Halved!

By Emmanuelle

So, there really is an ending to this, after all. Concluding a non-ending is not as easy as one might think. Might as well un-Chinese a Chinese, but that would still be better than speculating on a spatula. The first is near impossible but probable. The second, incredible. As in.

Speculate a spatula, or spatula a speculate, one gets either a spectula or a spatulate. Either one is neither nor or.

Uproot a Chinaman from China or Taiwan and plant him in the Philippines. If he describes himself as Chinese Filipino, he is a fair prize to the Philippines and to the millions of Filipinos, pure or mixed-bred. Though he may still look and see and feel Chinese, he has begun truly assimilating into his new country. The Chinese takes second priority as an adjective to the noun. He is the new Filipino.

On the other hand, if he keeps calling himself a Filipino Chinese, he has remained Chinese, sa isip at sa puso at sa gawa, regardless of his salita. He is a noun unto his own.

And he is playing safe, he who slashes a bar between Filipino and Chinese, as in Filipino-Chinese or Chinese-Filipino. He is neither here nor there but permanently somewhere, forever in-between transition, paurong-pasulong, balancing on the bar.

The subconscious actually takes precedence over the conscious, though we are, the Chinaman and I and you, so unconscious of the fact.

Mind you, the prattling patter above is just observation that keeps lingering beyond idle. The braincells had gone cottony soft inside the skull, after being bashed mercilessly around by Cosme and Frank, and after being bombarded daily by GMA7 and ABS-CBN that the islands closest to this heart are continuously being awash with the poor, bloated bodies, halved or quartered, from Sulpicio’s latest unforgivable folly.

Ay, oo nga pala. What about the promdi little sister of Halved! (To be continued.)? She had gone on to China not Japan, to that other province where SARS was supposed to have birthed but was denied publicly and universally until almost too late. Oh yes, oh no, we have our major exports of OFWs there, too.

How come she there? Well, she just transferred lines. Like when you transferred lines at communion, or at the bee, Macky or Kentucky. May we be forgiven the irreverent parallelism.

The girls lining-up to China looked robust, less hassled, and more natural. And mostly, they seemed to have descended from the Cordilleras or thereabouts. Like her. So, she skipped to this line.

Anyway, she was beginning to stand out among the girls who were Japan-bound. They looked like pampered models, unnaturally blushing and glossy lipped, clad in short skirts and striped knee-socks. Our girl looked, well, so promdi.

She stayed in China for two years. On her way home for her two-week vacation, she is feverish and with chills. She tells her seatmate the air-cooler blows too strong, though she wears thick slacks and thicker pullover, all in stylish black. A red knitted scarf, suspiciously like the Baguio City market variety, covers her hair and neck.

The seatmate looks at the sick girl with whom she had chatted for awhile. She takes off her own coat and afghan, tucks these around the sleeping girl.

Bless these daughters and wives, their sons and fathers. They who keep this nation from recession, inflation, and other ungracious-ion.

Sleep well. Even just for a little bit longer.

(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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