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Binagyong Balikbayan: Snapshots from a visit, from our Diaspora
By Benjamin Pimentel
My father greets me as I enter our home in Quezon City: “I’ve reached the end of the line, the point of no return.”
It’s his standard greeting. Every time I come home, he casually talks about the end.
It’s disconcerting, naturally. The only thing that makes it bearable somewhat is this: He’s been predicting the end for about 20 years now.
* * *
Lumaki akong sanay sa trapik at sa bagyo.
Kaya parang natural lang ang araw-araw na maipit sa Edsa, sa España, sa sasakyang gumagapang sa kalsada, pinalilibutan ng usok, nakikipag-gitgitan sa mga dyip, bus at ibang kotse.
Kaya di nakakabigla ang dalawang bagyong nanduro sa amin. Ang nakakapagtaka lang lang e ito: Kilala ko si Yoling, Diding at maski na si Ondoy.
Noon lang ako nakasagupa ng bagyong may kakaibang pangalan—Falcon.
* * *
They had played on the steps of the Manila Diamond Hotel, my son Paolo and another three-year-old boy named Raphael. There are pictures of them from that evening, their innocent faces staring at the camera.
Raphael’s dad, Yogi, our friend, works at the hotel. He points to the spot where the boys posed for the photos.
It’s been nearly 10 years since that moment when the two boys shared a joyful, innocent time.
* * *
Ito ang alanganin sa pagiging balikbayan galing Amerika: Ang summer sa America e simula ng mga bagyo sa Pilipinas.
Uwi ka nang Hunyo, tag-init sa California. Sa Maynila, mainit din naman—pero humahambalos ang ulan.
Natakasan namin ang bagsik ni Egay. Pero iba si Falcon. Sa Northern Expressway, galing Bulacan, hinambalos kami ng lumilisan nang bagyo. Paalis na nga e nambubuwisit pa.
* * *
One day, we decide to take a walk from the hotel to the mall.
A short walk. But long enough to give my son a glimpse of the grittier side of Manila.
He and his nanay are crossing Pedro Gil Street when it happens: a fight among street children erupts. Kids, in tattered and blackened T-shirts, gap-toothed, hair unkempt, begin yelling at each other.
Paolo and his nanay stand frozen in the middle of the street. Later, my son tells me: “I could understand what they were saying. One of them was saying, ‘It’s mine. Akin ‘yan.’”
He could understand because Pilipino is his first language. He no longer speaks it—but the words, the spirit of the language are still there, embedded in his brain.
* * *
Nakakasindak. Pero sa anak kong laking Amerika, mas nakayayanig ang susunod na bumati sa kanya…
* * *
Walking back, another encounter.
No fight, no threat of violence this time. But a confrontation more stunning in many ways.
On the sidewalk, blocking our way, a woman with deformed arms and legs. Next to her, a little girl in dirty clothes, begging for food, for change.
The girl is smiling. But in my son’s eyes, there’s an odd mix of surprise, fear and pity. He keeps walking in silence.
* * *
Nabalitaan niya ang tungkol sa Payatas. Nakuwento ko ang bundok ng basura, nababalutan ng mga langaw, tirahan ng marami. Nakuwento ko noong nag-cover ako doon bilang peryodista.
“I’d like to see it, “ sabi ng anak ko isang araw.
Okay lang sa akin. Tuwa pa nga ako na ang panganay ko e handang magpalalim ng pag unawa niya sa Pilipinas.
Pero kulang ang oras. Sabi ng ate ko, “Hindi pwedeng basta-bastang pumunta doon.”
Kaya walang exposure tour sa Payatas. Sa bundok ng basura.
Pero habang naglalakad kami sa Roxas Blvd., sa tabi ng Manila Bay, tapat ng US Embassy, nakita naman sila – mga batang gusgusin, naghahalungkat sa isang tambak ng basura.
* * *
In our hotel room, overlooking Manila Bay, well above the streets of the metropolis where I grew up, my son turns to me.
“It’s depressing,” he says.
“And maybe it’s more depressing,” he adds, “because I’m also supposed to be also from here.”
A double-edged declaration.
My first gut reaction is worry: Did he just reach a turning point—a moment when he decides that he’s not Filipino—that given the misery and suffering associated with that label it’s just not worth it?
But then again there’s this: It’s the first time my son has acknowledged, has affirmed, his Filipino self.
