli ang dalawa. Katahimikan.

NIKKI

Sorry.

Saglit.

NIKKI

MITCH NIKKI

Sila Frances and Chesca… kamusta sila, alam mo ba?

Sila parin. Pero sabi Frances, baka hindi na rin magtagal.

Bakit daw?

MITCH

May psychiatrist na si Chesca.

Kahit sino naman these days puwede nang magkaroon ‘di ba?

Like you.

NIKKI

MITCH

Pinapagme-meds na rin siya.

Saglit.

MITCH

Like me… Pa’no ba naman kasi Nikki, ‘yung ginawa nila kay Chesca…

NIKKI

NIKKI

Oo nga, sabi mo araw-araw siyang binabantaan.

Sa office ‘lagi ang punta niya tuwing grad practice. Pero first, pinagbawalan muna silang mag-usap. Bawal sila makita magkasama, kahit kapag school work. Tapos one time, nung ipinapunta siya sa office, isa-isa nilang nilatag sa table ‘yung recognitions, awards, certificates, and medals ni Frances. Sabi

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UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis

ni Mrs. Leon sa kanya na kung hindi niya hiwalayan si Frances, mawawala lahat ng iyon.

NIKKI

Tangina, ang daya, kung sina Alex at Cha ‘yung nahuli, for sure hindi ganyan ‘yung treatment. Baka nga patay malisya lang sila…

The only advantage you get for not doing “good” in school.

MITCH

What makes you say that?

Advantage lang naman awards awards natin for when they don’t matter. Nakakabili siya ng attention, favoritism, and admiration, pero kapalit nun, kalayaan sa mga gusto mong gawin, sa mga gusto mong kasama, ‘yung talagang mahalaga.

NIKKI

MITCH Effed-up

economy…

Katahimikan.

NIKKI

MITCH NIKKI

MITCH

Kamusta si Frances?

Pinatawag ‘yung parents.

Ano raw sabi?

Abnormal daw siya, or ’yung acts at least… At kung hindi raw niya tumigil, ipapatigil daw muna siya sa pag-aaral, or palilipatin sa isang co-ed school. Ngayon, kinukulong na lang daw siya sa bahay.

Hindi nila siya matingnan, mahawakan. Alam mo, sabi ni Frances she’d rather be disowned kaysa they act like nothing happened.

Pabulong na sasambitin ni NIKKI. NIKKI

Oh my god…

MITCH

Kinaya naman nila Frances and Chesca until graduation, akala

nila matatapos na lahat by then… Pero they’re just not the same anymore.

Saglit.

MITCH

Pero kinaya nila… and iba tayo.

Mahabang katahimikan.

NIKKI

Ikaw.

MITCH Ano? NIKKI

MITCH

Sa tingin mo kakayanin mo?

Wala akong choice Nikki… wala tayong choice.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 81

UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis

Mahabang katahimikan.

NIKKI

MITCH NIKKI

Kahit kayanin ko Mitch, hindi mo kakayanin.

Thank you ha.

I mean…

MITCH

What makes you so sure?

Three years. Akala ko wala nang mas lalala sa mga nakita ko sa first year natin together pero… Iba this year. Mas nakakahinga pa’ko kaysa sa’yo na tapos ka na… for now.

NIKKI

MITCH Kakayanin

ko.

Iiling si NIKKI. MITCH

Pipilitin kong kayanin.

Tatahimik lamang si NIKKI. MITCH

Kaya ko, Nikki.

Mahabang katahimikan.

MITCH

Baka if we explain na… na may ano ako… na may mga ano ako…

Tatawa’t iiling si NIKKI. Saglit.

Sorry. Pero alam mo namang hindi sila naniniwala sa mga

ganyan, I mean alam nila, pero iba ang tawag nila diyan.

“Moments of weakness,” “mind over matter,” “nothing a prayer can’t solve.”

NIKKI

Saglit.

MITCH Fuck.

Magugulat si NIKKI. Saglit. Aakbayan niya si MITCH, isasandal ang ulo nito sa balikat niya, at hahalikan ang kanyang noo. Titingin si NIKKI sa CCTV ng saglit, kukunin ang lantang kamay ni MITCH, pilit na ihuhulma ang middle finger sa kamay niya, at iaangat ito sa CCTV. Malungkot ang ngiti ni MITCH. Saglit.

