#proseph

I.

I have the most beautiful name, fit for a princess. I will always thank Ma and Pa for giving it to me. Before they moved to Davao, it was only my parents and kuya Emil. They lived in Mati then, where Papa said it was always scorching hot, but lucky for them they had a small hut by the sea, next to the big resort where Ma and Pa worked. Papa told me he cleaned the pools and fixed the aircon; Mama cleaned the guest rooms every night, even if no one stayed in them. When they were really lucky, Papa’s boss, the owner of the resort, let my kuya Emil wander around the resort when he couldn’t be left behind in their payag, which was almost all the time. Eventually, when kuya Emil became big enough to help Pa clean the pools, Mama got pregnant with me. My parents didn’t want to leave the sea behind. It was the only life they had ever known. But with two kids, and a measly wage of 300 pesos per day between the two of them, they figured their chances were better elsewhere, like Davao. They managed to find a tiny room for rent in Sasa where, late at night when everyone else was asleep, and even the local drunkards were passed out in their own homes, you could hear the sea’s gentle splashing against the concrete seawall. Two weeks after they moved, Mama gave birth to me, with the help of the barangay midwife, and named me Delmar, of the sea.

II.

Papa works all day in the wharf, manning the barges that leave for Samal. He leaves at dawn and goes home around midnight, smelling heavily of saltwater and sweat. I’m the only one awake around that time, listening to the waves and thinking about what a good swimmer I’d make. I could smell Papa’s damp smell before I could see him come in. He would open the door very slowly, careful not to let it hit Mama or kuya Emil or Jomar or little Jilyan, whoever slept closest to the door that night. Then he would see me, sitting by the only window of our house looking out into the water, and hold up a finger to his lips and smile.

Mama leaves the house as early as noon for her own job, which I think is the best job in the world. She sells all kinds of clothes at the night market in Roxas. Bright floral dresses, every kind of high heeled shoe, a thousand blouses arranged by color in the racks. One morning, she and Papa gave me a light blue dress with thin straps. Papa likes blue. He said it reminds him of when he and Mama first met.

When they had gone, I tried on the dress. I loved how light it felt. I loved the feel of the fabric under my fingertips, like fine sand. I stepped out into our street and into the daylight. I hated my Grade 9 adviser for forcing me to get a more school-appropriate semi-kalbo haircut. It had taken more than a year and copious begging to let my hair grow out, almost to my shoulders. I could have dyed it blonde, or green, have it cut in layers, and then I could be truly beautiful. Maybe I could even be Miss Universe. Now it’s all gone.

I climbed up on the seawall right on the edge of our barangay, looking out into the blue sea which glittered in the sun just like my dress. I walked slowly along the edge of the seawall, pretending like it was a runway and the sound of the waves were applause from the crowd.

“Gwapaha oy!” a harsh voice suddenly called out. I turned and saw three burly men in green long-sleeved shirts and orange helmets. They were sneering as I carefully climbed down the seawall. I kept my head down, scared that they might start talking to our neighbors about the bald boy in a girl’s dress. I glimpsed two more men wearing similar helmets on the other end of the street, pointing at the other houses. One of them was taking pictures.

“Where do you live, ‘day?” asked the first man. He had the broadest shoulders of the three of them. I pointed to our street.

“Are your parents home?”

I shook my head.

“This your sister’s dress?”

“Papa and Mama gave it,” I squeaked.

The men burst into laughter. “Your parents must be blind, ‘day. I bet you have a big penis, how could your parents miss that?” The first man crouched down until he was close enough that I smelled the cigarette smoke and tar from his shirt. “What’s your name, ‘day?”

“Delmar.”

“Listen closely, Delia”—he paused, let his companions snigger— “take off that dress and start packing your things. Your pretty clothes might go to waste if they end up buried in the rubble.”

I ran to our narrow street; ran so fast I didn’t notice my dress getting caught in scattered nails along the way. For a time, at least, the dress had been perfect, beautiful. I was beautiful.

III.

I still pass by the rubble of our neighborhood sometimes if I have a few pesos to spare for jeepney fare. Papa still works in the wharf. None of us could ever let go of the sea. We moved somewhere in Agdao; a friend of Mama’s managed to find a new apartment for us, just as cramped as our old house, but farther from the sea. So Papa sometimes doesn’t go home for days.

Mama quit her work in Roxas after a bomb exploded there one night, not too far from their stall, which killed six people. So she stopped bringing new clothes. Soldiers swarmed Roxas the next day. I’ve come to realize this is a city of soldiers. There’s a military camp not too far from Sasa. So when the bulldozers came to demolish our houses and our neighbors began throwing stones to keep them away, military trucks were quick to respond and beat everyone they saw clutching a rock. I can understand. Our neighborhood loves the sea, why else would we stand our ground? Even Papa almost got arrested for shouting at the soldiers.