Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
In Lerma
Sonny’s first sight of Lerma was not the romantic, intellectual enclave he had once imagined. Instead, he found himself in a cramped neighborhood that was merely an extension of Maliwalan University life—but stripped bare of any pretense.
He sighed at the scene before him. Lodging houses were built like fragile toy blocks, their thin lawànit walls shaking whenever someone shut a door too hard. Tin roofs absorbed the afternoon heat, turning each room into a metal oven. Inside, makeshift carton boards served as dividers, granting the illusion—but not the reality—of privacy.
In the narrow alleyways, students squatted beside public faucets, slapping laundry against cement, struggling with the meager water trickling out. The air was heavy with the mingled smell of soap suds, cigarette smoke, and frying oil from a nearby carinderia. A group of young men hunched over a table in the shade, poker cards in one hand and cigarettes dangling from their lips. The sharp click of billiard balls echoed from the half-dozen pool halls scattered around the block. Occasionally, the sound of a bouncing basketball rose from a cramped court wedged between two crumbling buildings—its backboard made of warped plywood.
Here, Sonny realized, education was not only learned in the classroom; it was soaked in poverty, pressed between thin walls, and seasoned by street noise.
---
The Philosophy of Lola Sabel
Sonny’s parents—staunchly Americanized—had always insisted he study Medicine. To them, a son in the medical field was both a point of prestige and a practical investment. If Sonny could practice in America, they believed, future medical bills could be drastically reduced.
The 1980s had been the golden decade for Maliwalu families with relatives abroad. The peso-dollar exchange rate had soared, and anyone with a direct connection to “Uncle Sam” was envied. Dollar bills—bearing the solemn face of George Washington—were as good as gold. A single remittance from Illinois could make a family’s monthly budget feel like a feast.
One did not need millions to be regarded as wealthy in those days. A pair of Nike sneakers, a Levi’s jacket, a Japanese cassette player—these were enough to mark a person as 'sosyal'. Local items were dismissed as 'baduy' or 'bakya', unworthy of anyone with aspirations. Ironically, the same activists railing against foreign imperialism strutted around in imported jeans and branded shoes.
But Lola Sabel refused to let Sonny inherit such values. One humid night, she called him into the *sari-sari* store for one of her long, sermon-like conversations.
---
“Sonny,” she began, leaning over the wooden counter, “our time today is more painful than the last world war—thanks to this post-war generation who bowed to a dictator that rewrote the Constitution for his own ends. During the Japanese Occupation, I could endure inflation because we were helpless under their Mickey Mouse money. But today?” She slapped a pack of powdered milk on the counter. “Every time a mother counts her coins here, searching her pockets for a lost centavo, only to look up at me and whisper for utang… I can’t bear it.”
She spoke of a woman who often tapped quietly at the store’s door near midnight. Elena—neatly dressed, hair tied back, eyes sunken—came to borrow a kilo of rice. She carried her two-year-old daughter on her hip and once told Lola Sabel, “I can see it in her eyes, Lola. Someday she’ll pull us out of poverty.”
“How will that be,” Lola Sabel replied, handing over the rice, “if you can’t feed her properly now?”
Elena smiled faintly. “She might be like Indang Monang’s daughter, Sonia. Started as a maid at twelve, went to Japan at sixteen, now sends dollars home.”
Lola watched her disappear into the night, the child asleep in her arms, pride flickering in her step despite the hunger.
---
Elena’s husband, Ramon, had been abducted months earlier by armed men—rumored to be former comrades from the underground movement. Once a child scout for the guerillas, he had later betrayed them to the authorities. His disappearance left Elena penniless and jobless. Lola secretly helped her, careful to avoid being publicly linked to an outlaw’s family.
One evening, finding Sonny under the acacia tree beside their house, Lola settled beside him. “I’m eighty years old, Sonny, and still strong. I want to live long enough to see our country rise from this mess. Look at Elena—reduced to skin and bone. And Ramon… used, condemned, brutalized by fellow Maliwalans.”
She spoke of her youth in Banqueruan, of nights when the barrio was alive with laughter, fiestas under the moonlight, and open doors unbarred by fear. “During the Japanese Occupation, we had a common enemy. We were united. Today? Each family locks itself away.”