MITCH Holy NIKKI

shit.

Wow, variety. “Potakels” naman.

Matatawa si NIKKI, pero tahimik lamang si MITCH. Dadalhin ni NIKKI si MITCH sa ilalim ng CCTV. 82 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis NIKKI

Blind spot ng camera.

Lilingon si MITCH sa pinto ngunit kukunin ni NIKKI ang mukha niya at hahalikan siya sa labi. Magugulat si MITCH ngunit hindi siya iiwas.

MITCH

Pagod na’ko magtago Nikki…

Ngingiti lamang si NIKKI, hahatakin muli siya papunta sa harap mismo ng CCTV. Akmang hahalik ulit sa labi si NIKKI ngunit iiwas si MITCH at sa pisngi siya mahahalikan. Babalik siya sa bangko.

MITCH

Pero kasi Nikki, kung umamin tayo pinadadali lang natin buhay nila, and mas mabilis lang nilang hihirapan ‘yung atin.

Saglit.

MITCH ‘Di

ba?

Mahabang katahimikan.

MITCH

Uy, Nikki. Option ba talagang magsabi ng totoo?

Mahinang sasambitin ni NIKKI. NIKKI

Puwedeng bumait sila sa’tin. If makita nilang genuine tayo.

MITCH

Genuine saan? ‘Di ba mas nakakagalit ‘yun sa kanila if makita nilang genuine ‘to?

Ituturo niya silang dalawa. Iiling si NIKKI. NIKKI

Hindi…

MITCH

NIKKI

MITCH

Hindi? We’d just be giving them the evidence they need Nikki, kung hindi nga pumalpak si Sister sa iPad niya, baka nga hindi na natin kailangang pag-usapan ‘to.

Hindi, I mean…

Ano? ‘Di ko gets kung anong gusto mo.

Hindi matingnan ni NIKKI si MITCH. NIKKI

I mean…

Saglit. Babalik si NIKKI sa bangko.

NIKKI

MITCH

I mean, isipin mo naman sarili mo for once…

E’ pa’no ka? Ikaw na mismo nagsabi na mas i-fafavor nila ako.

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UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis

Tatahimik lamang si NIKKI. MITCH

Kaya mong pagdaanan lahat ng iyon? Especially with one more year here?

Tatahimik lamang si NIKKI. MITCH Huwag.

NIKKI

Mitch…

MITCH NIKKI

Mitch kasi

MITCH NIKKI

Huwag Nikki, ayoko.

Lesser evil ang magsinungaling, Nikki.

Sure ka?

MITCH

Bakit ba hinahanapan mo ng butas lahat?

NIKKI

Kasi ‘yun ‘yung gagawin nila sa’tin. Pahihirapan nila tayo. Bago pa nga nito hirap na hirap na tayo, pa’no pa kaya kung…

MITCH

E’ ‘di pahirapan nila tayo.

Tatayo si MITCH at haharap sa CCTV. MITCH Fuck

you.

Tunog ng mga yapak mula sa loob ng office na papalapit sa pinto.

SISTER ELISE I agree that we should call their parents, wala silang kaalam alam, I’m sure they’ll be just as disappointed as we are. Kilala ko

ang parents ni Nikki. Hindi sila kasing active ng nanay ni Mitch pero responsable sila.

Mabilisang pauupuin ni NIKKI si MITCH. NIKKI

Hindi worth it Mitch.

Mapapatigil si MITCH at tititigan lamang si NIKKI. Hindi siya matingnan ni NIKKI. MITCH What?

Saglit.

NIKKI

Sa’yo.

MITCH

Well, worth it for me.

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UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis NIKKI

MITCH

Sinasabi mo lang ‘yan.

Hindi. Bakit, ikaw ba?

Mahabang katahimikan.

MITCH Nikki?

NIKKI

Hindi ako kasing lakas mo Mitch.

Tatabihan ni MITCH si NIKKI sa bangko.

MITCH

What? Sa’yo ‘to galing Nikki. Sa’yo ko nalamang okey lang. Na okey lang magpaka… ewan.

Matatawa ng kaunti si MITCH. Iiling ng iiling si NIKKI, tinatago ang mukha.

MITCH Hey.

Lalapit si MITCH kay NIKKI sa bangko.

NIKKI

‘Di talaga Mitch.

MITCH Magkasama

tayo.

