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[...filled the space it left with nicotine fumes...]
So, to take a break from reccing fics everyone has already recced.
This next piece is inspired by this, a charming drabble about the romantic affairs of anthropomorphous land masses. Mine is about the sort of romantic affairs of anthropomorphous nations. As background, I present to you this
- The Philippines was a Spanish colony from the end of the 16th century until the Spanish-American War in 1898, when the territory changed hands. The Philippines was on the way to self-government when World War 2 gatecrashed Asia and the Japanese invaded. Corregidor is an island west of the capital city of Manila, and it served as a key naval defense base; when it fell to the Japanese in World War 2, conquest of the country soon followed.
- Mactan is an island in north-central Philippines. It was on Mactan (so it is recorded) that Filipinos first resisted the Spanish in 1521, led by the Muslim chieftain Lapu-Lapu, now a national hero.
- The term Igorot refers to the hill tribes of the northern Philippines’ Cordillera region. (These days many prefer to be called Cordillerano, as the term Igorot came to have negative connotations.)
- The Philippines is a predominantly Catholic country (a legacy of Spanish colonization) to the point of having pro-life murals four-stories tall and re-enactments of the crucifixion where people are for-real crucified. (Filipino health officials warn: crucifixion bad for health!)
- Mindanao, a large island in the south currently troubled by religious clashes and separatist movements, has a large Muslim population, due to its proximity with Indonesia and Malaysia, and their history of trade and migration.
- Chinese-Filipinos are one of the largest minority groups in the Philippines.
That said, I have a few qualms about posting this relating to political correctness and hypocrisy. History and culture are subjective things, so I hope I'm not overstepping my boundaries (says the girl who wrote RPS fic). Uh. I will say that the references aren't to be interpreted too literally. So, test-run on my journal before posting it to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
anthropomor_fic, a community to which everyone should contribute more often. Alright, who's ready for what could be construed as nationalist propaganda?!
our god is a distant god
Anthropomorphous things. Philippines/Spain, Philippines/USA.
Il faut changer pour rester le même. (One must change to stay the same.)
She was not theirs to take.
She knew at least this much, and although neither Spain nor America would say it to her face, would act as if it were not so, she knew that deep inside they were aware of this. The Philippines belonged to herself.
Their battles raged around her, scattering pots and dishes to the floor, waking the neighbors and upsetting Corregidor. The bratling would run to his mother’s arms with snot in his nose and tears in his eyes, and she would sing him lullabies whisper him fairy tales until he fell back asleep.
When the battle was over, America was victorious, and the Philippines couldn’t say she was truly surprised. “You will pack your things,” said America. His voice was weary, and his eyes restless. “You will come with me.”
“Good luck,” she had said to Spain as she was leaving the house, and it wasn’t what she meant to say.
His weathered face was swollen with bruises so that one eye was almost shut, and blood still collected at the edge of his mouth. This was the face of Spain she would remember, if only because it reminded her of her own on those nights when she could muster up enough anger to stare at her reflection in the mirror; she had not been able to make out her own face, on those nights – only Spain’s stentorian voice, the many jeweled rings on his fingers, and his desire as he pressed her for more, more, disbelieving her when she replied that no, there was no more, he took it all.
Now, on the day of their parting, Spain fixed upon her an unreadable stare and said, “You too.”
The Philippines opened her mouth to reply, but America revved his engine, rolled down the windows, and yelled. It was time to go.
+
Things are a little bit different here, she wrote him, ignoring the dull throb of a new bruise on her temple, but not that different.
In reply, Spain sent her a box of items that had belonged to her, the ones she had forgotten to pack in her rush. These items were 1) an Igorot fertility statue; 2) a Chinese amulet meant to bring good fortune (chipped on one side), 3) a pearl necklace bartered at great length from the Malays, and 4) heavy books back from when she meant to study business, back before she meant to study dancing (back before she meant to study feng shui).
Now, wrote Spain, perhaps it can be more of the same.
+
Once, she dreamed about him, about Spain. The Philippines had never told anyone of her dream, for its preciousness was not theirs to peruse, but hers from which to divine wisdom.
