Roots

"Our lives are defined by opportunities, even the ones we miss." -The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

"These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence: the connections- sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent- that happened when I was gone. And I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it..." -Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones

I've had the hardest time placing where it all went wrong. It wasn't until last year, months after my mother passed away, did I learn from my grandmother that when I left for Diliman more than twelve years ago, my parent's marriage troubles started. I thought then, that since my father had finally decided to stay for good after fifteen years of work in Saudi, that our family was finally complete and we'd be happy.

I was a typical young adult who discovered more freedom he could handle, being away from home for the first time. I went home only during the holidays, so I was unaware of the drama unfolding at home. And so the years passed, and I always had the assumption that they would always be there, and I would always have a place at home in Tacloban. When I began working, I still had that attitude, until one day I found myself at the airport seeing my mom off before she left for her job in Louisiana as a nurse. Months later, my father and my two brothers followed.

It was only after I returned to my messy apartment, which I had proudly showed to my father as evidence of my first big paycheck, that I realized I was left alone- literally, and I burst into tears. I still slept on the floor that night, and in the coming nights, and never dared fix the bed where my brothers slept or the sofa littered with Papa's newspapers. The last remaining person dearest to me, my grandmother Nanay, stayed in our house in Tacloban.

Whether consciously or unconsciously, I had begun to sink into depression. I wasn't pill-popping or anything, but each time I heard the phone ring, or see the photos of my family looking very happy in their new house in Monroe, I felt melancholic. Intellectually, I knew it was no one's fault that I was over eighteen when my mother's application for immigration was filed, and only my brothers who were minors went with my parents, but I couldn't help but feel left out. Sometime during the holidays in 2005, I got sick and went to the hospital by myself. It was then I realized, that being independent wasn't so great after all. Whether it was the stress or the disappointment at having been turned down at another promotion, or my loneliness, I decided it was time to go. I was a rootless wandering Jew, and even in our home back in Tacloban someone else was already staying in my room.

Indeed it was the right decision, I got home and got my place back. I used all my effort in restoring and renovating the place because the house was in shambles from the previous floods, and tainted with the patina of years and years of neglect. Nonetheless I was happy to spend time with my grandmother again. I enrolled to get a BSN degree upon the suggestion of Mama who wished for me one day to join them in the US.

But even the perceived better life abroad did little to lessen the fights between my parents, and worse- our relatives were taking sides already. With my parents thousands of miles away, I could only write or call to mediate, but eventually they separated. The most infuriating thing of all was some people in my father's hometown were gossiping about our family, and of course it made everything worse. Add a few meddling relatives, and irreparable damage had been done.

I was third year in Nursing school when my Mama died. We were heartbroken with grief, and with my mother gone it seemed both our relatives from my father's side and mother's side escalated their fighting. This ended with my grandmother, who spent the best years of her life taking care of me and my brothers from birth to our childhood, being taken to my mother's elder sister's home. After all, Nanay is 84 years old already and should not be subjected to stresses.

Meanwhile my father and middle brother decided to live separately because of differences, and our youngest sibling moved on with his life in the US Navy. I guess one could say we are less than ideal as a family, but in spite of this I've never really given up the hope that one day we'd be okay again. As the years rolled by my brother, who is estranged from my father, eventually took the burden of supporting our household in Tacloban, I managed the household, while our youngest met a Filipina who also enlisted in the Navy and had gotten engaged.

As I presently review for the Nursing Board Exams, I faced a crossroad which challenged my intellect, will, and my personal beliefs and values. I am to choose between two alternatives- medical school and work. But of course the choices are not that simple, because this time the stakes are high, convoluted with clauses and conditions, and far-reaching consequences.

When my partner had discussed the idea, I never really thought about it too deeply until I graduated from Nursing school. What only came to mind was the lovely white coat I imagined I'd be wearing on rounds, but of course, foolish me never realized the full impact until recently. My friends who went to med school, who were given adequate financial and moral support by their families, all agree that it consumed their lives. Meaning there is no room for indecision, because being a doctor is a life-long quest and commitment. And when it finally hit me- someone who was raised in an environment where graduate education wasn't given much regard, who would undertake this journey with no financial support from family, who would be too old to be making any more mistakes at this point- I was disconcerted.

Don't get me wrong, I never had any regrets with my previous life choices, mistakes included. But truth of the matter is, med school never entered my mind until maybe about two or three years ago. The friends I've mentioned had either a mother or father who were doctors or lawyers, and it was but a natural step for them to follow suit. And of course back then pursuing an MD was not really in the plans of my parents because we simply could not afford it.

