Chronicles of The Hyperactive and The Vampire

A YEAR AGO…

It all started with Hyperactive’s decision to become a mummy for his school’s Halloween party. All the better, I thought to myself. Now all I have to spend for are just for a few rolls of tissue to mummify his entire thin frame, the thirty bucks contribution, potluck dinner and we will be all set.

An hour and a half before the party schedule, the better side of my fashionably frugal self convinced me that Hyperactive would look rather odd all wrapped in tissue which is certain to last (take note the hyperactive moniker) only a few good minutes until he reaches the play area. I could not afford to risk him looking like the insides of a lady’s powder room trash bin or a badly half done kindergarten paper pom-poms at best.

So, we found ourselves heading to the solitary obvious place to look for Halloween stuff and found the usual fanfare of vampire costumes, warlocks, monster masks and the cutesy little fairy wings for girls. After rounds of convincing Hyperactive to be something else other than a “tissue” character, he still stood firm on his decision to become one.

So be it, a mummy it is but absolutely no tissue idea anymore. Thirty minutes before the party, I was still pharmacy hopping in search for a widest gauze roll. Needless to say, I found just the so-so material. Well, it is as good as it gets. Farewell, tissue sales.

I dressed Hyperactive in white jammies and hurriedly covered him with the gauze stopping for a few plaster tucks until he looked passing mummy like and repeatedly instructed him to stay put for the entire party duration. I dropped him off, thirty minutes late and escorted him inside a place ninety five percent filled of black donning kids and a few pastel dressed who only belonged to four categories: the vampires, the warlocks, the witches and the fairies. Naturally, they shopped at the city’s solitary obvious place to get what one may be in need of.

Hyperactive stood out in white gauze. I can literally feel eyes staring as if trying to decide if I was such on a budget; I could not afford to buy my kid a way decent Halloween costume. It did not help when Hyperactive being the silly kid he is suddenly made fuzz walking in mummy-like manner, trying to scare the younger kids at the nursery level area while holding my hand. I had to pass apologetic half genuine smiles to the other parents.

I sat down with him for a while in First Grade area to get him all settled. As soon as he started doodling over the activity pad, I left to have an early dinner break so I can come back to assist him in time for his own dinner break and yet again instructed him to stay put.

I came back to his school twenty minutes after and found Hyperactive running about with only the neck up area with intact cover and the rest of the gauze falling apart. The hip area cover was not able to sustain his too much moving around that a few layers fell off but still attached, it dangled like a miniskirt. The arm area I repaired with a few plaster tucking but the whole of the lower limb gauze, I had to detach since it was way beyond the powers of plaster tucking. So, mummy he was not anymore. He looked like a boy who has gotten himself into a very bad and unusual accident instead.

Nevertheless, he won as a mummy or an accident freak or both.

A YEAR LATER…

He gave me the invite and announced right there and then that the wanted to be a headless priest this year. I nodded just to get him off my back and he responded with glee, disappeared from the room and returned a few minutes later in black slacks with a costume sketch and a cowboy hat.

It was a simple principle as based on the stick figure he drew donning his designed costume. The priest attire had to be worn on top of the cowboy hat. To further illustrate his point, he ran to the cabinet, grabbed **** big black long sleeved priest-like dress shirt, handed it to me then he quickly wore the cowboy hat and then he asked my help in aligning the garment’s neckline so it would be parallel to the hat’s edges. He then located the exact area to unbutton so he would have eyeholes. Well, just like his doodles. He glanced at the mirror and told me he needed to test if his scary idea worked and he walked out of the room in his made up headless priest costume.

On he went with his “product testing”. Ten seconds after he walked out the room, I heard my toddler shout and the door knob hurriedly turned. My toddler was in near tears, scared, running towards me and a minute later was his brother running after saying, “Don’t be scared, it’s just me.”. I was half mad-half amused but I asked him in my firm you-have-to-or-else voice to remove the headless priest costume.

He concluded it worked and was rambling about how he would put on pranks and how he would have a blast scarring the playgroup and the nursery kids. He then informed me he wanted to go outside first so he can practice walking around while donning the costume.

I watched from my window and I thought to myself that it looked a bit comedic but given the dim lights, it might carry on as convincing. Proof enough, even the dogs got convinced. I was laughing and praying at the same time that nothing bad will happen as I watched him being chased by the six dogs previously lying lazily in our porch. Was it funny to watch a running headless priest shouting to the dogs, “It’s just me. It’s just me. Stop chasing!”. It had to take his discarding the costume for the dogs to stop. 