It went like this:
The Philippines sits in a café whose walls change color and whose floors are carved from dark stone. Her legs are crossed and her coffee is black. Spain will soon come - she knows this is true like she knows she is alive. When he walks through the door in a fashionable suit and that damnable cigarette in hand, she blurts out, “Do you ever miss me?”
The reds and dark purples on his face are fading, but they are still there. He touches her cheek, looks in her eyes, says, “Querida. I am in your veins.”
And she knows it to be true.
+
The Philippines took up smoking.
She always smoked when she wrote her letters to Spain, always unsure whether she should hate herself as she poured her heart out and filled the space it left with nicotine fumes. It wasn’t love; she was tied to Spain in a way that was deeper than love, and she came to understand that one day she would be tied to America in the same manner.
These ties that bind, writes the Philippines, sucking on her cigarette. Sometimes I feel I am more ropes than self.
+
Her children adored America. It made her uneasy. When little Mindanao shied away from America’s hands, the Philippines felt guilty for feeling relieved.
It was Manila who broke her heart, who loved him most and thus hated him most. It was the hate she couldn’t bear to see, taking root in her daughter. America doted on the child when it struck his fancy to do so, and when he was whisked away again by business, or mistresses – he had mistresses; the Philippines was under no illusion – Manila cried harder and cursed loudly outside his study door as if there were someone inside.
“You cannot rely on him for everything, hija,” she told the disconsolate child, but Manila was growing up, and so trusted no one. She cursed the Philippines too, and when the youth was done drying her eyes in the bathroom, she put on lipstick and slipped into the night like a shadow.
+
The Philippines watched America from afar, through newspaper clippings and blurry television screens in a darkened parlor. He was at his grandest when he was a picture no larger than her hands, at his most eloquent when he was laid flat upon glass or paper. In their house, his smiles were distant.
Once, when she was watching him put down and stir up rebellions half a world away, the Philippines was reminded of Spain. She would catch her reflection in the hall mirror and lock eyes with herself, just for a moment, before turning away.
+
Spain would visit occasionally. He would take them to the gardens, carry Mactan on his shoulders (though he was almost too big for that now), buy the children pastilles and rose water when they were good, and sometimes even when they were naughty. He would buy for the Philippines her favorite siomai, and ube ice cream to cleanse her palate. He would steal a kiss from her occasionally, when she let him.
He would never stay.
+
Being raised in the Catholic tradition, the Philippines was used to a distant god, an angry god, and perhaps that was why she grew to love America, in her way.
“This stew is bland,” he told her one night at dinner, and she stood up to go to the kitchen, to look for the salt.
+
She was not theirs to take.
She knew at least this much, and although neither America nor Japan would say it to her face, would act as if it were not so, she knew that deep inside they were aware of this. The Philippines belonged to herself.
Still, she packed her bags, forgetting nothing this time (but she thought she forgot nothing when Spain came to claim her too). Next time, she thought as she folded away the last of Mactan’s clothes into her luggage. Next time, but she didn’t finish the thought.
They called her name from the parlor. Corregidor clung to his mother’s skirts.
“Be brave, hijo,” said the Philippines.
“You be brave,” he said stubbornly, and the child didn’t notice how his words made his mother’s heart skip two beats.
“We must all be brave,” she replied.
They called her name again.
“Get your brothers and sisters,” she told Corregidor, and after he scampered off, she walked with head held high to whatever awaited her.
This next piece is inspired by this, a charming drabble about the romantic affairs of anthropomorphous land masses. Mine is about the sort of romantic affairs of anthropomorphous nations. As background, I present to you this
- The Philippines was a Spanish colony from the end of the 16th century until the Spanish-American War in 1898, when the territory changed hands. The Philippines was on the way to self-government when World War 2 gatecrashed Asia and the Japanese invaded. Corregidor is an island west of the capital city of Manila, and it served as a key naval defense base; when it fell to the Japanese in World War 2, conquest of the country soon followed.
