Bayani

“I’ve never been a staunch believer in heroes.” The echoes of silence bounce up and down against the penumbra of light in the room. “I think they’re cry babies who want all the attention for themselves.” The dim lit darkness painted the walls with words that moved out of his mouth. “They have this pre-conceived notion of heroism that they need to save others. When in fact, they start saving people once they know they can’t. They come up with all these grand schemes so that they can have their name in history. Fighting amongst themselves telling each other that their right and your wrong, an endless waltz that repeats itself throughout history…”

They said he was a hero. He fought against the Japanese in World War II. He fought with his brothers in arms in the cold mountains. The blood drenched rain covered their military uniforms after their skirmish. His sinewy arms and brown skin reflected the red of the sunlight across the battlefield. His masculine face was covered with a mustache and a goatee. This was the face every Japanese soldier feared and the last they would see. Each bullet dining in flesh and drinking of blood till there was none left—everyone was full. They took their valiant stand to protect the fleeing American troops, General Douglas MacArthur was among them. Out of the two hundred men in their regiment only forty lived after the bloodbath.

Bombs rained on the blood sodden streets of Manila threshing out every inch for Japanese flesh. Razing each mountain and green horizon to filter whatever was left of the enemy. D-day has come, Germany had fallen—Hitler was dead. The self-proclaimed German savior killed himself, he died beside his Mary Magdalene, Eva Braun. “I shall return,” reverberated in every wall, sky, teardrop and bloodstream. The much awaited return of the savior has finally come. Liberation from the tyrants.

They said he fought valiantly never leaving anyone behind, he was always in front of the charge. Glory. History was calling his name. When the blood stained air cleared he was one of the men left standing like Zeus staring down at Mount Olympus. He was awarded the Medal of Valor presented to him by then President, Sergio Osmena…

His trail of thought was suddenly disrupted by a voice from downstairs. “Honey are you up there brooding about life again?” Josephine said. “You’re food’s getting cold, the tilapia might swim back to the river where it came from.”

“I didn’t know why I got married in the first place. Maybe it was love. Maybe because I pitied her or it was the other way around. Maybe I wanted to save her. I don’t remember actually,” Jose said. He grabbed a photo album buried under the old newspapers. He scanned through the old photographs of a still amber hourglass. Each picture formed an incandescent memory stored in the back of his head. Telling him of his past, present, and future all in one turn.

“She was very beautiful then.”

“Are you still up there? We’re practically skin and bones down here.”

“She still is even now. Her mix of mestiza blood stood out in the still picture.”

“She was a beauty queen that dated the popular guys when we were in highschool but she realized that brainy people could actually draw a smile on her face.”

“Daddy we’re starrrrvvvvvinnnngggggggg,” little Jose II said.

A friend once told me, “you must’ve lost your mind when you walked down that aisle and said I do.”

“He was probably right.”

He put the photo album aside and went down the flight of stairs. “I’m coming dear.”

“Say your prayers first Jose,” Josephine said.

The food was passed around the table as hands reached out and got something to eat. The silence fills the damp air waiting for a voice to break into the sheets of molecules.

“Do you have something to say to your father Jose?”

“Ummm….”

“What is it little Jose?”

“I….I…I have to repeat grade 5 papa…”

“Why? You passed all your subjects this school year.”

“I failed history papa…”

“Oh.”

“Papa, mama look at my drawing of Jose Rizal, look look!!!” A scream shot through the darkness surrounding the walls. An echo reverberates around the white paint of the house engulfing the silence of a black and white picture. The muffled screams don’t enter his ears. They were swallowed by the door closed by the light.

“Honey are you all right? You suddenly zoned out.”

“What?”

“Your son just told you he had to repeat the 5^th grade.”

“Oh…yeah. I just remembered something no worries.”

She gave me that look. Her brown eyes penetrating right through my skin and into the back of my head. The look that said your hiding something from me, you can tell me anything. I’m your wife.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. I lied.

Jose II sits there twiddling with the food on his plate. “I find that rather strange since the father’s a renowned historian, don’t you think? Maybe you should have enrolled him for tutorials this school year,” Josephine said.

