Living post-AFAP

August 5, 2008

AFAP ended last Friday, August 1st with a semi-last minute trip to Malate (the former Red Light district of the American colonial period). While in the dorms we have to abide by the same rules as every other student in residence. This means that we must obey the curfew hour of 10:00 PM. (un)Fortunately, because we are Americans and exceptions are always made for Americans in the Philippines, we have been able, with ample warning, to extend the curfew hours to 12AM. Yet, since Malate is rather far from Dasmarinas and we were most likely to arrive well after 12AM, our staff let us know that it was best to just go ahead and sleep over at our host families rather than soil the AFAP name further. So, we agreed. It’s a good thing too, since we ended up leaving Dasmarinas at about 10:30PM. By the time we got there it began to rain and after a few missed hits, we ended up at a place called Mr. Lady. I believe the name says it all. Anyway, the entertainers of Mr. Lady, were really nice, and we got to end out our visit with some of our group going up and singing some of the greatest hits. First, “I love the night life” and of course my new favorite song: “Especially for you.” There was also a lot of tears. Anyway, it was about 3AM and just when it looked like we were heading home, we ended up next door at a dance club. I know what you’re thinking, Allan at a dance club? This is most likely not going to last long. Aesthetically the club was surprisingly nice for the moment. Everything was completely white with nice clean or circulinear lines. It looked a lot like a cover of a “Chill/downtempo” greatest hits collection that one would buy with Euros. The DJ was playing house music and the two surrounding flat screens were screening the Fat Boy Slim dvd, live from Florida, I think (SPRING BREAK 2003!). The music was actually pretty good. It made me nostalgic for the ‘90s. I literally was dragged onto the dance floor and shook a few things here and there. It was really quite fun, possibly the most fun I’ve ever had at a club, and dancing in general. This was probably due to the feeling that people were dancing to dance, not to pick up anyone or pose with the latest fashion trend (although I cannot say that these activities were not going on, they certainly were). No offense to people who love hip-hop clubs, but from what I’ve seen, hip-hop clubs are far too reserved/self-conscious. In a sense, it always seems like folks on the floor seem to be dancing for a disembodied audience, rather than for themselves. A roving camera for the latest Rap City (does Rap City still exist? I don’t have cable and haven’t seen BET in years) video perhaps? Still, the club was great and we ended up staying there until about 430AM. We had planned to leave around this time to see some of our classmates off at the airport. Their flight was at 530AM, so we headed over. By the time we got to the airport, I was dead tired. Still we were able to say goodbye and wish them luck and safe journey back to the U.S. before embarking on our own journey back to Dasmarinas. I drifted in and out of consciousness and was surprised to find that we had arrived on campus. It was Saturday, 6:30AM, August 2nd.

Since Saturday was our official last day, or the day that everybody gets shipped off back to Maynila, I ended up texting my cousins from Imus/Bacoor, asking to pick me up on campus so that I can spend some time hanging out with my relatives I have yet to see in the Philippines. We first went North to Santa Rosa, Nueva Ecija to see Tatay’s (my grandfather) grave. The trip was rather long. I think about five hours in all. I slipped in and out of consciousness. I tend to be doing this a lot while riding in cars. Perhaps it’s the way my body adjusts to the random conditions of traffic and the jarring effects of the roads here. Or perhaps my body has been trying to readjust to a non-AFAP schedule. The last month has been pretty trying. In any case, our first stop in Nueva Ecija was the church by the main road. In my sentimental moment I imagined my mother being baptized in this church and perhaps attending mass here. I’m not quite sure if these thoughts are well founded, but I do know that my mother was born in this place. The church was packed. And strange enough, the entire mass was conducted in Tagalog. While I was in Maynila and Cavite, certain parts of the mass were Tagalog and certain prayers were in English, especially “Our Father” and “Hail Mary.” In Bicol, mass was done in Bicolano, or English. Here, everything was Tagalog (or to be politically correct: Filipino). There was no trace of English. Needless to say I was very surprised. Perhaps next time, AFAP’s excursion into the province should be to Nueva Ecija rather than Bicol. A quick side story. My grandfather, or Tatay as we call him, and this story was recently told to me, used to be the chief of police in Santa Rosa. After some years he was urged to run for mayor. He lost. Because of this there was a certain sense of “hiya” or shame, and he opted to move his family to Pasay. One of his sons opted to stay behind. My mother was the last one in the family to be born in Santa Rosa. So after mass we headed to visit my cousins who stayed behind. I was surprised to find out that they were palay (or rice) farmers. (I come from peasant stock after all!) I was also surprised to find out that my grandparents owned a little piece of land here. Two and a half hectares of bukid for palay, with another half hectare for a mango orchard. I really wanted to go and see it, but they kept insisting that we didn’t have time and that the soil was too muddy. They ended up drinking Emparador whiskey for the next two hours. Ah the Samaniego sense of time and belonging. But before the drinking commenced, I was actually hanging out with the women inside the house. I don’t know if it’s because I was a foreigner, younger, or didn’t speak the language very well, but they were rather candid about a lot of personal things in front of me. Certain biological stories were tossed around and I although a bit uncomfortable at first, I was quickly drawn into their stories or “tsismis” as some might call this form of storytelling. In addition, there was a manghuhula, or “fortune teller” and a “faith healer” in attendance, and she, I guess, was a family friend. In fact, she told me she was related to us, since her father’s mother’s name was Samaniego. I don’t know the extent of her connection or kinship to me, but she certainly knew how to talk. She actually knew quite a lot of English words and could slip quite a few into our conversation. She asked me if I had ever had my fortune told. I avoided the question, in order not to be rude and to not get pulled into a scam. Yet, my cousin from Imus had her fortune told and so I was urged to do so after her. She used playing cards and supposedly saw things within the pattern and placement of numbers. I couldn’t really see any pattern in what she was looking for but in any case she was able to say some pretty vague things that were eerily specific about me. Certain things about my past and my present were certainly correct. And when talking about my present, certain doubts that had been in my head surfaced. Finally, in her reading of my health, one of my “fears” was pointed out. I didn’t want to give in and kept my face calm. But perhaps she was able to notice that I began to get a bit uncomfortable, so she thankfully stopped instead of pushing further. I’m definitely not sure if fortune telling actually has any merits. Perhaps in the vagueness and vastness of the “fortune” being told to us, certain thoughts are recalled from our “unconscious” that we had been suppressing, and hence, the “fortune” becomes uncannily true. Or perhaps, the very act of submitting to the discourse of a fortune reading is our “unconsciousness” pushing to get out. Forcing us to face whatever it is that we had been psychologically running from. I’m not quite sure. After the reading, just before lunch, we headed out to see my Tatay’s grave. I quickly bought flowers at the local palengke but forgot to buy candles. When we arrived, I was surprised to find how small the lot was. How ordinary the headstone was. This was a man who had lived a 102 years. He had over 15 children. Touched intimately over a hundred lives. His memory and effect lingers long after him in all of my family’s stories. He and my grandmother were the reason why certain feuds ended or never began. They were the reason people came together in the same room. He always commanded respect without demanding anything, and he always made people laugh. I imagined a tomb, a mausoleum, a pyramid, a statue made of bronze, or an orchard ordained with living things. Not a headstone overgrown with grass. Yet, thinking back, he was a simple man. At least in my imagination he was. He had his vices. He liked to play mahjong and cards. He stayed out with his friends. He was a barber and a policeman. He came from peasant stock. He loved his children and his apos, and his great (great, great?) grandchildren. So perhaps this was gravestone was more fitting. Perhaps, it was what he wanted. To be buried in the soil that raised him. To not be a burden on it, with extra stone or marble, but to simply become a part of it. Perhaps.