When Sonny pointed out that the population had exploded to fifty-six million, she shot back, “Crimes don’t come from numbers, Sonny. They come from deprivation. Hunger makes the poor envious, the rich arrogant. That’s when morals decay.”
Her eyes shone with conviction as she leaned forward. “There’s still hope. All it takes is one person’s courage to unlock the hidden goodness in the Maliwalan heart. I’ve seen it happen—one act of selflessness inspiring thousands. That is why I cannot die yet. I must see our people transformed.”
---
The Other Lodgers
Banqueruan still heavy in his thoughts, Sonny returned to his boarding house and pushed the door open—only to be confronted by a naked man pulling on his trousers.
“Excuse me,” Sonny muttered, averting his eyes.
The man grinned, offering a handshake. “You must be one of my roommates. Name’s Rene—freshman, Economics.”
Sonny noted that Rene was too old to be a freshman. His sharp, almond-shaped eyes were rimmed red, either from cigarettes or something stronger. His bucked teeth gave his smile a mischievous, almost defiant look.
Rene lit a Marlboro without asking, then asked anyway, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“I… I’d rather not smell it.”
Rene barked a laugh. “Do you think I care?”
The flippant reply stung, but Sonny swallowed his irritation. He imagined the explosion if Rene had tried that with Lola Sabel—she would have turned the boarding house into a battlefield.
Her words echoed in his head: They live in a permissive, un-Maliwalan culture. They’ve forgotten their Asian simplicity and European religiosity.
2025-08-15 17:47:21
masquerade
In the quiet town of Amherst, Massachusetts, where maple leaves turned gold each autumn and robins sang at dawn, lived a man named Alfred Reyes. Nearly 63, Alfred was no longer a man in a hurry. The years had gently pruned his once-bustling life down to silence and solitude—two things he now embraced with reverence.
Alfred sat by the window of his modest cottage overlooking a thicket of pine, oak, and the stubborn patch of wild jasmine he never managed to control. The morning sunlight glinted off the dew resting on the hedges, and the scent of jasmine lingered faintly in the air. He sighed, staring out at his overgrown backyard. The vines were winning again.
Yet today, as with many days now, his thoughts turned not to landscaping or errands, but to the inner garden he was tending—his soul.
“I didn’t understand it before,” he muttered to himself, gripping his warm mug of green tea. “The Holy Spirit. Everyone talked about it like some wind you feel at church… but it’s more subtle than that.”
He paused, his voice catching. “It’s taken me a lifetime to hear it.”
That afternoon, Jim, his housemate and the closest thing he had to family now, wandered in from the porch.
“Cleared the vines again?” Jim asked, peering through the screen door.
Alfred chuckled, sweat on his brow. “I tried. They grow faster than my resolve. But I suppose that’s how temptation works too.”
Jim leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Temptation?”
“The kind that tells you to get in your car and just drive,” Alfred said. “Looking for what’s never really there.”
Jim nodded, understanding without asking.
There were times when Alfred’s old fantasies still whispered to him—early morning drives to forgotten gas stations, fleeting encounters under city lights, the lure of aimless escape. But now, such things felt distant, like a life lived by someone else.
“I used to chase wild things,” Alfred told Jim later that evening, “thinking I’d find meaning. But all I got was exhaustion.”
He looked out again at the backyard, where his small bamboo colony swayed. “You know what saved me today?”
“What?”
“I was about to head out, start one of those pointless drives. But then I saw the vines—those damn vines—and I heard it. The voice. The nudge. ‘Tend what you have.’ Not ‘chase what you lack.’”
Jim smiled faintly. “Maybe that’s the Spirit.”
“I think so.”
Each day now brought decisions—not grand ones, but small, persistent forks in the road. Read or scroll? Sleep or drive? Pray or despair?
It wasn’t about moral victory. It was about peace. And Alfred was learning that peace didn’t come from achievement or praise, or even from being needed. It came from alignment. From choosing what his spirit yearned for.
