Changing the Narrative

Good afternoon.

My name is Sherma, and I am a fictionist. As a fictionist, I make up stories based on my experiences and observations. I tell stories as I see them, or as I imagine them. But today, I will talk about a true story.

When I was in my teens, life had been difficult financially. It was so difficult that I often wondered why others seemed to have it so easy, while my family struggled. But now that I am an adult, I look back and realize that to the contrary, I'd had a privileged life.

There are many reasons why I say so, but let me focus on just one: the gift of writing.

As with anything, my foray into writing started with an introduction. I was introduced to it by my father, a literary artist writing short stories and novelettes in Ilocano.

When we were young, my three younger brothers and I would gather around our father at night. We would play indoor games with him before going to bed. At other nights, we would ask him to tell us a story. My father always obliged.

He told us about famous Philippine folklores such as Malakas and Maganda, Ang Matsing at ang Pagong, and mythical characters such as the kapre, the tikbalang, the manananggal, and many more. He also told us about princes and princesses of faraway kingdoms of long, long time ago.  He introduced us to the princesses in distress, and the princes that rescued them in the nick of time. But he never introduced Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, Snow White, and all the other princesses and their respective princes to us. This was because in my father’s stories, they never existed. The princesses he told us about were either named Princess Sherma or Princess Jing. (Jing is my nickname – reserved for family members and close relatives.)

Those story-telling moments had been magical. From my father’s stories, I realized that I could live in my imagination; that there are many worlds out there to be explored; and that there is a life right here that must be lived.

Unlike many girls, I knew even as a kid that my father's stories were make-believe. I knew, because long after each story-telling session had ended, I would still be thinking about the characters and the plot, and I would try to re-imagine the stories; sometimes, even revising them.

It was fortunate that my father used my name in his stories. The gesture showed me how much I meant to him. It also allowed me to ‘own’ the stories. By thinking that the stories were about me and that I owned them, I felt free to revise them. So I did, but I did not know then why I felt compelled to make changes.

It was when I was in college that I realized why. In one of my GE subjects -- Social Science I -- we had a discussion on political correctness/incorrectness of bedtime stories. We worked on Little Red Riding Hood. It was then that I realized that I did not like many of the Western stories my father told us about. 

I never liked it that the Princesses always needed rescuing. That they were so weak. That they could not fight – much less win – their own battles. In my revised version, I imagined the princesses fighting off the monsters by themselves, and winning. I also imagined myself wielding my own sword, and maiming my enemies, my own demons.

I was also disturbed that the ugly Princesses had to become beautiful toward the end of the story. I was worried about the message such ending gave our children: that they only deserved to be loved if they were beautiful. I was worried that such flawed and dangerous message was incorporated in our children's stories -- why no one seemed to want to change them. 

That was how I started becoming a writer: revising stories in my mind. Then slowly, I started creating stories -- for myself. Yes, just for myself. I was not really convinced I could write. I was a writer in denial for a long time. I was afraid of getting out of my shell and be exposed.

I thought it was already a great privilege that I could travel from our world to those other worlds in my mind at will. I thought it was such a magnificent gift that whenever I was down and hurting yet unwilling to expose my deepest worries, and fears, and thoughts to another soul, I had my writing to turn to. I could make my pen do the talking, and I had all the blank pages in the world to pour out my heart and soul to. To me, that was more than enough.

But soon, I began feeling some restlessness deep within me. I felt there was something I had to be doing, but wasn't. 

When, in my 20s, I gave in to the urge to write, I first went back to the stories I "revised" as a child and realized that not only were there so many people without a voice and so many stories that needed to be told, there also were so many narratives that were dangerous and had to be changed.

So I got out of my cocoon, and wrote socially relevant stories – stories that are not being talked about openly. I wrote about diaspora. I delved on abortion. On rape and pedophilia. On abuse.  On role reversals. And many more.

So this is one reason that I write.

And this is why I consider writing a great privilege and responsibility. I have been given the gift and the chance not just to write my own story and that of others, but also to try to change the social narrative. I intend to do just that. One story at a time.

The Conspiracy

MONDAY 6:35 p.m.

I glowered at the sight of Mr. Mario Ventura, our new HRD officer, and Mr. Rolando Bautista, our Sales and Marketing manager, at my doorstep. They were still in uniform — black slacks and long-sleeved barong. Mr. Ventura was carrying a black leather briefcase in his right hand. I looked at each of them hard, not bothering to conceal the extreme annoyance I felt about their presence. I had a long bout against them and their fellow managers in the conference room the whole day today. Their tired, thirty-something faces were the last things I wanted to see after work. For a brief moment, I considered slamming the door on them.

“Won’t stay long.” Mr. Bautista announced as he stepped into the living room, not waiting to be invited in. My face must have made it explicitly clear that an invitation was not in order.

I moved into the living room without bothering to check if they were following. Reaching the center, I turned around, my face still tight. I didn’t ask them to sit down.

Mr. Ventura set the briefcase onto the center table. He opened the briefcase slowly, his eyes focused upon my face. I gave him a nasty look then lowered my gaze to the newly opened bag with its content now exposed. My eyes, swollen from crying and lack of sleep, literally bulged at what I saw. Money! An awful lot of money!

Both men noticed my reaction and were evidently pleased by it. “Five hundred thousand pesos in cold cash,” Mr. Ventura stressed. “For you.”

I dragged my gaze from the briefcase back to his unsightly face. “For me to keep my silence?”

“And for you to withdraw your charges against Mr. Uy.” He said, referring to the sexual harassment charges I filed this morning against Mr. Uy Huang Lu, our Chinese general manager.

“And why would I do that?”

“Five hundred thousand pesos, that’s why.”

“Get lost!”

“You’re a fool not to take the money, Jhannie. You’re sending off your brothers to school, aren’t you? And your father’s still battling with bronchopneumonia, isn’t he?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with malice. I glared at him, damning him for knowing just the right button to push.

