#bernblogs

May 30, 2023

In TOEM, you are a silly lil guy who looks like Ilong Ranger going on his first big boy trip to see a phenomenon called Toem. You travel with your grandmother’s camera, primarily viewing the world and experiencing adventure with your lens.

There are many quests to complete in the form of taking pictures, or really in simpler terms, noticing things. TOEM reminds me of the fondness I experience with every camera click, knowing I just took another nice photo I can look back on.

There are animals, people, and places that demand to be photographed in this game; here, documentation is fun.

I enjoyed this game a lot, probably one of my favorite games now. I love how it tasks you to not only climb a peak to see a beautiful phenomenon (trust me, that part goes so hard), it also asks you to look around. I don’t care how cliche it is, we do forget to look around, and I think this was a really good reminder.

In fact, TikTok has a phrase for this, for those who take the time to take pictures of their daily life, the art of noticing. TOEM teaches you that with lovely visuals and funny characters.

Into the Drowning Deep by Mira Grant was more violent, more real, and more terrifying than I thought. In the most fun way possible.

I began reading this because of Our Wives Under the Sea by Julia Armfield. I was looking for a book with underwater horror and sure, Armfield delivered that. The Eldritchian quality of the oceanic entity preempts the chill you feel as you read about the body horror. A wife watching her wife who was trapped in a submersible for longer than expected slowly turn unrecognizable, eyes popping, an addiction to salt, webbing on the hands. The grief was terrifying and what brought it upon them added to the mystery. But it wasn’t a tangible ‘monster’. So I needed to read another underwater horror, obviously.

Into the Drowning Deep began with a mystery, yes, but already, from the start, there was a proposition of oceanic creatures that could tear humans apart. Easily. Very concrete fear which I liked. It was not a matter of what was doing the killing of people in the middle of the Mariana Trench, it was a matter of when we will see what was doing the killing.

When I looked up a listicle of what other sea horrors I could read, it said that maybe avoid reading this if you don’t like the really terrifying portrayal of mermaids and it’s true. They are very scary in this book, but they are also so, so interesting. As a sci-fi horror novel, it does a really good job of scaring you while also illustrating a clear vision of a mermaid—its anatomy, its hunting nature, its language.

Grant also discusses contradictions such as the way a media conglomerate is funding scientific research in the middle of the ocean, the desire to know fighting with the desire to survive, the lack of humanity in scientific discovery in order to further mankind. In these conversations, the dialogue or the writing can border cheesy at times, but it does not make what the book says less true. And in general, the writing style is easy to read while remaining interesting.

This gave me what Our Wives Under the Sea didn’t, and for that, I am grateful. Ironically, a joy to read.

once, my boyfriend gasped at the sight of 100 items in my cart. he asked why i wouldn't like to put it in my likes tab instead. i didn't know how to tell him it's not the same as having it.

my likes tab means i might go back to it one day if i ever remember. my shopee cart means i will purchase it, just bidding time. but the truth is, i delete more items from my cart, ending up buying one out of ten.

i tell my boyfriend scrolling through my cart shows me my different eras, what i liked at a certain time based on what i have been putting. it shows me i have grown, or maybe just changed. once an inactive item, it tells me it's time to let the dream go. whatever item that may be.

i'm afraid i will feel like 23 forever. i am 24 now, turning 25, yet i am in the same state of confusion, of limbo. is this what purgatory feels like? is this why ghosts roam around possessing living people's bodies, desperate to escape perpetual oblivion?

i think about all of the times i tell people what i do for a living, after telling them i was in creative writing, a playwright. i see light leave their eyes, and i have to say, no, wait, let me explain myself. let me make myself interesting again, i think. and i convince them why i do a boring job completely unrelated to my process of making. i tell them i love advocacy work, i tell them i love the work set-up, i tell them i'm earning okay, i tell them it's interesting. in telling them, i know i am trying to convince myself too.

i always do for a little bit, until i have to go home. actually face the work i've been bragging about. i then ask myself again what i am doing with my life.

do i actually have a plan? can i still make things the way i used to before? or are those skills from college only memories i grasp onto now hoping i can still call to them?

i'm turning 25 and i am nowhere near what i dreamed of when i was 15. i am not a filmmaker, or a new york times bestselling author, or a rich youtuber, or living on my own. i can barely even call myself a writer anymore.

i know i don't have to chase things, that i have time, yet it doesn't feel that way. i wonder if i want to prove myself to younger me, or i just know i deserve so much more?

I unsheathe the blunt, brandless razor, really only good for one use, it says, but ignore that.

