The Conversion: A Murder Story

J. Neil Garcia’s poem The Conversion is the account of a murder. It speaks of the sad details of the killing of a little girl by a group of men who commit the deed in the name of love and the little boy who tried to protect her but lost. The perpetuators’ justification lay in the fact that the little girl lived inside the boy; an unnatural spirit/being of which the boy must be exorcised and saved.

Garcia begins the poem in a straightforward fashion, describing the circumstances in which the offense was executed. “It happened in a metal drum.” The economy of the first line is powerful in its restraint, painting only a picture of a functional cylinder of rusted metal and initially keeping the horrific function that the enclosure will host at bay.

Before detailing the act itself, Garcia, through the persona of the grown man recounting the story, tells us of the careful preparations (the premeditation) that the men in the family undertook, bestowing upon the crime the aura of occasion like a baptism or a confirmation. It is an event that must take precedence over banal affairs as washing clothes, dishes, or faces. These can wait. The salvation of a boy is at stake. “The water had been saved just for it, that day.” Like the stench emanating from the neglected pile of soiled laundry, “that day” will leave a permanent stain on the persona, even as he has purportedly been cleansed.

More than an occasion however, the incident also becomes a spectacle, exposed to the curious eyes of neighbours and onlookers. That the men do nothing to conceal the event and even enter the scene “booming”, hints that what they plan to do is also in their own interest – to showcase and prove their own masculinity in its violent but “righteous” imposition on a weaker party.

The persona as a boy though, while innocent, is not naive. He understands his father’s and uncles’ intentions and that contrary to the older males’ justifications, he is not to be the object of their rescue. Instead, he is to be their sacrifice. Hiding “in the deepest corner” of his dead mother’s cabinet, whose scents and softness offers him safety and refuge, the reader discerns the lonely and vulnerable condition of the child. He has no ally to protect him from an impending attack.

The boy is captured and dragged to the waiting metal drum where he is viciously dunked over and over again. “Girl or Boy” the Father shouts, a demand for a choice to be made but whose correct answer, the only acceptable answer has already been determined. The boy is defiant at first, speaking his self, even as water curls under his nose. But he knows that the brutal onslaught will not end until he conforms and with each submerging, the girl inside sinks “deeper in the churning void.” He must renounce his self, banish the girl and emerge from that drum, reborn as a full blooded male.

The boy does convert and he learns how a man must act and feel. “I got my wife pregnant,” the persona now boasts, telling not of love but of an achievement. “Our four children, all boys are the joy of my manhood, my proof.” They are his testimony of his heterosexuality. He also learns that “A woman needs some talking sense into,” just as his father and uncles “talked sense” into him with the help of a metal drum. Purportedly, his conversion is his redemption and now, everything he does with the force of his newfound masculinity is vindicated, just like his Father’s deed.

But Garcia’s poem is also a ghost story. The image of the drowned girl that he was then helpless to defend and save continues to haunt the man. “I should feel sorry but I drown myself in gin before I can.” Through another variety of liquid, the persona deadens himself – his denial of the girl within him making him as hollow as the now empty drum, a ghost of a man.

on and on to the break of dawn...

some are great and some are few
others lie while some tell the truth
some say poems and some do sing
others sing through their guitar strings

Francis Magalona died today, succumbing to leukemia after 44 youthful years. His death won't trigger world-wide tremors and while I have not shed a tear, I do feel the loss. It feels a little awkward to write this for some reason. Maybe because pop culture and entertainment seems far removed from the realm of ideas and other lofty notions. But I do think Francis M had a significant role in modern Philippine culture and arts.

Despite all his "yes-yes-yo-ing" to the break of dawn in his early career, Francis M was a proud Filipino musician who expressed his nationalism through his music, making it "hip" to be proud to be Pinoy. His album Yo! was actually the first album I ever bought and I remember memorising Mga Kabababayan Ko and playing it as a soundtrack to my daydreams of one day playing for the women's national basketball team.

While that was the only Francis M album I purchased, I heard how he matured through his future songs that were played on the radio, becoming more mellow and reflective but still loving Filipinos so intently and wanting Filipinos to love themselves as well, embracing differences in Kaleidescope World.

It's truly a loss to the entertainment industry. The loss of an artist who used his popularity to promote pride in one's self and culture particularly among the youth.

And Cold Summer Nights was a damn good song too. I don't care what anybody says.

Peace, Francis M. Thank you for the music.

sketch of a girl and her brother

This is one of my latest sketches. Latest in the sense that although it was done three months ago, I haven't yet completed another. It's one of my favorites. My first with two profiles. It's taken from a picture in a book of portraits by National Geographic photographer Steve McCurry. I think the girl is the older sister of the young boy. They are waiting at a train station with just a shawl to cover them both. The girl has a look of tiredness an resignation. Her lips are slightly scowling or poutin, but more of a natural effect of probably a long wait. Her eyes are even too tired to blink. The boy on the other hand has wide eyes and an innocent mouth. They are looking in different directions. The boy looks as if he wants to be somewhere else and can't understand why he can't be there.