“Forget about yourself, Jhannie.” Mr. Bautista interjected. “Just think about your family. How would you feel if something happens to your father, knowing that you could have prevented it? And if your brothers dropped out of school, wouldn’t you feel guilty knowing that you could have done something about it? Be practical. Anyway,” his voice dropped, “nothing happened.”

“Nothing?” I instantly flared. “I was nearly raped. I am about to lose my mind. I haven’t slept for 48 hours. And now, you calmly tell me that nothing happened?”

“I mean physically. What are kisses, embraces? I’m sure you did more than just those with your past boyfriends. I’m sure you’ve…”

“You’re insulting me, Mr. Bautista.” I cut him off. “The issue is not whether the act was consummated or not. We’re talking about a violation committed against my person!” I gritted my teeth. “Your boss is a devil.”

I noticed Mr. Ventura not-too-discreetly signal Mr. Bautista to leave things to him. The latter kept quiet, eyed the sofa, and proceeded to sit down. Mr. Ventura turned his attention back to me. “Jhannie, calm down…”

“Calm down? You’ve got the nerve to order me to calm down after what he did to me?”

“Jhannie, listen…”

“No, Mr. Ventura, you listen.” My voice was hard. “Clearly, we see things differently. And it’s apparent to me whose side you’re on. Tell me, if you could bribe me, what are you going to get in return? Promotion? Reward money?”

“Nothing. I’m just protecting the interest of the company.”

“Interest of the company? At the expense of the employees? Sir, you’re the HR manager! You’re supposed to protect the employees, not just the management!”

“And I’m doing just that. Jhannie, can’t you see? You have no case! No witnesses. No physical marks. No proofs. How could you prove that he molested you? It’s going to be your word against his. And who would take the word of an executive secretary over that of a respected country general manager? No one.” He breathed hard, then his voice softened. “Take the money, Jhannie. You’ll lose one way or another. Remember, you don’t come quite clean, what with the issue with Eric.”

I raised my eyebrows at the mention of my American friend’s name. “What’s Eric got to do with this?”

“Oh come on. You may be able to fool your officemates into believing that your relationship with Eric Collum is innocent. But the management knows better. And remember, an affair with a married man wouldn’t help you through this case in the least.”

“Affair with a…” My head spun when I realized what he was insinuating. “You’re accusing me of sleeping with him, is that it?”

“Aren’t you?” he countered.

I glared at him. “That’s absurd! We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“I find that hard to believe. You’ve been spotted together many times. What will your officemates think? The management?”

“Ridiculous! Having lunch together does not warrant an affair.”

“Yes. But if we’d take it as a character reference,” he paused, a nasty smile playing on his lips, “we can easily plant a seed of doubt about your character in the mind of whoever is going to investigate this case.” His face moved closer to mine. “And where will that leave you?”

My hands balled. God, how I wanted to knock him off!

Again, he smiled. “Take the money, Jhannie. Save your face.”

“Get out!”

“Sure, we will.” He answered as he calmly closed his briefcase. “But think about it, Jhannie. You have until tomorrow morning to decide.” He picked up the briefcase with his right hand then, beckoning Mr. Bautista to follow him, walked to the door, his confidence unshaken by my outburst. They were already at the door when Mr. Ventura looked back, his face arrogant. “Choose well.”

I glared at him, but he and Mr. Bautista just walked coolly to the parked company car.

TUESDAY, 7:45 a.m.

“HAVE YOU decided yet?”

My heart missed a beat at the sound of Eric’s voice; I didn’t know he had arrived. I was doubly surprised that he knew of the bribe Mr. Ventura had offered me, of which I had planned to tell him this morning. I jerked my head up to look at him. He was settling himself on an officemate’s desk to my right, deciding to half-sit, half-lean on it, making him seem a few inches shorter than his actual height of six feet flat. I gazed at his bluish-gray eyes that were fixed upon mine. “How’d you know I’m to make one?” I asked, my brows creased.

“I have sources. I know about the bribe. So, what’s your decision?”

I didn’t answer. I stared at him with questioning eyes.

His eyes met mine. “I didn’t know five hundred thousand pesos could make you indecisive.” He sounded disappointed.

“It’s a lot of money.”

“Not much compared to what you nearly lost.”

I looked down, unable to answer.

“Did you really think if you dropped the charges, they’d give you the money?” he asked when I didn’t answer.

Again, I looked up at him mutely.

“They won’t. They’d have you drop the charges then relieve you from your post. Where will that leave you?”

I sighed. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Then you are naïve.”

Again I sighed, focusing my troubled eyes upon his. “Eric, Mr. Ventura mentioned something about us. He… The management thinks we have an affair.”

“Damn!” He burst angrily. “Jhannie, listen. I … shit!” He swore when he heard voices coming from the first floor. “They’re here. You know what to do.” He said, then walked to his office.

No. I don’t know what to do, I told myself.

9:30 a.m.

THE MANAGERS were already settled when I entered the conference room. Mr. Uy wasn’t there. I felt relieved. I didn’t want to see him. I took the only vacant seat near the door. There were only five of us in the ten-seater room, but the room seemed too small for all of us. Already I was gasping for air.

“So, Jhannie, I take it you’ve already made a decision?” Mr. Ventura sounded nice, while Mrs. Teresita Canida, the deputy manager and the only female in the room excluding myself, looked at me calculatingly. Gone was the calm, motherly face she always wore, replaced by something more akin to what she really was — a scheming bitch. Even the other managers — Mr. Bautista, Mr. Allan Cabuyao, and Mr. Tim Lanuza — were staring at me. They were sure I was going to take the money. Somehow, that thought angered me.

“Yes.” I answered.

“In that case, we’d better go to the police station so you could drop the charges.” Mr. Ventura said, looking pleased.

I looked directly into his eyes. “No, Mr. Ventura. I’m pursuing the case,” I said, surprised that my voice sounded strong.