I once used a ‘disposable razor’ for more than a year and I did not die.

I start to slather the conditioner like shaving cream; it’s slimy on my legs, like a slippery kind of grime.

I lift one leg, do an upwards motion with a razor that dares to not cut and my hair starts coming off.

This routine has always made me feel like a fully realized woman— shedding hair I’m not supposed to have, coming out of a bristly, rough cocoon.

I work my way up, and then onto the upper leg. My hand moves involuntarily like I am doing a biological process.

I go to the next leg, and then I hear a quiet but coarse scrape. Like the peeling of a carrot.

There is white where my razor was, where my skin was. I pause, let it sink in— I peeled my skin off. I wait for the white to bleed, confirm that I am human. I continue shaving up my leg, and then my thigh. I draw my eyes away from the blood, stop myself from crying. Until I am done.

I do not tell my boss that I remember so well. That my memories with him are some of the clearest ones I have.

I went to pre-school at four. At the time, in the province, this was quite early, and really, not seen as essential. But I wanted to go because my ate and kuya both went to school, and what was the point of staying at home when my siblings were gone the entire day? I do not remember saying goodbye to him before leaving for school but I remember going home so well. I’d be running and then quiet, almost tiptoeing to him. To greet him. To tell him I’m home. To saludar. To lie down in bed beside him and put my head on his chest to listen to his heartbeat. Not even bothering to change from my uniform. This routine was more important. It was as if even without really knowing, I understood how much I’d value spending time with him in retrospect.

I learned about Gary Granada because of him. He had a radio with a CD player in the retro cream color that old gadgets used to come in. He would play Gary Granada CDs there repeatedly. I formed an odd but very strong connection to the song Saranggola sa Ulan chronicling the tragedy of star-crossed lovers, and the persistence of romance and love. I learned the lyrics and made an interpretative dance that I performed. I remember his laugh clearly. His amusement, even more. At the time, I didn’t understand. It was just a dance. I didn’t realize the joy of watching your four-year-old grandchild perform so earnestly to a song you liked with all the trust they have put on you.

One year, we would spend Christmas in the hospital because Lolo was confined. I have a picture of myself holding a Zest-O sipping happily, no questions about why we were in the hospital for Christmas. After all, all my memories with my lolo are permeated with his sickness. I cannot remember a cancer-free lolo, unfortunately. But I remember his love, and I remember him lovingly despite.

My last memory of him was bidding goodbye. This one, I cannot remember how much has been fabricated by the brain to fill in the gaps. The only thing I am sure of was that they had to write a letter to the hospital to let me in the ICU (?) to visit. Because wherever he was before he died, children weren’t allowed. The family must’ve known he was about to go. And then the next thing I remember was crying. Lots of it. I said goodbye. I said that I hope that in heaven, he was alive. I was a religious child who obviously did not understand the concept of death. Or maybe I understood the afterlife too well. And then I remember my father trying to console me, asking me if all I wanted was to ‘bless’. That he could do that with me. I laugh. He laughs with me. He was probably relieved his child stopped crying loudly in a hospital. This was the first moment of reprieve I remember.

The vet stands in the corner of the room, and the dog lays on the metal table. The mother, daughter, and son are all crying–staring at the body that used to be the goodest boy in the entire world. When the sniffles stop for a bit, the vet cuts in. The daughter guesses he’s practiced this many times, cutting into the grieving. He says his condolences, not without emotion, but with a cadence that tells you you aren’t special. He talks about how long the goodest boy has been with the mother and the daughter and the son… And then he tells the family that they did everything they could. And then he says the suspected cause of death. And then he says he understands how much he means to the family. Yet the daughter thinks, you don’t understand, he is– was really the goodest boy in the entire world. Do not look at his remains like you understand. We’ve lost him before he completely collapsed. He was the goodest boy until his body failed him. Then the daughter thinks, how dare I write an essay in my head when the goodest boy in the entire world lies dead? Sometimes, literary sentimentality can save us from breaking down completely.

Mommy brings a spoon of meat and skin from chicken on the table. She walks to a dog bowl and calls, “Augustus, here!” We both pause. Only for a fraction of a second, even though it feels much longer. We look at each other, and silently, we share and carry our sadness.

We got Augustus Morris in 2019. One morning, Kuya asked me and Mommy to go to a dog breeder. We have gone to the house before to pick up the first dog Kuya will ever buy from them–Bugel. Bugel was given to his girlfriend’s family. He’d be renamed to something less silly, and he’d grow up kingly. 