Here's the catch: in about eight years time my brother's petition might be granted and I'll finally get a US Visa. If I go to med school, I can't just throw in the towel and say I'd take any job in the US- all those years of study and work, and all the money invested in my education would be put to waste. Besides, med school would mean another four years of me being dependent and thus will not be generating income. As it is my brother is struggling sending himself through school, paying his bills, and supporting our household.

This leaves me to consider option two- work here in Tacloban and get a Master's degree. I would be able to help ease the burden on my brother, be independent and not be a burden to anyone and pay for my Master's degree myself. In eight year's time I can take the US opportunity with no guilt.

My friends were surprised when I contacted several of them to discuss my dilemma. "I thought you already decided?" They asked.

It turns out the decision is harder than I thought it would ever be. There is no right or wrong because both have its own pros and cons. One is about moving on and making something out of my life as a doctor, the other is fulfilling the dream my parents had for our family that one day I'd join them in the US like I was supposed to. If I were to leave home for four years of study in Iloilo or some other place where I'd be on this journey in med school, one of my greatest fears is that I may be "phased out" from our home like what happened to Nanay. I know it's a ridiculous notion, but believe me you have to know our family to change the definition of what ridiculous means. When my mom died, one of the things I quietly promised her was that as the eldest, I'd do everything in my power to keep our family together. With my father and brothers in the US, Nanay in Palo, and me- the last remaining family member living in the house we grew up in.

I suppose it is a gamble either way. When I opened the discussion with my partner, it went from a heated debate, to angry tears, and finally, silence. I'm terrified of making another mistake, and what if I make a decision and later become unhappy? Are those doors once closed, forever locked? My partner was right, I have not moved on- and it's only because I'm still hoping one day our family relationship would somehow return to the way it was before it crumbled. It isn't just a question of money, it isn't just a question of my future alone- what I decide will also affect the fate of our family relationship.

At the end of our discussion, my partner and I could only agree on one thing: more time to think.

Image source

Compromising Positions

Last night as we walked home from a very late meeting for the publication, two friends (both NBSB, I think) asked me: is it great being in a relationship? I stopped walking for a bit, and thought carefully of my answer. The glow of the streetlights and the noise of the vehicles on the street seemed to soften a little bit.

"To start with, I think majority of us have a misconception of what love really is between two people."

This put their mouths agape, forming a big "O".

It was true- or at least for me. My model of "true love" was the bond between my parents. As the eldest son, I can say I've really seen them at their best and worst, since the time I was little, until my siblings and I grew up. When I was about four or five, they were the picture of two people completely in love- yes, the kind you see in movies: affectionate, giddy, and completely head-over-heels.

Happily ever afters however, almost never happens in real life. Instead, people deal with the realities of raising their children, paying the mortgage, sending kids to school, working on their retirements... Love's mettle is tested with hardships and adversities and sometimes, it does not endure.

During the time my parent's marriage troubles started- jealousy, money problems, parenting issues- I was worried if their bond would survive considering that they would be migrating to the States, on their own and away from the rest of our relatives. The harsh environment and their distance from us took its toll, and the differences in their personalities caused a rift that was becoming more apparent.

My father is the pragmatic type of person who values practicality more than anything else, my mother, the romanticist, constantly opposed his decisions with reasons that he found unacceptable. The power struggle finally ended with their separation.

I cried a river over this, because for me it was proof that sometimes mere affections or romantic feelings may not be enough to sustain a relationship. That even after 27 years of marriage and three kids, a couple could still give up on their love.

So I brought them back to my point: "A relationship requires more than that weak-in-the-knees feeling for that other person, because after sometime that frizzles away."

I'm an amateur when it comes to love, and for the first time, I am in a relationship that lasted more than a year and requires a whole lot of work to constantly adjust and compromise with what he wants out of the relationship and what I want out of it. To quote a line from the TV show Ally McBeal, "...perhaps because love is about learning to compromise, that's why we find ourselves in compromising positions." But as long as we keep striving, even if it proves difficult to make changes for one another, the relationship will endure.

Learning to give and yield, finding someone who can stand you and your quirks, but also having someone to hold your hand at the funeral of a loved one or someone you can tell your troubles to, even when he says "I told you so"- I say yes, it's hard work and it's no fairy tale, but it is great to be in a relationship.

