A POW speaks!

(Continued from last week)

By Emmanuelle

And when did she actually start becoming prisoner to her words?

It was the day she first became too old to be young. It was the day she bit her lips, her tongue for the first time and it was not an accident. And by that action, she unknowingly yet knowingly stepped into her own self-made cell, locking shut behind her only means of exit, sentencing herself to becoming a lifer for a crime that is no crime.

It was the day when, as a wee three-year old, she was asked by her mother: are you okay with your shoes, pangga? Do your toes curl inside? When I pinch the front of the shoes like this, does it hurt much?

And she shook her pig-tailed head, faintly at first, then vigorously when she saw her mother worry her brows and lose the clear focus of her eyes as she started mentally deducting from an already very short market list, trying to come up with the money needed to buy a sturdy pair of made-in-Marikina shoes.

She should have said: yes, nanay, my toes curl inside. In fact, not only do my toes curl; both feet had bunched up like our neighbor, the ancient Chinese lady with her satiny foot-wraps. I am growing too fast for my shoes, and the rest of my clothes shrink as fast. Can’t you see the waist crimping up here to my bust and my undies peeking out from under my hitched skirt? Have you gone blind or something?

But, of course, she could not speak those words. Not only was she a wee three-year old; her mother would have popped out of her skin in fright and would have immediately traded her in for a harmless dumb baby as wee and as three as she was. Or so she thought.

So she kept quiet and shook her pig-tailed head, as I have already written up ahead.

And that was how she began the habit of choosing the word that pleases assures reassures calms comforts soothes assuages. Instead of a truth that startles shocks alarms.

Best friend, did I hurt you much? I never thought I would get a score higher than yours, in fact the highest. When you let me copy from you, I never had the thought I should have let you copy from me too. I thought you knew everything!

Well, you have got another thought coming, dearie. Kabam! (imagine that as a smack on your face). Kaboom! (Imagine that as a pop on your head). Definitely a best friend you are not! Talk to my hand, you bitch.

But, of course, Pangga could not speak those words, could not smack nor pop a face, a head. Not only was Dearie the only friend she has. Dearie was the only friend she will ever have. Dearie was the lone member of the sisterhood who could loosen the bit Pangga had on her lips, on her tongue. Dearie was so dense, so makapal, you could scrape an inch of abuses off her skin and she would still be as dense in the epidermis as when you started on the dermis. Or so Pangga thought.

So she cuffed Dearie on the arm: alam naman ng lahat na boba ka, na mas boba ka sa akin. It is okay. I forgive you. She was not okay, really. She had bitten through her lips.

Pangga took up nursing, while loving the arts. Dearie did too, to keep her company, and for nothing better to do. Then Pangga married trouble, and had children, and loved another trouble. Read last week’s A POW speaks. It was not writ for nothing.

Then Dearie gets up and go, to the US of A. Pangga hears she gets herself pregnant, but does not get herself married. Pangga shakes her head. Boba talaga. But then, she looks at her husband, and she shakes her head more. Sino ba ang mas boba sa amin?

She gets the answer to her question the roundabout way. One day, Dearie’s parents bring Pangga a child, who looks suspiciously like Dearie time-travelling back. And a letter that looks like it had time-travelled too, being so wearily squiggly. The letter tries to explain the unexplainable child.

My parents are too old to bring up right, this child, my child. Bring her up, please, as you seemed to have brought me up right. You did, didn’t you know? Because you made me what you were not. You set me free by my wanting to be free as you kept insisting you were not.

Dearie just died, Pangga did not know. HIV was a bit too deadly to beat.

She looks at the child, a grown-up disguised as a five-year old. The child stares back.

How did she call you? Pangga lifts a remembered Dearie curl.

Hivang. The little girl lisps!

Pangga drops the curl. Also her jaws. But that is the inverted ang HIV! Pangga starts to say so, but she bits her lips, her tongue.

Buth HIVang ith the inverthed ang HIV, Mom thsaid so. The child lisps out Pangga’s thoughts. You may call me Hibang. Am gonna be a Filipina like you, dey ba?

Now, the truth begins to dawn on Pangga. Dearie, like this one, had always read her mind. Suddenly her tears start to flow. Napakaboba ko talaga. And so dense. Dearie was the bright one, and the sensitive one. I thought she was only my only friend. She was more. She was keeping me company all throughout, holding my hand through the other side of my cell.

She bents her head while she cries. She sees the child’s feet. They look too plump for her wee size. She drops down to her knees. Are your toes okay? Do they hurt when I pinch them like this?

Of courth, they hurth when you pinch them, thsilly! Am noth wearing shoes, justh fliplops! Both giggle. And Hibang cuffs Pangga on the arm.

(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.)

Share your Comments or Reactions

comments

Powered by Facebook Comments