Iiling si NIKKI. Saglit.

MITCH

Anong gusto mong gawin?

Mahabang katahimikan.

NIKKI

MITCH

Huwag nalang nating ituloy.

Ang alin? Ang pagpunta?

Saglit.

MITCH

Okay lang sa’kin, we can put this off, takas tayo, uwi na tayo, andiyan lang driver ko.

Saglit.

NIKKI

Hindi Mitch, ito.

MITCH Ha?

Saglit.

NIKKI

Huwag nalang natin ituloy ‘to.

Mahabang katahimikan.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 85

UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis MITCH Bakit?

Mahabang katahimikan.

Hindi ko kaya.

MITCH

Wala pa nga e’.

NIKKI

NIKKI Kaya MITCH Kaya

nga. na’tin ‘to Nikki.

Mahabang katahimikan.

MITCH

Basta tayong dalawa.

Mahabang katahimikan. Ituturo ni MITCH ang CCTV habang tinitingnan si NIKKI. MITCH Tangina

nila.

Iiling si NIKKI. Mahabang katahimikan.

MITCH

Anong magandang… what good will this do?

Mahabang katahimikan.

Kung sabihin natin ‘yung totoo, ‘yung totoong-totoo, at sundin

natin ‘yung gusto nila, hindi na sila mag i-investigate. Baka mag Valedictorian ka pa rin. Wala nang pabigat sa’yo emotionally at mentally.

NIKKI

MITCH

What do you think this will do to me?

Saglit.

Baka hindi na ‘ko i-suspend, and baka hindi na rin nila bawiin ‘yung awards ko.

NIKKI

Mahabang katahimikan.

MITCH

Almost four years, Nikki.

Tatahimik lamang si NIKKI. MITCH

Pa’no na ’yung mga plano natin? Hihintayin kita sa college, magcocondo ka, mag-dodorm ako, mas malaya na tayong makakalabas. We don’t have to look over our shoulders anymore.

After grad, dun tayo sa BGC kasama ng dalawang aso natin, isang Golden Retriever, isang Maltese…

Marami pang puwedeng mangyari, Mitch. Seventeen ka pa lang, sixteen pa lang ako.

NIKKI

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UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis

Mahabang katahimikan.

MITCH

How long have you thought about this?

Saglit.

NIKKI

I’m so sorry Mitch.

Hindi matingnan ni MITCH si NIKKI. Saglit.

MITCH

Mababago ko pa ba isip mo?

Mahabang katahimikan.

MITCH

I thought iba tayo sa kanila. Naniwala akong malalamapsan natin ‘to.

Saglit.

MITCH NIKKI

Naniniwala pa rin ako.

I’m sorry.

Mahabang katahimikan.

MITCH NIKKI

MITCH NIKKI

Hindi mo na ba ako mahal?

Hindi, mahal kita.

Mahal din kita.

Pero

MITCH Pero.

Saglit.

MITCH Pero?

Mahabang katahimikan.

NIKKI

‘Yung mga magulang ko… Bukod pa sa kuwento kung paanong nabuo ako dahil sa IVF, ang isa pang gustong-gusto nilang ikinukuwento sa’kin, at sa ibang mga tao, ay ‘yung paanong tuwing May, dumadayo sila sa Obando ng tatlong araw para sayawan ng fandango sina San Pascual, Santa Clara, at si Nuestra Señora e Salambáo. Habang sumasayaw, may hawak silang mga itlog, tapos taimtim nilang idinadasal na basbasan ‘yung sinapupunan ni mama at mabuo ako. Si mama, kasama sa dasal niya na sana lumabas akong normal. Wala na raw kasi

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AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK

siyang matinong itlog. Pero sabi ni papa, ang dasal niya, basta

biyayaan lang daw sila ng anak ni Lord, kahit may diperensya,

aalagaan at mamahalin nila ng taus-puso. Tapos, pagkatapos

niyang sabihin sa’kin ‘yun, palagi siyang naiiyak, tapos yayakapin

niya ako at mag papasalamat at lumabas akong higit pa sa ipinagdasal nya.

Saglit.

NIKKI

Halos araw-araw kong iniisip kung ito na ba ‘yun.

Hahawakan ni NIKKI ang mga kamay ni MITCH. MITCH Ang

alin?