He no longer feared sleep like he used to, as if rest was failure. “Sleep is a sacrament,” he whispered once while resting in the backyard, arms behind his head, the hum of bees and rustling trees his lullaby. “I wasted decades thinking I had to be always alert. Always needed.”
His thoughts often turned to his departed siblings—his brother and sister, whose illnesses had once filled his days with worry. Their passing was a sorrow he carried gently now, like a photo in his wallet.
“I was their safety net,” he told Jim over breakfast one morning. “That’s why I stayed healthy. That’s why I didn’t rest. I was afraid that if I stopped, everything would collapse.”
“And now?” Jim asked.
“Now?” Alfred smiled. “Now I rest. Because I’m no longer afraid. The Spirit has kept His promise.”
He walked daily. Five miles if he could. Afterward, he trimmed back snake plants and jasmine, feeling their stubborn roots echo the stubborn habits he was also learning to prune. Sometimes meditation led to drowsiness, and he welcomed it now. Other times, it was reading that steadied him, or fiddling with one of his many computers.
“I’ve got Ubuntu, Mac, Windows… even a miniPC,” he laughed. “But still, nothing satisfies like a good sentence in a good book.”
“You’re becoming a monk,” Jim teased.
“Maybe,” Alfred said. “But a monk with Wi-Fi.”
One morning, after another long walk through the Amherst conservation trails, Alfred stood quietly beside a patch of wild grasses taller than himself. Dragonflies shimmered above them like little angels. In that moment, he whispered a prayer—not of pleading, but of thanks.
He knew life was winding down. The body told him that in new aches each day. But the Spirit within… that still flickered with a light brighter than before.
“I’m nearly invisible now,” he wrote in his journal that night, “and maybe that’s a blessing. The world has stopped asking things of me. Now I can ask something of it: to show me beauty, stillness, and grace.”
Outside, a soft wind blew through the pines. Somewhere in the woods, a woodpecker tapped patiently. Alfred closed the journal and whispered one final line:
“It is not what I do anymore, but how I rest that honors God.”
And then he slept.
2025-07-25 01:37:41
shortstories
Diary of a Masquerade 6
In Lerma
Sonny’s first sight of Lerma was not the romantic, intellectual enclave he had once imagined. Instead, he found himself in a cramped neighborhood that was merely an extension of Maliwalan University life—but stripped bare of any pretense.
He sighed at the scene before him. Lodging houses were built like fragile toy blocks, their thin lawànit walls shaking whenever someone shut a door too hard. Tin roofs absorbed the afternoon heat, turning each room into a metal oven. Inside, makeshift carton boards served as dividers, granting the illusion—but not the reality—of privacy.
In the narrow alleyways, students squatted beside public faucets, slapping laundry against cement, struggling with the meager water trickling out. The air was heavy with the mingled smell of soap suds, cigarette smoke, and frying oil from a nearby carinderia. A group of young men hunched over a table in the shade, poker cards in one hand and cigarettes dangling from their lips. The sharp click of billiard balls echoed from the half-dozen pool halls scattered around the block. Occasionally, the sound of a bouncing basketball rose from a cramped court wedged between two crumbling buildings—its backboard made of warped plywood.
Here, Sonny realized, education was not only learned in the classroom; it was soaked in poverty, pressed between thin walls, and seasoned by street noise.
---
The Philosophy of Lola Sabel
Sonny’s parents—staunchly Americanized—had always insisted he study Medicine. To them, a son in the medical field was both a point of prestige and a practical investment. If Sonny could practice in America, they believed, future medical bills could be drastically reduced.
The 1980s had been the golden decade for Maliwalu families with relatives abroad. The peso-dollar exchange rate had soared, and anyone with a direct connection to “Uncle Sam” was envied. Dollar bills—bearing the solemn face of George Washington—were as good as gold. A single remittance from Illinois could make a family’s monthly budget feel like a feast.
One did not need millions to be regarded as wealthy in those days. A pair of Nike sneakers, a Levi’s jacket, a Japanese cassette player—these were enough to mark a person as 'sosyal'. Local items were dismissed as 'baduy' or 'bakya', unworthy of anyone with aspirations. Ironically, the same activists railing against foreign imperialism strutted around in imported jeans and branded shoes.
