‘It takes a village to raise a child’ means potlucks during meaningful milestones of my life. At least, that’s how it has always been for me.

I have always understood at a young age why I never had the chance to wear a birthday hat, or give away loot bags for my friends, or be entertained with parlor games during my birthday parties. As an eldest, I am a witness to my parents’ struggles of making sure there’s enough for the family to survive. My parents could have spent what little we had on a birthday party, but they knew there were more practical things to prioritize. And I understood that.

Yet somehow, there was always food.

My parents, grandmothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings in Purok Namnama would always make sure that my birthday’s never went unnoticed. We would gather whatever each household had prepared for dinner and convene at Mama Nene’s house to eat together. There was always enough food for everyone to share. That was our way of celebrating.

This year, however, was different.

I never really planned to celebrate my 25th birthday for a myriad of reasons. I have classes on Tuesdays, I have pending workloads, and I am still saving for a new laptop after my old one broke. Spending money on a birthday felt unnecessary. There were things I needed more. Even when Mama reminded me, “wala ka pa baya namin na-try na-lechonan, te,” I only brushed the thought away. It was not really important to me. I could live without it.

But a day before my birthday, I came down with a fever. I don’t know if it was the fever, the exhaustion, or simply the thought of turning a year older, but I finally replied to my mother that perhaps, after 24 years and 2 graduations, I deserved to spend on a lechon.

And there were no regrets.

I went home expecting only the usual, but what greeted me was Barbie hats, hotdogs with marshmallows, loot bags, parlor games, and lots of food. The same people who always brought something to the table gifted me with an experience I will cherish forever. Somewhere in the middle of all of it was a version of the birthday party that seven-year-old Xaña never got to experience.

Yet at 25, her silver year, it was there.

All for the young Xanny girl slowly trying to heal her childhood “sana alls.”

He smiled sheepishly as he handed it to me, his feet covered in mud. “Sorry kaayo, babe,” he said apologetically.

“Naay harang ganina sa gawas sa barangay, naa na diay curfew ron.”

He then detailed his conversation with the tanods at the checkpoint, how he pleaded to let him pass through for a few minutes just so he could be the first to surprise me with a birthday cake. After a failed attempt, he chose to drive through the hacienda at midnight from their barangay to ours. I could imagine fallen coconut leaves and puddles. I saw the wheels of his motorcycle also covered in mud. I noticed that that the rain had just stopped.

I looked at the cake, then at him, and something warm settled in my chest. The cake wasn’t perfect; it wasn’t the Instagram-worthy dessert that might have graced someone else’s table. But it was mine.

I debated with myself whether I should scold him for his dangerous act or not but the smudged icing told a story of effort, of a boyfriend who thought of me, who wanted to bring a little sweetness into my day even if the road wasn’t easy. That cake, with all its imperfections, was a proof of his love. A love that doesn’t worry about messes, that braves the muddy paths, and that arrives at your doorstep a little out of breath but smiling, holding out something sweet.

For the rest of the day, I also received two more cakes from his sisters and my siblings. There’s something about cakes this year that are worth remembering.

is that He knew a person he shared

wine and bread

and stories and road and

miracles with

will someday betray Him.

I didn’t.

I blindly shared

wine and bread

and stories and road and

miracles with you.

The deceptive kiss lingers.

May her warmth never sooth the burning mark of the icy coins on your hands.

Go on, offer the silver to Charon.

This heart is bound to eternally recognize betrayal in its many

faces,

phases.

Sharing here an essay I wrote three years ago.

-

May 10, 2019. I never thought I’d missed my Papa until I saw the food that I cooked yesterday, still on the table — half-eaten.

It has been a week now since I’ve been assigned to do the kitchen chores which meant cooking meals and washing the dishes. It has also been a week that we’ve been eating basically fried viands, or grilled, or sometimes, bought from local dine-ins, carinderia. I won’t say that I’m good at cooking but at least, I’m trying. Every time I prepare something rather than the usual, Papa will eat until he is sure that no food will be left on the serving plate. I guess one of the many roles of a father is to make sure that nothing will be wasted. And that any of our efforts will be worth it and equally paid off.

