Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
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Barrio Tales
~
Nobody Plays Our Song
I am very, very tired from work today. But Celso called, and I had no choice but to listen. Dear reader, forgive any faults in my English as I attempt to recount what Celso told me:
---
"Indang Biring, Indang Biring," I kept calling her name, again and again, but she just sat there weeping. Quietly. Not sobbing, not wailing—just a low, relentless kind of weeping. The kind that sits heavy on a chest and doesn’t stop.
She said, “You are my only family, Celso. I am an old woman now. Who will be with me when I die?”
“But you won’t die, Indang Biring,” I said. “Just look at you—your mind’s still sharp as a blade, you’ve barely got gray hair. You walk like a bull, like you used to when Mother and Father were still alive and you worked the fields, lifted hogs, drove the horses during harvest. Indang Biring, you’ll probably outlive us all.”
Still, she wept.
“But how can I stay here?” I pleaded. “Do you know what it’s like every time it rains? I gather empty cans, pails, pots—anything—to catch the leaks. We don’t have money to fix the roof. My teaching salary barely feeds us. My eldest will soon start college—where will I get the money for that? What am I supposed to do? These damn flies—why are they always here, buzzing, biting, never leaving?”
“Look outside, Indang Biring. Look at the garbage piling up. Look at the trees—drying out, dying, one by one. Look at the children born here every day—don’t you feel it? The crowding? The suffocation? The slow drowning?”
“These kids, they’re dropping out of school. Wandering the streets. Getting lost. Some are already sniffing glue—because hunger is easier to forget that way. And the girls, Indang Biring… I won’t even tell you what happens to them.”
“And still, you cry. Still, you hope. But no amount of crying will change anything. No amount of praying. No one cares about people like us anymore in this country.”
“This country only listens to the ones in power. The fat pigs in offices. Look at them—so full, so bloated, sitting on their thrones, barking at each other over petty things, while the rest of us… while I…”
“I stay up past midnight planning lessons. I wake at dawn to prepare the kids for school, cook what little food we have, sweep the backyard. The flies, always the flies. Then I go to school and teach—teach like I’m talking to trees. My pupils—they’re too hungry, too broken to listen. They daydream about meals, about being on TV, about escaping. Algebra means nothing when your stomach’s empty.”
“So what’s the point, Indang Biring? What can I do?”
“I hoped someone up there would notice. That maybe, one day, our leaders would talk about people like us. I hoped they’d come here and see how we live, how we teach, how we try. But they don’t. They don’t even look our way.”
“Turn on the radio. Watch the TV. It’s all about them. Always them. Never us. It’s as if this country was built only for them.”
“I’m tired of trying to make them care. I’m tired of screaming into silence.”
“And then…”
“Rene. One of my brightest pupils. His father died last week. Tuberculosis. No money for medicine. I went to the funeral. Rene sat there, still. Just staring at his father's body—no tears, just confusion. He looked lost. Then he looked at me.”
“And I swear, Indang Biring, I got scared. Deep down, bone-deep scared. Because someday, that boy might come to me. Not as a child, but as a man. And he might ask me: *What did you do, Teacher? When we were starving, when we were hurting—what did you do?*”
“And what would I say, Indang Biring? What could I possibly say?”
“That I was silent?”
“That I stood by while this town rotted?”
“That I didn’t fight the lies or the theft or the filth of it all?”
“That I watched young lives unravel and did nothing but whisper prayers into the wind?”
“No. I can’t do that. I can’t stay here and grow old under the weight of my own silence.”
“So I’m leaving. I have to. Maybe abroad, I’ll find a way to send money. Maybe abroad, I’ll finally learn to scream—to scream loud enough to be heard.”
“Don’t cry anymore, Indang Biring. Please don’t.”
“But maybe… maybe it was your fault too. You didn’t do anything either. Ah these pestering flies. When will they ever leave us?”
2025-04-04 06:25:43
barrio
Apung Belto is now in his nineties. He was admitted to the hospital after a fall, resulting in a hip fracture. He recently underwent what they call *open reduction internal fixation* for his hip, and I’m his Physical Therapist (hey, there’s nothing wrong with promoting my profession). Speaking of which, I should mention that Apung Belto used to be a journalist, back in the days of "nineteen kopung-kopong," and, man, he is one learned man.
One time, he started complaining about how bad the hospital staff was, and I made the mistake of judging him. "You’re an opinionated man," I said. *Man, I shouldn’t have said that.* I really shouldn't have.
A few days after his surgery, I managed to get him up despite his barrage of protestations. When he was well enough, he beckoned me to sit by his chair, close the door, and then... he spoke. What he gave me was more of a lecture than a conversation.
He sat in his chair with newspapers spread in front of him. I still can’t believe that despite his age, he doesn’t need glasses. He reads and interprets what he reads more sharply than many learned people I know.
