“No, not really. They say that they wish they could pick and choose what stories were told.”
“Can’t they still do that? I mean, history is an art. Isn’t it subjective?”
I type down the last of the first half, rationalizing that I’ll get back to it later as I save it and get a drink. A fog fills up my head, eating my thoughts and clearing out my insides. Eighth day in a row that I’ve spent the entire day tired, midterms and four hours of sleep marching hand-in-hand.
The literature of the time may also serve as a testament to the views of the intelligentsia of the era. Certain pieces, such as “Untouchable” and “The Filibuster” by Jose Rizal, show the systemic corruption and mismanagement of a government system that, while well-intentioned, failed to take into account the cultural and moral discrepancies between the Hispanic and Native populations. His correspondence with the Austrian-Hungarian author Ferdinand Blumentritt serves as one of the key examples of an amicable correspondence between Philippine and Western cultures. He will be missed.
“Well, yeah, but over there, it’s way less subjective than it is here. You can still read into characters and stuff, but all the events are the same.”
“Huh, alrighty then. I’m guessing their history isn’t multiple choice. At least it’s not like how the Japanese do it, flipping historical causes and erasing whatever isn’t convenient.”
We went back and forth with the notion of having a definite history. Of having a one certain “true” set of events that people can say happened. To not be able to have a set of people or events you’d be able to look at to bolster your cause, to strengthen your myth. It was honestly pretty weird, but what was weirder was knowing that it was someone else’s reality. Maybe this would be one of the upsides we would’ve kept if we stayed a part of the States, despite its bureaucracy and One-Amongst-Manyisms. The thought crossed my mind that I could use that in the report. I asked her.
“Eeh, I wouldn’t say that. We can’t really know for sure if that’s happening over there, can we? I mean, we can’t even know for sure if that’s happening over here with us.”
“…huh. You’ve got a point, I guess. I’m gonna take a break, wake me up in half an hour. Still feeling depressed and my uterus craves death.”
I hopped onto the couch as she burst into fits of giggles. Best in the class, with a sense of humor that matched. Giggles that pierce through the cold hum of the airconditioning and the static noise of the teevee.
My eyes closed and focused on her voice. “There’s a bed, you know.” A dull, amorphous ache bashes its head outside, looking in.
“Yeah, but once I lie there, there’s no going back.” She stays there plopped on the computer, doing who knows what.
With my eyes shut, trying to fall asleep is a strange sort of limbo where I’m still painfully aware of being aware of my thoughts, restless loops of lights and sounds projecting themselves behind my eyelids.
Classes. Surrounded by peers, I feel an indentured isolation that I know is unjustified. They’re lovely people, I swear. Absolutely lovely. Regardless, staying with that many people in a single room, a single floor, a single building, gets exhausting after eight hours.
It’s enough to make you scream.
Enough to last a lifetime.
The ambient noise in the room hides high pitches, a static cacophony of mechanical hums that hounds hails of hermeneutic horror. The doors open, regular morning crowd shuffles in. I hold in a scream as I get up from my chair, prepping for today’s lesson. It’s a big exam today, roughly 30% of our grade alone. I run up from my chair and get my bag from the chair. I sit on the chair and place the rest of my items on the chair next to me. I don’t have a table. Today’s test is about the recently discovered love letters of Emilio Jacinto. Papers will be given out.
The thought that these people are intruding into my home vaguely rubs itself around my head, but that is of little concern because the test is starting. I look at the paper I receive and the letters on it morph and warp, as if the ink itself is being shocked and jolted at with a current that’ll power the sun. I ask for another paper. This one is completely blank. No more chances.
I’ve failed.
I wake up. Sweat lines the sides of my face. But strangely, not the top of my head.
Sleep has passed. My head is pounding. I need a glass of water.
I down a liter of water and get back to work. I sneak up and hug her as she scrolls through her Online feeds, startling her. “Let’s finish this already.” The sunlight turning orange reminds me that I haven’t checked the time. By now, I’m too scared to look.
Ever since the United States was given jurisdiction over the Philippines, there has always been a steady portion of the population vying for independence. From the legalism of the Centavo Party to the guerilla tactics of the Free Philippine Army, these movements have largely been detrimental to public safety at large, causing the army to retaliate with swift force. This has been used as one of the main sticking points of the secessionist movement, calling for, among other things, complete sovereignty, prosecution of those responsible, and calls for reparation.