Mr. Ventura’s smile instantly turned into a frown. For a moment, he looked angry, but he soon controlled his anger. “If you say so,” he said, shooting Mrs. Canida a look. Their eyes talked.

Mrs. Canida adjusted her oval eyeglasses, opened the cream folder she was holding, then stared at me. I stared back. “You very well know that you don’t have witnesses. No physical marks. And your morality is questionable,” she began. I started to say something, but she lifted her right hand, signaling me to keep quiet. “Even if you say you’re not having a relationship with Collum,” she said, referring to Eric “we can easily make people believe you two are having an affair.”

I glared at her. God! How I wanted to kick her in the ass! How could she talk like that, as though she doubted Mr. Uy’s guilt when she was with us in the conference room yesterday, when he admitted his crime and begged me for forgiveness? And why are they — the managers — covering up for him?

“In addition to that, Mr. Uy hadn’t signed an overtime form,” she continued. “That means, technically, your stay in the office after the regular work hour is illegal.”

“He told me he’d sign it the following Monday,” I said defensively.

“Is that our SOP?” She looked up at me, her right brow raised. Then continued, without waiting for me to answer, “No. Our office procedures explicitly instruct employees to have OT forms signed by their superior or whoever asks them to render overtime work before actual OT.” Again, a smile played on her lips, telling me that she knew I was on the verge of crying.

“We also have the guard’s report on the date you claimed Mr. Uy harassed you. It says here that at 3:30 pm, about fifteen minutes after you clocked out, you were seen sitting at the reception area. The guard warned you that employees are not allowed to loiter in the company premises once they’ve clocked out. You answered you were waiting for Mr. Uy. Ten minutes later, you and Mr. Uy left the office in his Cefiro driven by his driver, Bong. That means…”

“Excuse me, Ma’am!” I interjected, failing to restrain myself. “That’s not true. I clocked out at 3:15, about five minutes after Mr. Uy harassed me. I immediately fled the building. There’s no way that incident could have occurred.” I said, trembling with anger. “Everything in that report is a lie!”

“Calm down!” Mr. Ventura and Mrs. Canida shouted at me. I kept quiet, but continued to glare at them.

“This is an official report.” Mrs. Canida continued. “It came from a third party.”

“You bribed the guard.” I replied.

“You can’t prove that.” She countered, sounding hard. “Besides, we have with us Bong’s statement, corroborating the guard’s report.” She emphasized the last words. I shook my head. Tsk, they had everything well plotted. “And what’s more, it says here that Bong drove you to … hmm, surprise, surprise … to Mr. Uy’s unit in Greenbelt Residences! Tell me Jhannie, what did you do in Mr. Uy’s apartment?”

“You’re in a better position to answer your question, ma’am,” I answered sarcastically. “You’re the author, you’re the one who knows the events in your story.”

She ignored my sarcasm. “Even if it were just your word against Mr. Uy’s, Jhannie, you’re already disadvantaged, given your questionable character. But there’s also the guard’s report and Bong’s statement. Tsk, tsk.” She shook her head as though she pitied me. “Anyway, because you didn’t accept our offer, you’ve only two choices left: either you resign or we’ll terminate your employment.”

“That’s illegal.”

She smiled. For a moment I thought she was Satan’s female counterpart. “You must remember, my dear, that you’re merely a contractual employee.” She held out some documents. “”Here’s your evaluation.”

I took the papers then slowly read them. There’s a letter signed by Mr. Ventura, informing me that I failed to meet the standards of the company. With trembling hands, I turned to the evaluation sheets. Incompetent. Inefficient. Lacks cooperation. Those were the remarks of the supervisors who evaluated me. I knew these were all just made up, but I felt bad. These very same people had been very happy with my work. Impressed even. Mr. Uy himself had said so. Now they’re telling me I failed to meet the company’s standards? Yeah, right!

Mrs. Canida handed me two unsealed envelopes. “One contains a termination letter, the other, a resignation letter. It’s up to you which one you prefer. Just make sure you sign one.”

“You’re all evil.” I cried.

“Just sign, Ms. Ancheta.” Mr. Ventura prompted. I glared at him. I grabbed the pen he was offering me and signed the termination letter.

“Good. Mr. Uy will be very happy.” Mrs. Canida said, smiling. I scowled at her but she merely laughed. “In this life, idealism got no place, Jhannie. You’re still young; you still have a lot to learn. But remember this so you’d wisen up: In this life, nothing but money talks. Money makes things go round. Not idealism. Not self-respect. Money! Lots of money. That gives you power! And when you’ve got power, you’ve got everything. Everything, Jhannie. Ev-ery-thing! So strive to get a lot of…”

I stood up and walked out of the door. I didn’t have time for craps.

11:20 a.m.

“What are you doing?” Eric asked, planting himself behind me.

“Packing.”

“Yeah, I can see that. But why?”

“Why?” I repeated. “I lost, that’s why.”

“No, you’re not going to lose.”

My brows furrowed. What was he saying? “I’m afraid, I already have.”

“No. The battle has just started.”

I abruptly turned around to face him, annoyance evident on my face. “What are you saying? We have just finished and I lost.”

“Nope. HR officers from Hong Kong will be coming in tomorrow,” he said, referring to our head office. “Heads will be rolling, but definitely not yours,” he announced calmly.

My forehead creased. “What do you mean? I just got fired, can’t you see? I won’t be here tomorrow. Today’s my last day!”

“You’d still be here. Listen,” his voice dropped. He walked me to his office. Once inside, he closed the door, making sure no one would hear what he was about to say. I walked to the chair opposite his desk and sat. As he usually does, he half-sat, half-leaned on his desk, slipping both his hands into his trousers’ pockets. “Hong Kong knows everything that went on in there yesterday and today. Someone has been passing to Hong Kong what had been discussed in the meetings.”

My brows furrowed deeper. “But who…? Why…?”