Made in Saudi, Made in America

About 200 million migrants from different countries are scattered across the globe, supporting a population back home that is as big if not bigger. Were these half-billion or so people to constitute a state -- migration nation -- it would rank as the world's third-largest. While some migrants go abroad with Ph.D.'s, most travel… with modest skills but fearsome motivation. The risks migrants face are widely known, including the risk of death, but the amounts they secure for their families have just recently come into view.

From “A Good Provider Is One Who Leaves”, a New York Times article on OFWs by Jason Deparle, published April 22, 2007

I.

One of my earliest memories as a child was snuggling close to my mother in a narrow, windowless corridor. The massive engine of the ship that would take us to Manila hummed incessantly. The steel walls and the small improvised cot that consisted of a thick sheet of plastic mounted on a wooden frame seemed to vibrate.

My father sat nearby, trying to sleep amidst the noise. Both my father and mother resigned from their jobs at Abuyog General Hospital (as Medical Technologist and Staff Nurse, respectively) for job opportunities in Saudi. I was six years old, and my brother Tyrone was two. Nanay, our grandmother, was scheduled to follow us to Manila as we would be in her care while our parents worked abroad.

It was a year after the People Power Revolution, and the country was still in turmoil. Coups were staged left and right, and helicopters were constantly heard whizzing past our two-room house in crowded Culiat, Quezon City.

I was enrolled in a public school near our home. While most children were fetched by their parents after school, I walked home by myself. I never quite understood then, why my parents were always away. They would just show up one day like an apparition at the door, bringing presents. Shortly, it would be time for them to leave again. I never dared ask why they would have to leave again, I was afraid I would not understand the answer.

II.

During my preteen years, I finally mustered the courage to ask my father why we were so unlike regular families. Throughout our elementary years, only my mother, who stopped working in Saudi when she bore my youngest brother, took time to attend to our needs.

I had stacks of papers requesting the presence of my parents in school, but they all went unanswered. My father was always away, and my mother was usually too busy attending to my baby brother. Once, I had to forge their signature just so I could attend an event to be held outside school, which required parent’s consent.

My father’s answer was this:

“I am working abroad so you and your brothers can study in a good school.”

“Why can’t you work in hospitals here in Tacloban?” I asked.

“There is little pay here.” He said simply.

The discussion was over. The three of us grew up with my father working in Saudi for fifteen years. By now, I had completely understood the sacrifice he was making, only I had the feeling that somehow the solidarity of our family was being compromised.

III.

It had become a familiar sight for me: large suitcases and melancholy faces of people as they said their goodbyes to their loved ones. I was at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport, and my mother was among those who were leaving.

She had been completing all international exams required, whilst working at Eastern Visayas Regional Medical Center, and now Global Nurses found her a job in Monroe, Louisiana. A few days prior to her departure, I had to ask again.

“Ma, how come you want to live in America? We are doing fine here. I’m already working, and Tyrone is already in college.”

“There are better opportunities for us in the States.” She replied.

What can I do? The plan was already set, my father and brothers were to follow her in a few months time. So I watched my mother walk through the glass doors, to the Check-in area. I waited outside, and watched quietly as planes flew into the horizon till they were merely dots in the sky.

IV.

To a casual observer, we seemed to have it all, and the pictures proved it: two cars, lovely furniture in a beautiful house, my brothers grinning ear to ear in front of a theme park sign, and my mother and father, all smiles at Ted’s graduation at Neville High School.

“The truth is”, my mother confided over our phone conversation while I was at the office, “life is difficult here.”

“People need cars because in small US cities, there is no public transportation. You need a credit history to be approved of a loan, a loan which you will be slaving for years on end to pay.”

When my mother lost her job at St. Francis Medical Center, my father had to work as a dishwasher. US Law required a license to practice in the medical profession, and my father had only license to work as a Med Tech in the Philippines. My brother worked as a janitor to help make ends meet. Unlike here in the Philippines, where you can run to your nearest relative in times of dire need, they faced their problems on their own in the US.

My mother soon found a job at a smaller hospital in Columbia, which also had a hospice for the elderly. They packed their bags once again, and moved from their apartment in Monroe. Because college was expensive, my youngest brother Ted opted to join the US Navy, wherein after certain number of years of service, the government will take care of his tertiary education.

V.

I resigned from my job of four years in Makati to study Nursing. My mother assured me it would be the best way to secure the future. So I went back to Tacloban, and my parents supported my education.

There were issues in financial matters and their jobs, and eventually a rift grew between my mother and my father. Then one wintry day, my brother said, Papa moved to another apartment.