"To begin with," he said, "I am not opinionated, I present facts. I used to write for the papers in our country. So don’t be surprised, and don’t ask why I have all these newspapers in front of me. I can still read, y'know. Once a newspaperman, always a newspaperman."
"I don’t really know if my thoughts will matter to you, but is it just me, or are Filipino newspapers becoming propaganda machines? There’s this one paper that’s *so* focused – and I mean really focused! – on tearing down *The Politician*. Then there’s another paper, full of praises for him. And then, there’s this so-called investigative magazine that seems to be hiding in the bushes all the time, like some cat scavenging trash bins at night... and voila! Out comes a magazine that specializes in garbage. It’s one of those paparazzi-type rags, just waiting for you to make a mistake, hoping you'd drop your pants – and then, *click!*"
"This never happened in my time. When I was young, journalists didn’t dare mix their personal opinions with their reporting. Opinionated thoughts belong in fiction or literature. We might have reservations about this or that, but those were always expressed privately, or reinterpreted through fiction."
"Reporting the state of affairs, whether opinion or news, was always presented with a balanced perspective. If one person accuses another, I wouldn’t dare publish that accusation without getting the other side's rebuttal. That’s democracy."
"Now, let me ask you, what’s your opinion about what you read in the papers, Alex Maskara, my PT?"
I shrugged. "Apung Belto, I don’t give a shit. Journalists can write whatever they want to write, just like I can write whatever I want – though of course, they’re getting paid by the public, and I’m not."
"Bingo!" Apung Belto exclaimed. "That’s the key. There’s a difference between getting paid to write and writing for yourself. If you’re a newspaperman, you’re paid to present news, and it’s your responsibility to present that news in a balanced way. Why? Because for every reader who agrees with one side, there’s another expecting to read the other side. At least in fiction, readers won’t buy your stuff if they don’t like it. But to be one-sided and call yourself a journalist? That’s an abomination in my book. You’ve crossed over into propaganda – like an advertising machine. It’s unfair to the public to promote your personal agenda in the name of journalism. Those agendas should be expressed in non-paying forums."
"Like blogs?" I volunteered.
"Yes, like blogs. Blogs are neutral ground, especially since readers can respond to your posts. That’s where you can push whatever agenda you want. But when you write for public consumption, and you’re getting paid for it, you have to be as balanced and objective as possible."
(Here, Apung Belto paused, as if reminding himself of something.) "If I were to blog my thoughts, they wouldn’t matter to you or to anyone else."
"Why not, Apung Belto?"
"Because after ninety years on this earth, the only thing that matters is how honest I am with my feelings. What matters is being true to myself – not adjusting my feelings based on what society thinks. That’s probably why I survived as a journalist. I removed my feelings. To me, a stone is a stone. If it hits the water, I report how the stone hit the water and how it caused waves. I wouldn’t dare talk about the stone and ignore the wave."
Apung Belto wanted me to stay with him a bit longer, but I had other patients to see. I didn’t agree or disagree with him because, honestly, I didn’t care.
I’m a working man, paid for my services, and those services are meant to produce results. If I listened to every patient’s complaints, they’d all stay in their beds, dying one by one. Anyone who's had orthopedic surgery doesn’t want to be touched. But I push them. I *force* my way into their lives because that’s my job, and that’s how I get paid. I *know* they’ll die if I don’t move them.
And in my private time, when I write and blog, I express my thoughts the way anyone does. I’m free – and irresponsible. No one’s going to die if I write something that isn’t exactly “right.” It’s the responsibility of those educated and tasked to write for the public to improve society through their work. If they think being propagandists is the way to save the country, so be it.
Because in the end, all my writings and thoughts will become irrelevant. That’s life. We all turn old and irrelevant.
What matters is my sincerity in what I do today – to grow old and die with a smile on my lips, knowing I gave the best I could, even if it’s never enough.
It will never be enough. And that’s okay. It’s always okay with me.
2024-11-11 11:26:04
barrio
Indang Biring
Nobody Plays Our Song
I am very, very tired from work today. But Celso called, and I had no choice but to listen. Dear reader, forgive any faults in my English as I attempt to recount what Celso told me:
---
"Indang Biring, Indang Biring," I kept calling her name, again and again, but she just sat there weeping. Quietly. Not sobbing, not wailing—just a low, relentless kind of weeping. The kind that sits heavy on a chest and doesn’t stop.
She said, “You are my only family, Celso. I am an old woman now. Who will be with me when I die?”
“But you won’t die, Indang Biring,” I said. “Just look at you—your mind’s still sharp as a blade, you’ve barely got gray hair. You walk like a bull, like you used to when Mother and Father were still alive and you worked the fields, lifted hogs, drove the horses during harvest. Indang Biring, you’ll probably outlive us all.”
Still, she wept.
