By the Belgian River I Sat Down and Wept

1. 7:00PM, Monday
   In the bedroom

Dear Friends,

I hope life on the other side of the ocean is treating you well.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines granted I have the energy and tears to spare. In the real world, they call it a nervous breakdown. But for scientists they call it the chandelier pain.

In my own simple language, I was triggered.

It happened during a weekend in Brussels, a metropolitan city in Belgium. I was with Guillaume and another friend. Let’s call him V. V is a budding actor/dancer in the theatre industry. We were happy to see him at the happiest moment of his career.

As for the city, I’ve visited it before. This was my second time. When you visit Belgium, one of the typical things to look forward to are the booze particularly their sought after flavored beers. Delirium bar is often packed with eager tourists vying for a taste of this alcoholic delight. However, architecturally, it’s not the most attractive city in Europe. What I like about it though is its liveliness. Young, old, tourists, immigrants, people from all walks of life contribute to its beauty. Meanwhile, the ongoing construction of residential and commercial buildings contribute to its unsightliness.   It’s a hodgepodge of elegance and grime, as the city boasts the immense Grand Palace square where you can find a herd of tourists, unaware of the lurking pickpockets constantly searching for their next distracted prey.

Meanwhile, the streets are filled with musicians playing classical music. Oddly, that day, most musicians were blonde and unarguably white. Later, a friend of mine told me these musicians were not conservatory students. Something about deep sense of superiority and lack of confidence hinders the latter from playing in public. We also came across the romes women sitting on the pavement with strollers in tow. In France, the mostly live in what we des bidonvilles (slums) and many of them beg in the streets. I’ll revisit this story in one of my future letters.

As we wander along the cobblestoned streets, we noticed a man lying helplessly on the ground. He was unconscious. Passing tourists and locals couldn’t make out whether he was totally wasted or genuinely hurt. Luckily, with gusto, a young woman tried to end the mystery by carefully slipping her hand behind the man’s back turning him to the side. Afterwards, she checked his pulse for signs of life.  As bystanders, we didn’t stay long for the unraveling.

V, the reason for our visit, wanted to join his friends at a local bar in what he playfully called La Rue Gaie (the gay street). At the bar, we were joined by unfamiliar faces with vibrant energies. I immediately felt at ease. They were locals and visitors. Among them, were two Mexicans whom I instantly connected with. American accents, the French language, Mexican food and colonization are always good conversation starters. Meanwhile, the French speakers argued about something unintelligible. Eventually, my anglophone comrades left. Then another friend joined us, this time a friend of Ram’s. This was our first time meeting. Have I ever told you Ram and I have a your-friend-is-my-friend rule to our friendship?

M, Ram’s friend, hailed from Conservatory School in Belgium. He studies classical guitar. However, I could only partially give my attention to him as I noticed Guillaume was gradually slipping off to slumber. I went to his side and tried to keep him awake while V and M engaged in conversation. I could barely hear them. And it seemed that their French conversation developed into a light debate on a topic familiar to both of them: classical music. Just to give you additional info, V currently works at the Belgium Opera.

What I heard from their inaudible argument was muffled words like Les asiatiques n’ont pas d’ame quand ils jouent la musique classique which roughly translates to,”Asians don’t have soul when they play classical music.” It was delivered as an opinion, one by V. V, whom I’ve known for quite a long time now, is one of Gui’s closest friends from preparatory school. He even added fuel to the fire when he insisted Ils ont de la technique mais pas de l’ame which translates to,”They have technique but they don’t have soul.”

Gui was a bit surprised by these words coming from his bff’s mouth. I, on the other hand, wasn’t too astounded. I’ve already noticed traces of bigotry even before. Meanwhile, the conversation has intensified and needed a bit of intervention. I slipped in a few jokes questioning the usage of the word Asiatiques.