Last Wednesday night, I craved for a ginataang banisil after seeing a picture of it online on my Facebook newsfeed. Banisils are long, charcoal-black, shells that are known for its spiral tail and tasty meat. The next day, I woke up to the voice of my younger brother, Xander, telling me that they bought fresh shells from the laray. Laray is a term we used for Market Day during Thursdays. It’s a day for local farmers and fishermen to sell their native products and bounties, at a much affordable price. They usually set up their big tents in the community plaza and people will rise up as early as three in the morning to purchase goods or else the tindera will say “Awanen ‘Nang. Naubusen.” Sold out in the Ilocano language.

That day, Mama told me to cook the shells myself. She told me we’d only have pandesal and coffee for breakfast so that we won’t spoil our appetite for lunch. The thought made me nervous and excited at the same time. This would be my first time and hopefully not my last. I went to the kitchen and there were different kinds of farm goods in the table — squash, okra, string beans, eggplants, onions, garlics, green chilies, shrimp paste which we locally call alamang, and of course, banisil, among many others packed in plastic cellophanes. I frowned at the sight of the plastics.

We had our breakfast, and then Mama gave her instructions before she left for work. “Tiltilan mo muna ’yong shells ‘nak tapos hatiran niyo na lang ako doon sa office ng baon ko.”

I don’t know what ‘tiltilan’ means, much more how to do it. So I sought help from Auntie Tata. She instructed me to cut off the spiral tail of the shell. In this way, we could suck the meat out of it. Then, she told me to clean the shells by rubbing salt. She told me to be careful because there are ‘sisi’ left on the shells.

“Baka masugatan ka ‘jan sa mga sisi. Maggamit ka ng manipis na tela.”

I did what she instructed, except that I used an old sock to protect my hands from the painful sharp bits of rocks on the shells. Apparently, these were the ‘sisi.’

Then, I proceeded on the actual cooking. I prepared all the ingredients needed. Papa cooks this way. He prepares everything first before putting the casserole to the kalan, a stove made of clay. He even makes sure that there is enough wood for the fire.

In a large casserole, I fried the spices, and then I put the banisil. When it boiled, I added the vegetables and the gata. Oh, how I love gata! This sweet and thick juice of shredded coconut meat enriches the flavor of this viand. Plus it is very versatile! Sometimes, gata is added to make sweet delicacies like the kakanin. But that’s another story. After a while, I added the alamang, salt, and other condiments. If there is something I enjoy in the provincial life, it would be the fresh foods. Most of what we partake are farm-to-household goods that our local farmers and fishermen produce.

After bringing it to a boiling point, the food is now ready to be served. I was proud of myself when I saw the outcome. I knew that this moment has to be shared so I gave a bowl of the ginataang banisil for Auntie Tata and packed the lunch for Mama.

While I was setting the table, Papa arrived home. I am used to this. It’s been days — or months since we last shared a meal with him. I can’t really remember.

“Magkain ka dito, Pa?” I asked, hoping for a ‘yes’. I wanted to tell him I cooked something new. And that he should taste it. And that he should eat it all in case my siblings can’t. Just as he always did.

“Hindi ‘nak. Ako kasi galuto doon,” he answered.

My heart shrank at what he said, heaving out a deep sigh. No, because he cooks the lunch at his boss’ house. He was charging his phone when I noticed that he looked skinnier. His face looks tired and his eyes look like they needed to get some sleep. His skin is darker — like he had basked himself in the sun for too long, maybe from all the driving around the town campaigning for a politician. It is what’s keeping him busy these days. Election. He doesn’t even sleep here, he stays at his boss’ house. He goes home just to take a bath or to bring foods. I don’t understand why he has to put himself in this situation. Or maybe I don’t want to understand why. Papa is one of the many people who endlessly campaign for their “bosses” during elections. I just hope it’s worth the trade.

At a young age, I witnessed politics.

I continued at what I was doing. He soon left and until now he hasn’t been home. Today is Friday and the leftover ginataang banisil is still on the table. As I am writing this, I heard our dog bark. I hope the dog appreciates my dish.

Saksi ang kusina ko sa nangyari: natutulog ka pa nang naisipan kong maghanda ng almusal. Scrambled eggs. Fried rice. Iced coffee. Niyakap mo ako nang patalikod at hinalikan sa balikat ko, habang nagluluto ako, para ipaalam na gising ka na. Andito ka. Tuluyan ka nang pumasok sa buhay ko.

Doon ko unang naramdaman na kampante ako sa presensya mo.

