Post by ernesto thaddeus m. solmerano on Jun 13, 2007 19:10:06 GMT -5
Continuation of Good Intentions 101 SY '72-'73
Then suddenly right between Christmas and the New Year, without any preliminaries, Father brought Big Brother home. He was a lot thinner, darker and seemed sadder, wearing different clothes now. Jennifer did not dare ask him about his unwashed Levi’s. They were gone. Mother was so happy that she bought him a better electric guitar. He spent the holidays just sleeping. They kept hoping he would play Innagadadavida or Smoke on the Water again.
During their New Year’s Day family reunions, no one mentioned that Big Brother had even been gone. Jennifer overheard Father talking about how he had had to pay over Fifty Thousand in bribes just to get Big Brother back safe and sound. That was a lot of money in those days. Father had gone into debt. “A child is a child is a child,” he said, not unlike Gertrude Stein. Father trembled so with happiness, that when he tried to tussle Big Brother’s hair as usual, his fingers fell short and merely touched air. Because it was still the Christmas season, he grabbed him hard and hugged him and kissed him on his forehead and cheeks in front of all the relatives. Big Brother smiled wanly.
Jennifer tried to tell him about the things she was learning about the poor that she thought he might want to hear. He had spent two months living among them and she supposed that their lives would interest him. She told him about the woman in Bangkusay who already had six children by her lover who was a jeepney driver. Basta driver, good lover. She was not his only woman. He had sired eight other children by two others—four each. She thought that she was the favored one because she had two more than her other rivals. Their last child had cerebral palsy though, and so he had stopped seeing her, claiming that she was bad luck to have brought a blighted child into the world. The poor woman had come to Siser Anacleta for help. Sister Anacleta had sat stiffly across her in the neat and polished parlor, listening in stony silence. Tears had rolled down the woman’s cheeks, sunken and withered already, though she was not yet thirty, as she stammered out her story. Then the palsied baby had vomited on the freshly scrubbed and waxed tiles. Sister Anacleta had not flinched but with her exaggeratedly sweet and clear enunciation, had told the woman over and over how God had punished her for her sins with this accursed child.
Big Brother smirked as he listened, then he guffawed. He almost sounded like his usual self. Once he said, a military patrol had come looking for them. They knew that one of the women in their band had just given birth to twins and so they were looking for twin infants in the village that had sheltered them. The woman in question had hidden one of her infants under a large basin. All the while that the military had questioned her, she had prayed that the infant would not cry. When she removed the basin, she discovered that the child had died.
“Yikes!” Jennifer cried, before she could stop herself. She wished she had something more intelligent to say. Big Brother leaned back and shut his eyes. He was sleeping again and she did not disturb his rest.
Big Brother was too late to go back for the second semester of Engineering although he had been enrolled before his great adventure. Bits and pieces of it came out at the most unexpected times. He now ate vegetables. When the cook went on vacation unexpectedly, he offered to go to market for Mother. He had learned how to cook using the chopped off, still good parts from half-rotten vegetables. As he stir-fried bokchoy, sweet peas and carrots, he told Jennifer about how there had been days when they had nothing to eat except boiled roots and leaves, day in and day out. There had not even been any salt at times.
“One night, they took us into a cave. It was totally dark except for a couple of torches beside these colored portraits of Lenin and Mao. Then we had to bow down before them with hands outstretched while they poured hot wax on our naked palms. We were not to cry out as a sign of our deathless loyalty.”
Then he laughed. “You must be really gullible if you believe that I ever did anything like that.”
Before the school year ended, Sister Anacleta decided that Miss Battung and Jennifer’s group should take the cemetery children on a picnic. Only the ten most outstanding from the English and Catechism classes would go. Miss Battung called out the names of the chosen few.
“Yolly Ocampo,” she said, then with a hint of irritation. “Where is that Yolly?”
“She’s still taking a bath, Miss,” said a bullet-headed little boy whose closely shaved scalp exhibited the many nicks and bald patches that a drunken barber had inflicted. He was dressed for their outing in a too tight white cotton barong tagalog and shiny dark trousers that hugged his thighs and calves. His cracked and faded leather shoes were too large for him though. They looked like they belonged to his father or to an older brother. Jennifer realized that this outing was so special to them that his mother had dressed him in his best clothes—in all the family’s best clothes! The mother, with another child on her hip, hovered with shy pride at the fringes of the crowd that had gathered to see the children off.