“Who? It is I. Why? Because I had orders.” He cut me off. “Hong Kong had been receiving complaints against Mr. Uy, albeit anonymous ones. We’ve identified only two victims, both unwilling to file a case. The first one is a girl who used to hold your position — her name’s Edna — very young, just your age…”

“What about her?”

“Mr. Uy got her pregnant.” I was shocked. Mr. Uy, nearing 60 years, got a twenty-three-year-old girl pregnant? I looked up at Eric, wanting him to confirm that I heard him correctly. He nodded. “He’s supporting the baby. But we can’t act on that case because, like I said, Edna’s not willing to file a complaint.”

I sighed. “Does Mr. Uy’s family know?

“I don’t think so.”

I sighed.

“Did you know why your HR manager is relatively new?”

I shook my head.

“Mr. Ventura joined the company a full month before you did. That must be… what, six months ago? Mrs. Cayetano, the old HR manager, was fired because she witnessed Mr. Uy harassing another young employee. This employee is no longer with the company. She didn’t file a complaint; she simply resigned. Mrs. Cayetano tried to talk her into filing a complaint. Promised to help her. But she — Mrs. Cayetano — was fired before she could do anything. Mrs. Cayetano filed a complaint right after that — illegal dismissal. She also told Hong Kong about a conspiracy among the managers, including Mr. Uy, of which I vaguely know. This is still being being discreetly investigated; I wouldn’t tell you by whom, but this I can tell you: that conspiracy explains why all these managers are covering up for Mr. Uy.”

He paused, allowing me to digest the information. I knew my eyes were betraying my confusion, but I couldn’t make them leave his.

Eric let out a long sigh, raked his fingers through his longish dark blonde hair, then he continued, “Anyway, with the new developments, the girl never got to file her complaints. But still, Hong Kong decided to probe this sexual harassment issue, separate from the conspiracy thing, but also very discreetly. They thought I was the perfect person to do the job, as no one would suspect I’d be interested in other matters besides providing technical support to Philippine projects. I was specifically tasked to look after young, good-looking new employees like you.”

My head snapped up. “Why?” I asked.

“It was likely he’d make you his new victim.”

Anger immediately bubbled up inside me. “So I was set up, is that it?” I shouted. “And you didn’t even bother to warn me? To tell me I might be in some danger?”

He held up his hands “No, no. Don’t think it that way. You were hired as an employee, not some kind of specimen we had to observe. Your employment was, and still is, legitimate. Neither Hong Kong nor I have anything to do with it. But we reckoned he might be interested in you, so they made me look after you. But I wasn’t allowed to say anything about my mission, until now. It was top secret. We weren’t sure he would harass you, though we reckoned he might. Besides, how do you think that knowledge would have made you feel?” he asked. Then, without waiting for my answer, continued, “You’d be bothered. So, I looked after you instead. I was always with you, wasn’t I? Always made sure that I knew where you were no matter how busy I was. We even became good friends. Did you think I’d let anything happen to you? Had I not gotten sick Friday through that fateful Saturday afternoon, he wouldn’t have had a chance to lay a finger on you.”

I calmed down, but I was confused still. “But you weren’t in the conference room yesterday and today. How could you have known…”

“Mr. Ventura. He was reporting to me.”

My mouth opened up in surprise. “But Mr. Ventura…”

“… was the one who offered you the money, I know. He was instructed by Mr. Uy and Mrs. Canida.”

“So why would he go to you and tell you about what he and the rest of the managers have been doing?”

“Because he’s our undercover. He — he’s the uncle of the girl I just told you about.”

My brows creased as my mouth opened wider. I was so dumbstruck I was unable to utter a word for a long time. Eric, too, didn’t volunteer any more information, allowing me to digest what he’d just shared. “Why didn’t you tell me those things yesterday, when I told you what had happened?” I asked after a while.

“Three reasons. First, I told you, I wasn’t allowed to say anything about my mission. Second, I didn’t want to influence you on your decision. Lastly, I knew you’d do the right thing.”

“You couldn’t be so sure about that. I myself am not sure I did the right thing. Until now.”

“Then maybe I knew you more than you know yourself,” he smiled. “I knew that for a while, you may feel tempted, but you’d always do what’s right. You’re a decent person, Jhannie. I swear, older people could learn a thing or two from you.”

“What if I accepted the money? What would you have thought of me, then?”

“Funny it didn’t occur to me that you would,” he replied. “But I think I could understand if you did. Your family needs money. Either way, you’ll always be my friend.”

I bowed my head. I didn’t know what to say. Again, we were quiet for a long time.

“Thank you,” I said, looking up, tears rolling down my cheeks.

“Anytime,” he replied, smiling.

I meant to smile back at him. But instead of a nice, grateful smile, a hysterical laugh rang out. It was a relieved, carefree laugh. It was like the laugh of a condemned, good-for-nothing person who just outsmarted the devil by sheer luck. Immediately, I recognized it as mine. I was crying and laughing at the same time. It was crazy. I felt so good. The pain, the hurt, the uncertainty that plagued me are now gone. This morning I felt damned. Now… now I felt so relieved. If not for Eric’s presence, I would have danced, and jumped, and sang at the top of my lungs. But I was worried he’d think I’d gone crazy. But then he, too, was laughing! Had he gone crazy, too?

© Sherma E Benosa 2004

Silence of the Fiend

She shrieks at me again
This silence with a hoarse voice.
I close my ears to her ramblings
But she pries open my soul

Her tongue sharp
She cuts me to pieces
Wounding me like she has wounded me
Many times before.

I try to kill her — my tormentor.
But she just laughs, mocking me
Killing me like she has
Killed me many times before.

Again she shows me
They ring the loudest
The words that lurk underneath;
The voices we forbid to speak.

//Sherma E. Benosa; 14 August 2011; 8:41am
Tags: Existentialism, Poetry, Ramblings, Thoughts, Reflections, Literary Art, Rumination
First posted in P[e]NORAMA

Regrets

WE ALL HAVE REGRETS. But we’d rather not focus on them. We’d rather focus on the positive side of things. Talking about regrets doesn’t seem so positive, so we wouldn’t dare allow our regrets to come to the fore of our thoughts.