* * *
Pareho silang Pilipino. Magkadugo. Magkalahi. Magkasing-edad.
* * *
On the steps of the Diamond Hotel, they shared that moment, my son and a beautiful child, named Raphael Ramos.
Paolo went on with his journey, going to school, playing Little League, making new friends, growing up.
But Raphael’s journey began to wind down when he was eight—when doctors told Yogi and his wife, Minnie, about an illness, a very rare illness.
Neuroblastoma.
* * *
Tuwing umuuwi ako, mahilig kaming mamasyal ni Mommy. Gusto niyang pumupunta sa Intramuros. Doon siya tumira bago mag-giyera. Minsan umabot pa kami ng Corregidor.
Ngayon, sa anibersaryo ng pagsilang ni Jose Rizal, sa Luneta kami nagpunta.
Pero siguro pagod lang siya. Isang ikot lang sa monument ng bayani, pagod na si Mommy. Nobenta na siya. Hanggang doon lang ang pasyal.
* * *
From Luneta, we went to San Agustin Church—to honor a friend, a family member, a sister.
Chit Estella was my sister’s sister-in-law. I considered her a colleague, a friend, a sister. My mother knew her too. Her death in a horrible accident had shocked her.
In the historic church’s columbarium, we watched Roland, Chit’s husband, gently put Chit’s ashes inside the niche.
It was only in December when he and Chit, during a visit to San Agustin, had talked about the church and how it would be great to be laid to rest there. Now, Roland is fulfilling Chit’s wish, even as he bids her farewell.
“There is so much good in you,” he says. “How can I not miss you when we have known each other for 34 years. …”
* * *
Sa hotel, sa marangya naming kwarto, wala akong masagot sa anak ko.
“It’s depressing, Tatay.”
Wala akong paliwanag. Walang maialay na dahilan sa kahirapan. Sa babaeng upod ang mga braso’t binti. Sa batang madungis, nanlilimos. Sa mga kabataang nag-aaway sa lansangan.
Marami akong masasabi. Pero alam kong di niya agad mauunawaan. Gusto kong sabihing, ‘Matagal nang marami sa aming depressed din. Matagal nang pinagtalunan, pinag-awayan ang mga nakita mo …
“Pero walang madaling sagot….”
* * *
He was a gift. An unexpected gift.
Over dinner at the hotel, Yogi remembers Raphael.
He describes him as a blessing. Their two other children—Robbie and Rae Ann—were already in their teens when he arrived.
“Kung ipakilala ko siya bonus,” Yogi says. “I used to say that he was a bonus.” A ‘biyaya.’ A gift.
And it was a gift the family celebrated. In his short life, Raphael was surrounded by love. Yogi and Minnie did all they could to save him.
“Pero pahiram lang pala,” Yogi says. He was meant to be with them only for a brief time.
One day, three years ago, Yogi, Minnie, Rae Ann and Robbie gathered in Raphael’s hospital room. They stayed until his last breath.
Yogi sighs. That was how Raphael left them, he says. That was how the beautiful child said good-bye.
* * *
“Will we see each other again?” my father asks.
It’s the day before my flight back to San Francisco.
Then the standard line: “I’ve reached the point of the return.”
I nod and smile and answer his questions, and those of my mother’s. I ignore the tightness I feel in my chest.
Then, the surprise—from my son.
“Lola, I want to return in two years. And I want to come during Christmas.”
My mother’s face lights up. “Yes op kors. Wat do yu want to do?”
My son is ready with an answer: “We will go to SM.”
* * *
Yogi meets us in the hotel lobby to say good bye. He turns to Paolo and smiles.
“He’s tall,” he says. “Raphael would probably be as tall as him now,’ he adds.
He smiles again—which takes the edge off the sadness I feel in his remark.
We’re leaving as excitement fills the hotel, the country.
“The Azkals are checked in here for the Sri Lanka game on Sunday,” Yogi explains. “If they win, there’ll be celebration here.”
* * *
On the plane on the way to Taipei, I catch a last glimpse of the northern Luzon coast fading into the horizon. I take a picture with my phone.
Hours later, the Azkals win.
I imagine Yogi in the Diamond Hotel lobby, welcoming guests, celebrating with them, high-fiving the hotel staff. I picture him standing near the elegant, polished steps where his son and mine once played, posed for pictures, laughed …
On Twitter @KuwentoPimentel.
