Lost in translation

By Emmanuelle

You do not have to be a Filipino in Japan or in China, black-orbs among quaint slit-eyes, to be lost in translation. 

You can be just as lost, if you were one or more centuries older than the present batch of spiked-haired pre-adults; dyed green, orange or any of the colors outlandish.

When I say spiked, I do not only refer to hair stiffly frightfully standing up; it goes throats deeper than that. And dyed is what happens when one enters a salon a native, then emerges shockingly an alien.

The tattoos are not temporarily hennaed; these are as permanent as those tiny holes in the ears, the nose, the edge of the brows, and the tips of the breasts. Below the pusod, too. Male or female, they not only get holed, they get hooked, metallically or herbally speaking.      

They babble in weird tongues, sometimes cool but more often so cursive as to curdle a listener’s 70 percent body liquid. Their music has most notes missing; but it pounds of anger implacable, of pain unrelenting, of search unending.

 We lost them in the transit of our translation. Their number is out of reach; and we are out of the coverage area.

Nevertheless we try to bridge the gap, to cross the bridge of muddy, troubled waters.

 You text him worriedly: “Where are you, my son? You said you’ll be with me for the holidays?”

He texts back: “I lied, Mom.”

More worried, you text back: “How can you lie to me?”

He retreats to safe ground: “I’m not lying; I’m lying down, Mom. You?”

You sigh in relief: “Ah, lying down din. It’s such a communicable habit, this lying down. Here we are, connected cellulary, both lying. Ahe, lying down.”

And peace reigns again in this world of gentle deception.

Another time, he texts first: “Mom, I’m afraid I’m going into a difficult transition.”       

You text back in a light vein, to diffuse the serious air. You were always in dread of these moments of near-confessions: “What, you are doing the trance thing again?  I thought you had burst from that pupa stage of your life?”

He laughs back: “S__t, am butterfly again! Haha!” Then his text stops for hours.

Next day, you try again: “O sige na, you win. Serious na me. No more laughing matter. Ay, no more laughing mother pala.”

He tries again, too: “I said, sh__t, am butterfly again.”

You got it then. If not, you must.

Your fingers tap the keys; you fail. You try again; you fail. You try, and try again. You must.

“I love you, my son. It matters not whether you are bird or butterfly. You are my son. I love you.”

And you hear the sobs in the tap of his text. “I love you, Mom. I’ll be home as soon as I can fly. Or flutter. Haha.”

When you see him next, you must not hang your jaw. You must not cup your cheeks with both your palms. You must not raise your brows in questioning arches. You must not grow big your black-orbed eyes.

And never must you shriek.

You calm the nerves, you still the fast beating heart, you hush the rushing blood: “He is my son. He was my son. I love him, as a mother only can.”

You open wide your arms. You rush to this child, this near adult, this not-so-strange stranger, this menagerie of spiked-hair, loud orange and teeth-grinding green.

You clasp him close, closest to your chest. You feel again this flesh of your flesh. And you let flow the waters, not so muddy and not so troubled, from your eyes.

You tell him: “I had a son, now I have a daughter. Matters not, if you changed your flight in mid-air. I love you as much.”

And you run your fingers through the frightfully stiff, outlandishly orangey hair. Down to the fragile and dear neck.  Ah, do not forget. Be gentle of the fresh etchings of tattoos. Do not drip tears into those holes sa ears, the nose, the tip of the brows, under the shrill of a shirt. Below the pusod, too. Do not tsk tsk, but do drip a drop of tincture of iodine to the holes.

And drop off a little prayer for each and every dab.

(Readers may reach columnist at jingmil@yahoo.com. For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/
For reactions to this column, click “Send MESSAGES, OPINIONS, COMMENTS” on default page.)

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