NIKKI

Kung sinisiling na ba siya ni Lord. Lumabas nga akong “matino”, nagmahal naman ng kapuwa babae.

MITCH

Mahal din kita.

NIKKI

Pero…

Saglit.

NIKKI

MITCH

Hindi ko alam… Natatakot ako.

Ako rin Nikki, shit Nikki lalong-lalo na ako.

Saglit.

MITCH

Pero “love is patient, love is kind, it does not envy, boast, is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs… Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres”

Saglit.

MITCH

Sasabihan natin sa kanila ‘yan, ipapakita natin, ipaparamdam natin. Sa bibliya mismo nanggaling ‘yan.

Nagiging totoo lang naman sa kanila ‘yan tuwing convenient paniwalaan e’.

NIKKI

Saglit.

MITCH

Ikaw, pinaniniwalaan mo ba?

Saglit.

NIKKI

Ang hirap.

88 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

UNICA HIJAS • Mikaela Regis

Saglit.

NIKKI

Nalilito ako Mitch.

Dadalhin ni MITCH si NIKKI sa blind spot ng camera at hahawakan ang mga kamay niya.

MITCH

Well then, pag-isipan mo muna ulit ‘to ng mas mabuti.

Titingin si NIKKI sa relo niya.

MITCH NIKKI

Next week na tayo pumunta. Or bukas. Please, Nikki.

I’m so sorry Mitch.

Dadalhin ni MITCH si NIKKI sa harap ng CCTV. Hahalikan niya ng saglit si NIKKI. Hindi kakawala si NIKKI. MITCH

Nikki, please. Please.

Titingin sa relo si NIKKI. NIKKI

MITCH

Mitch, five na.

Remember, walang-wala ’yung mga buwang paparating, kung ipaglaban natin ‘to, sa three years nating magkasama.

Saglit.

NIKKI

Three years.

Tunong ng mga ginagalaw na upuan mula sa loob ng office at tunog ng mga yapak na papalapit sa pinto.

NIKKI

Anong gagawin natin? Anong sasabihin natin?

Iaabot ni MITCH ang kamay niya kay NIKKI. NIKKI

Wala tayong ginawa.

Ngingiti si MITCH. Maghahawakan ang dalawa at haharapin ang pinto ng principal’s office. Magdidilim ang entablado.

TELON

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 89

NICO SANTANA 2 BS Management Engineering

I

am the writer I am today almost entirely because of the people around me. I got into creative writing because a teacher of mine suggested I join the creative writing club after the badminton club ran out of available slots. I started writing poetry because my org moderator mentioned that he thought I’d be better at that than writing fiction. I switched from rhymes to free verse after my cousins made me watch some spoken word poem on YouTube. I started to fixate on imagery when my mentor called it one of my strong points. I gained the confidence to engage in online writing communities when a friend told me she liked a poem I wrote and that I should post it on my tumblr.

I can never fully repay these people for how much their small actions and kind words have created the path I walk on today. However, I do attempt to do so by writing about the many small, silly, and strange things I encounter in my day-to-day life. I write about the beetle I saw earlier lying on its back, or the math problem my high school teacher dared us to solve, or the history of apples that I learned about in a reading for EnLit. I try to find the most fun words to use and the weirdest sequence of images that still manages to work, so that I can describe the world in a way that captures exactly how I see it. In doing so, I hope to show those who have made me this way how they have changed the way I understand the world around me, and how they have helped me learn to appreciate the ordinary. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I can show other people too, just how new and exciting the everyday happenings of our lives can be.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 91

LET’S PRETEND YOU’RE JOHNNY APPLESEED Nico Santana

The story begins and ends on the River that goes nowhere. Beside you, I am rippling at the sight of you parting The waves of your hair, the sound of Your laughter bubbling in your chest.

You see my red, excuse my blush – You have sweetened me, but I cannot Grow into something that will satisfy You. This journey is a question: if not Here, then where? Another brook, and Another stream – and always, back to The same river. The fruit of my wanting Is bitter, but here is my fantasy, the roots In the riverbank: what if we landed at the Foot of an apple orchard, and the trees Blossomed endlessly? What if it rained Cider whenever you pressed me to your Lips? These little fictions, I offer to the Gardens we leave behind, and even if We can only float aimlessly together – Somehow, there is a place where spring Never ends. If a silly dream can taste real Enough, then I will wonder endlessly: what If I could make you feel how you held me in Your hand, and I never knew hunger again?