Miss Battung frowned upon learning that Yolly who had placed highest in the English class was not ready yet. It did not bode well for young girls in such circumstances to care overly much about how they looked or smelled. Baths were an inconvenience in the cemetery squatter settlement where one had to haul water from a single pump close to the gate. Her taking one right before the outing smacked of profligacy. When Yolly came out, looking radiant in strappy sandals, a wool skirt and sweater and smelling of Camay soap, Miss Battung sniffed: “Alembong! even if she’s just wearing relief goods...” She considered such determination to speak and write fluent English unseemly in a pretty girl. She often told the Clairians that all the signs pointed to Yolly ending up as a mail order bride, or worse.
“Oh, if only Miss Battung could become a mail-order bride!” someone whispered behind Jennifer.
“If only someone would just take her cherry,” another girl whispered back.
“Maybe you would have to pay someone to take it,” Arlene Poblete said. “But who would even have that much money?”
Jennifer stifled her giggles. She decided that it would be a good idea to write some letters in Miss Battung’s name to those ads in the personals section. She would put Gloria Diaz’s photograph and the address of Miss battung’s boardinghouse. That should get some responses.
They took the cemetery children to the Wildlife Park. It was a school day so there were not many people around. The children ran to the man-made lagoon and stood around it hand in hand, quietly staring at the expanse of grey water. “It is the sea!” blurted out the bullet headed boy who remembered having been on a boat from Samar.
Then they ate: pancit canton with rice and fried chicken, and hard candy for dessert. It was a veritable feast for them. After lunch, they were to go to the Luneta. Miss Battung counted the cemetery children. One of them was missing—the bullet-headed boy. Jennifer was sent to look for him. She found him standing by the chain link fence facing the highway. The day was only half done and already he was full of the unnameable largeness, the phantom promise of plenty that lay beyond the cemetery walls and graves. He was throwing stones at the cars speeding by. The harsh dusty wind tore at his open mouth and the smoke filled rush of the engines burned his fevered and livid eyes. His thick stubby arms in the ridiculously too short and too tight barong sleeves spun with fervid power and grace. It almost seemed like he could fly, that he could hurl himself at the cars and they would pass right through him. He was so alive just then, Jennifer did not have the heart to stop him. Besides, she didn’t even know his name.
Then suddenly right between Christmas and the New Year, without any preliminaries, Father brought Big Brother home. He was a lot thinner, darker and seemed sadder, wearing different clothes now. Jennifer did not dare ask him about his unwashed Levi’s. They were gone. Mother was so happy that she bought him a better electric guitar. He spent the holidays just sleeping. They kept hoping he would play Innagadadavida or Smoke on the Water again.
During their New Year’s Day family reunions, no one mentioned that Big Brother had even been gone. Jennifer overheard Father talking about how he had had to pay over Fifty Thousand in bribes just to get Big Brother back safe and sound. That was a lot of money in those days. Father had gone into debt. “A child is a child is a child,” he said, not unlike Gertrude Stein. Father trembled so with happiness, that when he tried to tussle Big Brother’s hair as usual, his fingers fell short and merely touched air. Because it was still the Christmas season, he grabbed him hard and hugged him and kissed him on his forehead and cheeks in front of all the relatives. Big Brother smiled wanly.
Jennifer tried to tell him about the things she was learning about the poor that she thought he might want to hear. He had spent two months living among them and she supposed that their lives would interest him. She told him about the woman in Bangkusay who already had six children by her lover who was a jeepney driver. Basta driver, good lover. She was not his only woman. He had sired eight other children by two others—four each. She thought that she was the favored one because she had two more than her other rivals. Their last child had cerebral palsy though, and so he had stopped seeing her, claiming that she was bad luck to have brought a blighted child into the world. The poor woman had come to Siser Anacleta for help. Sister Anacleta had sat stiffly across her in the neat and polished parlor, listening in stony silence. Tears had rolled down the woman’s cheeks, sunken and withered already, though she was not yet thirty, as she stammered out her story. Then the palsied baby had vomited on the freshly scrubbed and waxed tiles. Sister Anacleta had not flinched but with her exaggeratedly sweet and clear enunciation, had told the woman over and over how God had punished her for her sins with this accursed child.