Saksi ang kusina: pinagluto mo ako ng sinigang. Uuwi ka na dapat no’n pero nagdesisyon kang manatili muna para mas makasama ako. Hiram ang lahat ng oras natin. Hiram ang espasyong ginagalawan natin. Habang nagluluto ka, napansin ko kung paano mo metikulosong inihanda muna lahat ng sangkap. Napansin ko kung paano mo napansin ang mga librong nakahilera sa kabinet, pero hindi ka nagtangkang buklatin ang isa man lang nito. Marahil gusto mo lang mas bigyang-tuon ang pagluluto, hindi ito dahil panlabas lang na anyo ang kaya mong tingnan. Na hindi mababaw ang pananaw mo sa mundo. Kwinento mo na mahilig ka magluto, na madalas ikaw ang naghahanda ng pagkain para sa pamilya at mga kaibigan mo.

Doon ko unang nagustuhan ang pagkatao mo.

Saksi ang hapag-kainan: para tayong nanggaling sa eksena ng isang romcom na pelikula. Nakaupo na ako no’n nang inilapat mo ang pagkain sa mesa. Nakatayo ka pa kaya bahagya kong tinaas ang paningin ko para hulihin ang mga mata mo.

“Thank you.”

Sinuklian mo ito ng ngiti, halik sa noo, at “You’re always welcome.”

Natatakot ako, pero doon ko unang tinapon lahat ng pagdududa ko.

Saksi ang bintana: nag-iiwan ka ng mga halik sa bawat parte ng mukha ko para iparamdam sa akin na maganda ako. Hindi ko kailangan ng paalala, pero hinayaan kitang magsalita sa paraang kaya mo. Naiinis ako dahil ni minsan, hindi mo hinalikan ang kaluluwa ko. Hindi mo nabasa kung paano ako mag-isip. Hindi mo napakinggan kung paano ako magalit o mangarap o matakot. Hindi mo naintindihan kung bakit nalulunod ako sa mga tanong. Ang totoo, wala ka naman talagang intensyon na lubusang kilalanin ako.

Doon ko unang napagtantong wala kang plano na patagalin pa ang kung anumang meron tayo.

Pero saksi pa rin ang bintana: pinagpatuloy natin. Nag-uusap pa rin tayo, hinahatid-sundo mo pa rin ako, nagpapadala pa rin tayo sa mga emosyon nating dalawa. Hinayaan nating makita tayo ng tao, ng simbahan, ng dagat, ng Veranza, ng 37 Degrees na coffee shop, ng kahabaan ng bawat kalsadang tinahak natin nang sabay, ng gitara habang kinakanta mo ang Gitara, ng kalawakan, ng langit.

Hanggang sa naging saksi ang hagdan: kaya mo pala akong saktan.

Naaalala ko ang mga sandaling iyon. Nang nai-send ng kaibigan ang screenshots bilang kompirmasyon, nanigas ang buong katawan ko. Kinuha mo ang puso ko para lang ibagsak ito sa malamig na semento. Hindi ko alam kung galit ako o natauhan o tuliro. Ang alam ko lang, hindi pamilyar ang sakit na naramdaman ko. Kinaya mong umalis nang walang pasabi. Ilang oras ang lumipas, nagbigay ka ng paliwanag: kailangan mo munang mag-isip.

Naiintindihan ko.

Saksi ang bukas na pinto: inabot ng limang araw bago tayo nagkaroon ng oras para mag-usap. Nilahad mo lahat ng mga nangyari simula sa gabi na ‘yon hanggang sa mga nagdaan na araw. Napuno ng hubad na mga katotohanan ang apat na haligi ng silid na ito. Isang salita ang paulit-ulit na lumabas sa bibig mo: sorry. Isang pangungusap ang paulit-ulit na lumabas sa bibig ko: I understand. Dahil ‘yon ang totoo. Naiintindihan ko ang sitwasyon at ang naging reaksyon mo sa sitwasyon. Naiintindihan ko ang takot mo. Naiintindihan ko kung ano ang mga nakataya, naiintindihan kong hindi mo pa kayang tumaya. Sa huli, ito lang ang kaya kong gawin: ang intindihin ka.

Kaya, pinakawalan natin ang isa’t-isa. Hiniling ko sa’yo na huwag ka na munang magparamdam sa akin. Wala na dapat private messages, tweets, Instagram notes, post reactions, o kahit ano pa man. Hiniling ko na umalis ka nang tahimik. Sumagot ka na kakayanin mo — na alam mong pagsisisihan mo ito. Pero ngayon, gusto kong iparating: sinasakal na ako ng katahimikan mo. Hindi mo kayang magpaalam, pero nagmadali kang umalis.