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MIGUEL SANTIAGO 4 BFA Creative Writing

A

s a writer who currently identifies as a gay man from a particular socio-economic milieu, an inevitable question that I should have (but did not actually) foresee is the question of what my stakes are in participating in the discussion of women’s equality; more particularly, the discussion of telling and re-telling women’s narratives, considering my particular context.

But despite the perceived inevitability of this question, the first time this question was explicitly posed to me was at the 24th Ateneo Heights Writers’ Workshop (AHWW 24). What complicated my endeavors to answer this is my history with women’s narratives and the woman’s perception. I have always thought of myself as simply allowed to participate in this discourse because of my personal history with women and girls: for as long as I can remember, I have aligned my gender expression and gender identity with women. Growing up, I identified more with the women in the movies and TV shows I watched than with the men. I connected with their character developments, narrative milestones, and physical-emotional transformations.

Because of this developed connection, I saw myself more as a woman operating under the politics of womanhood, which then granted me the right to participate in their discourse. The eventual realization that my own body presents a giant flaw in my logic was something I had a hard time accepting. This showed in my writing in a painful way, in that I remained unable to answer the question: “What are your stakes as a male writer, in writing a story about women fighting for equality?”

In raising this concern, AHWW 24 has granted me the tools I needed to take the next big step as a writer to be able to tell and re-tell the stories of the women whose behaviorisms and narratives I incorporated into my own identity. “An Attempt to Tell the Story of the Little Mermaid by a Man Who Means Well” is a manifestation of the process of negotiation I underwent when I attempted to converse with the “Little Mermaid” narrative not as a “woman” (as the child in me would still so desperately like to believe), but as a queer male writer who is now more aware of the complexities of the discourse he wants to immerse himself into.

Such a journey wouldn’t have been possible without the constant support of all of the writer-friends who supported me throughout the years. I have been trying to get into AHWW 24 for over four years. My getting in wouldn’t have been possible without the following people: Ives, Chesca, James, Tim, Jolo, Dainty, Alexa, Bacon (my sCWad); my friends from WriterSkill and Heights, who encouraged me to pursue excellence, but to understand that it is also a neverending process; all of my fiction professors over the years (particularly Sir Carlo Flordeliza, Sir Glenn Diaz, Ms. Cyan Abad-Jugo); and, last but not least, Winx Club, Totally Spies!, W.I.T.C.H., and all of the Barbie movies and Disney princess movies I watched as a kid.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 95

AN ATTEMPT TO TELL THE STORY OF THE LITTLE MERMAID

BY A MAN WHO MEANS WELL Miguel Santiago

—once upon a time, there was a little mermaid named— —Don’t use my name.

—But how will people know it’s your story?

—It’s not just my story. I’ve already told you this.

—Right. Sorry. once upon a time, there was a little mermaid— —Why am I little?

—Oh, sorry. What adjective would you want me to use?

—Just “mermaid” will do.

—Of course. once upon a time, there was a mermaid, the youngest daughter of the king of the sea, who dreamed about what life would be like on land.

—Stop. Is there another way to describe me? I sound like… a bubble—yes.

Yearning only to break through the surface of the waves.

—Understandable. What would you like me to draw attention to in this re-telling?

—My father’s magic.

—I beg your pardon?

—I think, more accurately, the way my father utilized his magic. There is only one magic, which creates and rejuvenates. Such a magic can be best utilized when the conduit used to channel it reflects its function. But my father’s magic was a destructive magic, capable of melting a mermaid’s flesh right off her bones, and split her tail down the middle in a horrifying mockery of human legs.

—What… what did he do?

—He did all of these things to my sisters. Right in front of me. Such is the language of men.

—Why would he do such a thing?

—To renounce my father’s claim over my body is to shed the name he gave

Miguel Santiago

me. Such a symbolic act requires witnesses, to which my sisters and the sea witch agreed to. They all perished in helping me escape.

—The sea witch?

—Don’t act so surprised. After escaping the clutches of my prince, encountering an exiled woman was a welcome reprieve.

—The clutches of your prince? An exiled woman?

—These are stories upon stories. This is why I requested we start at the beginning.

—The beginning is relative upon which story we want to tell, specifically.

— —I’m sorry.