But  there is something positive about realizing our regrets and talking about them. Knowing what we regret the most in our lives can lead us to better decision-making today, or even influence us to make a u-turn or to change our course. Being fully aware of our regrets can guide us in realizing what we truly value in life. It can help us pick up lessons from our past, thus allowing us to better ourselves.

Having regrets can actually be a good thing. It means we have realized that we’ve made mistakes. After all, you cannot regret something you don’t recognize as a mistake.

Regrets are not, in themselves, negative. What can be negative are our attitude towards our regrets. Things become negative only when we decide to dwell on our regrets, yet wouldn’t do anything to ensure that we wouldn’t have the same regrets in the future.

So why don’t we try to do things differently and for once, think and talk about our regrets and what we can do to ensure we wouldn’t have similar of them in the future?

To start, here are two of my biggest regrets:

1) I regret those moments I thought I was too old to try something. There were things I wanted to do in my early 20s but didn’t because I thought it was late (among them: taking a second degree -- in IT). Now I look back and realize being 20-something is still young to be late for anything.

2) I regret those moments when I put a limitation to myself. Now I know better. You can do whatever you set your mind to achieve. You just have to work really hard.

The Birthday Gift

I LOOKED UP FROM the manuscript I was reading to rest my eyes. My gaze landed on the round silver wall clock hanging beside the framed picture of myself, my daughter Yanni, and my husband Anthony on the wall dividing the study room and the master’s bedroom. At other times my heart would have warmed at the sight of the family picture; I always thought we looked good in that one. But the time the clock displayed had already registered on my mind before the feeling of filial love was evoked in me.

5:30 pm. Oh my God! Anthony would already be here in an hour or so and Yanni, my four-year-old daughter, would awake soon; but still, I was stuck with the book I was editing. I should be preparing dinner by now! But before that, I should have already gone to the grocery store. There was nothing in the refrigerator; that I was very sure of. Anthony cooked the last stock of food for dinner last night.

Abruptly, I stood and tried to reach for the yellow paper clip lying beside the aluminum pen holder resting on one edge of the table, about to fall off, but nausea had me groping for support; I knocked the ceramic flower vase sitting on the desk instead. I closed my eyes. I let the nausea subside before opening them, only to be greeted by the mess I made: a broken flower base and artificial purple orchids lay scattered on the floor. Damn, just what you need when you’re in a hurry! I swore to myself.

I hurriedly swept the mess then started for the grocery, making mental note of the things we’d run out of. By 6:30 I was already working busily in the kitchen, when I remembered Yanni. She was still asleep when I went to the grocery around the corner, so I thought I’d go, do a quick purchase, and head back home before she’d wake up. I wished Mrs. Castillo, our kindly neighbor, were around. I could have asked her to listen for Yanni’s cries when she awoke. But Mrs. Castillo was away; I heard she went to Davao for a conference. Or maybe Cebu; I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have much time tracking the whereabouts of my neighbors.

Then a thought hit me. How could I have let my daughter sleep that late? She should have woken up by four o’clock! But to do that, she should have slept at about 2 oclock. I played the events of the afternoon in my mind. I had let Yanni play in the study room while I worked on the manuscript. The first time I looked up from the pile of paper in front of me to check on her, she was sitting on the mahogany sofa across my desk, making believe she was Princess Sara and enacting a scene where Sara was bidding good-bye with her father. I went back to my reading. The next time I checked on her, she was already asleep on the sofa with her books and stuff toys lying next to her. I carried her to her room. It was 4:15. Tsk.

I shook my head. I was not being a good housewife. Anthony and I had decided that I would work at home and do my editing and writing here so I could look after Yanni. But the office had been sending me a lot of work, and very soon, the schedule established was no longer being followed. I had been spending more time working, and less time playing with and teaching Yanni.

I lowered the fire then dashed to Yanni’s room. I was expecting her to be asleep still; I didn’t hear her cry when I arrived. But my heartbeat doubled when I didn’t see her familiar figure on her bed or anywhere else in the room. Panic enveloped me. Where was she?

“Yanni!” I cried. No answer. My weariness increased. Where could my daughter be? Could she have woken while I was away, ran out of the house and… I didn’t like the path of my thought. “Yanni!” I cried louder. Still no answer. I dashed to the bathroom. She wasn’t there either.

Tears started to well up. Where was she? “Yanni!” I already sounded desperate. And afraid. What if somebody broke into the house while I was away? What if my daughter really went out of the house and met an accident? What if… “Yanni! Where are you?”

I opened the door to the study room, my last hope of seeing my daughter in the house. And there she was, playing with my things.

Relief flooded me. I thanked God. I started to dash toward my daughter, meaning to hug her, but then I saw the manuscript I was working on which I didn’t bother to put away before leaving for the grocery, all scattered on the floor; some pages torn, others crumpled.

Then it hit me. My God, the manuscript! The manuscript I worked on for most of last night and the whole of today, scattered and torn! I walked toward my daughter, meaning to snatch from her the paper she was holding. But as I advanced toward her, she looked up; a tentative smile flashed across her face, but was instantly replaced by foreboding and… fear? Was it fear I saw on my daughter’s eyes?

I stopped dead halfway across the room, not able to take my eyes off my daughter’s face. I couldn’t help staring at her. I looked at her for so long that I started seeing myself in her face. I remembered that look; I’d seen one like that before. I shook my head to snap to my memory. Then I remembered. I didn’t really see that look on anyone; I actually had that look on my face, years ago. I was about year older than my daughter was. No, make that two years. I was six then, now I remembered.

.

IT WAS DAD’S 32nd birthday. It was his first birthday since Mom died. I had handed him a gift I personally bought from my savings. Looking back, I could still clearly see the parcel I handed him. It was wrapped in an ordinary red Christmas wrapper I kept from the gifts I received last December, a piece of tape sticking out. It was March and, of course, it wasn’t Christmas, but I didn’t have any money left to buy new wrapper.

