Did anyone ever tell you how much I hated you?
Dear dad, your breath stinks and your teeth are rotten
You stink of alcohol and a mixture of scents.
Your head shows how much you've aged
With scalp visible due to alcohol's aid.
You curse and spit,
You whine and shit
You piss in the cupboard and you don't care for me one bit.
You wake up in the morning and tell that you love me,
I return from school and I see you drunk, unhappy.
You never work, yet you complain
How much our lives are in pain.
I never see you awake most of the days
On your sweet, sweet bed you often lay.
I wanted to hug you, wanted to kiss,
So I woke you up to tell you how much I missed
You, yet you simply cursed and grumbled
And told me to sleep, I believe that's what you mumbled.
Dear dad, I then decided
Your presence is no longer needed.
I've wiped my tears
And held my fears
And you are now nothing but a shadow
Of the past that mourns in sorrow.
Dear dad, did anyone tell you how much I hated you?
You used to be my model for God,
But you made me give up all I had.
Dear dad,
Consider yourself told.
28 September 2009
08 September 2009
Rugby: A Walking Tour in a Third World Country
Urban Philippines can be beautiful at night, but only because the darkness conceals the filth visible in the morning. The streetlights do not work, saving one from the disgust of seeing mountains of garbage wrapped in plastic bags (most of which stay in the spot for days due to the absence of garbage collectors) and dead cats without any tracer of flesh -- all bones and skulls with empty sockets and carpets of short cat hair crawling with lice and flies. The disadvantage of darkness, of course, is that one cannot determine where the street dogs (covered in scabs and scabies, and anything but fur) excreted their feces.
Come mornings, the streets become mazes with floor paved with dog droppings and walls soaked in urine. At night (or at least, most nights), the obstacles in the maze move smooth and slow, appearing at large intervals that stretch on to forever. However, the moment daylight diffusesfrom the horizon and into the skies, people and vehicles -- the obstacles in the maze (in relation, of course, to a different person's point of view, as one would never see himself or herself as an obstacle) -- suddenly move at the speed of light. Public utility jeepneys, taxis, and buses race for passengers, the result of which involving fatalities, casualties and damage to properties. If a person is stupid enough to slow down while crossing the crossfire of vehicles, said person is to be included in the fatalities. At worst, that person is liable to be mowed down by a bus (the most dangerous of which being the "White Rabbits") and crushed under gigantic wheels, accompanied by the crunch-crunch-crunching sound of bones. Often, it's the animals that die, their fur sticking under their wheels, brains left to dry under the sun. The animals that are not yet dead, they are dying. They cross the streets. They whine. They look up to humans, eyes wet and shining. They beg.
Beggars sit on the hot, moist and cracked pavement, leaning on urine-soaked walls full of vandalism (penises and names of gangs), as well as messages such as "We catch you pissing, we cut your dick,"and "Post no bill."
Some beggars hold up their scarred, filthy hands. Some hold out cans, waiting for coins to clink against the tin. Others sleep, ignoring the pain of hunger and the flies on the pink wounds on their dust-brown skin. The crippled -- those without eyes or with missing or deformed limbs -- they are the ones who play instruments, do services, and the like. In short, those who are disabled are the only ones who actually work for their money.
The money is spent on food or on payment for syndicates (for most beggars are controlled by crimes). The children are the worst. They whine and curse and spit at you when you do not give them money, but they ask for more when you give them. When you can't give, they whine, and they curse, and they spit at you. They spend the money on junk food, computer rentals, cigarettes, or drugs.
The Metro Rail Transit zooms on its tracks, zooms past distant stations. Below, hidden in pink fences and plants that have stopped growing after growing for some time, two street boys are jumping, facing each other, moving in a circle, bracing for a fight. The fight is for the inhalant they bought with the few coins they accumulated in three days.
How they acquired the money is none of our business. They could have stolen it, or they could have begged. Maybe these are children who spit-shine shoes of jeepney passengers. There are a thousand ways to earn, and how these boys earned their money is not of importance, since we may have to find countless methods.
The drug in question is contact cement. The viscous fluid sits in a plastic bag marked "Rugby" (for "bagging," or inhaling fumes in a plastic) on a pot in their vicinity.
The children could not be older than fifteen, but to be sure, they are not younger than six. They could be ageed anywhere between eight and fourteen.
The smaller child (let us not name him, for if we are to name one, we have to name the other, and if we name them both, that would be doing a disservice to the other street children in the country who must be staging the same streetfights for drugs) spits, the spit shining white and bright. The other follows suit, his spit glistening green.
They smile. Silence around them. The streets are filled with noises of dying people and a dying country, but they do not mind. All they hear is the rhythm of the battle.
