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.
And it will wake me from all this madness. It will mean everything in that moment. And then it will leave me a new emptiness to fill. Oust the rhythm of loneliness. With the melody of moments. New choices, sacrifices, and pain. And most importantly, love. After that, after all said and that, will it save me from all this sadness? Or is it all just part of this madness?
A once-very-important person in my life presented an idea he believed in, late at night, curled under sheets, warmed by our skin. He said that we strive to be different from our parents but it is an inevitability that in doing so, we grow right into them. Maybe this was true because later on he had left me like how his parents left one another. And here I am still holding on to the last traces and remnants of the sensation we used to share like how my parents sort out their lives and ours, together. All by myself.
… You crash, shatter, and scatter all over. What do you do after?
I’m talking in circles. I’m lying, they know it. Why won’t this just all go away?
— “Cry” by Kelly Clarkson
Tonight wasn’t about the fancy village gates where stationed guards pointed my cab to his house. Tonight wasn’t about the security guard they had who opened their gate and made me wait by his post. Tonight wasn’t about the quiet foyer where saints and figurines bore witness to pictures and portraits of his family’s history. Tonight wasn’t about the half smile he welcomed me by without looking into my eyes. Tonight wasn’t about the effort he had made in preparing dinner, after all he does enjoy cooking. Tonight wasn’t certainly about the Molé he had prepared, a recipe he had learned from his recent South American trip. Tonight wasn’t about the great conversation amidst an eerie silence of a lived-in empty house. Tonight wasn’t about how we shared common interests and ideals. Tonight wasn’t about how we had some things we don’t agree on. Tonight wasn’t about how he offered to bring me to the train station, and by “he” meaning an extension of his institution through his driver and 4x4, himself not included. Tonight wasn’t about the yawn he did as he said goodbye. Tonight wasn’t certainly about that. Not at all.
Tonight was about hitting the streets, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green while saying no to children asking if they can hail me a cab. Tonight was about walking up the train station, lining up with the weary masses making their way home. Tonight was about standing in a moderately spacious middle isle of a train car staring at the faces of fellow passengers. Tonight was about getting off EDSA, walking towards the jeepney line and taking the rightmost front seat where the breeze rinsed off the day from me. Tonight was about getting off my street, walking past the baranggay, past the makeshift videoke bars, past children scavenging the daily trash waiting outside, past two lovers entangled under the shadow of a broken lamppost. Tonight was about being opened to by smiling help, and coming home to a lonely piece of KFC left all alone in its grease-laden box. Tonight was about coming home to Sabel ecstatically wagging her tail and kissing my heel. Tonight was about coming home to mom lovingly putting my shirts in my closet. Tonight was about this and more.
Tonight was about the world I live in. Tonight was about the place I belong to. Tonight was about the people around me. Tonight was about the life I lead. Tonight was about home and how it’s always nice to have one to come home to.
