Barrio Stories and Other Tales

Barrio

Stillborn



The Masked Storyteller 1972

...There are so many stories I could tell, so many extrapolations, so many explications, so many exponentiations and tonight I invite you all inside my humble hut, let you all sit beside my lamp, and make you listen to my voice, tonight, I wear the mask of the storyteller in the tradition of our forefathers, tonight, all the village is gathered in one hut to listen to the voice of one who wears a mask, he represents Nature and Spiritual Realm.

Come close to hear my whispers, I do not scream when I think. I have to picture my stories and that requires my utmost concentration. So be quiet and let my story flow through you. Remember this: you are Pinoy. You are everything this country is made up of, the embodiment of everything you think you are. I gather you to me to reconcile you and rebuild you from your selves made of broken pieces. Through my stories.

I will not talk to you about what is right or wrong - you're intelligent enough to know that. I will not tell you lies - you are Christian enough to know that. I will not tell you what to do or not - you are mature enough to know that.

At this time of night I want you to rest your mind, away from the gongs of argumentations, away from this endless barrage of useless and pointless noises. Shut these off your mind. You are Pinoy, you know how to shut these off.

Just feel this lovely night, tonight, in this year of our Lord, nineteeen hundred seventy-two...

Following the Footsteps of The Masked Storyteller 2001

I will always remember Mang Pepito, our town's official storyteller. He was as famous for his storytelling as for his eccentricity. Eccentric, not loony. He started out as a magician after the war, he gained fame for his acrobatic moves and magic and by the time I would attend, together with the entire village, to his storytelling sessions, for in those days we did not have TV's and radios yet, I would listen to an old man who looked European, slim, and yet, he pulled tricks that transformed the night into great splendor. He would come out wearing masks of different persons and genders, quite convincingly if I may add, and he was the only person I knew who made his own wooden sandals. I remember quite vividly how he would make music before his storytelling. His most famous instrument was the saw turned into violin, and the leaves turned into harmonica, and his moves, his moves were as graceful as the sea serpent, as consistent as the sun, as confident as the narra trees, as playful as the maya birds. Those were the things I remember and though I'd like to follow his footsteps, I don't think I'd be able to match his passion, concentration, and ability to animate stories despite my attempts to maximize the use of my computer.

The Masked Storyteller 1972

...look at me, no, look through me, tonight I have the mask of the most beautiful woman. Look at my long, flawless, shiny black hair, and my face. Do you see the softness of my lips, the perfection of my cheeks, the youthfulness of my smile? I come to you tonight as Maria Marikit. You will know me as I go on telling my story. It's such a lovely night to tell you my story.

Yes, I was born here, I belonged to the pioneers of this barrio. I grew up bringing with me the virtue of the Filipino woman - in my time, I was a prayerful, lovely, simple young woman. My dream was to reach an age when a man would serenade me and ask my parents for my hand. Living contentedly in my own hut, depending on the crops from the soil, bringing up God-fearing and law-abiding children, those were my main reasons to exist.

Little did I expect that my womanhood would be cast into the fires of war, the man I love would be killed and I would drag myself in the darkness of the mountains to join the guerillas against the Enemies.

I'd like to dramatize my life and fill it with colors but that will take so much time and there are so many people in this town wanting to tell their tales - but cannot - because no one cares to listen. I bring up on my head my jar filled with my life story and walk with you and make you wander in the beauty of this soil, the background of my story, which you no longer see because it is gone, eroded by time, eroded by carelessness and laziness.

In the mountains, when our mountains were still mountains, I learned how to pull a trigger, wear man's pants, and camouflage like a chameleon. In the mountains I learned to eat pig roasted alive, and eat potato roots direct from the ground and use my body to brutalize the enemy and give joy to the defender. I brushed my black hair against the thighs of the enemies and wrap my soft lips around their manhood and yes, at the same period, or day, or week, I sat on the laps of the guerillas, there is no need to tell you the details of my escapades, I refuse to tell you details.

But this much I can share, I saw him marching the death march, I saw him faint, no ,no, he feigned faintness, so he could roll his emaciated body towards the cliff, they struck him with a bayonet to make sure he's dead and I saw him roll, roll like a sack of rice on the slope, below I stood watching him roll.

I went close to the body of this American soldier. Sensing he was breathing still, I picked him up, he was so emaciated he weighed nothing more than ninety pounds, he was skin and bones, brown eyes half-opened, lips parted, moaning so weakly. And bleeding. I nurtured this man. I wrapped him with blankets, cleaned his wounds, fed him with roasted pork and sweet potatoes.

He recovered. What recovered too was his beauty and strength, his tallness and grace. Through him I learned to speak English, the language I am speaking with you now.

The American soldier joined our guerilla movement, he and I made love weeks after, and months after, I carried his child.

I told myself this half-American child I carried will be my reason to return to my decent life, once this war is over, this child will be the reason for me to start a new life.

The father insisted on bringing us back to the States after the war. I insisted to remain in my land with my child.

Bur the child was still-born. An infant who did not even cry. Who cried was his father. His father's weeping reverberated over the entire jungle.

After my delivery, I stayed in my place wondering where to go. I was feeling the heaviness of my body, I was feeling the rushing of my blood out of me. My breathing was getting faint.

I saw my American soldier's face the last time, crying over me. But in the horizon, I saw my child flying up in the sky.

I will neither go to the States with my American soldier nor stay here in my land with my child.

I will fly, fly with my child in a world made up of He and I.

Alex Maskara

Barrio Tales