I cannot die yet. I haven’t found the song/music to play during the wake, the funeral march (to the crematorium), and the moment where they throw my ashes to the sea. I cannot die yet because I have no golden anniversary marriage story to leave behind for people to praise. Nor do I have children, much less a legacy. I can’t die yet because I cannot even find a half-decent date I can get along with. I cannot die yet because I have a lot to reconcile. I cannot die yet because I have a heavy heart. I can’t die yet because I am still not me. I cannot die yet because I dunno how to live. I cannot die yet because I haven’t saved the world. I cannot die yet because I haven’t saved you. I cannot die yet because I haven’t saved me. I cannot die yet. I cannot save me. And when I do save me, I will not die. I just cannot die yet. Even if it kills me.
Back then there was this Berlin Wall between my mouth and bad words. The first time I said a bad word aloud. It wasn’t even an evil cuss. Just a permutation of a local word for stupid. Tanga. At age ten, the evils of my world were bad words and cigarettes. Porn was fine. But bad words? No fuckin’ way.
I remembered practicing internally. I would say bad words over and over in my head until I could muster to open my mouth. But the moment I do, nothing comes out. The farthest I went would be lipping the word. To myself. Pathetic. The one time I got really pissed over a classmate in school, in all my rage I called him “son of a peach!” You had no idea how much a gift Meredith Brook’s first hit song was to me.
In one Shake, Rattle & Roll installment (yes the movie, I watch it every time in cinemas like tradition - get over it), Gina Alajar had a very endearing character that said “pucha” in every sentence. Sometimes two per. I liked it. It felt soft and it felt like something that won’t make me sound bad. For the next two hours I would say “pucha” in every sentence. It died down when my mom told me what it meant.
Seventeen years later, I still don’t really say bad words. A jolt akin to guilt chills the tips of my spine when I let out even one in a sigh. Seventeen years later the evils of my ten year-old world weren’t so bad after all. I didn’t imagine growing up with mostly bad words to say about the bigger evils around us right now. I was taught to shut up when I had nothing nice to say. But they’re just dying to fuckin’ come out.
Maybe that’s why I became a writer.
