Little Heirlooms

Family heirlooms. I spent some time considering this. The more I thought about it, we haven't really got one on the Filipino side, which strikes me as strange, coming from having read the story. Why? The author sends the idea across that this is a sort of tradition among Filipino families. I get this impression because I was raised away from my Filipino side, and thus have little insight into the subject. Since I was not present during the discussion, I did a little research and learned that the author took up writing at the University of Iowa. So I presume that many or at least some of his readers were Americans, perhaps Francisco was trying to show similarity yet difference in culture. Similar in the sense that Filipinos also have family heirlooms, yet different because of what is considered to be a family heirloom. One expects these things to be rings, watches, trinkets and other oddities, but 'the Mat' as in 'Banig' is something unique to South East Asia.
On to the point: Some European families also practice handing down heirlooms, in my case it is our family crest. This link will take you to a picture of it: http://www.chgh.net/heraldik/b/bue/buergi.htm
Each member of my family has an heirloom depicting this crest. However it isn't handed down until the present holder decides to. My uncle Armin has a gold ring with the crest, my aunt Barbara has a painting, my grandmother holds a book with family history, which she says she will entrust to me when she is no longer able to keep it, while my father holds a mirror with the crest etched on it. Traditionally, crests serve to identify a family. Families sharing the same last name sometimes have similar crests, differing only some minute details, mine is the one from Lyss. The crest gives me a connection with my country, an identity and sense of belonging, yet it sets you apart, because yours is unique. One day, I'm going to inherit that mirror, and just like in the story, it gives me a sense of pride. It sort of gives me a sense of unity.

That's Not My Name

It's almost eight, yet the streets of Manila are awash with light. It should come as no surprise to me, but every time I return from the province, the spectrum of lights and sounds send a shock from my senses from my brain. It's cold. Maria is sitting next to me in the back of her fathers car. Yes. A car. We're no longer in La Union. We're in the big city. No water buffaloes and dried up river beds. Just noise, putrid air and lights. The thing I miss the most about my small provincial town are the stars. Cities cast too much ambient light obscuring our vision. On top of that all the pollution... Finally brought back to earth from my musings, I glance over at Maria. She's looking out the window. I continue to look, until that look turns into a stare. I awkwardly become aware of my rudeness when Maria looks back quizzically. "Noel... what's the matter?" Noel is not my name. I shrug and shake my head "Nothing..." I glance out my own window. Back to the lights. I mutter the words 'The lights are to blame..." as an afterthought. I wonder if she hears me - probably not. "God", I think "I want to go home."

The real reason for my anxiety and discomfort are not really the lights. They're just to blame for making me feel more homesick. Tonight is the night I meet Maria's parents. They live in Alabang in an abode that could easily fit my entire family. Maria is an only child. I grit my teeth. Remain calm. It'll be fine. She has given me every assurance in the world that her parents will be receptive of the idea of the two of us being married. After all, she came all the way to my humble village in the province, the least I can do is return the favor. We disembark. Maria is dressed casually enough. Jeans, sneakers, a blue top and a gorgeous smile on her face. It exudes excitement and anticipation. I wonder what my face says. I spent some of the money I had set aside for me on new leather shoes, a nice pair of slacks and a white polo shirt. After the purchase, I tried on my new wardrobe and felt like I looked like a waiter... or a penguin... not the budding young musician that I am. My music will pay the bills one day, I hope. And besides I do little jobs here and there. Maria understands. .. she loves me. I leave it at that.

We enter her house and immediately I am assaulted by numerous people who bear a slight resemblance to Maria. I try not to act surprised: I've been set up. This isn't just her parents. A notable portion of her extended family is here too. The ripe Manila smell is replaced by perfumes and the scent of roast pig. The relatives are all over me. Scrutinizing me, like scientists. Thank God for the leather shoes. One by one Maria introduces me to aunt Cecilia, tita Baby, the twins kuya Bobby and Ricardo. "This is Noel" she proudly chirps at them. "That's not my name" I silently add in my head. I shake hands, I nod when appropriate, I even flash a smile here and there. She leaves out the part where I'm her husband. They speak to me in broken Tagalog, Taglish some even make it past 3 in straight Tagalog. Others force themselves to speak their native tongue, perhaps because they think it is courteous, out of presumption that I don't speak English. Idiots all of them. Rich idiots. But you have to humor them. Take it in your stride. The world isn't fair, and sometimes, that's why it's a funny place. 

I'm starting to find this a very tiring and tedious exercise. Finally when the introduction and inspections are over, I finally find some alone time. I plop onto the couch and return to my musings. Perhaps things won't always be like this. Maria is different from these people her and I can find middle ground. After all opposites attract don't they? I begin to lose myself in idealistic thought. "Is this him?" says a large mestizo man, whom I had not noticed in the room before. He's standing just to the left of me. I look up. He's a mountain of a man. An obstacle. A barrier. Standing next to him is Maria. She gives me that look, the one she uses when she's cuing my up to say something. She has no idea. He's scrutinizing me, I just know it. Behind those dark beetling brows, he's calculating whether I'm good enough of not. Well, I've made some calculations of my own. "You must be Noel." He says flatly. "That's not my name." I reply aloud.

A Short Story Goes to Court

In class, we discussed the fact that the author's original intentions for his writing were of protest, or as the author specified 'anger'. He described himself as an angry person. However, to me this does not reflect in his writing. The short story 'My Father Goes to Court' comes across as a comical story that borders on absurd. He portrays the system to be whimsical. This could be mistaken for satire, which is characterized by sarcasm and irony, but the story doesn't have enough of either to be classified as such. The most you'll get out of reading the story is a short giggle perhaps at the ending. So, the only viable explanation for such a story would be wish-fulfillment. Perhaps the authors portrayal of the justice system and the absurd claims of the rich neighbor are reflections of what reality was in Bulosans time. People making absurd claims and accusations which are in turn entertained by the courts. After the father outwits the rich man, the court (which is apparently susceptible to minor tricks and play on words) has no choice but to close the case. Bulosan is trying to show that the court is bound by its laws and is actually quite powerless. He's saying that if you can outwit your enemy or your attacker the judicial system will follow. It is just there to pass judgement and if the Filipino can bring an equally absurd or witty argument to the table, the legal system will follow. I think the poor family is a metaphor for the Philippines, while the rich family is a metaphor for the American colonizers. This may be Bulosans way of calling for protest.

Looking at it this way, everything seems to fall into place. The values of Filipinos are reflected in the poor family: They are social, working and generally happy people, yet somewhat impoverished. The neighbors (Americans), are wealthy, but withdrawn, a tad anti-social and for intents and purposes seem content. Also, the poor families children (their youth) always keep looking into the windows of the rich people, this could be a metaphor for how the Filipino youth began to absorb or to become curious about the colonials' culture.

If my ventures into this topic is true, then Bulosan may be a bigger genius than anybody had originally thought. Many a doubter would be put to shame. So if you ask me if this story was one of protest or wish-fulfillment, I would have to say it's a little bit of both. It's a cleverly disguised wish for protest, or a depiction of how to outwit and outsmart the enemy.