This is not a for-real fight, that is to say, the kind of fight you do when you're pissed off. They're just arguing over who gets to sniff more of the cement, measured in minutes by the digital clock in one of the commercial areas of the city. We will not name the city, for this story could happen just about anywhere.
And it happens. They jump at each other, roaring, snarling, their saliva sticky as the prize they are fighting for. A fist lands on a face. They trade blows, and the rhythm of the battle leans towards the drumming sounds of fists. They do not moan in pain. They curse, and they spit, and they growl, but they do not exclaim their pain.
They are boys raised by themselves, and they have to be strong, should they see their parents.
The taller kid grabs the other by the neck and slams him hard on the pavement. Blood stains the dust-covered floor. It does not matter. Their heads are full of scars, and their scalps are only held together by scar tissue. You can tell they have done this before.
They do not moan. They do not cry in pain, for the pain of hunger that has numbed them from other forms of pain continues to make its presence felt in their bodies. They do not care. They only want to kill that pain.
They tried to kill that pain a long time ago. Food did not work. It only left them even hungrier, craving for more. Water did not work. They drank until they were full, but it left them with an empty pain, and they had to drink some more, until they had to vomit all the water and bile that did not fit in their small tummies.
The smaller kid plants a foot on the taller one's tummy. The receiver recoils in pain, but gets back in time to retaliate. He punches the small kid. Punches. Punches. Punches. The smaller kid bangs his head on the pink fence, and his head becomes a net of wounds.
What worked for them was contact cement. They became dizzy, and they were not able to move for some time, but it numbed them of pain. That was when they resolved toalways buy contact cement,because they believed that by sniffing, they will eventually kill that monster in their tummies.
The taller kid continues punching. He asks, "Give up?"
It is a line often uttered in wrestling, which they watch in the market to learn new moves they can use against each other. The taller kid favors chokes, because he likes Kane, while the smaller kid likes Rey Mysterio, and so focuses on kicks.
The Rey Mysterio fan kicks his opponent's groin. The kid was brave, but he was not numb --not yet, for he hasn't had contact cement--and he kneels in pain. The smaller kid jumps, kickinghis friend in the face. The taller kid falls backward, clutching his nose, blood flowing between his fingers. His wounded face is wrinkled, bunched around his nose.
The taller kid falls. He falls against a rock.
The small kid screams, "YEAH!" He leans beside his opponent, and he asks, "Give up?"
The fallen boy opens his eyes, then he closes them again. He does not answer.
The small kid shakes his friend awake. "Brother? Brother?" His brother does not answer. The small kid shrugs, and he takes the plastic bag marked "RUGBY." He untangles the knot, and buries his nose in the opening. The plastic shrinks, then expands. Shrinks, then expands.
He looks at his brother. He had already played dead before. He is sure everything's fine. Tomorrow, they will beg for money so they can buy contact cement, and they will play wrestling, and the older borther will play dead again.
The young one wipes a tear. He has to be brave. He is a child raised by himself.
He has to believe.
He has to believe that tomorrow, the world is going to be better.
The world is going to be better, and his brother will wake up tomorrow.
Come mornings, the streets become mazes with floor paved with dog droppings and walls soaked in urine. At night (or at least, most nights), the obstacles in the maze move smooth and slow, appearing at large intervals that stretch on to forever. However, the moment daylight diffusesfrom the horizon and into the skies, people and vehicles -- the obstacles in the maze (in relation, of course, to a different person's point of view, as one would never see himself or herself as an obstacle) -- suddenly move at the speed of light. Public utility jeepneys, taxis, and buses race for passengers, the result of which involving fatalities, casualties and damage to properties. If a person is stupid enough to slow down while crossing the crossfire of vehicles, said person is to be included in the fatalities. At worst, that person is liable to be mowed down by a bus (the most dangerous of which being the "White Rabbits") and crushed under gigantic wheels, accompanied by the crunch-crunch-crunching sound of bones. Often, it's the animals that die, their fur sticking under their wheels, brains left to dry under the sun. The animals that are not yet dead, they are dying. They cross the streets. They whine. They look up to humans, eyes wet and shining. They beg.
Beggars sit on the hot, moist and cracked pavement, leaning on urine-soaked walls full of vandalism (penises and names of gangs), as well as messages such as "We catch you pissing, we cut your dick,"and "Post no bill."
Some beggars hold up their scarred, filthy hands. Some hold out cans, waiting for coins to clink against the tin. Others sleep, ignoring the pain of hunger and the flies on the pink wounds on their dust-brown skin. The crippled -- those without eyes or with missing or deformed limbs -- they are the ones who play instruments, do services, and the like. In short, those who are disabled are the only ones who actually work for their money.