Luckily, I had several in my room. Mom taught me how to skillfully open gifts; never, or at least, minimally damaging the wrapper. I never threw the wrappers away; I loved the look of them -- the patterns, the shapes, the colors and the spirit and emotion they collectively convey.

The box wasn’t skillfully wrapped, but that was the best I could do. In fact, I remembered now with amusement, it took me a good thirty minutes to wrap that gift (Mom always wrapped my gifts when she was alive). Anyway, the parcel I handed Dad looked like a gift. To me, at least.

I thought Dad was mad at me. I thought he blamed me for Mom’s death. He had been very sad when Mom died. Mom got hit by a car as she was crossing the street near where we lived. She was on her way to a nearby sari-sari store to buy me ice cream because I had been crying, and only stopped when she promised she’d buy me Rocky Road, my favorite flavor. I wanted to go with her, but she said I’d better stay and finish my coloring, which I abandoned when I started crying for something I could no longer remember.

But the promised ice cream never arrived. So didn’t Mom. What happened next was a blurry of images that consisted of voices shouting my mom’s name over and over and some other words I could’t understand. I went to the door to see what the commotion was about but someone touched me by the shoulder and unceremoniously hoisted me to her arms. It was Nana Caridad, our neighbor. She said we’d stay in the living room and wait for Lolo and Dad to arrive.

“But’s where’s Mom?” I asked in a tiny voice, sensing something was wrong. “Where’s my ice cream?”

She didn’t answer. She just held me tighter as tears started rolling down her cheeks. I didn’t know why, but soon I was crying again, louder than before, calling for Mom and asking for my ice cream. Neither came.

Dad became a loner when Mom died. He hardly spoke to anyone. And he never hugged me again. So I thought I’d buy him a gift to cheer him up. In a month’s time, he’d be 32. I started saving. I’d saved 50 cents a day from my allowance. But when I checked out the item I wanted to buy dad, I realized my savings wasn’t enough; Dad didn’t give me a lot of money for school; just enough.

When I got back home from school one day, I headed straight to Dad’s room, making sure Lolo wouldn’t see me. Dad’s room changed since Mom died. Mom’s things were no longer there, so the room looked bare and lonely. There was just the queen-sized bed, a walk-in closet, and a desk on top of which was a lamp. The room’s only window was unadorned and closed. Clothes were carelessly strewn on the chair and on the bed.

I walked to the walk-in closet and brought out the coin purse where Dad and Mom put their one-peso coins. I took out 15 pieces, put the purse with the remaining coins back into the closet, walked back to the door, then closed it behind me, careful not to make any sound. Then I walked to the market; the clinging of the coins in my pocket matching the rhythm of my cadence.

I waited patiently for Dad to arrive from work on the eve of his birthday. I can still remember how tired he looked when he pushed open the door; his shirt dirty and crumpled, his hair dull and untidy.

He was surprised to see me on the sofa, still awake. I went looking for his slippers; I used to put them on his feet whenever he got home when Mom was still alive. But after she died, Dad had started to come home late, and always, I was already asleep when he’d arrive. Except that night. I didn’t wait for him to ask me to do anything for him or why I was still awake. Without a word, I went looking for his slippers. When I came back to the sala, his eyes were closed, his head resting on the headrest. Still, I put his slippers on his feet.

Dad opened his eyes, the look on his face blank. Meekly I handed him the parcel which I kept hidden behind me with my left hand. I couldn’t quite describe the look on his face when he saw it. He eyed it much too long before finally, slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached out his hand to get it.

I had thought Dad would be very happy. I had thought he would laugh a heartfelt laugh -- the kind that I hadn’t seen him laugh in a thousand years. I had thought he would dance with joy and carry me, and proclaim me his precious princess.

But at the back of my mind, I was also afraid he’d be very mad at me. Maybe he would spank me. Maybe he had already discovered the other night that several pieces of his one-peso savings were gone.

But he neither hugged nor whipped me. He took time in opening the parcel I handed him, the look on his face unfathomable. I stood by in anticipation. Time was suspended. I almost forgot to breathe. My hands were clammy, and my knees trembled a little. I couldn’tt take my eyes off him. I needed to know how he’d react.

Then the cover came off, revealing a pair of bright orange short pants. Thinking about it now, I know I should have chosen a darker color -- black, brown, or navy blue. Those are the colors favored by older people, but of course I didn’t know that when I was that age. Anyway, I’d given him bright orange short pants. I knew Dad needed more of that. His short pants were all torn and very old. I thought he would look better in it; maybe he’d even find a new Mom for me. I’d always yearned for a mother. Like Thea, my classmate. She always went to school wearing nice clothes, and her hair was always neatly combed, her ribbon the color of her dress. Mom used to dress me like that when she was alive. But of course I never said that to Dad; he might be cross with me.

Seeing what was inside the box, my father’s hands stopped moving, as though they were suspended in air. He hadn’t proceeded to take the cloth out of the box. He just held it as though he didn’t know what to do with it.

I stared at the box. Then I knew something was wrong. Dad’s hands visibly trembled. And when I returned my gaze to his face, I noticed he was looking at the gift unseeingly. Then I noticed something roll down his cheeks. I felt my eyes widen. Dad was crying! My tall, strong father was crying! I thought big boys didn’t cry?

My heart started to beat widely. Had he discovered half of his one-peso savings gone? Had he known I took them to buy him his gift?

Then I felt tears fall down my cheeks. I had displeased Dad. I knew it. I knew Dad was angry with me. He had to be. Why was he crying? Why hadn’t he thanked me?

I agonizingly watched my father cry, wishing I had not done it. I wished I had not taken those one-peso coins. I wished I had not given him a gift. Dad was angry at my gift. He didn’t like it.

I hate you, Daddy! I wanted to shout, but I didn’t.