In attempting to assimilate the Philippines into a larger, global context, there have been tensions between the ethnic and expatriate populations. Jose Garcia Villa, poet laureate for the Philippines, stated that “The Philippine people do not have a oneness with English,” that they do not have the same intimate familiarity as they do their own language, or the Americans with their language.
“Isn’t it weird how people want to rewrite history though?” Out of the blue, she says as she edits the paragraphs, keyboard clicking on. “I mean, it’s impressive how much energy that must take. I wish I had the dedication to stand up for anything for that long.”
The flashes on the teevee screen burst onto my mind. Stubbornness, opposition. Solidarity. “Huh, maybe that’s what it’s like to have something worth fighting for. It’d be nice having a sense of purpose in life, wouldn’t it?”
“True. I mean, is there anything you’d say is worth being a public nuisance for?”
A flash thought, a smirk. Soap opera sentimentality. “Well, I’d join a queer rally if people ever held one here, just for the end goal of marrying you.”
A pained groan, a toothy grin. She giggles.
“Oh my God, that’s cheesy.”
“Eh, it’s true though. I just hope I don’t get a concussion in the process.”
We type up the final paragraph, a summary of the opinions of the three most popular news sources. If we can’t get it right, at least we can pretend that we just went with the flow and never even tried. “Well, either way, as if we can do anything. Maybe tomorrow we’ll be able to change the world, but for today, all we are is people. Tired, academically pressured people.”
“Ack, true.” I place my hands on my chest, faux sorrow in a singsongy tone. “Oh no, that hit too close to home.” A chuckle, a crooked smile.
Moderation should be the main priority when managing the autonomous status of the Philippines. The paradoxical status of The Philippines as a territory of a country that values equality for all, despite not getting equal votes in the Congress or Senate is offset by the monetary benefits that the Philippines has as an American territory that is uniquely situated near various East-Asian countries, leading to a unique culture and tourism industry.
We finished, taking our answers and lengthening up the parts that would make our teacher nod in agreement. Split the lines in half and we were done. Amateur reportage where we parrot what we’re given, almost like playing reporter.
I printed out the sheets and packed them in, confident that I had learned nothing.
A quick glance at the clock shows that 4 hours have passed. 4 hours wasted as today slowly vanishes, pulling me back into the role of student in a play nobody wants to direct.
All the more reason to make every other minute of our time together count. Two years together and today is the first time we’re truly, honestly “together”. It feels like it just has to be special, that there’s a climax to all this, but-
Nothing’s happening.
Nothing’s happening and it feels like today’s wasting away. I save the thing into a USB and stash it in her bag.
I feel bad for feeling bad. Instinct and experience purse my lips shut, as I try to find the words to express myself. She’s already, always, promised that she’d listen no matter what. It’s not her that I’m scared of hearing, it’s myself. Me and every little thing that triggers my brain into shots, nothing but shots, of instinct and fightorflight.
I stutter. “Babe. I really dunno what to say, so sorry if I mumble, but, um. I thought our first day alone together like this was gonna be special. I wanted to maybe go out with you or do couple stuff or, um-
something-, anything, really.” A half-second stretches onto a minute. “-and it feels like I’m not doing enough, I guess. I feel like I ought to apologize.” Breathe.
A feeling falls into thoughts, becomes words, becomes actions.
Asking if I could kiss her, she nodded. Kissing her, I missed her lips and halfheartedly aimed for the cheek, trying to laugh off my misfire.
She looked at me with a smile that melted me down. “Gosh this is going to sound cliché, but, this is special. Rewatching our favorite shows, being alone together, just, not feeling the invisible pressure to stay straight, you don’t have to apologize, you dummy.”
She giggled as her hand brushed away the hair off the front of my face, her fingers dancing on the side of my head.
Within that minute, time stood still. A rare sense of quiet, negative noise helping me focus on what was right in front of me.
I kissed her again, on the lips this time. It was quick, all other details being ours and ours only. 20 minutes later, as the night started to rise, we were on the bed. I was wrapping myself around her, arms on her stomach and legs interlocked. She was scrolling idly as we felt each other’s pulse and shared each other’s thoughts.
“Hey, why don’t we have lunch at Cardano hall next week? You know, like an actual date this time?”
“Cardano sounds quiet. You’re paying.”
A giggle.
“of course.”
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