RAILROAD MAN

My father was the foundation of my world, the backbone of my life. If there’s one person responsible for who I am, it would be him: Melquiades Perez.

The morning was cold and gloomy, and the plywood walls weren’t enough to keep the house warm. I was lying, half-awake on my bed, listening to the sound of the rain pouring rhythmically on our tin roof. “It’s time for his bath,” my sister said, waking me up. “ You still have to fetch your plane ticket today.”

Automatically, I stood up, dragged myself towards the room across from mine and prepared for the bath.

Inside the room, on a single wooden bed, laid a half-dead man. He was skin-and-bones, a crouched grown-up baby in an extra large diaper. His eyes were dull, empty, and blind. Was he asleep? It was hard to know.

“God, please lessen his suffering,” I prayed, soundlessly, almost adding, “Please take him.”

“Got the soap?” my sister asked.

“Yes, I’m ready.”

Because of being bedridden, his wounds had rapidly become deeper and larger, but tending them—washing, applying ointments, dressing with gauze—didn’t bother me. He weighed only about 80 pounds, not even half of his weight when he was still active, making it easy for us to move him around.

My days had become routine. I bathed him, tended his wounds, checked his blood pressure and sugar level, injected him with insulin, blended his food, fed him using the rubber tube in his nose, and, when necessary, changed his diaper.

We had had been in this situation for almost half a year, since he’d been discharged from the hospital. “No one in this world can save him now,” one of the doctors casually said. “No one, not even God.” If the doctor was right, then who, when his time to suffer or die comes, can save himself?

My father and I were alone in the room. I was carefully drying him with a towel, avoiding the newly-tended wounds. He was staring blankly at the ceiling. “I need to go back to Canada soon,” I said, my mouth close to his ear. “Aren’t you going to stop me?“ I waited for a response, but, as I expected, he didn’t even move his lips. A Cerebral Aneurism (slowly but surely) took my father.

My nephew and niece entered the room, stood beside me, placed their mouth close to their grandfather’s ear, and performed their daily routine. “Lolo pogi,” they started singing. “Please don’t cry. Don’t you know we love you, very much?” They kissed him on his cheek, gave him a hug, kissed me on my cheek, and left the room. It was visible, through their eyes, that their young hearts weren’t yet strong enough to look at their grandfather’s sorry condition. Even my father’s dog, in its dumb grief, sat quietly and obediently at one corner of the room and spent moments of silence with its dying master.

Later that day, after I fetched my plane ticket, my friend and I went to an amusement park. We rode the Roller Coaster, Ferris Wheel and strolled around. It was fun and a great escape from reality, I thought.

Little did I know, while I was enjoying myself, my father, at the same time, was fighting for his last breath.

Back in our house, my sister was crying; her eyes were swollen. My aunt was standing beside her, stroking my sister’s back. Everyone turned their eyes on me as soon as I entered the door, as if wanting to tell me something but not having the courage to do so. I ran towards my father’s room, pretending like I had no idea what was happening, hoping that I would still find him on his bed, waiting for me.

The moment I had feared the most had come—the bed was stripped; my father was gone.

When I arrived at the hospital’s emergency department, my cousin stopped me. “What year was Tito born?” he asked, filling out a form.

“Where is he?” I replied.

“Where’s his birthplace?”

“Just tell me where he is!”

My cousin hugged me. “He’s gone, Mack,” he said, crying. “Tito is gone.”

I forced my way through the door and saw my father lying on a stretcher, surrounded by people who didn’t take notice of him. I wrapped him in my arms and kissed him. I cried in front of him, for the first time in years, knowing that he couldn’t feel my tears on his cheeks, couldn’t witness my frailty.

It was now the first night of the wake, my sister and relatives were gathered behind me, comforting each other, praying the rosary. I was looking at my father’s framed picture, the only proof of his prime; he was wearing his white martial arts suit and black belt. The enlarged photograph, wet with tears, was placed on the coffin’s glossy, glass surface, girded with white flowers. Then I looked at the man in white suit—straight, stiff, lifeless like a log—inside the casket. He looked a lot like my father, I thought, but he was not my father.

As they lowered the coffin and laid the marble tombstone on the green Bermuda grass, I recalled my father’s life.

He dedicated his life to our family. He worked abroad and endured years of loneliness. When he came back home to us, I witnessed—the sweat that wet his shirts, the cracked calluses on his dirty hands, his sunburnt skin—his hard work. I grew up without a mother, so he was also the one to put on the apron and make our omelette. He ploughed the field, planted the seeds, irrigated the land, harvested the crops, cooked and served the food on our plate while my sisters and I, ate. He complained about his rugged and overused boots, that he hadn’t any money for new ones, but never had I heard him complain about the work that he’d done for our family. He loved us. He didn’t say it often, but I knew he did.