“I told you a couple of times all ready he doesn’t need to, he’s a bright boy. Isn’t that right Jose?”

“Of course I am papa, I’m named after you!” he said with utmost gusto that could knock a tree down.

The boy does have charm I tell myself, must’ve gotten it from his mother. “Atta boy Jose.”

Jose has always been a smart boy. He was your typical Einstein when it came to the different sciences and mathematics. I’m not saying this like any other parent who can’t find anything wrong with their kids—well not at least till they hit their teens. He really was talented, he had a peculiar way of doing things. He’d always have an answer in mind before the solution presented itself. He was moving backwards when he was solving problems. Most of the time, the teachers had a problem with this it bothered their way of doing things. They always had to adhere to a strict set of rules, they couldn’t see the order and beauty in chaos. The type of chaos that gave an answer at least not the one that spawns the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Accordingly, his true genius didn’t reflect in his grades he always got somewhere between 75-78.

The silence drifts for a while along the yellow brick road of unspoken words, waiting for its turn to come out at the right moment. Josephine put away the plates and put the leftovers inside the refrigerator.

“Jose why don’t you go upstairs and do your homework.”

“Ok mom.”

I know she wants to talk to me about something when she starts washing the dishes three times over. The way she puts her hair to her right side brow when something is on her mind. It’s amazing how women say so much without saying anything at all.

“Jose, I don’t want our child going to a tutor…”

“Meaning?”

“I want you to teach him.”

“You know I’m busy with work and all…I’ve made new discoveries regarding our national hero Jose Rizal…Well not just him as a matter of fact. I’m just really busy right now.”

“Is it more important than teaching our own son history?”

“No of course not! I’ll just finisht this particular assignment first. Then I’ll be more than willing to teach him.”

“That’s what you always say.” The words came to Jose’s mind before it came out of Josephine’s lips. Words wilted slowly across the red of her lips and into Jose’s ears. These words clung onto his skin like a rape victim that couldn’t wash the dirt off her body no matter how many times she tries.

“Come on honey not all the time,” as Jose swooped in for a kiss.

“I’ll make time, I promise.” His words bounced off the wall like a rubber ball before arriving in Josephine’s ears. Making sure that they gain enough momentum to make a forceful impact. The two shadows dance upon the brightly lit-room to the music of tap water running across dirty dishes. The night unwinds, the cold whispers of a December eve creeps beyond the skin.

The phone rings.

“Hello.”

“It’s your mother Jose,” Teodora said drearily.

“Hi mom…” I say uneasily matching the tone of her voice. It’s kind of late for her to be calling at this hour, I whisper in that little voice in the back of my head. The words slowly germinate in my mouth repeating the same lines I said to myself. It came out in bits and pieces before they were compelled to form into something more familiar.

“It’s kind of late for you to be calling at this hour? What’s on your mind?”

“It’s about your father…”

The dust has settled, the blood has dried. The war was over it was time to rebuild the broken shambles of of another country’s war fought in our own land. President Manuel Roxas was granted pardon by General Douglas MacArthur for serving under the Japanese regime in a puppet government. There was an outrage against his amnesty but what could he have done under the circumstances? He wanted no more bloodshed he did what had to be done. He had a daunting task ahead of him to fix the country or what was left of it with the help of our allies, the Americans. The same people who “liberated us” from the Spanish for a cool $20 million.

It’s been seven years since the war had ended, his name plate hung above the TV set while the music of Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable blared through the tube radio. I stared up at the name plate looking down on me. The swinging of the Medal of Valor mesmerized me as I watched it turn the hands of time. I breathed in every single letter on that name plate. “Unforgettable thats what you are…Unforgettable though near or far…” The bronze of each letter were slowly etched on my mind.