What does one truly mean when they say “Asian.” Asia, as a continent, includes the middle-east, India, and Russia; or Asia as a culture, where you have Japan, China, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, Philippines and so on…

What do they truly mean? By “they” I mean the mainstream French discourse because this word has often been tossed around in discussions and light conversations. How do you make them understand the nuance?

Sometimes, I don’t really try. It’s tiring. It requires a lot of energy.

I’ve always told Gui that in our own little world we are equal. Yet outside is another story. Comments such as above are almost uninevitable when navigating my way through his culture.

But Gui is always surprised when he hears it. He always sees the good in people.

I took this little incident lightly. Unfortunately, it didn’t end there.

The climax happened the next day.

One Sunday morning, I was minding my own business when V asked one of us to shave his head, a task I was unskilled to embark. Gui took the razor and began the delicate job.

In my corner, I was reading an article about the parents’ of the Maute Brothers arrested in Davao. Then I heard V calling me out. I asked him to repeat. He then said in English, “I told my mother you take drugs.” Confused, I asked him, “Why?” He clarified,”I told her it’s common there.”

After that, my brain refused to listen. I quickly bursted into vitriolic French. I know, I didn’t even know I had it in me. Here is the translation:

“Why would you joke about that? Did you know that there are real people who are being used as drug mules and who actually die while doing it?”

Now pointing at Gui, “You cannot joke about that. That’s disgusting!”

I could sense my head spinning in panic. I also felt them trying to calm me down, waving apologies like white flags. Gui, my beloved, tried to reason that he didn’t make any joke of that sort. But I was already half way through the bedroom door.

I left the apartment. I left the building.

I strode along the street carrying sobs of anger and contempt. I thought about my activist friends, indigenous people, ordinary Filipinos, my family, and especially Ram.

I was releasing all the emotions I had bottled up for the past couple of days. I stopped walking and sat by the river weeping. After a few minutes, I was calmed by the stillness of the water, as if it’s listening. Sometimes, the abyss is a better friend than a human being. You can find refuge in your surroundings, in nature. You will never be judged. You are simply free.

The Maala-mo-kaya drama ended with a text from Gui. He told me he had cancelled the restaurant with V’s parents. He wanted me to text him whenever I was ready to see him.

After reading his message, I walked up to the city center and asked Gui to join me there. This time, I was sitting by the extended fountain. He joined me with a bottle of water and an oriental sandwich on hand.

I didn’t say anything. I took the sandwich and just started eating. One must after all ease anger with food.

Later that afternoon, we attended V’s expensive 10-minute performance. It was an opera by Verdi entitled Aida. You may google the story because I don’t want to discuss how they completely appropriated a story  of POCs and then casted mostly white actors to tell it for them.

Of course, Gui didn’t see anything wrong with it. As he said, it’s the performance that counts afterall.

After the show,  V greeted me with his incessant are-you-ok questions. Honestly, I wasn’t okay. But I mustered a smile and said, “I am.”

I hope life is kinder to you.

With love,

Catherine

A Mother’s Memory and Common Maladies

14:00

Bedroom

 

Dear Comrades,

I am writing you on my bed healing from an infectious disease. Here they call this one la varicelle. If you are familiar with the virus that causes liquidious super nova like rashes on your skin then you’ll figure out that it’s chicken pox. Yes, that dreaded day has come. My rite of passage at 28 years old. I think I know more about this illness than what I had for lunch yesterday. Is that what we do these days now? Google up our physical ailments until the paranoia kicks in?

Gui and I had been conducting an online investigation since his mother suggested it could be the malady. We were hoping amidst our search that she would be wrong. And that my mother, who was formerly responsible for me in times of sickness and in health, was right: I already had it before.