My father was a railroad man who had been through different stations of life. And on the night of February 6, 2006, his train arrived at its final station; his journey had met the end of its track.

I arrived back here in Canada with only one thing on my mind: It’s time to gather my tools, board the train, and start my own journey through life.

When Boredom Takes Over

Last week, I went to an ice cream parlour, and laid before me were a variety of flavours of ice cream to chose from. Having eaten a mango flavoured ice cream at home (which I heartily enjoyed) before going to the said parlour, I settled for the maple syrup one; however, I didn’t enjoy it because it was too sweet for my taste. But was it really too sweet? Or perhaps, I was only dissatisfied with my choice because there were more than ten flavours right in front of me—mango, my favourite, included. Knowing that one of those flavours would be the best for taste lessened the satisfaction value the maple syrup ice cream could’ve had. Of course, I could have tried another flavours, but that would have been a waste of money. And I had none.

In the book, The Paradox of Choice by Barry Schwartz, he talked about the importance of the choices we make, and how they affect our lives. He argued that the freedom we hope and fight for can actually hinder us from achieving satisfaction and happiness. He said that equating liberty to choice, as if increasing the number of choices defines freedom, can be harmful to us, and, he even went further by stating that, too many choices might cause us psychological disorders such as depression.

I am not saying that the abundance of choice is evil; all I'm saying is that it has a negative and a positive side. Having too many options to chose from consumes an enormous amount of our precious energy and time. For example, spending a day in a shop looking for a perfect clothing is time consuming because knowing that there would be thousands of designs makes us search more intently for the best one. We have to find the best! In the end, we try on the product that we bought and still feel that it's not the perfect choice because somewhere, someone is already wearing the same clothing or a better one. Also, it increases our expectations, therefore, we are more prone to disappointment. However, on the positive side, more options gives us higher possibility of making the right choice.

Paulo Coelho, author of The Alchemist, said: “Freedom is not the absence of commitment, but the ability to choose—and commit ourselves—what is the best for us.” It is not about the quantity of choices. It is about making the right choice. I think, to escape or to overcome this dilemma is to know what we really want or what we love, and then we must pursue it. Be it in choosing what to have for dinner, what cell phone plan to sign, or what car to buy, up to more personal things such as who to choose as a husband or wife (if given a chance to choose), we should think carefully and thoroughly and commit ourselves to our decision. Only by that, we’d be able to be happy with the choices that we make.

HAPPINESS

It was a bright and breezy morning, and the leaves rustled all over the valley. Trees of different kinds aligned along a quiet and peaceful stream. Under a tall and bent-down bamboo tree, with its golden skin glowing in sunlight, Desire and Contentment sat, contemplated, and tried to figure out the reasons of their existence.

As the sun continued to rise to the center of an azure sky, Desire broke the tranquility of the morning. "What makes you feel contented? he asked. “How come you are already satisfied with your life—with the same mornings, same sun, same sky?"

"Every time you achieve what you desire, I feel contented." Contentment replied.

"But I keep on asking for more the moment I reach my goal, and whenever I succeed, I always aim higher. "

"I am very patient. I can wait."

"You are waiting for nothing, for I will never stop wanting."

"I believe, someday, you would realize what you have already gained. Everyone has their limit, and you will also reach yours."

Desire kept quiet for a while and gazed at their surrounding. Then he stood up and faced the bamboo tree behind them. “I like bamboo,” he said, while feeling its smooth surface. "Hey, Contentment, have you ever felt Happiness?"

"If happiness is finding one’s purpose, then I haven’t.”

"Are we capable of being happy?”

"Listen. The moment that you, Desire, achieve contentment then I would be able to taste Happiness.”

"What do you mean? I tend to long for power when I posses wealth. I want more wealth because I have more power, and more power requires more wealth. It is a never-ending cycle, really."

"Have you heard of the ‘Tree of all Trees?’” Contentment asked.

“ No, I haven’t.”

“In the time of our ancestors, there was a sacred tree called ‘The Tree of All Trees.’ It was a tree that represented all the trees all over the world. All kinds of fruits bloomed on its braches, and wonderful flowers blossomed from its leaves. It possessed all the traits of other trees. One day the tree asked the Creator for the reason why it was granted with such a blessing. The Creator told the tree that it was because the tree had a loving heart—a heart that was more than willing to give and share the glories of the Creator. The Sacred Tree bestowed onto others everything it had: shelter for the cold and weary travelers, woods to make fire, medicine for the sick and wounded, and more. It held down its braches so that passing pilgrims and merchants can easily harvest and feed its produce. It nested birds, insects, and animals of different types. Its beauty was more than enough to attract everyone and everything near it. The tree had it all; everyone near it also had it all.”