The money is spent on food or on payment for syndicates (for most beggars are controlled by crimes). The children are the worst. They whine and curse and spit at you when you do not give them money, but they ask for more when you give them. When you can't give, they whine, and they curse, and they spit at you. They spend the money on junk food, computer rentals, cigarettes, or drugs.
The Metro Rail Transit zooms on its tracks, zooms past distant stations. Below, hidden in pink fences and plants that have stopped growing after growing for some time, two street boys are jumping, facing each other, moving in a circle, bracing for a fight. The fight is for the inhalant they bought with the few coins they accumulated in three days.
How they acquired the money is none of our business. They could have stolen it, or they could have begged. Maybe these are children who spit-shine shoes of jeepney passengers. There are a thousand ways to earn, and how these boys earned their money is not of importance, since we may have to find countless methods.
The drug in question is contact cement. The viscous fluid sits in a plastic bag marked "Rugby" (for "bagging," or inhaling fumes in a plastic) on a pot in their vicinity.
The children could not be older than fifteen, but to be sure, they are not younger than six. They could be ageed anywhere between eight and fourteen.
The smaller child (let us not name him, for if we are to name one, we have to name the other, and if we name them both, that would be doing a disservice to the other street children in the country who must be staging the same streetfights for drugs) spits, the spit shining white and bright. The other follows suit, his spit glistening green.
They smile. Silence around them. The streets are filled with noises of dying people and a dying country, but they do not mind. All they hear is the rhythm of the battle.
This is not a for-real fight, that is to say, the kind of fight you do when you're pissed off. They're just arguing over who gets to sniff more of the cement, measured in minutes by the digital clock in one of the commercial areas of the city. We will not name the city, for this story could happen just about anywhere.
And it happens. They jump at each other, roaring, snarling, their saliva sticky as the prize they are fighting for. A fist lands on a face. They trade blows, and the rhythm of the battle leans towards the drumming sounds of fists. They do not moan in pain. They curse, and they spit, and they growl, but they do not exclaim their pain.
They are boys raised by themselves, and they have to be strong, should they see their parents.
The taller kid grabs the other by the neck and slams him hard on the pavement. Blood stains the dust-covered floor. It does not matter. Their heads are full of scars, and their scalps are only held together by scar tissue. You can tell they have done this before.
They do not moan. They do not cry in pain, for the pain of hunger that has numbed them from other forms of pain continues to make its presence felt in their bodies. They do not care. They only want to kill that pain.
They tried to kill that pain a long time ago. Food did not work. It only left them even hungrier, craving for more. Water did not work. They drank until they were full, but it left them with an empty pain, and they had to drink some more, until they had to vomit all the water and bile that did not fit in their small tummies.
The smaller kid plants a foot on the taller one's tummy. The receiver recoils in pain, but gets back in time to retaliate. He punches the small kid. Punches. Punches. Punches. The smaller kid bangs his head on the pink fence, and his head becomes a net of wounds.
What worked for them was contact cement. They became dizzy, and they were not able to move for some time, but it numbed them of pain. That was when they resolved toalways buy contact cement,because they believed that by sniffing, they will eventually kill that monster in their tummies.
The taller kid continues punching. He asks, "Give up?"
It is a line often uttered in wrestling, which they watch in the market to learn new moves they can use against each other. The taller kid favors chokes, because he likes Kane, while the smaller kid likes Rey Mysterio, and so focuses on kicks.
The Rey Mysterio fan kicks his opponent's groin. The kid was brave, but he was not numb --not yet, for he hasn't had contact cement--and he kneels in pain. The smaller kid jumps, kickinghis friend in the face. The taller kid falls backward, clutching his nose, blood flowing between his fingers. His wounded face is wrinkled, bunched around his nose.
The taller kid falls. He falls against a rock.
The small kid screams, "YEAH!" He leans beside his opponent, and he asks, "Give up?"
The fallen boy opens his eyes, then he closes them again. He does not answer.
The small kid shakes his friend awake. "Brother? Brother?" His brother does not answer. The small kid shrugs, and he takes the plastic bag marked "RUGBY." He untangles the knot, and buries his nose in the opening. The plastic shrinks, then expands. Shrinks, then expands.
He looks at his brother. He had already played dead before. He is sure everything's fine. Tomorrow, they will beg for money so they can buy contact cement, and they will play wrestling, and the older borther will play dead again.
The young one wipes a tear. He has to be brave. He is a child raised by himself.
He has to believe.
He has to believe that tomorrow, the world is going to be better.
The world is going to be better, and his brother will wake up tomorrow.
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