So I went to validate either claim from a professional, my medecin traitant. You see, here in France, every person has one. Normally, the traitant is a generalist. Mine is one and among other things. I think this guy has been collecting degrees since medical school. He is an osteopath, a homeopath, sport doctor and a mesotherapist. I don’t know what all of those credentials mean, but he is a straight up multi-tasker. Anyway, my doctor, Mr. B, checked my vitals and proceeded with his diagnosis. At first glance, it was clear to him that it was the pox. Although, as pox specialist was not included in his list of expertise, he recommended me to a dermatologist and set up the appointment himself for tomorrow. I like this guy. Très efficace.

The next day, Gui and I went to see the pox expert. At the time, he was doing rounds at the hospital, a place I thought I would never visit again since China. I’ll explain the latter in my future letters. Back to Mr. Pox. Navigating our way around un hôpital français wasn’t that difficult. As indicated on the panel, we headed straight to the 5th floor where he was to be found. When we got there, we ended up in a ward corridor. A nurse immediately noticed our puzzled expressions and asked who we were looking for. We said the name. She smirked and said, “Ah Doctor L, you’re in the right place. But with him, usually, you have to wait for 30-1 hr after.”

Knowing the appointment was a last minute one, we were ready to embark on the waiting game. In that hall, I saw a lot of sick people but especially sick old people. I was trying my best not to touch anybody or cough out infectious substances in the air. I felt nervous and ashamed. Since the day before, the rashes had already reached my face. My back was also teeming with these active volcanoes. Meanwhile, Gui tried to cheer me up to no avail. I was too distracted by the pangs of pain I was feeling on my back. I longed yet dreaded to find out the truth from Doc L. Finally, after one hour, he appeared.

At his office, he received us with mundane bureaucratic questions. He asked for my carte vitale, the sought-after French health card. Whenever I get sick, this piece of plastic allows me to avail 70% coverage (sometimes it depends on the practitioner). Gui’s complementary health insurance, la mutuelle, then fills in the rest (still depends on the policy coverage). After the administrative proceedings, Doc took a well look at me and confirmed it was what I had expected it to be. He was just perplexed why one would have it the second time. It does happen but it’s rare. He then checked something on his computer but explained he couldn’t prescribe anything without a registration. So I sent Gui to do it for me at the reception and continue the task at hand. Gui left. Meanwhile, Doc L wanted to take a closer look. He even took a picture. He explained to me he was going to send the photo to other doctors for a second opinion. They probably have a social network for pox experts and other skin maladies. At 1 pm, he was unable to get a response, seen-zoned by munching specialists.

So he stayed true to his initial diagnosis and began writing his prescription. He gave me four different treatments. One was a painkiller, he warned that I should never take aspirin. I told him that it’s too late I had already taken one. He said c’est pas grave. The second one was a pill that would easily put me to slumber. The third one was a cream to be applied when scabbing begins. Lastly, an anti-bacterial shower gel to clean up the rashes. I’d never received such amount of medicine, all more or else reimbursed by l’assurance maladie. He mumbled something about another one that was not covered by the insurance he was hesitating if he would write it or not. In the end, he didn’t. Finally, he sent me off with a warning about my respiratory system and auto-immune diseases. If something serious happened, I should contact him immediately. I told him I didn’t have any of those diseases but he insisted it would be better if we were sure. So he led me out and asked me to wait for the nurse for a blood test. At the time, Gui arrived. He recounted why it took him a long time. Something about not lining up at the proper kiosk. Meanwhile, the nurse arrived with his equipment in tow. He shoved the needle into my veins. And extracted what he needed. After the transaction, I asked him what type of test would they be performing. He didn’t say anything and just showed me the paper. I didn’t understand the other two but I got one notable one: HIV.

We left the establishment with our suspicions calmed. It has been one week since then. I still have one more week of recovery to do. For the past few days, I’ve been isolated from the family. Gui brings the food every night and accompanies me during dinner time. I’ve also spent days brooding over my existence, especially my presence in France. I coupled the melancholic activity by watching tragic documentaries on Netflix. I really don’t know if I’ll be able to overcome this phase of extreme physical and mental exhaustion. Only time will tell. But judging from past experience, I always pick myself up from the lowest of low.