The Team

I'm quite amazed at my nephews and nieces. They all have their own distinct personalities but are very much a cohesive unit. Benito is a character, charmingly naughty and fearless. His best friend is Javier, his little brother. They both always have the same haircut. Javier is more introspective though. Taken to quiet moods. His questions are surprisingly insightful. Tikya is the oldest. The Ate. She's very responsible, always in a good mood and reliable. Although she is only 10 years old, she helps cook their lunches and watches over the younger ones. Ching Ching is painfully shy. But the older children rally around her. "Don't be shy Ching Ching, that's your lola," Benito says in a singsong voice as we ride in the car. "She just doesn't know you yet," he adds. All six years old of him, brimming with wisdom and diplomacy. The youngest, Lucky, was born on 8//08/2008 at 8:08 am. Hence his nickname. He's quite a big baby with a full head of hair. He has old soul eyes and laughs easily.

On Aneurysms and Book Bins

Oscar Campomanes and E. San Juan Jr. are this close to giving me an aneurysm. While their focus on Filipinos writing in english concern me and their ideas will be indispensable to my own studies and process as I try to express and reconciliate my own predicament/privilege as a Filipino writing in english, I'm really having difficulty deciphering their meanings.

Thankfully though, I have some rewards waiting with my latest finds at the buy one take one bin at Chapters and Pages. For 200 bucks, I got The Handbook of Non-Violence by Robert Seeley which includes Aldous Huxley's An Encyclopedia of Pacifism, Ismail Kadare's The Concert, Picasso My Grandfather by Marina Picasso and uh... Pipe Dreams, A Surfer's Journey by Kelly Slater.

I like that Chapters and Pages at Market2. That's also where I got my art books of Alice Neel and David Hockney. But I think my best finds have been Andre Gide's The Immoralist and Jean Genet's The Thief's Journal somewhere in Cubao. I'm not sure if it was in the Booksale there, the thrift shops or the surplus shop where books are scattered among football helmets and old bowling balls.

I have a small library of different versions of classics. I found an old edition of the Hobbit when the Lord of the Rings trilogy films were introducing a younger, hipper generation to Tolkien with an anxious looking Elijah Wood or defiant, smoldering Viggo Mortensen on their covers. I remembered my brother then. How he loved those books growing up and how I texted him when I found more expensive versions without those movie covers. "KICK ASS! GIMME! GIMME! GIMME!" was his text back.

I don't know how many versions of 30peso Shakespeares, Thomas Hardys and Jane Austens I have weighing my shelves down. I just feel I have to rescue those books whenever I see them unceremoniously dumped together with pocketbook romances and action thrillers.

Admittedly, among my shelves also sit books that I have not gotten around to reading yet. I don't worry about it though. I'm a big believer in impulse buying when it comes to books. I think there's a reason why you're drawn to a particular book. I think actually, the book calls you. It knows something that you don't. Something that you don't even know you don't know. But one day, when you're ready, you'll open its pages.

Monday Morning on Taft

On Taft this morning. A straggler with saliva dripping from his mouth walked shakily down the middle of the avenue, oblivious to charging vehicles. On the back of a truck, two workers eyed him with amusement. At a red light, a jeepney slowed down next to him with two young ladies in the passenger seat. The straggler, about mid 40s and wearing an oversized torn short over wispy shorts, approached them. I could not hear what was said. The driver of the jeep leaned over, trying to scare the straggler away. But the man continued to shout, his lips exploding in saliva which would then stretch in long strands to his bare feet. The ladies giggled among themselves and tried to lean away from the man. When the light turned green and the vehicles moved on like a curtain revealing a stage, I saw on the sidewalk a heavyset man holding a holster striking another younger straggler who jumped to avoid the blow and ran down the street.

Can't Think of a Title

It's been about a month and a half since I entered the MFA program. I'm still a little dissatisfied with my writing but it is good to be back in an environment that cares about words. Slowly, I think I'm returning to the fold, getting my bearings again, although I still catch myself falling into template writing for an imagined audience instead of for myself sometimes.

For several years, I vacillated on pursuing an MFA. Although in the back of my mind, I knew that I would eventually follow this trail (wherever it may lead) I kept its reality at a distance and instead explored different routes. I think I was afraid. It seemed dangerous to pursue it at the first instance. What if I learned that I had no business trying to string together words or that I had nothing original or interesting to say? Where would I go from there?

Instead, I stayed in the realm of safe writing where I could still be among words. But dead words that couldn't talk back and were cold to the touch. Like components of a machine. No wonder I balked at calling myself a writer. I think I was more of mechanic; a technician who knew where each part belonged.

But I think that a writer's task is more like a lion tamer's. It requires mastery, courage and a healthy dose of insanity because you know that you are dealing with living things infinitely more powerful than yourself, things that can eat you alive. If you succeed in directing its movements, it's not because you've imposed your will on it but more through a rare moment of harmony. I imagine that lion tamers and real writers both end their feats incredulous that they've escaped with their lives.

I'm still a little afraid, but at least I'm in the lion's den.