fil-in-the-gap

I had the honor of presenting at the conference with my beautiful bff, visual artist exrraordinaire and community activist Melanya Liwanag Aguila, and we enjoined participants to write to find home/to be home/to make home. Most of them took the challenge of writing hay na kus, a form invented by the fabulous and among the most prolific Pinoy poets I know, Eileen Tabios. Here they are:

This beautiful young woman walked into my classroom, one day and 30 minutes late. She had pursed lips, dreamy eyes, glistening curly hair tied tightly in a long ponytail, and a pair of starkly white earbuds. She had a name that sounded like the desert in the wintertime, and she wore a short, black, tight overalls/onesie? Not sure quite what to call it. She stayed for a day, barely there, talked about a twin sister that does not want anything to do with her and keeps her from seeing her niece/nephew, when I asked students to write about a problem they have concerning their neighborhood.

The next day, she asked to talk to me outside, motioning me with her beautiful ear-budded head. I was distracted at first, trying to do the stupid grammar diagnostic with my students, which I think intimidated her. We spoke by the window at the end of the hallway, and I closed the book after a few words. She said she’s not made for the classroom or that education is not her “thing”. That she belongs to the streets. Only 20, she works in security, and I could not imagine that brave bold body in a boring security uniform. I told her I am not going to convince her otherwise, if she believes she’s not ready for college.

“You don’t understand; I’ve taken this class three times. I know myself. I’m not gonna pass,” she reiterated.

In my head, I wondered why she was telling me this. Did she want me to convince her otherwise? Did she want me to reassure her that, yes, it’s gonna be fine. You’ll make it this time, eventhough I wasn’t certain.

At the beginning of the semester I always tell my students not to be deceived by my calm and patient demeanor, because many have failed my class because they simply were not ready. Not emotionally. Not mentally. Mostly emotionally, really. They are still in high school, cutting classes or coming to school glassy-eyed, submitting crammed homework peppered with run-ons and misspelled words. Why should I give reassurances now?

At the end, I felt that we talked but did not really have a conversation, because I was not really hearing what she was saying. I just wanted to get back to a classroom full of students who actually wanted to be there.

When we got back in, she took her stuff and left. I wished now that I had listened better, because I think that’s all she wanted. Someone to talk to, someone to reiterate her beliefs to. But I can’t deny that I was not annoyed by her nonchalance, the way she thought she could just waltz in to my classroom as if she was going to a party, dressed to impress, fashionably late.

I was not expecting

to see lake Michigan so blue

between tall scrapers casting

hooded shadows at 5:04

on St. Patrick’s day

You, crumpled in despair

between wrinkly pallid sheets,

fatigued, turning on your side,

a chore; talking, all the more

I wondered if I’m imposing

my presence on you

my being here

but you wanted me to stay

and we talked about folks at

work, my kids, the day I got

married and there was no

music so everyone sang —

Dan dan dadan, dan dan

dadan, dan dan dadan dadan

My fake wedding that has

lasted 15 years. I told you I

couldn’t think of any other

way to get married, and you

agreed, smiling, because

laughing would have hurt.

My mother was in a coma

same time last year, but I do

not dare remind you

two weeks I stayed with her,

almost every night, without

the privilege of “not wanting

to see her like this”

Not like my siblings who saw

her most days, some not her

best, often made her smile

when she wasn’t feeling up to it

We had honeymoon days, she

and I, the week-long

sweetness between us

lathered over past battles,

having discovered our

humanity across the ocean

That’s what distance does,

I suppose.

But you do not think you’ll

have that with your little one

No decided discoveries

between you two

Only nine and mutinous, and

you sulked over her

overextended iPad use, but I

promised you that things will

be alright, as if I’ve suddenly

become an expert on

childhood development, and

you simpered because that’s all

the energy you have for, and

we stayed silent together, as I

tidied up, arranged cold packs

and heat packs in a pile; threw

out used hand wipes and half-

eaten fruits as the sun sets on

the other side of Chicago,

leaving but a bar of faded

orange above the still lake.

Home again in the same year. I’m not sure why, really. I tell everyone it’s to be with family. First time spending Christmas without Mom. Truth is I just want to be close to where she used to be. This time the trip is not for her or for family. It’s for me.

I just need to feel her presence somehow. Not that she doesn’t pervade my thoughts everyday. I miss her so much. I wish I had recorded her as my mother. Not her as Miss Tapia, the television character. Although she had embraced that role, when she let the bun down, she was just my mother. Mythic in her own way, but also quite vulnerable and given to fits of fierce frustrations.

Maybe I came home to feel her absence, too. I came home to not be with her. To not sleep beside her, listening to her every breathe. To not watch her put on make up before going to work. To not hear her distinctive voice calling my name (after two or so incorrect references, usually my other siblings’ names), a voice that had grown sweeter over the years. To not feel her hug, her kiss, her caress that had turned more generous, an effluence of affection, which she withheld before like coveted holiday confection. To not watch her give orders about how she wanted things done, especially the Christmas tree and the lights and the watering of the garden in the late afternoon to keep the moisture in the ground through the night.

To not be with her, period.

It was easy to pretend she’s only waiting for me to come back home like she always did and always sweetly urged me to do, arms open, smiling… but she won’t be.

Not this time.

#losingmom #anaknitapia