But Lola Sabel refused to let Sonny inherit such values. One humid night, she called him into the *sari-sari* store for one of her long, sermon-like conversations.
---
“Sonny,” she began, leaning over the wooden counter, “our time today is more painful than the last world war—thanks to this post-war generation who bowed to a dictator that rewrote the Constitution for his own ends. During the Japanese Occupation, I could endure inflation because we were helpless under their Mickey Mouse money. But today?” She slapped a pack of powdered milk on the counter. “Every time a mother counts her coins here, searching her pockets for a lost centavo, only to look up at me and whisper for utang… I can’t bear it.”
She spoke of a woman who often tapped quietly at the store’s door near midnight. Elena—neatly dressed, hair tied back, eyes sunken—came to borrow a kilo of rice. She carried her two-year-old daughter on her hip and once told Lola Sabel, “I can see it in her eyes, Lola. Someday she’ll pull us out of poverty.”
“How will that be,” Lola Sabel replied, handing over the rice, “if you can’t feed her properly now?”
Elena smiled faintly. “She might be like Indang Monang’s daughter, Sonia. Started as a maid at twelve, went to Japan at sixteen, now sends dollars home.”
Lola watched her disappear into the night, the child asleep in her arms, pride flickering in her step despite the hunger.
---
Elena’s husband, Ramon, had been abducted months earlier by armed men—rumored to be former comrades from the underground movement. Once a child scout for the guerillas, he had later betrayed them to the authorities. His disappearance left Elena penniless and jobless. Lola secretly helped her, careful to avoid being publicly linked to an outlaw’s family.
One evening, finding Sonny under the acacia tree beside their house, Lola settled beside him. “I’m eighty years old, Sonny, and still strong. I want to live long enough to see our country rise from this mess. Look at Elena—reduced to skin and bone. And Ramon… used, condemned, brutalized by fellow Maliwalans.”
She spoke of her youth in Banqueruan, of nights when the barrio was alive with laughter, fiestas under the moonlight, and open doors unbarred by fear. “During the Japanese Occupation, we had a common enemy. We were united. Today? Each family locks itself away.”
When Sonny pointed out that the population had exploded to fifty-six million, she shot back, “Crimes don’t come from numbers, Sonny. They come from deprivation. Hunger makes the poor envious, the rich arrogant. That’s when morals decay.”
Her eyes shone with conviction as she leaned forward. “There’s still hope. All it takes is one person’s courage to unlock the hidden goodness in the Maliwalan heart. I’ve seen it happen—one act of selflessness inspiring thousands. That is why I cannot die yet. I must see our people transformed.”
---
The Other Lodgers
Banqueruan still heavy in his thoughts, Sonny returned to his boarding house and pushed the door open—only to be confronted by a naked man pulling on his trousers.
“Excuse me,” Sonny muttered, averting his eyes.
The man grinned, offering a handshake. “You must be one of my roommates. Name’s Rene—freshman, Economics.”
Sonny noted that Rene was too old to be a freshman. His sharp, almond-shaped eyes were rimmed red, either from cigarettes or something stronger. His bucked teeth gave his smile a mischievous, almost defiant look.
Rene lit a Marlboro without asking, then asked anyway, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“I… I’d rather not smell it.”
Rene barked a laugh. “Do you think I care?”
The flippant reply stung, but Sonny swallowed his irritation. He imagined the explosion if Rene had tried that with Lola Sabel—she would have turned the boarding house into a battlefield.
Her words echoed in his head: They live in a permissive, un-Maliwalan culture. They’ve forgotten their Asian simplicity and European religiosity.
2025-08-15 17:47:21
masquerade
The Quiet Redemption
In the quiet town of Amherst, Massachusetts, where maple leaves turned gold each autumn and robins sang at dawn, lived a man named Alfred Reyes. Nearly 63, Alfred was no longer a man in a hurry. The years had gently pruned his once-bustling life down to silence and solitude—two things he now embraced with reverence.