- Mactan is an island in north-central Philippines. It was on Mactan (so it is recorded) that Filipinos first resisted the Spanish in 1521, led by the Muslim chieftain Lapu-Lapu, now a national hero.
- The term Igorot refers to the hill tribes of the northern Philippines’ Cordillera region. (These days many prefer to be called Cordillerano, as the term Igorot came to have negative connotations.)
- The Philippines is a predominantly Catholic country (a legacy of Spanish colonization) to the point of having pro-life murals four-stories tall and re-enactments of the crucifixion where people are for-real crucified. (Filipino health officials warn: crucifixion bad for health!)
- Mindanao, a large island in the south currently troubled by religious clashes and separatist movements, has a large Muslim population, due to its proximity with Indonesia and Malaysia, and their history of trade and migration.
- Chinese-Filipinos are one of the largest minority groups in the Philippines.
That said, I have a few qualms about posting this relating to political correctness and hypocrisy. History and culture are subjective things, so I hope I'm not overstepping my boundaries (says the girl who wrote RPS fic). Uh. I will say that the references aren't to be interpreted too literally. So, test-run on my journal before posting it to
anthropomor_fic, a community to which everyone should contribute more often. Alright, who's ready for what could be construed as nationalist propaganda?!our god is a distant god
Anthropomorphous things. Philippines/Spain, Philippines/USA.
Il faut changer pour rester le même. (One must change to stay the same.)
She was not theirs to take.
She knew at least this much, and although neither Spain nor America would say it to her face, would act as if it were not so, she knew that deep inside they were aware of this. The Philippines belonged to herself.
Their battles raged around her, scattering pots and dishes to the floor, waking the neighbors and upsetting Corregidor. The bratling would run to his mother’s arms with snot in his nose and tears in his eyes, and she would sing him lullabies whisper him fairy tales until he fell back asleep.
When the battle was over, America was victorious, and the Philippines couldn’t say she was truly surprised. “You will pack your things,” said America. His voice was weary, and his eyes restless. “You will come with me.”
“Good luck,” she had said to Spain as she was leaving the house, and it wasn’t what she meant to say.
His weathered face was swollen with bruises so that one eye was almost shut, and blood still collected at the edge of his mouth. This was the face of Spain she would remember, if only because it reminded her of her own on those nights when she could muster up enough anger to stare at her reflection in the mirror; she had not been able to make out her own face, on those nights – only Spain’s stentorian voice, the many jeweled rings on his fingers, and his desire as he pressed her for more, more, disbelieving her when she replied that no, there was no more, he took it all.
Now, on the day of their parting, Spain fixed upon her an unreadable stare and said, “You too.”
The Philippines opened her mouth to reply, but America revved his engine, rolled down the windows, and yelled. It was time to go.
+
Things are a little bit different here, she wrote him, ignoring the dull throb of a new bruise on her temple, but not that different.
In reply, Spain sent her a box of items that had belonged to her, the ones she had forgotten to pack in her rush. These items were 1) an Igorot fertility statue; 2) a Chinese amulet meant to bring good fortune (chipped on one side), 3) a pearl necklace bartered at great length from the Malays, and 4) heavy books back from when she meant to study business, back before she meant to study dancing (back before she meant to study feng shui).
Now, wrote Spain, perhaps it can be more of the same.
+
Once, she dreamed about him, about Spain. The Philippines had never told anyone of her dream, for its preciousness was not theirs to peruse, but hers from which to divine wisdom.
It went like this:
The Philippines sits in a café whose walls change color and whose floors are carved from dark stone. Her legs are crossed and her coffee is black. Spain will soon come - she knows this is true like she knows she is alive. When he walks through the door in a fashionable suit and that damnable cigarette in hand, she blurts out, “Do you ever miss me?”
The reds and dark purples on his face are fading, but they are still there. He touches her cheek, looks in her eyes, says, “Querida. I am in your veins.”
And she knows it to be true.
+
The Philippines took up smoking.
She always smoked when she wrote her letters to Spain, always unsure whether she should hate herself as she poured her heart out and filled the space it left with nicotine fumes. It wasn’t love; she was tied to Spain in a way that was deeper than love, and she came to understand that one day she would be tied to America in the same manner.
