Imagine... As I'm walking. Walking, simply walking. Walking just after waking. Waking after the train stopped. Stopped at Taft. Three o'clock. Then walking, walking with a 1-ton bag unbearably dragging my aching shoulders. Towards the escalator-- the broken escalator, the barricaded escalator.
Well, simply imagine how i must look. tired. sweaty. at least several layers of dirty, slimy oil cover my blotched, pimply face. Messy hair. Black, trying-hard shirt too large for my lean frame, few sheets of crumpled paper sticking out of my pants' pockets. Pungent smell from the pungent seatmate. Silver, twisted cords lead to my ears, surgically attached.
And here i am, walking. Walking through the crowd, the unburdened crowd. Oh. if only they knew my burden. this heavy weight drawing me to the earth. Oh, if they knew.
Somehow, i manage. I manage to walk past. The sound of the machine accepting my used-up card. The sounds of swearing men, the humble pleas of aged women trying, trying to walk past. And yet i manage. I shift the bag to my left. The sting of relief shivers over my right shoulder.
I walk forward. Then I walk down. Down, down towards the buses, the young children screaming for passengers, the aged, unwomanly women shouting for cabs and buses, hoping for mercy, for pity, for the equivalent of a few silver coins, and if they're lucky, a golden coin.
I wipe my grimy face. And i hope you imagine. Imagine my tired face, my dirty hair, my messy clothes. also, imagine my gigantic bag, and the pain it must bring to me, the uncomfort, the pain.
I continue walking. Now towards the non-existent pedestrian line, the dirt-ridden street, granite black, yet dirty. dirty, mosquito-filled puddles, scattered, torn plastics, crying street children.
At the division between the two sides of the street was an old lady, a vendor. sleeping. sleeping with the cement pedestal as her cold, uncaring pillow. her tray of sweet crystal candies, sultry cigarettes, and cheap chocolates laying on the ground before her.
I can imagine how easy it would be to simple reach down, snatch a few candies, and rob her of her living, rob her of her family's future, her children's next meal. I imagine how she must feel this very instant. Tired. Oh so very tired. Tired day after day. Tired of life. Tired of living. Tired of having to wake up every morning, needing to cook what she can of her children, her grandchildren, her nieces, her nephews. Tired of having to sit down under the sun's heat, cement as her only pillow, her sole comfort.
I hope my imagination is wrong.
And yet, still i walk. walk past. Onto the other side of the street. Past the shirtless jeepney drivers. Past the stalls of cheap, pornographic cds, past the bearded men, sporting sandos, their little sons with tails behind their hair. I approach my destination.
"Paliparan, po."
"Dito, dito Paliparan. Maluwag pa, yan. Konting usod lang po." A man with long, ragged hair points to a brown van. Heavily tinted. Seemingly dashed with uncomfort.
"Citta Italia lang po ako. Sa may pintuan na lang po ako."
He nods, and i open the van's door. Only a few inches of space separates a woman holding a child and the door. I smirk sarcastically. I feel my temples throbbing. The ragged man notices, and tells me it would be best to wait for the next van. He points at a gray van, windows not heavily tinted, but covered with basketball posters.
I notice yet the few people inside. I swear to God I won't regret this. I swear under my breath with all my might. I want to go home right now.
"Dun nalang po ako sasakay." I utter coldly, pointing at the next van syndicate, the next illegal station, a few meters ahead. I hate waiting. I hate having to carry this bag even for a few more minutes.
Besides, I never ride here. I dislike the crappy service. I force myself to believe i prefer the station a few meters further.
And so i walk toward it. Pride, ego glowing. I do not wait for anyone. I control my life, I am the captain of my fate.
I spot somewhat young man with a megaphone, a bandanna under his chin, sunglasses over his heavily-bagged eyes.
"Boss, Paliparan o."
"Citta Italia lang po ako. Dito nalang po ako sa may harapan."
"Sige, po, bossing. Basta ikaw."
I recognize the familiar Filipino tone. The semi-sarcastic, the semi-indifferent, partly kind voice. I argue with myself if i shall swear yet again. i don't.
Now i have to wait. No, no more walking, no more. No more burden to drag me to one side every time for every step i take. Relief, relief. home. I sit down on a a bench. Beside me was a trashcan.
No, nothing special.