“Jose R. Mercado”

It was the same name as mine but only the “Jr.” was added at the end. I was named after my father to follow through on the tradition of great heroes in our family so they say. My brother Paciano and I used to sit on our lola’s lap and she would tell countless stories about our ancestors and our lolo. Our lolo’s name was Protacio Mercado. Our lola would go on in her best Lola Basyang impersonation of her fondest memories of our lolo Protacio. She’d start by saying he was a part of the Philippine Revolution headed by Emilio Aguinaldo’s army. They fought against the Spanish troops and the Americans during the late 1890’s to the early 1900’s. She’d also mention that frightful experience when she witnessed Jose Rizal’s execution in Bagumbayan. The gunshots roared through the muted silence, devouring every sound and the words that tried to escape the mouths of the spectators. She would go on-and-on tirelessly about our lolo’s bravery and valor. He was onced tasked to guard a special meeting between Gen. Antonio Luna and Gen. Emilio Aguinaldo in Cabanatuan, Nueva Ecija. She said with utmost enthusiasm with a capital E as the word triumphantly danced across her lips. We never got to see Lolo Protacio, we only saw him encased in an old photograph and the frozen amber of our lola’s memories. Lolo Protacio died of Polio shortly after papa was born.

There were plenty of people visiting our house during those times. I didn’t really recognize any of them till much later. My brother and I used to peak between the legs of our staircase looking at the various people talking with papa. We’d laugh at the pilukas of various shapes and sizes on the heads of the fifty year old men in the living room. One looked like a dead racoon on top of his head, the other one was quite peculiar it looked like the Grand Canyon with hair sprouts growing in the middle. I was seven and Paciano was fourteen. Even though he was seven years older, he treated me like we were the same age. He always had that calming smile and pat on the back whenever we got into trouble.

Those were fond memories…

“What’s wrong?” I tried to sound concerned. My dad and I really haven’t been talking for quite some time now.

“He’s not getting any better…He can’t speak anymore…He can’t even move. He’s got little time left they say.” Her somber tone sent a chill down my spine.

“Why don’t you come visit…” It was more of a demand than a request.

“You haven’t been visiting often since your brother Paciano died…”

“Yes…I’ll make time.” I said half heartedly.

It’s amazing how I kept this a secret to my wife of more than ten years. I’ve hid behind work and more work to get it off my mind. I’ve tried to keep busy so that it won’t creep up to me. Once a lie has been told over and over again it becomes a truth to the person who says it. Or maybe the truth before is no longer the truth now, it changed over time and the different circumstances. It’s so much harder to confront the truth now since I’ve been accustomed to living a lie. Then this phone call comes. As the words walked into my ears. I heard that same Nat King Cole song again playing in my head back in ’53. “Unforgettable thats what you are…Unforgettable though near or far…” The image of that bronze nameplate hanging on the wall remains frozen in a black and white frame. The swinging of the Medal of Valor lingers in my head. The crooning voice of Nat King Cole lulled me into a daze that was broken by the sound of my mother on the other end of the receiver.

“I’ll tell him you’ll come and pay a visit.”

“Ok.” I hung up the phone.

Josephine walked out of the bathroom drying her hair with a towel. “Who was that?” she said.

“It was my mom.”

“Why did she call at such a late hour?”

“Nothing really, just wanted to check on things…” I forced a sly smile on my face, I couldn’t think of a better lie.

“Really?”

“Yes…really…” I had a feeling she could read my mind but I tried not thinking about it at all. I couldn’t look at her directly.

“It’s getting late…I think I’ll go on ahead and sleep. I have to be early tomorrow at the History convention.”

“Suit yourself…I’ll go and watch a re-run of John En’ Marsha tonight. Goodnight.”

“Don’t forget your promise to tutor Jose about history ok?”

“Ok…I won’t. Goodnight.”

I walked in the room and climbed up on the bed. I felt like I was laying down on a slate of rock with pebbles sandwiched in a pillowcase. The dense silence in the darkness made me feel all alone despite the heavy laughter coming from the downstairs television. I close my eyes to doze into sleep but that song back in ’53 kept on playing in my head over and over again. “Unforgettable thats what you are…Unforgettable though near or far…” The song creeps slowly into my dreams sending me to a sea of stillness. A vesper of thoughts seeps itself through the darkness.