I wanted to run to Lolo, tell him Dad was angry with me. Tell him Dad didn’t like my gift. Tell him…

“Jing…”

I heard Dad say my name softly. His voice was strangled. Was he sick?

I looked up. My father met my gaze. Now I could see Dad’s deepest emotions welling up his heart, flowing freely through his eyes. I saw anguish in my father’s soul, a wide void in his being.

I kept staring at Dad, though I knew I’d had more than I could take.

I heard a sound --0 that of a board falling on the floor. Then I realized it was the box Dad was holding, my gift still inside it. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t do it again. I won’t take any of your coins again.” I said, seeing how sad my father was. I knew it was because of me. Because I was a bad girl. So I kept talking, confessing my sin.

Then I lowered my eyes. I could no longer look directly at Dad. I kept crying.

“Jing…” I heard him call my name again. “Come here, anak..”

“Anak…” the endearment Dad and Mom used to call me when they wanted to hug me. Anak. It would have been enough to have me running into Dad’s arms. But not that time. I knew what I did was bad. I knew I displeased him. I was sure he would no longer want me. So I did not run to him. But I made a tentative step forward, still not meeting his gaze.

Seconds ticked by. Why was the time so slow? Why does time have a habit of slowing down when you need it to run fast?

I put my hand over my mouth; I always did that when I was afraid of something. I made another step. I noticed that my thin legs were trembling harder now. I was still not meeting Dad’s eyes, but in the periphery of my vision, I thought I saw him spread out his arms. But still, I didn’t dare look up. I closed my eyes as a new feeling of dread swamped over me. Then I felt strong arms enveloping me. I knew then that I was in my father’s arms. I felt him carry me, holding me tightly.

“I’m sorry, Anak.” I heard him say. “I’m so sorry.”

The sound of my father’s cries stabbed me in the chest. I didn’t know what to say, so I just let my father unleash his long pent-up emotions. I’m so sorry, Anak. Please let me make up.”

I didn’t know then what he was sorry about.

.

I FELT MY EYES warm, snapping me back from my reverie to where I was standing, halfway across the room, a good two meters away from my daughter who was looking right up to me with dread in her eyes. I felt a cold wind chill me. God, how terribly afraid my daughter must be feeling! I calmed myself down. Then I smiled at her.

“Come to Mommy, Sweetheart.”

My daughter’s face instantly brightened up, so bright that it lighted up the whole room. Her smile was so big it sent a glow to my heart.

I closed my eyes as I hugged my daughter tightly. God! How could I have let this happen? How could I have neglected my husband and my daughter for work? How could I have forgotten how it felt to be alone and neglected, like I felt when Mom died? How could I have let my daughter get a taste of it?

I opened my eyes. My gaze landed on the picture of Dad hanging beside the wall clock, opposite our family portrait. He was smiling warmly and his eyes seemed to have winked at me. I knew it was foolish, but I smiled back at my father’s picture, making a mental note to myself to pay him a visit soon.

I examined the manuscripts. I decided they could still be repaired. I asked Yanni to help me pick up the pieces of torn paper. Then companionably, we walked down to the kitchen where the aroma of nicely cooking stew filled the air. [seb/2003]

.

Published in Philippine Graphic; October 2004

OFW Phenomenon, Mail-order Brides, Prostitues, and More

Domestic helpers. Mail-order brides. Exporters of human labor. Phony businessmen.
These are how people the world over have come to know us, Filipinos. And I can’t blame them. For though it’s not completely true that these are what constitute us as a people, it’s not completely false either.

A big chunk of our population — roughly ten percent — are Overseas Filipino Contract Workers (OFWs), many of whom are working abroad either as domestic helpers, construction or factory workers, or health workers. Our OFWs are our modern-day heroes, so they say, because they have saved the country’s economy many times over through their remittances. Without our OFWs, our economy would have long gone under.

And we do have mail-order brides — women who have become wives or girlfriends of foreign nationals through dating sites. I do not think this phenomenon is true only among Filipinos, or SouthEast Asian women for that matter, but our case seems to be out of proportion. Just type in the word “Filipina” in the search engine, and you’d see sites advertising Filipinas as if we were commodities. Being a Filipina, this situation affects me greatly, more so because I cannot claim that the conception that Filipinas are mail-order-brides is entirely false. Many Filipinas have actually taken the easy road to financial security — by marrying a foreign national they met only through the internet, and who they have never met before tying the knot, and someone they don’t — or at least, didn’t at first — love.

And so that’s what our women have come to be known — not just mail-order brides, but brides for sale.

When I was a sophomore student in the university, one of my professors, a tall, young, and light-skinned mestiza-looking woman once related to class one of her experiences in an Asian country during a get-to-know party among international scholars. A friend jokingly introduced her as a European, and everybody believed him. Then this friend introduced her as Chinese, and again, everyone believed him. Then Latin American. Again, everybody believed him. Until this professor told her friend to cut the game out, to tell everyone the truth: that she was a Filipina. So they did; but this time, no one believed them. They thought they were joking. No, it wasn’t because she didn’t look like a Filipina, but because they couldn’t believe there’s a Filipina who would be intelligent enough to be part of that group. They thought Filipinas were only either nannies or prostitutes.

Just recently, a friend of mine who works as a marketing assistant in Qatar told me that if only she had a job to come back to in the country, if she weren’t thinking about how difficult their financial situation back home was, she would have quitted her job. “It’s different here, Sis,” she told me. “They have very poor opinion about Filipinos. They would tell you face to face that Filipinos are stupid, and loose. It’s degrading. But you know what? Sometimes, you couldn’t blame them. There are really quite a number of Filipinas here who are… uhmm… misbehaving.”

There are many other related stories about discrimination and misconceptions about our country’s womenfolk; all disheartening. Though Mary’s sin is not necessarily Ann’s, their common denomination — nationality — make other nationals think they are the same. Logically speaking, this thinking is fallacious, but perception is not the domain of logic. Right or wrong, logical or not, this perception remains, and we shall be viewed through the lens of that perception, whether we like it or not.