These ties that bind, writes the Philippines, sucking on her cigarette. Sometimes I feel I am more ropes than self.
+
Her children adored America. It made her uneasy. When little Mindanao shied away from America’s hands, the Philippines felt guilty for feeling relieved.
It was Manila who broke her heart, who loved him most and thus hated him most. It was the hate she couldn’t bear to see, taking root in her daughter. America doted on the child when it struck his fancy to do so, and when he was whisked away again by business, or mistresses – he had mistresses; the Philippines was under no illusion – Manila cried harder and cursed loudly outside his study door as if there were someone inside.
“You cannot rely on him for everything, hija,” she told the disconsolate child, but Manila was growing up, and so trusted no one. She cursed the Philippines too, and when the youth was done drying her eyes in the bathroom, she put on lipstick and slipped into the night like a shadow.
+
The Philippines watched America from afar, through newspaper clippings and blurry television screens in a darkened parlor. He was at his grandest when he was a picture no larger than her hands, at his most eloquent when he was laid flat upon glass or paper. In their house, his smiles were distant.
Once, when she was watching him put down and stir up rebellions half a world away, the Philippines was reminded of Spain. She would catch her reflection in the hall mirror and lock eyes with herself, just for a moment, before turning away.
+
Spain would visit occasionally. He would take them to the gardens, carry Mactan on his shoulders (though he was almost too big for that now), buy the children pastilles and rose water when they were good, and sometimes even when they were naughty. He would buy for the Philippines her favorite siomai, and ube ice cream to cleanse her palate. He would steal a kiss from her occasionally, when she let him.
He would never stay.
+
Being raised in the Catholic tradition, the Philippines was used to a distant god, an angry god, and perhaps that was why she grew to love America, in her way.
“This stew is bland,” he told her one night at dinner, and she stood up to go to the kitchen, to look for the salt.
+
She was not theirs to take.
She knew at least this much, and although neither America nor Japan would say it to her face, would act as if it were not so, she knew that deep inside they were aware of this. The Philippines belonged to herself.
Still, she packed her bags, forgetting nothing this time (but she thought she forgot nothing when Spain came to claim her too). Next time, she thought as she folded away the last of Mactan’s clothes into her luggage. Next time, but she didn’t finish the thought.
They called her name from the parlor. Corregidor clung to his mother’s skirts.
“Be brave, hijo,” said the Philippines.
“You be brave,” he said stubbornly, and the child didn’t notice how his words made his mother’s heart skip two beats.
“We must all be brave,” she replied.
They called her name again.
“Get your brothers and sisters,” she told Corregidor, and after he scampered off, she walked with head held high to whatever awaited her.
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I'll try to come up with something coherent sometime soon, but -- dude. It calls to mind so many images -- the umber stain of colonialism, the perfume of sampaguita dabbed behind cowry shell ears, the immensity of history -- dude.
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Do you think it is too feather-ruffling, if I post this like in a writing community? I'm writing from a certain perspective as you see, and thoughts of reverse racism (reverse ethnocentrism?) and political correctness poke at my conscience. Rizal was shot for writing stuff like this (not that I'm anything close to Rizal). And then there is the fact that I chose to portray the Philippines as a passive, battered housewife (I mean, for a reason. But still).
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I've always wanted to write something about the Philippines, about Manila and this is just... Thank you for writing this, also I hope you won't mind if I add you to the friends list.
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I'm half-Filipino myself and grew up in Canada but I've visited and lived in the Philippines several times since I was young so this story really resonated with me. It made me think of understanding Tagalog as a child, which I still think of as a language that soothes me and being laughed at when I tried to speak it myself and the strength of the people in that country. The funny thing is that I'm going on a plane tonight to visit the Philippines so it's a little fitting that I read this today.
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Maybe it's because I've never known the Philippines, but it tastes to me a bit of Spain, of Andalusia...
but really I just wanted to say that I sometimes feel so much like this that reading it made my breath catch:
"ties that bind... Sometimes I feel I am more ropes than self..."
...I never knew how to describe it before.