I was suddenly awake walking through an alley towards our old house. Everything was in black and white, there was no sound, the faces of our old neighbours were in full detail but they carried no expression on their faces like a blank canvas waiting for its painter. Every movement was magnified in my eyes, the kargador threw the sack of rice with great gusto upon the pavement. The ripples in the air stream caressed my skin giving me a tiny pinch. The kids with their paper planes ran across the streets in slow motion. I ran my fingers across the wall that Protacio and I vandalized. We drew the face of Aling Nena on her newly painted backyard. The white paint dripped down from our lithe fingers as her croaky voice screamed out our names. The soundwaves of her voice screaming our names remained frozen in mid air as I walked on by. I could feel and touch every letter as I brushed my right hand upon them.

I was right in front of our house, the door of light opened itself. I was inside looking at the same bronze nameplate and swinging medal. But this time the nameplate was rusting it no longer had its former luster. It was decaying, the rust was slowly gorging the yellow backdrop till it was a shade of gray. The medal wilted away with each swing from left to right, leaving behind a trail of cinereal dew across the floor.

He sat there right in front of me, in his rocking chair. Staring blankly into my eyes he said something—no it was more of he slurred something. His arms were immobilized upon the arm rest of the chair. His legs hung limply upon the floor, paralyzed and immovable. I glance upon the nameplate once again to ask myself is this the same man?

I looked out the window and saw my brother Paciano running towards Senator Ferdinand Marcos. He saw an armed man carrying a hand grenade run towards the Sen. Marcos eating his lunch at a café in Manila Bay. The guards were surprised at what they saw and couldn’t respond there boots were suddenly made of concrete. Paciano struggled against the armed man while Sen. Marcos sat aghast he wasn’t even able to drop the spoonful of chicken he was about to put in his mouth. The pin was removed and dropped near the table. My brother had no other recourse, he put his body on top of the hand grenade. There was an explosion of flesh and blood that spilled onto the pavement. Gunshots were heard the man who brought the grenade was gunned down on the spot. They put fifteen new holes in his body. My brother lay there motionless as his pink entrails were scattered across the floor. The frantic shuffling of feet drowned out the silence of the screams of passers-by. His brown face was filled with palor, his brown and chinky eyes pale from the explosion. Sen. Marcos was swiftly whisked away by the police. Paciano’s body was brought to the morgue that day. My mother and I didn’t want to even look at it we knew it was him when the mortician described the body for us. My brother believed in that man. He had nothing bad to say about Ferdinand Marcos. He said that one day that man will lead this country out of the shambles that the Americans left it in. “He’s going to clean up this shit—the Americans left,” he would say passionately after downing a shot of tequilla. His red face would suddenly burst out laughing after saying his two cents. This was in stark contrast to our pro-American father, he was offered an American citizenship after the war but he declined, saying he would rather live and die a Filipino. Papa never held anything against the Americans like Kuya Protacio even though he himself didn’t agree with the war. He believed that it was necessary to fend off a greater evil in Adolf Hitler.

Kuya Protacio believed in Marcos’s cause and he was willing to die for it—which he ultimately did. In his own way he became a hero like papa and lolo. Papa was especially strict on him since he was the eldest son. He had high hopes for him, there was so much expectations to carry on the family tradition. He was enrolled in military school under papa’s former protégé Lt. Arnel Luna who was Gen. Antonio Luna’s grandson. Kuya Protacio was such a headcase they gave up on him, they said he was a lost cause, a bad apple of sorts. He brought different women into the army barracks and hid bottles of Jack Daniel’s under his bed. He was dismissed from military school after just one year and two months in training. As he walked out of the base he threw his cigarette on the steel doors and waved his finger at the soldiers on guard as he rode the bus home. It wasn’t the ring finger nor the thumb, the soldiers thought that it was probably his pinkie because he had a smile on his face. This did not fit well with papa he hit my brother so hard he hit the ground. This was no easy task my brother was a big man for his age he was eye to eye with papa, they had the same build in contrast to my smaller frame. He was so disappointed and told him when will he ever man up. His moment finally came on that fateful day in Manila Bay.