“Thank you for the story. I think I now know what you mean. Like the bamboo, I have to continue growing but I also have to keep my head down. I must aim higher but I have to remember that no matter how high I have reached, there is still a part of me that remains attached to the ground.”

“If that is how you want to put it, then be like a bamboo.”

"I have one last question for you my friend. If I, Desire, achieve contentment, then what should I call you?”

“Call me Happiness.”

Sabi ni Tatay

Sabi ng tatay ko: "Puros ka porma; puros ka garbo; puros ka yabang—pag-aaral naman, pinapabayaan."

Ito ay kaniyang sinabi sa akin nung mga araw na ako isa pang dakilang tambay, noong mga panahong ako aya walang pangarap at kuntento na sa gabi-gabing paaso-aso sa lansangan. Kaya naman, ang kaniyang puna ay hindi ko pinansin, at akin lamang nilunok at kinalauna'y inutot.

Ngunit ngayong ako ay sawa na sa pagiging isang palalo, aking naaalala ang mga payo sa akin ni tatay. Minsan kasi sa buhay natin, kailangan nating maging mapusok upang malaman ang hangganan ng ating mga kahibangan. Naisin ko man na ibalik ang kahapon na king sinayang, hindi na maaari, at ang tangi ko na lang kayang gawin ay ang pagbutihin ang aking gawi sa ngayon at sa hinaharap.

Naalala ko nung nung naglayas ako noong ako'y nasa ika-anim na baitang pa lamang. Ako ay nangutang ng pera upang makapunta sa Cavite at manirahan sa aking mga kamag-anak na doo'y naninirahan. Ako'y namangha sa inakala kong katigasan ng puso ng aking tatay sapagkat hindi man lamang niya sinundo ang kanyang bunsong anak na lumayas dahil na rin sa takot sa kanyang mga banta.

Ngunit ngayong alam ko na ang hirap ng buhay, nauunawaan ko na kung bakit hindi iniwan ni tatay ang kanyang trabaho bilang isang Taxi driver. Hindi kakayanin ng aming pamilya na mabasawan ng ilang araw na kita dahil lamang sa isang anak na pasaway. Malamang, inisip ni tatay ang kalagayan ng buong pamilya, kaya't kanyang napagdesisyonan na ipadala ang aking kapatid na babae upang ako ay sunduin.

"Puros ka porma; puros ka garbo; puros ka yabang."

Wala naman akong alam.

"Pag-aaral naman, pinapabayaan."

Wala akong alam.

PILIPINAS

His Mother is crying,

Watching the sunrise, hoping

It’d stay until she falls asleep,

And light the beauty of her dark streets.

Inside his Mother’s womb,

Live the bourgeois and the proletariat.

The Mother’s blood is fused with her children’s blood;

The Mother’s flesh is adhered to her children’s flesh.

But in time, like most of Her offspring,

They’ll set off under the sun, singing:

“I’ve found a job, but nowhere to sleep.

My Mother worries. My Mother weeps.”

A son has flown to the other side of the world,

At the realm of the setting sun:

He milks not his Mother's breast;

He sleeps not on his Mother's chest;

He feeds not at his Mother's nest.

Has he grown to be an orphan of the West?

As he ploughs the land (not of his ancestors),

He looks at the sky and remembers what he’s once been told:

"Where your heart is, there will be your treasure, also."

Even if the mud that he works with shines like gold—

He puts down his spade, his rake, his pitchfork—

It is not his own, not his to hold.

"Mother, please take me back in your arms," the lost son pleads.

"Let me see the sun through your eyes,

In your land let me scatter and grow my seeds.”

Upon setting his feet on Her soil,

He promises not to leave without Her lore.

It is She who cultivated who he is today.

Without Her he’s a man of nowhere,

A man without a name.

For he who values not his Motherland,

Wouldn't reach his destination as if on a trackless train.

As he tears away the gold on his skin,

The Brown Man in him redeems his dreams

SeaShore

The heat is visibly bouncing off the white sand. I am sitting under the shade of a tree, rubbing the fine sand beneath my feet, toeing it. I grasp a handful of sand, and the tighter I hold, the faster the grains escape between my fingers. I gaze at the sparkling sea—at its vastness, its horizon. The sun is round as ever, an immaculate hole in an azure sky. I lay flat on my back and close my eyes. I hear the waves crashing on the shore, while birds caw from a nearby boulder. I sit again, cross-legged like a yogi, eyes still closed. The warm wind blows, plucking the braches of the trees like a mystical lyre. The luscious leaves above me rustle. Everything around me seems to be chanting for a nymph. Even my very heartbeat and breathing join the ancient choir. Wonderful and tranquil, nature‘s music is. A kamikaze insect lands on my skin—blood on my palm. I stand up, do a bit of stretching, and swim at the freezing, salty sea.