He spent a good two hours putting to play the pranks he imagined and it involved me fixing his costume every ten minutes for he moved way too much, the cowboy hat always misaligned. It was too much action and since I decided to tow along my toddler for the party, I told him he couldn’t be a headless priest this year and spoke with finality in my voice that unless he wanted to miss the party, he had to wear the Thomas the Train costume that my Mom sent for him instead.

He was not scary enough to bring home the prize for the best in costume this year but he surely had a huge enjoyment parading around as a HORROR Thomas the Train.

Somewhere in the line that connects breastfeeding, changing nappies, disposing inventories, and all the other delegations that comes packaged with the essence of womanhood, motherhood and marriage, I found the highlight of my Halloween week in not so clever ladybug and horror train disguises but so brilliantly unmasked as pure untainted love.

He has always been inclined to prose and music but he had no
means to buy even an old acoustic guitar, so he never learned how to
intricately pluck and strum.

His introverted nature made him hesitant to reveal much of
himself through his writings. He was pleased of the fact that fate held back
his probabilities to sing his prose to the world with an acoustic guitar in
hand.

He was uneasy as well to bare his bones and further stir
society as he always had for he led such a colorful life, a life way beyond the
comprehension of universal souls.

For the most part, he was scared of how his prose, music,
and his life’s anguished moments could be viewed and interpreted through the
eyes of his child. For in his core, he deeply knew how could never blind his
child with what half truths—half lies that he had eloquently mastered to answer.

For now, he made a compromise. One day soon, when the world
will be a little more forgiving and his life will take on a different meaning; he
would finally pick up a guitar and intricately pluck and strum on heartstrings.

He would then loose himself to his inclinations, shoot at
stars and let all the celestial gods and the entire world down below listen to
his lovely bones. How lovely indeed are his embodiments of the possibilities of
spontaneous human actions, of truths and circumstance, of the power of
deception and the ultimate healing of love.

Most of all, one day soon, when the right time comes, he
would finally impart to his child the whole truth behind his prose, music and his
colorful life. His child would then distinguish how the world was always meant
to be as beautiful as her moon like eyes.

Seventeen months ago, I left the home I have known for
twenty five years uncertain of how to start anew but certain of the choice I
made for love.

It was not an easy task to do–to pack forever in luggage
and boxes and set foot in the unfamiliar where the man you love belongs to.

The early weeks following my relocation were the hardest. I
had to adjust to the slow pace, to the scarcity of choices, to the conservative
culture, to the non existent familiarity.

I was too homesick at times; the sight of KFC commercial
thrilled me.

He was there for me the entirety of my roller coaster ride,
never once criticizing my city girl ways. I admired his strength in seeing me through;
in acknowledging my sentiments and making me believe everything will come
together in its proper time.

He was right all along.

When I opened my heart to the great mysterious force of altruistic
love, it moved me in the direction of growth where there awaits the woman I am
designed to be.

Seventeen months may be too short a time compared to the
first twenty five years I spent in a busy city but nevertheless, it serves me more
than enough time to master the difference.

Home now ceases to be a street, a city, an address.

Home is now where the heart is.

Just this morning, I woke up from a dream of you.

It is rather strange since I have not thought of you for far
too long.

In my dream, you asked why I choose not to wait for you over
and over again. Your voice enveloped, as if on static, repeating endlessly like
moments held against time and space where you once self proclaimed to have
truthfully loved me.

Then, I woke up.

It was like one of those dreams which make you lay in bed a
couple minutes more to let it all sink in. It seemed so real that I lay fearful
that it might reclaim me once again and transport me to a realm of no return.

We have both done what we recognized was right. Cleansed our
souls, mended our spirits and patched the numerous personal aspirations we once
set aside.

You see, there is nothing for you in my eyes anymore, you
would not find traces of the unresolved. Long have I silenced my own heart’s
beating for a love no less different to a calling of despair and nonacceptance.
Long have I found a better life than what could ever have come about had I
waited.

So, please stop sending me any of your messages encoded in
dreams.

My heart is now full and there is not a space left to
wonder.

The man and woman sat across each other and shared the most
conceivably silent dinner they ever had.

They both just saw the person they could not stand at all.

Neither spoke, for both of them were too much aware of how
one word was enough to ignite the resentment and spoil what was thought to be a
wonderful evening.

Sad as it is true, conveyed for a considerable amount of
time was nothing more but a thirty year old cycle they both acknowledged.

The bearer of the cycle spent her lifetime harboring the feelings
of the uninvited. She suffered for loving someone not akin to her own kind. She
suffered too much she tried to foretell the destiny of the woman.