Saksi ang saradong pinto: tama ang Up Dharma Down. Hinahanap-hanap ko ang mga bulong sa gabi. Inuulit-ulit ko ang bawat kwento at sikreto natin.

Nabasag ni Dyulliana ang dalawang baso habang nag-iinuman kami. Ang tugon: ayon sa mga nakatatanda, senyales daw ito ng pagkawala ng mga masasamang espirito. Gusto kong pulutin lahat ng basag na piraso at pilitin na buuin ulit ito. Gusto kong piliin pa rin na masugatan para lang hindi makawala ang mga alaala mo dito sa kwarto.

Pinigilan ko ang sarili ko.

Hindi ito pag-ibig. Pangungulila lang.

What is love?

Bewildered by such type of question, I went blank. How will I define a universal experience that’s worth a chance of being an English lecturer? I know love. I could recognize love from a distance. I sure have had my share of love. And yet… love seems unfamiliar at that moment I was in the cold Human Resources office sitting in front of my former professors.

My mind sourced from an array of metaphors.

Maybe love is melting into each other’s bodies. In the deep sea, if a male anglerfish finds his mate, he latches and fuses to her. He would lose his eyes and internal organs in what seems to be a process of melting to be one. Until they share bloodstream, until they share bodies.

Maybe love is an act of decolonization. It is the fact that there are no Tagalog translation for the English words “husband” and “wife.” There’s asawa, sinta, giliw, irog, but nothing that would suggest genderized rules and roles. Love is freedom to love.

Maybe love is an amateur. Tracing back to its Latin root amāre, how did it semantically developed from “to grasp the hand of,” then “to treat as a friend,” and finally “to love?” Even by then, love is the longingness to transform. Maybe this is why the elders warned us about the power of a mere touch. Maybe this is why I witnessed highschool friends turned to lovers. Love has stages. Love is an evolution. Soon enough, amāre became amātor which means “to be enthusiastic of.” Love becomes the confidence in your art even when it is not in a gallery; in your voice even when there’s no audience; in your words even when there are no readers. Love is a rejection of capitalism. To enjoy things for the sake of it, and not for its commercial value.

My mind sourced from an array of verses.

Maybe love is 1 John 4:8. Of bearing into mind that your love to Him should reflect the love for your neighbors. Love is forgiving, selfless, and full of grace just as He is. Because God is the ultimate manifestation of love.

My mind sourced from an array of lyrics.

I couldn’t even count how many times I heard the word love in songs. I couldn’t even count how many times love was described synonymously to sex — as if it’s all there is to it. Maybe The Weeknd was wrong, love is not like a moth to a flame. Maybe Taylor Swift was right, it is not burning red. It is golden.

My mind sourced from an array of anecdotes.

Maybe love is the reason for my existence. Maybe it is why my father, a Christian, married my mother, a Muslim. Maybe it is why they raised us to respect both worlds.

Maybe it is the choice of not completely killing my darlings, but putting them on a separate document for future inspiration. I write because I love. I love because there is a need to write. Maybe love fuels my writing.

Maybe love is visiting Mykka’s grave. It is remembering those who loved us before, and those who cannot love us anymore. Love was here. Love still is.

Maybe it is why the wounded recognizes the wounded. It is why I bled when I saw her cry while delivering her speech in front of our classmates. Maybe it is why I decided not to do it that one helpless night.

Maybe love is becoming the mosaic of all people I have ever loved.

My mind sourced from an array of literature.

Maybe love is saving the rest of 167 words only to spend it whispering “I love you” on the other end of the line as described in The Quiet World by Jeffrey McDaniel.

Maybe love is attending a thousand funerals of the people we used to be, as Heide Priebe said.

Maybe love is to tame, as how the fox explained to The Little Prince. That even with the knowledge of a thousand more roses in this universe, it is the value he placed on his rose that makes it unique. In the Cebuano translation of this story, to tame is paanaron. Maybe love really is being used to another person or pet or thing’s characteristics. “I love you, anyway.”

With all these thoughts running in my head, I slowly answered, “Love is anchored on the act of acceptance.”

I love by accepting people in my life for who they are, who they could be, who they couldn’t be, and who they could’ve been.

I am writing this on my 22nd birthday with the hope that I will be loved in the same way.