I know my letter hasn’t been chirpy since the first one. That’s why you just have to keep reading until the light shines on me.

Take care,

Catherine

P.S. I confronted my mother about her memory of that day. She admitted that she actually didn’t remember the pox epidemic at home well. It turns out I left Capiz for Davao before it even happened. I was spared that day. But how I wish I wasn’t.

Not a Warm Blue Sea on a Sunny Day

4:10PM, Sunday
At the balcony

Dear Friends,

I will begin this letter with an image: two small, sweaty boys are playing basketball right now at the balcony of my friends’ house. The brothers – one is an adorable one-year-old boy who keeps muttering gleeful gibberish; the other, his sweet, older brother who just turned seven yesterday – keep to their little game of tossing the ball up and chasing it down as it bounces on the tiled floor. This seemingly repetitive act goes on for a minute or two until the older one slowly gets tired and decides to play with their cousin who emerges from the house carrying pink and blue balloons, while the young one is left to play on his own and his one-year-old little world.

I find comfort looking at this image unfolding before me — all the innocence and the easiness and the playfulness of what seems to appear to them as life. How I wish life were as easy as what they all think!

The past days have all been but exhausting for me, I must say. I say this in retrospect if only to paint a picture of my life from my twenty-seven-year-old lens over things that have transpired a few days ago.

Teaching and Thailand  

I assume it’s common knowledge (at least to one of you) that I was supposed to leave for Thailand this month. On the 8^th of August to be exact. But as it turns out, here I am still, in this small city, stuck in my online job. That I let the opportunity pass by so quickly and quietly was something I thought I could’ve just easily let go for all the reasons and excuses I’ve had in mind. But thoughts, I realize, have their own uncanny ways of quietly taking their own time to sink rock bottom, and it’s only when you hear their final thud that the sound begins to reverberate and echo. You feel it everywhere in your body, this choking feeling that your thoughts have finally arrived and settled to a full stop, and that your ability to listen in the silence that ensues becomes sharper.

I felt disappointed at myself. For the second time around, I have failed in my attempt to move to another country and pursue my passion which is to teach English. These days I feel an overwhelming sense of uncertainty about my skills and abilities. The last time I taught in a classroom was a year ago, and now I feel like my knowledge has become rustic and outdated. I was angry at myself and my situation.  About a week before my departure, I came down with a strange kind of fever which lasted for three days. During this time, I felt scared at the idea of moving to a foreign land all alone and with the idea that I might still be sick once I get there. But the worse blow was receiving an email from my employer that my position has been filled. Because while I was busy earning enough money for my plane tickets and being able to finally book them later on, everything was too late.

Writing

I figured I needed to earn more. My online job right now as a marketing specialist may sound like an ideal job, but it doesn’t pay that much. So I decided to apply for another job as a copywriter.

The task seemed simple enough. On my first try, I was told to write a 500-word article about carpet cleaning, which I needed to complete within an hour. As with all copywriting tasks, you’re expected to research about the topic then work your own magic by coming up with a new article. After an hour, I was only able to write about 200 words. Disappointment engulfed me like a thick blanket. I was anxious. I sent my draft anyway and within a few minutes got a feedback about my writing. It said that my writing was choppy and didn’t seem to have undergone any proofreading. I was crushed.

Did I want another shot at it? Already feeling defeated but wanting to prove the employer wrong, I gave it a go. This time I was asked to write about bail bond companies. The result was still the same, but he seemed not to give up on me. (I wanted to hug him this time. Call it life’s little mercies!) He asked me to write 4 articles which I will be sending to his email the next day no later than 3PM. I was only able to write two. I sent them at 2PM and enclosed a short message:

“Hi Ed,

Out of 4 articles, I was only able to write 2. One of the great things I learned about this exercise is how much I need to improve on this field. I have to say that in the process of writing these 2 articles, I realized two things: one, brevity in writing and writing under time pressure; and two, enjoying what I’m writing about.  