It was uncalled for but still, because of little worldly
knowledge perhaps, she warned the woman. The woman will be shunned and cut out,
for that was how her new world functions.

Ironically, the bearer’s warnings took its form but it was
not due to the fact that what she thought of was inevitable happened. The
bearer’s mixed poison of history and envy surpassed the little good left in
her, most especially when she saw the woman starting to fit in, doing better
than what she calculated.

When she saw this happening, she remembered how it was back
in her time with such vindictiveness that she found the one ultimate way to end
her internal misery. She had to pass the burden upon the woman’s shoulder, just
as so to complete what she foretold, just as so to see another paying for the
damage done to her. Just as so history could repeat itself and she will finally
earn her rightful place.

Just as so she would feel worthy of sharing meals with the
very same people she cursed thirty years ago.

So, she exerted too much effort on making true what she
foretold, she was determined not to let the man and the woman belong. She was
determined to bring about to the life the man and the woman have together more
and more silent dinners until they will never have to share meals ever again.

But the man and the woman have been blessed by the love they
had for each other and such great a blessing constantly battles malevolent
intentions.

And all it took that night at the dinner table, no different
from any other occasion when evil finds creative ways to lurk in and cause
conflict, was a gaze, with no words, their hearts spoke to each other.

Then, they both laughed and it was a silent dinner no more.

I
have read one of the funniest jokes I have ever encountered in my lifetime
while I sat for three hours as my hair got revitalized to sleekness. What
caught my fancy was not the original punch line but rather, I was giggling
foolishly over new ones I formulated in my head.

I
was confined to the state of sacrifice in the name of beauty, this transcribed
to mud looking particles applied to my hair, and at that point, I never had the
liberty to run to the nearest mall comfort room to laugh off the tummy ache I
got from suppressing the comedic scenes I created in my imagination.

I
remained seated as heat was applied on my tresses while looking uncomfortably
stupid for I was laughing by myself. I knew exactly what my hair stylist
thought at that very moment—just another ala Britney nut case.

To
clear every allegation, real or imagined, let me share the grounds of my
hilarious afternoon:

It
started with this joke I read from a local magazine: (FYI:this is now my own
format)

The magician once again asked a volunteer from the audience
to smack his head with a giant iron hammer while bragging that it would not
hurt him at all. He has done this for the umpteenth time never failing to
enchant the audience.

Only, this time, he got a body builder with superb strength
to do the honor.

The magician got into a comma, woke up three years later and
said:

“TA-DAAA!!!”

It
followed with my mind imagining as if it were indeed possible to have anyone’s
head smacked with a giant iron hammer and just wake up after some time and not
suffer any impediments at all. I imagined my family and what they would
possibly say to me if they were the magician after a long time of head smacking
silence: (in no particular order)

Mama:
“Pag-butang lagi ug lip gloss!”

This is a remark she eternally tells me. For some reason, my
lips always dry out in time for her arrival up until her departure. It is as if
they have their own sensor. If they sense her presence within a ten meter
radius, they will always dry out and turn flaky and I would have white dry
flaky lip skin half attached, almost in dangling fashion to the most prominent
feature of my face. For the same reason, she boundlessly hands me lip glosses
and other lip vitamin treatment in easy to apply tube like preparation. I swear
to have at least three different kinds in my purse and more in my temporary
dresser.

Karlo:
“Na-unsa diay ko, Tang?”

Me:
“Na comma ka gikan, dong…”

Karlo:
“Ha? Ha? Unsa to?”

Me:
“Dong, pawnga sa kuno na imong i-pod para magdungog ta…”

My youngest sibling Karlo’s i-pod is his ever constant cohort
that hip-hop music, which is his top choice, reeks from his headset be it while
he is studying, driving, eating, plain hanging out and yes even when he is
sleeping, hip-hop music from his i-pod makes its way to my ears somehow.

Tito
Jun: “Ingnan tamo, one hundred percent dyud ako magic trick!”

This is tito jun’s perpetual line. He pertains to things he
wants to point out in one hundred percent splendor, never “ninety-nine percent”
or even the overrated “ninety-nine point nine percent” it is even more accurate
than anything else. There is simply no room for mistakes, debates and
uncertainties for what he deems the finality of a subject—case closed; one
hundred percent.

Lola:
“Ambi sa akong radio ug paypay!”

