The Fan

By Emmanuelle

THIS fan is not the pamaypay kind. The paypay brings us no trouble. In fact, with just a slight flick of the wrist, it whips-up some cooling air. A slight relief, but a relief nevertheless.

This fan we shall read about is trouble we ourselves brought into this world.

This fan slipped out the house sometime between pangaldaw ken pandem (lunch and supper), and flew with the most fleet feet to the nearest coffee shop. The haste was not for coffee and certainly not for shopping spree. This fan was on a mission: to key a path to Internet and to find Emmanuelle at the other end of email.

Or so this fan said. This fan says a lot.

And so I read: You must be agpayso, Emmanuelle, you must be true! I refuse to mamati that you are not! Everyday I save a peso that I may buy Sunday Punch on a Sunday that I may read you. It would not be the same if I bought it on a Monday or any of the other lesser days. It would then be a Monday Punch or a Tuesday Punch or . . . (Did I happen to mention that this fan talks a lot?)

Anyway, I am in trouble here, as in deep trouble here. And you just have to help me out! Or I will surely drown in the tears I shed as profuse as my sweat!

My father is a policeman and he is not a very polite man. And probably because of that, my mother smokes a lot, and she is not very womanly about that. All hours of the day except when she is asleep, she chomps the most stodgy, most foul tobacco. The cheap ones that make smoked meat of the tongue; the smelly ones that make one a walking bad breath. I know I should love her, she is my mother, she gave me life; but I do not like one bit the air that she makes me breathe.

And as for my siblings! Manong Datu keeps running away from our house everyday; he keeps creeping back though every end of the day. Manang Reyna, in contrast to her name, is an aktibista. Like all lost causes, she keeps getting lost herself. Tatay had to look for her every after violent dispersal.

Kuya King is a queen; he raises fast money and erases them just as fast. The parade of his young princes never ends. They stay only long enough to be fed and dressed; they are gone at first burp or as soon as the last stitch is snipped.

And having ran out of royal names, I am plain Maya. I tend to the house, Tatay, Nanay, Kuya Datu, Manang Reyna, Ate King.

And the six young ones born after me. Uray no Tatay is a policeman not so polite. Uray no Nanay puffs like mad and smells like awful.

So, Emmanuelle, what shall I do? I cannot go on with this kind of life! I am so tired of tending sheep, I mean goats, I mean kids both older and younger than me. You see I can be a good writer; I always win in the press conferences I join. Please, email me back. Send me a message.

She enters a pout then a smiley.

I email back fast: Tend to the sheep, I mean the goats, I mean the kids. Then tend to school. Qualify for scholarships! Aim high! Aim for the High School of the Arts in far Mt. Makiling. The forms I hereby attach. They provide for everything. From there, college at UP cannot be far behind.

Meantime, please do not cry yourself to older than your twelve.

Back to Homepage

Share your Comments or Reactions

comments

Powered by Facebook Comments