The light burst into the room, I saw a little boy carrying a drawing of Jose Rizal running to the other room right in front of me. There was a muted scream that shot through the room. The little boy went towards the open door carrying his picture with a smile on his face. The slap across my mother’s face was felt throughout the entire house. Paciano was not home then, he was in school I had to stay behind because I had a tummy ache. The boy started to cry once he saw mama on the floor in pain. She never told me why he was acting the way he did. I tried to draw near towards her but the more steps I take the farther I seemed from reality. It hit me—I was only in a dream.

I awoke startled at the time that passed in my dream. The pastiche of memories were so vivid I felt every detail in my body. I leaned to the side and felt jospehine right next to me. It was dark outside and the howling of our neighbours dog filled my ears. I looked at my watch and it was 2:00 A.M. I tried to sleep again but I just couldn’t. I was restless the whole night and I think Josephine felt it too.

“Honey, are you awake?”

“…” It’s funny how I can lie even in my sleep.

The alarm sounded exactly at 7:00 A.M. I wasn’t able to sleep since I woke up at two this morning. Josephine was all ready up and probably preparing breakfast downstairs.

“Call your father Jose. Tell him the food is ready.”

Before Jose got up the stairs I was all ready in the dining room, prim and proper. I kissed Josephine good morning and gave little Jose II a pat on the head.

“What’s for breakfast?” I said.

“Corned beef and eggs.”

I filled my plate with ulam and rice. I ate sparingly because I really needed to be going, I had to be early at work. I left shortly after Jose was picked up by Mang Jun their bus driver. I said the usual goodbyes to Josephine and drove out our backyard.

The road ahead was wider than usual. I expected traffic in EDSA during this time of day. I zipped through the empty road glancing at the faceless people going to work. I thought about my dream last night being my contemplative self when there’s no one else to talk to. I retreat back into my own world to try to solve problems like this one.

November 26, 1901 she lies in bed prostrate looking blankly at the ceiling muttering to herself. What is your name? he said. Auguste, she replied. Last name? Auguste. What is your husband’s name? Auguste, I think. Are you married? To Auguste. Mrs. D? Yes, yes Auguste D. What are you doing? Horse radish and potatoes. Asked to write her name, she couldn’t get past Mrs…If you buy 6 eggs at 7 dimes each how much is it? Differently…I have lost myself, I have lost myself! She was immobilzed and bed-ridden, she had to be helped to be cleaned and fed. She became restless, delusional, hostile, incongruous…Her name was Frau Auguste D. she died in 1906. Alois Alzheimer was her psychiatrist.

I parked my car right outside the national archives. A sidelong glance to the guard standing by the door, I gave him a little nod of greeting.

Alzheimer’s was incurable there was no escaping it once it takes hold. The degenerative disease slowly languishes memories stored in the brain. Eating each fragment till the shadows are left. You can’t even move, you can’t even talk, you won’t even remember the people you love. You won’t even know who you are. A cruel way to die, you’re all alone when the darkness comes. You’ll be nothing more than just a piece of paper written in textbooks. Once they see things in a different perspective you’d be revised and rehashed to fit the current truth. Once a hero, now a villain. Once a villain, now a hero.

I raced through the silence to my desk to get some work done. I gathered some colleagues so we could discuss new material we got regarding the history of the Philippines.

“Did you sleep last night Jose?” a colleague asked.

“Yes, why?” I said.

“You look like shit,” he said across the haze of cigarette smoke. His yellow tinted glasses reflected my image. I didn’t notice it when I left the house but I did look really bad in that reflection.

“Is there something we should know about?” another colleague asked.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“All right none of our business then anyway…”

“So what have we got?”

“It’s strange that the founder of the Katipunan was executed because of a power struggle within the upper levels of the organization. Aguinaldo was positioning himself because Bonifacio crossed his line of authority. They charged him with treason of all things!”

“There was a lot of unrest during those times, who would lead the war against the Spanish and eventually the Americans?”