—Keep going.

—Of course. once upon a time, there lived a mermaid, who was the youngest daughter of the king of the sea— —Is there another way to introduce me to the story other than being the daughter of the king?

—How about—?

—And do not even consider introducing me as the beloved of the prince.

That is so much worse.

—Why? —Being someone’s beloved casts me as the role of someone’s possession.

Never again will I fall for such a trap.

—Love is not a trap.

—I never said that what he had for me was love. Love is an unknown magic.

I know only what it isn’t: what my prince did to me.

—What exactly did he do to you?

— —There will always be stories upon stories. As storytellers, we situate ourselves in a unique position that allows us to privilege certain perspectives.

As a mermaid whose culture is rooted in orality, you should know this more than anyone.

—...He and my father had much in common. While the prince possessed no connection to the magic of the sea like what the trident afforded my father, both of them spun the chariot wheel that crushed women like my sisters and myself underneath its spokes for generations. It took mistaking a human prince as my savior for me to realize that men with legs spin this wheel no differently from men with tails.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 97

AN ATTEMPT TO TELL THE STORY OF THE LITTLE MERMAID

BY A MAN WHO MEANS WELL

—What do you mean?

—Imagine this: your prince comes for you with his manhood jammed inside the fleshy, virgin clam in between your legs, one hand shackling your wrists above your head, and the other gripping at the mound of your right breast.

—I have never heard of sex rendered as confinement before.

—Clearly, you have never been at the receiving end of such a treatment.

—…

—Now, imagine him panting his god’s name against your neck before biting at the flesh there. You feel as though you have exhausted your tears, but your new body registers pain, so you try to pull away. He only grips you harder, tightens the cage of his body around yours. Even his thighs manage to render your new legs useless. What good is trading your voice for legs that you can walk with, if the prince you love would rather have them spread and trembling, useless, in the air. Eventually, he releases your body from his cage, and the first thing you do is wish that you had your tail back.

—I’m sorry.

—Imagine yourself sinking into the sheets—a sorry excuse for an ocean, surely—staring at him as he pats himself clean with the rumpled sheets of your marriage bed. With you staring at him from the sheets, he towers above you like a terrible god. You have only ever felt this small in the presence of one other: your father.

—I’m sorry.

—Distantly, you feel as though your body isn’t yours anymore. These are not my lips. These are not my lungs. These are not my breasts. These are not my legs. So who do they belong to?

—I’m sorry.

—The sea witch gave you your legs. Of course. You can’t forget that. In exchange for your voice, she gave you legs so that your sailor-prince would notice you. Love you. Marry you. Conclude your story with a mythified image of you and him casting a silhouette against the sunset with “true love’s kiss.”

—I’m— —Stop apologizing. Remember that your body’s ownership has been called into question. Who does it belong to? Definitely not you. Not anymore.

—I’m sorry.

—Your apologies achieve nothing. Continue.

—once upon a time, there was a mermaid.

—Why did you stop?

98 | ATENEO HEIGHTS’ WRITERS WORKSHOP 2019

Miguel Santiago

—To navigate these stories-upon-stories, I think it would be prudent to physicalize yourself. Give yourself a form in this narrative, so that it would be easier for people to see in their heads the mermaid who took it upon herself to escape the cycle of abuse she had been born into.

—Description oppresses. Especially when wrought from the mouths of men.

I will not let a man reduce me to adjectives ever again.

—I’m just trying to help.

—If you really wanted to help, your people would have provided me with a woman writer.

—What do you even mean by a “woman writer?”

—One who is exactly like me.

—Do you not find that problematic?

—How dare—?

—Please hear me out— —No. All my life, I have been silenced by your kind. I tire of hearing your voices silencing my sisters and mine.

—Do you seek to empower the voices of women everywhere, or do you only desire the ones who look and think exactly like you? Do you seek to build a nation from the rubble of your father’s empire, or merely recreate it with your face painted on the walls?

—No… —No, what?

— —You called the sea witch an exiled woman. What was she exiled for?

—Magic. She took it upon herself to learn more about the power in her veins, the magic in her body. Such an endeavor under the eyes of my father, the king, was doomed for failure.

—Did she fail?