My maternal grandmother will always have these two things
towed with her. Yes, even to bed. These are her darlings. With her portable
mini radio in one hand and her fan in the other, she stays put in one corner,
often chanting comments by herself. Over the years, her sense of hearing has
deteriorated bit by bit so the sounds coming out from her radio often get
annoyingly louder for our usual tolerance. A family member then gifted her with
a so big of a headphone just recently. I coined in another comment for her—my increasingly
energetic lola. By that I meant the increasing kinetic energy for her now
headphone attached radio and increasing mechanical energy for the fan she
carries since our place has become more humid by the minute.   

Tita
Inday: “Yakity yalk yalk yakity yalk…Paliti ko ug strepsils beh”

Tita is my ultimate blabbering partner. It talking was made
into a sport; we would both be the top contenders margining just milliseconds
from each others performance. Hers though will be given special credits for extra
effort—in a none confidential voice. Yet, she wonders why her throat feels
funny. Obviously, it is the simply unstoppable yakkity yalk that makes her grab
a few more extra strepsils.

Tito
Bebot: “Naay internet? Sus, critical baya kaau akong internet ron…”

Tito is a certified internet addict and mind you, I have
never met anyone who describes his need for internet access the same way as
that of an intensive care patient. “Critical…”, he says and we all laugh out
loud.

Golda:
“Sus, makalagot kaau …”

My sister’s penchant for complaining is so well mastered that
at times it takes form of an art. The world is just too full of the
undisciplined that her voice might give chance to change. 

Monna:
“Dugaya maabot sa akong order oi”

Monna is an order machine. Her most favorite of all
activities involving the family is ordering whatever she feels like having
without prior consultation to the one who will shoulder the bill then
complaining about how long it takes to serve her order then complaining about
how it is prepared then finally falling silent after she had her fill.

Often,
what you find to be unappealing traits in the family are those which bring
laughter from a different perspective. When you are family, these ugly bits of
our souls which are better tucked in corners create reasons for them to protect
us with their love all the more. This is the bond which holds all the jigsaw
pieces of our soul intact and secured.

And
oh, how I surely enjoyed sitting there while the comedic scenes were dancing in
my head.

Because you are my friend, let me write of the unrequited love
in the hopes that it may be released and returned to you in ten thousand folds.

And so it has always been said, great pains are destined for
those who must passionately love.

That is why you must suffer and that is why your heart must
bleed.

You left and you brought along with you one suitcase and the
pact we once made those drunken nights we spoke of love.

I was glad that you found your dreams in multicolor
skylines. You were always seduced by pressure, functioning best under these
circumstances. That was why I never thought you could allow yourself to loose to
the notions after what you have struggled for.

What even surprised me more was the fact that you never saw
a given fact coming. Not you who have learned to caution your heart so soundly,
with the fervor of the once broken.

But because you are my friend, I offer you the grace of an
opinion minus the social pleasantries I have grown familiar with. 

The reality remains, it only started with just a temperance
of need but you led it somewhere else and made yourself believe it was genuine
when it was only the calling of dissatisfaction.

He never loved you in ways you deserve. You love wholly,
purely and all he offers you is his portioned heart.

He is bound to another. Under no liberty can you call him
your own.

He has his home and you still have yours to build.

Suffer and bleed if you must but time will always be kind.
One day, you will heal and what is unrequited will be returned to you.

Believe me. In tens and thousands of folds…

Growing
up, I have observed that complaints are not unusual in our maternal family side that it almost takes
form of a habit cast in promises of better action towards the universe’s common
good. Somehow, it is like an embedded chip in our system, a DNA of some sort
and you are never a true bloodline unless you speak, swallow and breathe
complaints.

Our
family members have different complaint features, each unique to its own kind
but blends in one distinctive family trait which could be easily passed over to
the next generation like that of a valuable family heirloom. Stories of the
most outrageous cases of inconvenience pacified by a complaint acted upon will
never endingly grace our family’s dinner table for generations to come.

I
have grown accustomed to listening to complaints animated, voices given to the
most mundane of nuisances, to the most extraordinary annotations of how public
service should be demonstrated.

This
can be best exampled by my maternal grandmother who goes out of her way to
direct her complaints to the best faculty. Be it an upfront reprimand, a
downright explanation, a detailed heartfelt letter or the colorful emotion
filled tri media complaint application which involves print, television and her
all time favorite AM radio. The latter is best evidenced by radio personalities
recognizing her by mere “hello” and followed by casual chitchats before she
goes on air to give voices to whatsoever present inconveniences she distresses
about.

Next
in line would have to be her direct lineage—her children. My mother and her
only sister maintain on pointing out their views. “Let them know…”, that stamps
as their official tagline. They are the type who expects outstanding service
from the industry and good faith on the general public. If these aren’t met,
then you would know exactly what to anticipate. The sons are milder in
tendencies but the most precise when activated.