After the trip to my grandfather’s grave we (this was the men this time) then had lunch and talked about farming, gasoline (some drove jeepneys and tricycles), America of course, what exactly I did for a living (this one is usually hard to explain in Tagalog and in English), and what my plans were while here. Yet, the day began to run out of hours, and we were off again to Angat, Bulocan to see my Tito’s place and of course visit my grandmother, Nanay. After a couple more hours south, we finally reached my Tito’s place. It was a great piece of land. A lot of fresh air, away from everthing. Up on a hill, so one could see the water below. A lot of trees. I didn’t get to take a tour since I immediately went inside to see Nanay. She was in the CR by herself (surprising!) and then she came out smiling. We hugged and she gave me a kiss. Waves of nostalgia came over me, and memories and feelings of home washed over my skin and shot through my thoughts. I was really happy. It had been over two years since I had seen Nanay, and last year, when my Tatay died, I was unable to go to the Philippines due to me having to be in SEASSI and getting appendicitis. Nanay took it really hard. After all they were married for almost 80 years. Yet seeing her, she didn’t seem depressed at all. She seemed more lively than the way I remembered her while she lived in Washington. She was usually more tired, slower, didn’t really speak much, although she always asked me in English if I was done yet with school. Here however she made swift movements. Theatrical gestures. And she spoke loud. Booming Tagalog. She launched into me with a mixture of questions and statements. Phrases and topice like:

How long have you been here? Are you done yet with school? You’re so industrious. You’ve been in school forever. Don’t ever forget your language. You forgot your language? I thought we spoke in America! My eyes are perfect, but my hearing is horrible. I can still push the thread through the needle’s eye without glasses. I pray every night the same prayer. That’s why I’ve led a blessed life. I had 15 children. I used to have to be the one who punished your titos. Your grandfather was so kind and patient. I was so lucky to have found him. Hopefully you will be lucky someday as well.

Below are some American Apparel like shots (this is due to my cousin’s lack of digitial camera maneuvering experience) of me and my grandmother. Isn’t she beautiful? It began to rain hard as we left. It was pitch dark in the provinces. As we drove away from Angat, I tried to grasp on to to the quickly fleeting memories of my grandmother’s warm hugs. The familiar smell of baby powder. The sound of her kiss as she inhaled deeply on my cheek, as she always did, even when I was a little child growing up in Pasay. The dark wet night quickly engulfed the road. We would then get lost in Bulocan, miss the expressway, and end up in Quezon city. A two hour detour. I would learn the next day that the heavy rains caused serious flooding in Nueva Ecija, Ilocos, Bulocan, and Pampanga. But this story is another story for another time.


never got around to posting this


stray kitties adopted by the boys dorm





me reciting my tula


the grad students and future roommates giving thanks to dasmarinas


tumugtugtog?


after program marienda





rainy night in Malate







Mr. Lady! and afap


what goes on at 3AM in the dance club



...at 345AM

...at 4AM


Santa Rosa, Nueva Ejica




kamag-anak nueva ecija


manguhuhula


at the cementary


tatay's grave


fetching things


things




atis...finally!

my lola. isn't she beautiful!





can someone say friendster?


views of Makati






welcome to rockwell