Alfred sat by the window of his modest cottage overlooking a thicket of pine, oak, and the stubborn patch of wild jasmine he never managed to control. The morning sunlight glinted off the dew resting on the hedges, and the scent of jasmine lingered faintly in the air. He sighed, staring out at his overgrown backyard. The vines were winning again.
Yet today, as with many days now, his thoughts turned not to landscaping or errands, but to the inner garden he was tending—his soul.
“I didn’t understand it before,” he muttered to himself, gripping his warm mug of green tea. “The Holy Spirit. Everyone talked about it like some wind you feel at church… but it’s more subtle than that.”
He paused, his voice catching. “It’s taken me a lifetime to hear it.”
That afternoon, Jim, his housemate and the closest thing he had to family now, wandered in from the porch.
“Cleared the vines again?” Jim asked, peering through the screen door.
Alfred chuckled, sweat on his brow. “I tried. They grow faster than my resolve. But I suppose that’s how temptation works too.”
Jim leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Temptation?”
“The kind that tells you to get in your car and just drive,” Alfred said. “Looking for what’s never really there.”
Jim nodded, understanding without asking.
There were times when Alfred’s old fantasies still whispered to him—early morning drives to forgotten gas stations, fleeting encounters under city lights, the lure of aimless escape. But now, such things felt distant, like a life lived by someone else.
“I used to chase wild things,” Alfred told Jim later that evening, “thinking I’d find meaning. But all I got was exhaustion.”
He looked out again at the backyard, where his small bamboo colony swayed. “You know what saved me today?”
“What?”
“I was about to head out, start one of those pointless drives. But then I saw the vines—those damn vines—and I heard it. The voice. The nudge. ‘Tend what you have.’ Not ‘chase what you lack.’”
Jim smiled faintly. “Maybe that’s the Spirit.”
“I think so.”
Each day now brought decisions—not grand ones, but small, persistent forks in the road. Read or scroll? Sleep or drive? Pray or despair?
It wasn’t about moral victory. It was about peace. And Alfred was learning that peace didn’t come from achievement or praise, or even from being needed. It came from alignment. From choosing what his spirit yearned for.
He no longer feared sleep like he used to, as if rest was failure. “Sleep is a sacrament,” he whispered once while resting in the backyard, arms behind his head, the hum of bees and rustling trees his lullaby. “I wasted decades thinking I had to be always alert. Always needed.”
His thoughts often turned to his departed siblings—his brother and sister, whose illnesses had once filled his days with worry. Their passing was a sorrow he carried gently now, like a photo in his wallet.
“I was their safety net,” he told Jim over breakfast one morning. “That’s why I stayed healthy. That’s why I didn’t rest. I was afraid that if I stopped, everything would collapse.”
“And now?” Jim asked.
“Now?” Alfred smiled. “Now I rest. Because I’m no longer afraid. The Spirit has kept His promise.”
He walked daily. Five miles if he could. Afterward, he trimmed back snake plants and jasmine, feeling their stubborn roots echo the stubborn habits he was also learning to prune. Sometimes meditation led to drowsiness, and he welcomed it now. Other times, it was reading that steadied him, or fiddling with one of his many computers.
“I’ve got Ubuntu, Mac, Windows… even a miniPC,” he laughed. “But still, nothing satisfies like a good sentence in a good book.”
“You’re becoming a monk,” Jim teased.
“Maybe,” Alfred said. “But a monk with Wi-Fi.”
One morning, after another long walk through the Amherst conservation trails, Alfred stood quietly beside a patch of wild grasses taller than himself. Dragonflies shimmered above them like little angels. In that moment, he whispered a prayer—not of pleading, but of thanks.
He knew life was winding down. The body told him that in new aches each day. But the Spirit within… that still flickered with a light brighter than before.
“I’m nearly invisible now,” he wrote in his journal that night, “and maybe that’s a blessing. The world has stopped asking things of me. Now I can ask something of it: to show me beauty, stillness, and grace.”
Outside, a soft wind blew through the pines. Somewhere in the woods, a woodpecker tapped patiently. Alfred closed the journal and whispered one final line:
“It is not what I do anymore, but how I rest that honors God.”
And then he slept.
2025-07-25 01:37:41
shortstories