Tales From the Crypt

I disappointed myself by not visiting my grandpa’s grave. We were supposed to go but my aunts heard some news that there’s a gang war going on near the municipal cemetery, plus some body count. The grisly news was never verified but in these dangerous times, it’s enough to ditch the visit so we went to the Baclaran Church instead.  There was a mass going on but we proceeded to that area of a Catholic church where the candle stands(?) are located. (I’ve been a Catholic all my life but I never got to learn all the proper terminologies.) You know the rules: you drop some donation (as in a real donation, which means it is sincerely not required) in the coin box (?) beneath the candle stands, you get the small candles (in calculus, we called cylindrical solid figures with short heights as “disks”),  you burn the wicks and you say a little prayer for the dead.

            I went home but of course, the deal with the candles wasn’t done yet. As the tradition dictates, I need to light another candle outside the house (preferably near the doorstep) as a sign of remembering departed souls. I forgot to buy those long yellow candlesticks but I saw an unused rectangular scented candle (“parallelepiped” in geometry) which my boss had given me as a Christmas present. I lit the candle and left it outside, flickering in the still night. As customary in the island of my birth, there should be some food offering beside the candles “so that the visiting souls would smell them”. The   aperitif usually consists of pansit canton/bihon, hard-boiled eggs, a glass of rum or Coke and half-serving of rice. I didn’t have any food  to offer (“Halad” in my local dialect) so I had to break the rules and left the green-orange candle all by itself.

            I went back inside the house and watched some scary stuff that I can no longer remember. It must have been another one of those “Halloween Edition” of a news documentary show which featured an old school/hospital/house where ghosts were reportedly having an unfettered bacchanalia.  I live alone and even at my age, I still feel the creeps whenever the wooden door to the living room squeals on its own accord. Boo hoo. At around 9 PM, I went back to my little candle, removed my glasses, and bowed so that I could stare at the flame closely, just like what I had done as a kid. I was almost tempted to create candleballs (you know, those balls little tykes do from used candles) or drop melted candlewax on a bowl of water, like a quack doctor. But the night was so humid and the ambience was so ordinarily noisy that certainly nothing spooky would ever happen that night. This was one of those instances when we really don’t need actual images or sightings to get the impression of fear. We only need to rely on the sad memories we’ve been trying to get rid of, those little horrors we have long kept to ourselves.

After a few more minutes of staring, I blew my candle, my Halloween candle, the candle for my grandpa and my ancestors, which could very well be my  birthday candle since I hadn’t blown one during my birthday last August.

Requiescat in pace.

So set him up, then let him fall

Turn him over in your hands

God save the King of New Orleans

                        ­- Better Than Ezra, King of New Orleans

            I am one of those who were shocked to see a famous city like the Big Easy submerged in high water. Images of looting, rampage and squalor made me wonder if this is America at all. I was particularly touched by footages of police officers begging their comrades who have fled the county for security reasons to help them as they are sworn to do. Yes, you heard that right.  I bit my lip and tried hard not to make a tacky comparison between our own police force and the New Orleans cops but I couldn’t.  We don’t generally trust our cops, yes, but I don’t think Filipino cops would renege on their obligations especially in the middle of a calamity, even if they don’t have the trappings we once saw in Rescue 911. More often than not, we even complain that these policemen are always present, even if “their presence is the last thing we need at the moment.”

            Now back to my own backyard.

            I have lived in this low-lying part of Southern Metro Manila for the past 22 years, 16 if you subtract my 6-year “sabbatical” when I lived in the North. In this city by the bay, we brace ourselves for the perennial flooding come rainy reason. As a child, I would look at the window secretly wishing for the waters to rise. I would go out of the house (slamming the door to emphasize my rebellion against the old folks’ objections) and wade through the knee-deep murky water. I would join the Grand Parade of stranded people who had given up on public transportation and had decided to literally risk their limbs to reach their homes, or, surprise, surprise, to do their usual chores like going to the market just like my grandma. Who cares about the dead rats and roaches, the floating used diapers and nappies, human wastes in SM plastic bags? Who cares about skin infection and elephantiasis? I WAS FREE and this was my Mardi Gras, minus the blaring trumpets, the voodoo music and the party hats. I WAS FREE and I was doing what the adults were doing and on those days, proving to my self that I’m as able and as strong as the adults was such a big deal, an irrational obsession.

            Many typhoons after, the thrill was suddenly gone.  As the water level rose, I too began to grow. Joining the Grand Parade became a necessity. The fact that some people do suffer because of floodwater became harder and harder to ignore. The things that used to bring delight have suddenly lost its appeal one by one.

            I still long for the day that the child in me will return if only to erase my fears and insecurities. I want to feel the cold wind as it dries up the rainwater in my face. I want to feel the triumph over such seemingly small things and eagerly wait for the next opportunity to move on. I wish to have the energy again, to join the next Mardi Gras.