“Everyone wanted to be a part of it. Each one wanted to lead, no one wanted to follow. It was not so much a matter of effort or passion, it was a lack of cohesion.”

“The Magdiwang and Magdalo factions comprised the Philippine Revolution against the Spanish both sides were reluctant to help each other. Hell, they even wanted Jose Rizal to take sides with either one of them.”

“Emilio Aguinaldo was bought by the Spanish for $800, 000.”

“And yes he eventually sided with the Americans when he was caught with his pants down in Isabela.”

“Pathetic, while people were dying he sold out. And he killed two guys who actually made sense in battle. He did it twice!!! Once during the Spanish Revoltuion the other against the Americans. Why fight in set-pieces when you could take the enemy to the mountains?” as my colleague said as he took another drag of Marlboro.

“He wanted glory more, fighting in the mountains was not glorious. He sent those men to their deaths. There’s a difference between stupidity and valor. Those deaths could have been avoided. Death was like poetry to them. It was beautiful. Dying in battle for your country when you could have lived another day and done something much more. They want to die heroes instead of living like one.”

“Gregorio del Pilar’s death was a waste of talent. He wanted to protect a man who he saw as a symbol of hope for this country. He wanted to protect the Revolution and its cause.”

“But in the end he was nothing more than just a corrupt politician…”

“Who could’ve foreseen it anyway? What if the people were informed of his cowardice would they still have contiuned the struggle? Would they have united? Or would they have eaten themselves up saying that this faction should take charge or their own faction should be the one leading?”

“It’s pick your poison and Russian roulette all in one.”

“How could they unite when they know someone is going to turn against them eventually? Aguinaldo had his use.”

“In that perspective if people knew Rizal signed that retraction his cause would have been totally lost.”

“We have no proof of that.”

“But the mere fact that this rumor came about would’ve changed how people have perceived him during that time. We have the benefit of retrospect to say things that people then didn’t know.”

“Would it really have mattered if he signed it or not? Would it have mattered if he became Protestant or remained a Catholic? Some lies are worth telling than revealing the truth.”

“Or maybe they were truths before we saw them as lies…”

“I think the real hero behind Rizal’s success is his brother Paciano. In my eyes he was the hero simply because he didn’t choose to become one. He ceded his rights for a better life so he can pay for that man’s education and to pay for his novels. He might’ve even convinced him to study in Europe and take up medicine. While Rizal was carousing with women all over the world and getting his ass drunk he was there in the farm trying to make money enough to support Rizal in Europe and help their family in Calamba. Paciano’s shadow lurks over Rizal in whatever he has accomplished. And who do people remember and talk about?” A silenced lurked before he said an answer. “Jose Rizal, because he was shot dead and martyred. He never had to deal with the questions of the living.”

“All this philosophical meandering is giving me a headache…Are you sure your not smoking weed there my friend? Since you’ve been smoking that drag everyone’s been talking as if there was a speech writer handing out little note cards on what to say. HAHAHA!” my colleague said heartily.

“Don’t be like Jose here he takes things a little too seriously,” he said jokingly looking at me with his brown pimpled face.

“You should relax, you have such a pretty wife and you guys only have one kid HAHAHA!!!”

It’s funny how cynical and jaded people get once they find out weaknesses or flaws. Those same flaws stand out like sore limbs and they block our judgment and understanding. The truths we find out blunt our senses, its as if we preferred being lied to because it was easier to swallow. It was much easier to point out mistakes cause we all had them. Our perception changes once we know more and become more intelligent as they say. The veil of mystery relinquished, nothing really surprises us anymore. We become too self-assured as we grow older. Believing the truth we tell ourselves but its not the same truth that others believe in. It might even be a lie we confused as the truth, we’re just too afraid to ask ourselves that question. As a historian I found some things out about our family that were quite disturbing.

The white expanse of the setting sun across Manila Bay lighted the dark alleys and roads. The burgeoning number of people heading home were illuminated with the blotches of red coming from the sun. Their faces were a pale pink and the muted murmurs spread throughout the sea breeze. The monotonous yellow fade of the streetlights slowly lighted the path I was to take. The white light coming form overtime workers filled the skyline like a terrestrial show of the milky way.