The same litter: The Jollibee cups, the beer bottles, the stack of cigarette butts, the plastics, the wet spots of phlegm,
the three young children rummaging.
Two girls, one boy-- i couldn't tell the difference except perhaps by their voice. Shuddering, i remember my sister. They all perhaps had the same height, the same age, the same thin frame.
But my sister did not have the spots of grease that were covering their faces, the splash of phlegm thatt covered their cheeks, the giant, loose clothes they had on.
They didn't have the princess dresses, the books, the toys. The maid, ready to attend. A good life. A good family.
I couldn't help but listen, listen to their conversation. How many bottles did they already have.
How much more did they need.
Would tatay spank them if the came home right now.
I couldn't help but just listen. Passivity. How passive i am. How passive i shouldn't be.
Finally, they turn away, off to the next trashcan, off to their next meal. How innocent they were. How patient, how clueless. How obedient to their father's wishes. Oh if everyone were like them in that very way, and hopefully, only in that way. . .
"Boss, dito na ho o. Kayo nalang hinihintay." The barker calls.
Normally, i should be embarassed, ashamed. Ashamed of being waited upon, when even I hate waiting.
My bag feels light, undragging, unburdening.
As I enter the van, i dare not notice the warm drops of sweat profusely erupting from my scalp, onto my temples, my armpits. I dare not notice the tiny space i needed to snug in. The position i would have to be in, bearing my bag on my lap, either my arms stretched forward, or curled, with my elbows nudging my stomach. I dare not swear. I swear to God, I would not swear, and befoul this already foul earth.
A hand beats on the side of the van, near me. near my ear. Signals for the driver to back up, move, back up again, now to the right, then left. then forward.
I notice my bare wrist. and the lighter patch of skin.
I lost my watch the other day.
While i was eating-- fresh, good food, great even. Good ventilation. Good space. i forgot exactly how, and yet, now, i simply do not wish to remember. i do not deserve it.
The posts that i see through the window are tall, ever so tall. The buildings behind them are even larger, intimidating.
I see people walk, walk past the posts and buildings. Some frowning. Some smiling, hands clasped, together. Some sad, faces, eyes to the ground, some were happy, or pretending to be, crystal eyes, curved lips.
Some oblivious, caring only for themselves, their own well-being. Themselves. Caring only for the weight they carried. The temporal pain. The present.
Again i imagine. i remember. I again remember a day, not long ago, not so much pains and trials before, i remember that jeepney. Beside me were dormmates, sleeping, waiting amidst the traffic.
A family sat in front of me. Clearly i remember the woman wore a dress, patched by one side, mildly torn on the other. She looked old, but she probably wasn't. Poverty has a way of doing this people. she held hands with a young girl. six, or seven years old, i guess. The father sat beside the child, his face drooping. a crumpled polo shirt above a white, severely torn sando. he held a plastic bag, and i guessed a wallet was inside, or maybe only money. They paid the desperate minimum: twelve pesos for the two adults, the child could sit on the parent's lap.
With tears i couldn't let out, i saw the child was crying. crying. for that is what a child does. suddenly crying. crying, calling for, facing her mother.
she asked for food, for she was hungry, she said. her hands covered her face; i noticed she had a neat dress, clean. her slippers wasn't bad.
clearly her parents loved her.
"Wag ka mag-alala, anak. Hindi ka na magugutom ulit. Eto o.. Marami na tayong pagkain, kaya wag ka mag-alala."
with sad, understanding eyes, i saw what her mother held: a plastic: two turon, one siopao, a stick of bananacue. a lifetime of love.
as I sit here, eyes closed, fingers drawn. pockets heavy, a little bit too heavy. thumbs a little too calloused, hands just a little too smooth.
And i hope, I wish you imagine. And remember.
Oh, dear Manila,
Oh, beautiful, horrible Manila,
Your beguiling poetry, your fading dreams,
Our shared hopes. . .
Filipinas, has thou forsaken us?
Remember, and sing, sing until our lungs give out,
"Ang bayan kong Pilipinas,
lupain ng ginto't bulaklak..."
A pause, an epiphany, and yet,
When gold goes to fools,
And all the flowers that remain are for mourning,
We can't help but sigh,
And do we ask,
And do we wonder,
And as we desire,
And as we dream,
And can't help but wish,
And can't help but hope,
Because we need to keep living.
And sometimes,
This is all we can do.