Grandchildren
wise, in our generation, we offer many faces to the honest brutality of
complaints. We have a nurse cum traffic officer for irresponsible driving and
parking, a happy go lucky food critique offering unsolicited overpowering
reviews, a price and service watcher who could easily rival a DTI executive, an
official homeboy implying the ills of society. Even my six year old son has
done his share and so is my ten month old baby girl in her aggravated baby
vocals complete with the most attesting of facial expressions.

In
the early years, I have been embarrassed a couple of times due to the effects
of these values. I have seen my family make a stand with different people from
all walks of life as so to give justice to their ideals.

Yet,
it does not surprise me that we have achieved this complaint system in a
defined way, never in a scandalous manner. It remains a validating way to
obtain what is due, never more and never lesser. I will eternally be grateful
for the blessed way this has touched me and for the life lessons I have
acquired in our family’s common quest for parity.

Now,
I strongly state that silence begets no action, no change and it will only
empower people who choose to dominate by basis of plain prejudice and weakness
estimation. I therefore acquired a placid taste for communicating what troubles
me and pondering on the best solutions so I can earn and keep my peace.

For the most vital of matters, I
will always choose to cast away practicality in my advocacy for making a stand. In the
most crucial of life long decisions, there are only two sides. There will never
be a safe neutral ground. People who do not fight for their inner truths can
never fully practice the beauty behind of the gift of existence. After all, in
life’s journey of immense love and majestic dreams, those who do not speak are
deemed unworthy.

Otan Bisaya is a dish which takes my senses home and brings me back to memories of my family. It has become a symbol of the bond we share together, a private joke we enjoy.

A day before my mother, tita and tito were due to come home, I took the second trip bound for Cebu to spend time with my family. Our waiting hours were spent on preparing for a typical welcome balikbayan funfair. It was a case of making the house immaculately clean, getting rid of all possible dust allergens which never fail to trigger their now foreign reacting noses, making the house more heat bearable as so to prevent any heat stroke episodes and above all the hurrahs is preparing their most beloved Filipino dish. No, it is not lechon but rather the otan bisaya with all the vegetables that can guarantee a good day for the farmer selling the ingredients. This part of the welcome, I absolutely DO NOT welcome at all for it means the dishes gets to fully board with the rest of the family until their departure.

Though I cherish this native soup, it can get pretty much annoying and appetite irritating to wake up and see this dish present for breakfast, staying for lunch, insisting for dinner and revived to do the same while they are on Filipino soil and sometimes the dish even gets some added snack time incentives. What’s most irksome is seeing their faces full of delight as they savor this dish meal after meal after meal.

At one point, I asked my mother, “Ma, don’t you have kamunggay in Filipino stores? Don’t tell me wala dyud moy otan otan didto?”. Mama was quick to reply with, “But it’s different, it’s packed and frozen and prepared differently. Lahi ra pagkahagpat.” I nodded and did not comment further. Nevertheless, it did not explain why they have to see this entire leafy assortment day after day.

Fate is even on their side when it comes to this issue. We go out everyday for catching up and bonding time. On occasions when we try new places, just like a magic cue, otan is always on the menu. Even when we went out for a night get together at a hip artsy place full of beer chugging people, otan was still on a menu. When my sister Golda treated us for an afternoon payday snacks, we tried a resto a friend told us about and much to their amusement, otan was still on the menu. Even on occasions when close relations invite us to share meals with them on their place, otan is still an undisputed guest. It has become our constant companion that I remarked, “Ma, gisunod sunod dyud mo sa tanang klase sa otan.”

So, behold and allow me to make a toast for my foreign land based family and their love of the humble dish. Let me see this as an opportunity to build moments to reminisce upon when at times I will miss the sheer joy and comforts of my own home. As the character Donkey from the movie Shrek II said just before getting inside Princess Fiona’s castle—“Champagne wishes and caviar dreams…”, my toast for the family I love through and through—“Tuba wishes and otan dreams, welcome to the land your heart will forever claim your home…”.

You have lived too long in her isolation

Now her words are your mirage

Quenching your illusions

That is why I do not speak to you

My eyes bear the truth

It will shine too bright for you to bear

You will be blind before I can unfold my story

So I will let you keep the little beauty

The remnants of the fire you once shared

The comfort of the years surpassed

I will let this bind you together

A common ground for a conversation

But I will be tarnished not for long

Justice will always prevail

So do not let me ask for apology

I am not sorry to conclude

I cannot give her my respect