Lolo Protacio was a hitman for Gen. Emilio Aguinaldo during the Philippine Revolution. He was one of the men who shot Gen. Antonio Luna and gave him a few new holes to breathe in. They weren’t satisfied with shooting him they cut him pretty badly. He was assassinated and my grandfather was a part of it. He had a hand in the killing of the only guy who made sense in battle. A general that even the Americans respected. It’s disappointing, I don’t think Lola ever knew or if she did would she ever tell us. She was so fond of him and she loved him. It wasn’t only Antonio Luna who was assigned to him but he also had a hand in Andres Bonifacio’s execution…

I wasn’t feeling hungry. I wasn’t cold. The heat didn’t touch my face. Time drifted by quickly as I stared through the windshield of my black Toyota. I didn’t go home that night…

I went to the Philippine General Hospital when they permitted visitors into the rooms. I didn’t call in to say I wouldn’t be going to work today, I just didn’t show up. It’s all ready been two days since the last time I went to work or went home. Walking through those halls made me shiver. I couldn’t hear the nurse talking to me the white walls were so daunting and laid heavily upon me. I saw the faces of the old men and women, they were muttering to themselves in their white overhauls. Most of them talked by themselves whispering to the reminiscent air. Conjuring up all sorts of memories that they thought they had. Saying names that bore no meaning. Another man was carried away in a stretcher, he was all curled up in the fetal position of a baby. He wasn’t moving, he wasn’t breathing. No one was around him to tell him who he was.

The room was 1201 the creaking door brought forth a familiar sound back from ’51. “Unforgettable that’s what you are…Unforgettable though near or far.” Papa hit brother so hard after he was kicked out of military school. “Like a song of love that clings to me…How the thought of you does things to me.” Papa and mama were always arguing after he spent most of our savings and educational funds on gambling and drink. “And forever more, thats how youll stay… Thats why, darling, its incredible.” He was never the same man again after 1960. His fellow military officers used him to get to the funds of the military school for scholarships and new uniforms. They embezzled the cash to fuel the resurrection of the Hukbalahap. He was used as a tool for power, his name was his calling card. They wanted to position themselves to overthrow the government, they wanted communism. They called it the progressive movement that can alleviate the poor of the Philippines. The Hukbalahap was formed to fight against the Japanese standing side-by-side with the allied forces to fend off the greater evil. The former allies turning into enemies. “That someone so unforgettable…Thinks that I am unforgettable too.” The music fades into black then dissipates in the muted air.

I walked into that room and saw mama slumped over the bed where papa lay. He was looking up at the ceiling blankly clutching his knees to his chest. He seemed restless and looked as if he hasn’t slept for days.

How could I love this man? Was he the same man? His memories are gone, he has lost himself. I looked at him he didn’t seem to recognize me, all he said was Mr. His decrepit state struck me. He was no longer Superman. He wasn’t the man who saved MacArthur. He wasn’t the man on that bronze nameplate or that encryption behind the medal. He was exposed, he was weak…

The skies were dark the people drank and spat and urinated. The soldiers were gambling and saying profanities. There were obscene words thrown at the prisoners crucified. The air was damp and filled with blood. Hate permeated through the pores of each individual at the foot of the crosses. There were three men suspended in mid-air for sins against society. The first criminal was not afraid of death, he yearned for it, he screamed at its face. There was no light for him death was his only recourse because it came upon all. He was alone and proud. The other criminal was not afraid of death but he was afraid of having lived a life of loneliness and solitude. He knew he was beyond salvation and there was nothing he could about it. He looked at that beaten man with a crown of thorns upon his head. He was almost naked and barely breathing crying out to the sky. He was suffering like them, he was not put above them but with them in pain. The criminal stretched forth his hand to the man in the middle—he was no longer alone.