But the biggest tragedy had yet to come: I received a call that my mother was rushed to the hospital for chest pains. Perhaps because she was an immigrant with no insurance, the question that remained was how the hospital bill was going to be paid- for tests to be done, medications, and doctor’s professional fees- given the fact that my mother was not working because of the hospitalization. They diagnosed pulmonary embolism, and transferred my mother to the ICU.

I could do nothing more but pray. My mother is our breadwinner, and the money she sends pays the bills here in the Philippines, along with our food and daily needs, and my 82 year-old grandmother’s medications. I felt helpless that I could not be at her bedside to care for her, and at the same time afraid of what will become of us here without her support.

On a Tuesday morning, before dawn, my brother called to give me the sad news: my mother passed away.

VI.

I wish I could say that our parents' striving for a better life sustained by years and years of work abroad was worth it, but I believe we paid too steep a price: we were robbed of our time together as a family.

The state of our country- joblessness, low wages, and increasing cost of goods leave no choice for ordinary Filipinos but to seek opportunities abroad, despite the loneliness and the danger.

The remains of my mother arrived weeks after her death. My father, my brothers, and I were together again after several years of separation. We stood before her grave, with flowers in our hands. Our relatives wept.

I touched the urn that held her ashes, and suddenly, I remembered that day when my mother held me in her arms when I was six, while we were on a boat to Manila.

A Hop, Skip, and Tilt towards Nutsville

Once, I swore an oath to minimize whining, especially in forums where my sentiments would be made public, so as to appear “mature” and “grown up”. But I reasoned, however, that today would be an exception.

My dusty old Dell laptop has temporarily ceased functioning, so I found myself sitting in an internet café, taking a break from my books, to catch up. My unread e-mail has reached hundreds- mostly from suspicious sounding names asking me if I wanted to increase the size of my “lovetool”. I mindlessly click the delete button with the enthusiasm of maniac high on crack. When was the last time I made a decent entry on my blog that wasn’t a repost? I cursed myself silently. The problem when one gets engrossed in thousands of pages of textbooks, reading and reviewing twenty plus chapters in a few days time- one’s creative juices diminish. Often I am left exhausted, with my mind blank. So much for attempts at creative or expository writing.

On the bright side, I did get passing marks (sometimes a little better) in my Unit Exams. Imagine, sometimes in four out of the six sections, no one would get a passing mark at all. The last OB exam we had, the word was that in Section A (where students with GWA of 1.8 or higher are in) only three out of eleven papers that were checked so far passed. I was one of the lucky ones, but a passing mark is never a reason for complacency so we continue to toil and burrow our faces in readings. Nowadays my friends and I keep a nightly vigil in some 24 hour fastfood place in downtown Tacloban to review for the Midterms.

Why is it always one or the other? Obviously the days of four blog entries in a single sitting were long gone, and it’s either a choice between reading and passing, or blogging and failing. I have about a third of the material for the second book I’ve been preparing, but to this day they’ve gone no further than a quick print for impromptu proofreading with friends.

Maybe I’m still paying my dues. Magkano pa kaya ang balance ko? Charing! Oh well, I better wrap up my internet break.

Adieu.

Sweet Addiction

Of my many addictions, writing was the one that stayed. Video games and cigarettes came and went, seemingly fluid-like and leaving not a dent or any reminder in my life. But my compulsion for writing, about anything and everything, sensible and otherwise, stuck with me like an awful song that played repeatedly in my head.

Oh yes, such a sweet addiction. To be powerful enough to create a reality you can shape, however briefly, and existing only in the mind. My blog is as pliable as clay, and I can shape it in any which way that is pleasing to me. Perhaps it is also an attempt to seize beauty as it happens in life- to paint with words the wonders that one sees, to expose truths, or to record flashes of brilliance in unsullied ideas, or simply bear witness to everyday dramas and insanities.

To the vengeful, writing can inflict to enemies as much damage as a regular pistol shot right to the heart. Terrible, but I am not innocent of such sin. Nevertheless my lack of courage and general flakiness prompts me to remove the literary assault shortly after it is done. (But not of course until after making sure that a certain amount of damage had been inflicted.)

Words, like swords, can be a thing of beauty as much as it is a thing of power. I love, I weep, I delight, I scream- each emotion stains my writing with vivid hues of purple, indigo and red: it becomes as unique as a Picasso abstract, and as powerful as a Goya black painting.

Each time I promise to quit blogging I turn into a liar shortly thereafter. Writing is as addictive as Morphine, and I need a shot everyday to dull the pain. I write to stay alive.

Or...

Ewan ko sa inyo pero KSP lang siguro talaga ako.