—No. She had only grown more and more powerful, until her magic rivalled that of my father’s. Upon seeing her power, my father gave her family a choice: suffer the wrath of the crown, or have herself removed from his kingdom so wholly and completely that her very name would be stricken from everyone’s memory. She would cease to be someone’s daughter, sister, friend, beloved. She would only be remembered as the sea witch: a despised name on the mer-folk’s tongue and on the mer-folk’s community.

—…

—Women suffering to appease a man’s bruised ego: a tale as old as time.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 99

AN ATTEMPT TO TELL THE STORY OF THE LITTLE MERMAID

BY A MAN WHO MEANS WELL

—Her exile was birthed from your father’s abhorrence of change. Surely, you must have realized this.

—Yes, I did.

—Did you not notice that your single-minded pursuit of letting your women dominate conversations of power is merely recreating the kind of oppressive structures that your father and your prince flourished in?

— —This is not healthy and you know it.

—You are doing the exact opposite of what I employed you for. It seems you are no longer interested in telling my story—the stories of the women who died to grant me the power to share their stories with the women on land.

—As storytellers, it would be our duties to render these women as true to life as we possibly can. This requires presenting them as more than just figures meant to forward our own personal vendettas.

—You are a fool.

—No. I am a man. I am a man that has been raised by women’s stories all his life. I know their stories and their bodies and their mannerisms more than most men I know can claim. I have had within me the desire to tell and re-tell their stories from the moment my grandmother passed onto me her own stories that she had learned from the distant province she was born in, from the moment my mother had set aside enough money to take me to people who could teach me how to read words and write on leaves or parchment or whatever I could get my hands on. I have had within me the desire to tell their stories when I realized that to carry these women with me in my actions and my words is to invite scorn from most of the men I have met. I have had within me the desire to tell their stories to prove these men wrong.

— —So. Forgive me for bringing up these concerns which I feel is something that you have personally forgotten to consider when you asked me to write your stories-upon-stories for you.

—…

—Why are you looking at me like that?

—You are a novelty: a man who identifies more with the women whose stories he wishes to tell.

—I am.

—Fascinating.

—

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Miguel Santiago

—Everything makes all the more sense now: when I first saw you with your hair down by the light-beds— —Light-beds?

—The shallow part of the ocean, where the light can still shimmer across the sand-beds. Light-beds. I saw in you the same essence of creation-magic that I felt in all of my sisters, in the sea witch, in all of the women I have met under the sea. Imagine my confusion when I saw that which hung between your legs.

— … I feel strangely flattered. Thank you.

— —Seeing where we are now, how do you want to proceed?

— —Do you still want to start from the beginning, in the way you intended for me to do?

—No. I—I need time to think.

—Of course. I will be here.

—And I thank you for that.

—Thank you for this, too.

—For? —For taking the time to think. For taking the time to speak with me and learn alongside me.

—This is where change begins.

—Quite.

AHWW 24 CHAPBOOK | 101

24TH ATENEO HEIGHTS WRITERS’ WORKSHOP Balay Indang, Indang, Cavite City • February 23–25, 2019

WORKSHOP DIRECTORS Cat Aquino Sophia Bonoan PANELISTS

FELLOWS

Mark Anthony Cayanan Conchitina Cruz Allan Derain Gabriela Lee Christine V. Lao Glenn Mas Allan Popa Vincenz Serrano Bebang Siy Martin Villanueva

Alvy Alviar [DULA] Emmanuel Lacadin [TULA] Gewell Llorin [TULA] Marty Nevada [POETRY] Camille Ong [NONFICTION] Franchesca Palattao [FICTION] Aisha Rallonza [NONFICTION] Mikaela Regis [DULA] Nico Santana [POETRY] Miguel Santiago [FICTION]

WORKSHOP DELIBERATIONS COMMITTEE English Catherina Dario Carlo Flordeliza Jasmine Nikki Paredes Stephanie Shi

Filipino Christian Benitez Nicko Caluya Jerome Flor Jonnel Inojosa

WORKSHOP COMMITTEE Martina Herras, Oey Mirabueno, Patricia Sarmiento [PROGRAMS & LOGISTICS] JJ Agcaoili, Zoe Andin, Gabrielle Leung, Chaela Tiglao [ONLINE TEAM] Hazel Lam, Ryan Molen [FINANCE] Jana V. Cordera, Diana F. David, Pilar Gonzales [DESIGN] HEIGHTS ATENEO MODERATOR Martin V. Villanueva