We picked up Augustus from the same house, maybe a year later. He looked quite like Bugel as a puppy. Black, white, small, a little funny-looking. We think: he’s going to grow up as refined as Bugel. We were completely wrong.

Sure, he grew older. But grow up? He didn’t seem to. He’s a mix between a chihuahua and a shih tzu, and it seems that he only got the chihuahua blood. He remained small, except unlike most chihuahuas I’ve met, he wasn’t nervous or feisty. He never growled or tried to bite my face. (Someone’s chihuahua tried to do this to me before. Rest in peace, Chico). Instead he was jumpy and behaved; he was so goofy. Unlike Bugel, he did not look refined or regal after a year or two. He remained as silly as can be.

Across the four years we had him, he’d meet the entire extended family. They’d pet him, carry him, draw him even. Look for him when he was sleeping or hiding. Everybody watched him because everybody loved him. He was small and funny like a cartoon, and he’d snuggle up to almost anyone who gave him attention. He would also end up meeting all our current partners–Kuya’s, Ate’s, mine.

When my partner visited for the first time, he fell in love–with Augustus, not me. I know this because he kept carrying him around like a little airplane. Or like that superman game you play with kids where they put their belly on the soles of your feet then you lift them up. He would begin to share this with his family, with his siblings the most. And then his friends. And my friends. 

This was just upon seeing Augustus too; without spending time with him, they just know that he’s the goodest boy in the entire world. His mere existence was enough. His energy. His earnestness. 

He was the goodest boy to them even without knowing that he would sneak into my room to wake me up or to say hello to me while I do yoga. That we would wake up with one slipper missing because he stole them in the night so he could cuddle with them in his bed. That he would never snatch food from your hand no matter how close it was to his face because he waited for someone to say go! That when he saw me crying or felt that I was sad, he’d jump next to me so we could both sit with my feelings. That he would sneak into the deepest part under tables or chairs so that I couldn’t give him a bath. That he smiled for the camera like a person. That he’d tap on our legs during meals to ask for food. That he would sit near Mommy while she sliced kamatis or pipino because he knew she’d give him some. That he would play with an unopened pistachio like a real toy. That he loved people as fiercely as people loved him.

I wanted to tell the vet when he said he understood that he didn’t. Because he never knew Augustus. He didn’t see him lying on his back while sleeping, moving his legs like he’s running in his dreams. He didn’t see him wag his tail when I pointed my camera at him. He didn’t see him sit in front of the bathroom door while Mommy took a bath like a real guard. He couldn’t  understand that the body there used to be the goodest boy in the entire world because he never really saw him. He never will. I wanted to say all of this, but I didn’t because what was the point? Augustus is gone. The goodest boy is gone. 

Instead, we take the box amicably in our hands. Carry his body into the car. Give him a burial. And we cry some more. And then to myself, I think of what John Green says in The Anthropocene Reviewed, “[L]ove survives death.”  And I do hope so.

May 24, 2023 - May 29, 2023

I think about home often. And when I do, I am transported to the shade of an acacia tree where I believed a kapre resided but chose not to pick me up and roll me into a cigar. I think of a clump of mango trees where people in white flowy dresses set up tables for a feast (or at least that's what my lola's mother said). I think of heavy plastic sandals with mud stuck on the heels after walking in gowns pretending like we were part of the local sagala.

When I think of home, I am compelled to think of the first place I ever lived in, San Miguel, Bulacan. It is a part of the province where people had an entirely different Tagalog lexicon paired with a strong accent that can be comparable to 'country'. As someone with a non-Bulakenyo family (they moved before I was born), I had to assimilate in school. When my friends started saying words like "taban" and "panik", I asked them what they meant and took a mental note that I tucked away in my brain so I didn't forget. The accent came naturally the more I talked to my classmates.

Whenever I went to conferences of Paulinian schools where students came from literally the entire Philippines, I found myself trying to use the conyo lexicon and neutralizing my accent. I pronounced my friends' names differently-- "Machu" became "Matthew", "Rayana" came with a soft R instead of a rolling one. I remember desperately wanting to impress students from Manila. Maybe if I talked like them enough, they would finally acknowledge me. I was not new to being shoved aside because I was a probinsyana. Manileño students would probably deny this because they didn't notice, but in the congresses, they would form cliques and lead the group without a consensus. I found myself wanting to be like them, but also hating them for being dismissive.

I'm sure a part of this was projection, but a part of it was true. And so I hated them and I hated myself a little bit too.