We can’t blame other nationals for their misconceptions about us. We do have mail-order brides. We do have women who have become victims of the sex trade. We also have countrymen who have falsified their documents to gain entry to other countries. There are also those who do fishy business. We have women who would shamelessly ask (demand?) financial support from their foreign boyfriends. We have bar girls who do dirty tricks on their costumers. But still, I can’t help but wish that when others look at us as a people, they would look deeper than the skin color, beyond the one-word entry in the passport that reads Filipino. Because while it is true that a number of our people had made mistakes in the past, and are committing the same mistake now, it doesn’t mean we are all the same. We share many things, but every person’s actions reflect the choices he made alone, not the choices his comrades made, are making, or shall make.

That we export labor is a sad thing. But I don’t think it should make me hang my face in shame. And no matter how “lowly” the jobs Filipinos hold abroad, I don’t think we should be ashamed of them. OFWs have gone to work overseas to do the things their employers hate doing, or can’t do. They care for their employer’s elders. They fix their mess. These jobs, though seemingly lowly and menial, are respectable. They care for their employers’ children, while inside they are hurting… hurting that own their children back home whom they left long before they were old enough to memorize their parents’ faces, are left uncared for. And the OFWs wonder, and hope, and pray, that the money they send their kids would be enough to pay for their absences (though knowing full well they it won’t be), that the material comfort their remittances could buy their children would be enough to nurture them until they go back back home to care for them, never to leave them again.

There are thousands of OFW success stories, but for every thousand happy endings, is another thousand of wrecked home and children gone wild. Very sad, indeed. But sadder still is the fact that our government is doing nothing to solve the problem. Instead of creating jobs right at home, our government encourages its people to leave and find work abroad. And to send remittances back home.

Yes, we Filipinos are up for sale. And we’re a bargain. We have medical specialists who work as nurses abroad. Lawyers who work as hotel janitors. Professionals who work as nannies.
Ah, I wonder… I wonder what I’m worth in the international market. And what I’d be doing abroad had I, too, chose to leave.

//Sherma E. Benosa
03 August 2008


Check out my other blogs:
Bard and Brain
Bilingual Pen
Photo.Graphic Thoughts
Taeng ni Ayat

Surrender

You hold me
captive in your quiet
stares. Your arms
reaching out
though they are
still.

And as words
keep their silence,
I hear
your soul’s oration
and your heart’s
whispers.

I allow a tinge
of smile to
paint itself
on my lips.

The sun
is most
captivating
when in its softest
shades.

.

//Sherma E. Benosa
14 September 2008; 12:10pm

Check out my other blogs:

Bard and Brain
Bilingual Pen
Photo.Graphic Thoughts
Taeng ni Ayat

Tell Me Your Song

I was not originally tagged to do it (I guess my friend Salve is tired of tagging me because I seldom do what I’ve been tagged to do, and on the only one occasion that I did a tag I even changed the rule and failed to tag someone else (rolling eye emoticon here). But, in fairness to ME, that was back when I still did not know I could get out of this little blog of mine and become friends with other bloggers (yeah, I was THAT slow). I thought, "who should I tag? I don't know of anyone who would play along!"

I guess I've changed because now, I can think of more than 10 friends who I can tag. I just don't know the rule as to how many I could tag, so I simply named two friends at the end.

Anyway, as I was saying, I wasn't asked to do this. I just stumbled upon it in one of Salve's friends' blog, which is also now my friend (yeah, I'm a friend grabber, hehehe). I loved the game so much, that I hinted at my new-found friend, Sonnet, that I want to do it. Mercifully, she got the not-so-subtle hint and she tagged me. (Wink emoticon here)

So here I am, doing a tagging game even if I was not asked, bullied, coerced, or forced to do it. But of course, like I usually do, I again broke some rules. But don't worry. I’ve been breaking some little rules for as long as I remember, and this one wouldn’t cause my banning in the blogosphere. I hope. (Another wink emoticon here.)

Here’s the rule: Answer the questions with song titles (your fave songs or songs that you like to play most of the time). No side comments please. Let the song titles explain your answer.

[The rule I broke: Not all the songs listed here my favorites. I researched some! Hehe! ]


1. How am I feeling today? Bluer than Blue by Regine Velasquez

2. Where/when will I get married? Quando, Quando, Quando by Engelbert Humperdinck

3. What is my best friend’s theme song? Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong and Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson

4. What is/was highschool like? Sana Maulit Muli by Regine Velasquez

5. What is the best thing about me? Honesty by Billy Joel

6. How is today going to be? Waiting by Mariah Carey

7. What is in store for this weekend? There’s a Kind of Hush by Karen Carpenter

8. What song describes my parents? Endless Love by Lionel Richie

9. How is my life going? Constant Change by Jose Mari Chan

10. What song will they play at my funeral? As I Lay Me Down To Sleep by Sophie B. Hawkins

11. How does the world see me? A Ray of Sunshine by George Michael

12. What do my friends really think of me? Wind Beneath my Wings by Bette Midler

13. Do people secretly lust after me? Maybe by Sheryn Regis

14. How can I make myself happy? The Voice Within by Christina Aguilera

15. What should I do with my life? Follow you Dream by Sheryn Regis

16. Will I ever have children? Little Girl by Christina Aguilera

17. What is some good advice? Tell Him by Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand

18. What does everyone else think of my current life? Isn’t it a Wonder? by Boyzone

19. What type of men/women do you like? Honesty by Billy Joel

20. Will you get married? I Do by 98 Degrees

21. Where will you live? The Town I Love so Well by Ronan Keating

22. What will your dying words be? Lift up your Hands to God by Gary Valenciano


Ok. I’m tagging Tam because she might think it’s fun and Salve because I know she's gonna do it! Hehehehehe!

_______________________________
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Brainteaser
Photo.Graphic Thoughts
Taeng ni Ayat