Big Brother smirked as he listened, then he guffawed. He almost sounded like his usual self. Once he said, a military patrol had come looking for them. They knew that one of the women in their band had just given birth to twins and so they were looking for twin infants in the village that had sheltered them. The woman in question had hidden one of her infants under a large basin. All the while that the military had questioned her, she had prayed that the infant would not cry. When she removed the basin, she discovered that the child had died.
“Yikes!” Jennifer cried, before she could stop herself. She wished she had something more intelligent to say. Big Brother leaned back and shut his eyes. He was sleeping again and she did not disturb his rest.
Big Brother was too late to go back for the second semester of Engineering although he had been enrolled before his great adventure. Bits and pieces of it came out at the most unexpected times. He now ate vegetables. When the cook went on vacation unexpectedly, he offered to go to market for Mother. He had learned how to cook using the chopped off, still good parts from half-rotten vegetables. As he stir-fried bokchoy, sweet peas and carrots, he told Jennifer about how there had been days when they had nothing to eat except boiled roots and leaves, day in and day out. There had not even been any salt at times.
“One night, they took us into a cave. It was totally dark except for a couple of torches beside these colored portraits of Lenin and Mao. Then we had to bow down before them with hands outstretched while they poured hot wax on our naked palms. We were not to cry out as a sign of our deathless loyalty.”
Then he laughed. “You must be really gullible if you believe that I ever did anything like that.”
Before the school year ended, Sister Anacleta decided that Miss Battung and Jennifer’s group should take the cemetery children on a picnic. Only the ten most outstanding from the English and Catechism classes would go. Miss Battung called out the names of the chosen few.
“Yolly Ocampo,” she said, then with a hint of irritation. “Where is that Yolly?”
“She’s still taking a bath, Miss,” said a bullet-headed little boy whose closely shaved scalp exhibited the many nicks and bald patches that a drunken barber had inflicted. He was dressed for their outing in a too tight white cotton barong tagalog and shiny dark trousers that hugged his thighs and calves. His cracked and faded leather shoes were too large for him though. They looked like they belonged to his father or to an older brother. Jennifer realized that this outing was so special to them that his mother had dressed him in his best clothes—in all the family’s best clothes! The mother, with another child on her hip, hovered with shy pride at the fringes of the crowd that had gathered to see the children off.
Miss Battung frowned upon learning that Yolly who had placed highest in the English class was not ready yet. It did not bode well for young girls in such circumstances to care overly much about how they looked or smelled. Baths were an inconvenience in the cemetery squatter settlement where one had to haul water from a single pump close to the gate. Her taking one right before the outing smacked of profligacy. When Yolly came out, looking radiant in strappy sandals, a wool skirt and sweater and smelling of Camay soap, Miss Battung sniffed: “Alembong! even if she’s just wearing relief goods...” She considered such determination to speak and write fluent English unseemly in a pretty girl. She often told the Clairians that all the signs pointed to Yolly ending up as a mail order bride, or worse.
“Oh, if only Miss Battung could become a mail-order bride!” someone whispered behind Jennifer.
“If only someone would just take her cherry,” another girl whispered back.
“Maybe you would have to pay someone to take it,” Arlene Poblete said. “But who would even have that much money?”
Jennifer stifled her giggles. She decided that it would be a good idea to write some letters in Miss Battung’s name to those ads in the personals section. She would put Gloria Diaz’s photograph and the address of Miss battung’s boardinghouse. That should get some responses.
They took the cemetery children to the Wildlife Park. It was a school day so there were not many people around. The children ran to the man-made lagoon and stood around it hand in hand, quietly staring at the expanse of grey water. “It is the sea!” blurted out the bullet headed boy who remembered having been on a boat from Samar.
Then they ate: pancit canton with rice and fried chicken, and hard candy for dessert. It was a veritable feast for them. After lunch, they were to go to the Luneta. Miss Battung counted the cemetery children. One of them was missing—the bullet-headed boy. Jennifer was sent to look for him. She found him standing by the chain link fence facing the highway. The day was only half done and already he was full of the unnameable largeness, the phantom promise of plenty that lay beyond the cemetery walls and graves. He was throwing stones at the cars speeding by. The harsh dusty wind tore at his open mouth and the smoke filled rush of the engines burned his fevered and livid eyes. His thick stubby arms in the ridiculously too short and too tight barong sleeves spun with fervid power and grace. It almost seemed like he could fly, that he could hurl himself at the cars and they would pass right through him. He was so alive just then, Jennifer did not have the heart to stop him. Besides, she didn’t even know his name.