I wanted to be them so bad that I wanted to escape to the city. Maybe if I lived in Manila long enough, I would be like them. People would notice me and listen to me and count me in.

I did get all of that, I still do. Except I lost a lot in the process. I lost the deeper vocabulary and the strong accent and I missed them as soon as I did.

The probinsyana with 'big dreams'--of being heard, seen, known--is destined to move to the city and cut parts of themselves in the process if they want to survive. Don't want to get held up? Lose the wonder and sparkle in your eyes and replace it with grim determination to yank your bag out of someone's hands when they try to snatch it.

I have always wanted to be 'a creative', whatever the fuck that means. I wanted to be writer, a filmmaker, someone respected in the arts. I wanted to make things for a living, and that in itself necessitated moving. While I'm sure it's different now with the revolutionary work-from-home, there are simply more opportunities for the kind of livelihood I want in the city. When I look back on what my classmates' parents jobs were, at least those who stayed in town, they were accountants, nurses, municipal workers, dentists, or business owners. While I do not have anything against those jobs, I do not want those jobs. I could have been a teacher there, but I would have been yelled at by nuns, paid in peanuts, and forced to teach a subject I knew nothing about.

I was having lunch with Mita, my lola, earlier today. She told me how when she moved to the city for college, she would think of the food she got to try and dream of earning enough money to buy the same food in the province for her younger siblings. When her dad would introduce her to his compadres, he would say, 'Panganay ko 'tong babae, nag-aaral sa Maynila!' Simply getting inside the city was an accomplishment, it was a promise of better lives.

I don't know if I'd still say that now with the inflation and rising heat, but at least, it promises having a job--and even then, not to everyone.

The first week I moved to Quezon City with my mother (after forcing her for a semester to finally move here because I was desperate to get out of the town and get the town out of me), I started learning to commute to school. And not the baby-commute I knew from San Miguel which was taking a tricycle and telling the driver where you wanted to go like they're taxi cabs. This was the big-girl-commute. After four grueling jeepney rides to school and three grueling jeepney rides going home, I asked my mom if we could move back to San Miguel again. The city has chewed me and was spitting me out.

Of course, my mother said no. She said that I just needed to be strong and adjust. Because what I said was stupid. She was right, after all. After getting my black shoes sopping wet during a rainstorm, chasing countless jeepneys, falling off of a jeepney and scraping my knee on the road, getting taken advantage of by a taxi driver by not giving me change, losing my wallet to snatchers, losing my Bulakenya accent and the vocabulary I worked for my entire life, I finally adapted. Survival of the fittest, as Charles Darwin believed.

I am thankful that my mother let me experience all the shit things because I would have kept being chewed on by the city if I didn't toughen up. And I needed to toughen up because the probinsyana who 'dreams' (or who wants to be a 'creative', or who wants to 'see the world', or who wants to 'experience culture, or who wants to be 'well-educated', or who needs to pay the bills) has always been destined to be displaced. If you ask your parents or grandparents, you quickly discover that at least one of them moved to the city for a 'better life'. My maternal grandmother was a hardcore Bicolana, my father was Novo Ecijano. Our roots are in provinces where trees grow and magic doesn't seem far-fetched and you can hold the world in your palms, but they are dislodged for dreams and survival. I am reminded of a balete tree when I think of myself clinging to the city like I am a parasite and it is my host tree.

Sometimes, I find my peers not knowing these roots about their families until it comes up, but that's because probinsyanas go through a process of loss (of themselves, their identity) to survive a cruel city. And we barely get to ever grieve over this loss.

How often do you hear people make fun of provincial accents? Of probinsyanas not being 'cultured'? Of being clueless?

The probinsyana camouflages out of the need to survive. How are you going to have a better life or give your family a better life if the city crushes you, after all?

The displacement of the probinsyana is not unknown. I discover that many women I look up to who have really made a name for themselves are probinsyanas. Because we have something to prove. Because what is the point of cutting parts of yourself, of changing who you are, of losing the sense of home, if you do not become good at what you do at the very least?

When I think of home, I am transported to the shade of an acacia tree and magical moments. When I think of home, I think of memories I made years ago in a place I used to call home. The displaced probinsyana rarely discovers their sense of home again after the move. Coming home to the province always feels strange. Like meeting a stranger who used to be a lover. You knew them, but not anymore, it seems. It is never really coming home; it is just visiting. And if you visit someplace, how would you call that your home?

Yet, the city is not home neither. It never will be. It is grueling and cruel and filled with the stench of excessive and exploitative labor and rotting dreams.