I’m sending you my two articles because I’d like you to know that I tried. I would appreciate your comments if you decide to share them with me after reading what I just wrote. But it’s all up to you.

Moving forward, I realize I’m not the ideal candidate you’re looking for. But thank you for being encouraging. I sincerely hope you find a writer that meets your standards. Good luck in your endeavors.

All the best,
Aaron”  

Surrendering is either an act of bravery or a sign of defeat. But sometimes, not knowing which is which in a given situation is enough of a thought. At least for the time-being.

Alcohol, Social Situations and Conflict

Three days ago, I received a text message from a friend. It was a sudden invitation to go to Siquijor island for a day or two. I was broke, but she assured me she would take care of everything. Feeling the need for a new environment, I hastily said yes to her and took the last boat trip to the island.

To my surprise, I didn’t expect that a big party was happening there. I also didn’t expect that another friend was tagging along. So the three of us partied, and after a while we ended up at our resort with a few new bunch of guys — five young Dutch men who apparently lived right next to our cottage and two Israeli guys who joined us for another round of drinks.

So the evening went fine until naturally everybody got drunk. The next day, I was told by my friend A that at first, they liked my sarcasm until one of the Dutch guys and me began talking about politics and friendship. Later on in the afternoon, this guy would tell me that amidst my drunkenness I began sounding racist to him and that when he’d said we’re all friends and he still considered me a friend, I’d began to question his idea of friendship, the idea being that I didn’t want to consider him a “friend” on the basis that this was the first time we just met. My friend A defended him, saying that he was an emotional type of guy, and that his feelings were hurt, and that I was an asshole.

I apologized. He gladly accepted my apology and understood that everyone was just drunk. On our last night, we gathered for the last time and decided to have a blast. We exchanged songs we love to hear, we played them on the speakers, we talked about many things. As the night progressed and everyone got drunk, everyone decided to retire to their rooms. I was left with the Israeli guy while we kept talking about politics, the details of which none of us remembered the next day. At around six in the morning, he jokingly carried me to my room, and we made some raucous noise on the way. Suddenly my friend A yelled at us for being noisy and threw an empty bottle to the floor outside the room.

Minutes later, the manager showed up with a few tourist police. One of them asked what happened, and I explained the situation to him, making sure that all of us did not intend to make a scene. I approached A and tried to calm her down, but she became more furious. The manager asked us to leave, but the Israeli guy pleaded to her, asking if we could just check out at 12 noon. It was 9AM. But my friend A insisted that we leave, and out of all the confusion, I realized my friends left me with them.

With no money with me, I had no choice but to stay with the Israeli guys. The Dutch guys were still asleep in their own cottage. The three of us decided to take some more rest and head out after a couple of hours.

The ride going home was an experience I would never forget. To be in the hands of two strangers who shouldn’t be having any responsibility over me in the first place yet who took it upon their hands to pay for my fare so all of us could go back to Dumaguete was too much for me to handle. Yet I had to swallow my pride and accept their kindness.

These Days

So all these things are running in my head these days, and I’ve only been able to sit down and write about them right now, but I’m glad I did. Yesterday, Loleeta and I had a little talk about our friendship: our uncertainties, what frustrates us about each other and our behavior, our tendencies toward silence, the differences in our personalities. The point being that we want to clarify things that perplex us about each other. But I will not talk about that in this letter.

So ladies, life for me these days doesn’t look like the warm blue sea on a sunny day. But I hope that I will arrive at a place of clarity about myself and the decisions I’ve made the last couple of days as well as the decisions I will make in the future. I know this is just temporary. Maybe in my next letter I will have made more sense about the anecdotes I’ve written here. Please whisper a prayer for me!

Here’s to hoping all’s well wherever you are right now. I look forward to hearing more stories from you – the good, the bad, and the ugly!

Kisses from the city of gentle people.

Aaron