I couldn’t forgive him for what he did to us. The blows he threw at mama and my older brother. His fits of drunken stupor in the middle of the night. How his gambling almost brought us to ruin. I admired my brother for never fighting back to the berating and beatings papa gave him. He did his best to pay for the things we needed, mama and him. They worked their asses off so we could pay our debt. Kuya Paciano paid for my tuition, for college and high school after he was kicked out of military school. To some extent he helped me pay for my wedding—he was gone, he died on that fateful day years ago. Mama never left his side despite all he had done to her and to us. She stayed loyal to him. She had every reason to leave him behind but she didn’t…

I admire her strength, she had to deal with the thoughts of the living and the memories of the dead. She had to carry these with her. The pain of battle is temporary it wears out then it heals, to those who die all the more liberation. The people who are left behind have to remain strong not only for themselves but also for the people around them.

“I wasn’t going to leave her, not this time…We weren’t going to leave him.”

It took a lot of explaining to Josephine what I actually did when I disappeared for two days without much of a phonecall or even a note in the office. She called the police, she looked in the national archives, she looked everywhere for me. She never told Jose I was gone for two days. She just told him I was out on a business trip, the most convenient of lies so as not to worry him. She gave me slap so hard when I arrived at home she took the words right out of my mouth. And I saw them lie there on the floor turning red. She huggedf and kissed me so much I couldn’t breathe.

“You look like shit and smell like it too, I’ll give you a bath,” she said.

It was a Sunday afternoon we were all gathered in front of the TV to witness a turning point in Philippine history. I sat there with Little Jose II and Josephine waiting for Pres. Ferdinand Marcos to make his huge announcement that can turn this country around.

“Hey Jose we should study history after this announcement .”

“Sure papa, I’ve read ahead. I know a bit about Jose Rizal all ready. I know he was a very good student when he was my age!”

“Good!”

“Maybe one day when you get older we should write a history of our family, what do you thnk?” I added.

“That would be cool!” His eyes grew wide with excitement.

“Want to hear a neat story on how I met your mother?”

“Just leave out the kissing part papa.” Jose II snickered with mischievous delight.

“Your mother was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. One day she was walking down a dark alley she was followed by goons and thugs who wanted to rob her. She screamed her lungs out when they got her cornered but no one came to her rescue. Then suddenly a man with very big muscles and very strong arms came ut of nowhere. The man said halt! You shall not touch her for I will bring you to justice! He swooped down on all of them with one hit they all fell down and couldn’t move. The man asked her if she was all right all she could do was nod her head. The knight in shining armor introduced himself and the rest as they say was history…”

“Yea right papa…”

The television set started to show Pres. Ferdinand Marcos’s face. The much awaited announcement was finally upon us. “Kailangan natin ng disiplina upang marating ang kaunlaran ng ating bayan. Tulong-tulong tayong lahat upang maingat ang bawat Pilipino. Disiplina at kaayusan patungong kaunlaran!”

Josephine looked at me with a sly grin and warm eyes. With my eyes I told her come on father’s can tell tall tales to their sons, so we can look good to them. So we can be a manly example to them. We both laughed after that exchange because we both knew that was far from reality. I remember that day, I couldn’t talk, I was muttering to myself. I finally got the courage to talk to her I tripped and fell. I hit my nose on the chair she was sitting on and she ended up bringing me to the infirmary.

I tried to create an image for Little Jose to look up to even with just a fairy tale. The society I’d want to build may have been different from the way he’d see it. But I’ll always fall short or it’ll never turn out the way we want it to. One way or another he’ll figure me out, he’ll figure things out. He’ll see his own truth and may not believe in mine but it doesn’t matter anymore.

“…Sa pagtatag ng Martial Law makakamit natin ang ninanais nating disiplina patungong kaunlaran. Malalabanan ang pagrerebelde ng mga nais lumaban sa demokrasya! Kailiangan natin ng isang panatag na bansa upang makasulong sa kinabukasan!”

I believe in this man, his vision for our country as much as Kuya Paciano believed in him. With discipline and order we could go places. But who am I to dabble in politics? I’ve got all I wanted and all I hoped for. I looked at Little Jose and the baby Josephine was carrying.

“I’ve got my future right here.”