“But how can I stay here?” I pleaded. “Do you know what it’s like every time it rains? I gather empty cans, pails, pots—anything—to catch the leaks. We don’t have money to fix the roof. My teaching salary barely feeds us. My eldest will soon start college—where will I get the money for that? What am I supposed to do? These damn flies—why are they always here, buzzing, biting, never leaving?”
“Look outside, Indang Biring. Look at the garbage piling up. Look at the trees—drying out, dying, one by one. Look at the children born here every day—don’t you feel it? The crowding? The suffocation? The slow drowning?”
“These kids, they’re dropping out of school. Wandering the streets. Getting lost. Some are already sniffing glue—because hunger is easier to forget that way. And the girls, Indang Biring… I won’t even tell you what happens to them.”
“And still, you cry. Still, you hope. But no amount of crying will change anything. No amount of praying. No one cares about people like us anymore in this country.”
“This country only listens to the ones in power. The fat pigs in offices. Look at them—so full, so bloated, sitting on their thrones, barking at each other over petty things, while the rest of us… while I…”
“I stay up past midnight planning lessons. I wake at dawn to prepare the kids for school, cook what little food we have, sweep the backyard. The flies, always the flies. Then I go to school and teach—teach like I’m talking to trees. My pupils—they’re too hungry, too broken to listen. They daydream about meals, about being on TV, about escaping. Algebra means nothing when your stomach’s empty.”
“So what’s the point, Indang Biring? What can I do?”
“I hoped someone up there would notice. That maybe, one day, our leaders would talk about people like us. I hoped they’d come here and see how we live, how we teach, how we try. But they don’t. They don’t even look our way.”
“Turn on the radio. Watch the TV. It’s all about them. Always them. Never us. It’s as if this country was built only for them.”
“I’m tired of trying to make them care. I’m tired of screaming into silence.”
“And then…”
“Rene. One of my brightest pupils. His father died last week. Tuberculosis. No money for medicine. I went to the funeral. Rene sat there, still. Just staring at his father's body—no tears, just confusion. He looked lost. Then he looked at me.”
“And I swear, Indang Biring, I got scared. Deep down, bone-deep scared. Because someday, that boy might come to me. Not as a child, but as a man. And he might ask me: *What did you do, Teacher? When we were starving, when we were hurting—what did you do?*”
“And what would I say, Indang Biring? What could I possibly say?”
“That I was silent?”
“That I stood by while this town rotted?”
“That I didn’t fight the lies or the theft or the filth of it all?”
“That I watched young lives unravel and did nothing but whisper prayers into the wind?”
“No. I can’t do that. I can’t stay here and grow old under the weight of my own silence.”
“So I’m leaving. I have to. Maybe abroad, I’ll find a way to send money. Maybe abroad, I’ll finally learn to scream—to scream loud enough to be heard.”
“Don’t cry anymore, Indang Biring. Please don’t.”
“But maybe… maybe it was your fault too. You didn’t do anything either. Ah these pestering flies. When will they ever leave us?”
2025-04-04 06:25:43
barrio
Apung Belto
Apung Belto is now in his nineties. He was admitted to the hospital after a fall, resulting in a hip fracture. He recently underwent what they call *open reduction internal fixation* for his hip, and I’m his Physical Therapist (hey, there’s nothing wrong with promoting my profession). Speaking of which, I should mention that Apung Belto used to be a journalist, back in the days of "nineteen kopung-kopong," and, man, he is one learned man.
One time, he started complaining about how bad the hospital staff was, and I made the mistake of judging him. "You’re an opinionated man," I said. *Man, I shouldn’t have said that.* I really shouldn't have.
A few days after his surgery, I managed to get him up despite his barrage of protestations. When he was well enough, he beckoned me to sit by his chair, close the door, and then... he spoke. What he gave me was more of a lecture than a conversation.
He sat in his chair with newspapers spread in front of him. I still can’t believe that despite his age, he doesn’t need glasses. He reads and interprets what he reads more sharply than many learned people I know.
"To begin with," he said, "I am not opinionated, I present facts. I used to write for the papers in our country. So don’t be surprised, and don’t ask why I have all these newspapers in front of me. I can still read, y'know. Once a newspaperman, always a newspaperman."
"I don’t really know if my thoughts will matter to you, but is it just me, or are Filipino newspapers becoming propaganda machines? There’s this one paper that’s *so* focused – and I mean really focused! – on tearing down *The Politician*. Then there’s another paper, full of praises for him. And then, there’s this so-called investigative magazine that seems to be hiding in the bushes all the time, like some cat scavenging trash bins at night... and voila! Out comes a magazine that specializes in garbage. It’s one of those paparazzi-type rags, just waiting for you to make a mistake, hoping you'd drop your pants – and then, *click!*"
"This never happened in my time. When I was young, journalists didn’t dare mix their personal opinions with their reporting. Opinionated thoughts belong in fiction or literature. We might have reservations about this or that, but those were always expressed privately, or reinterpreted through fiction."
"Reporting the state of affairs, whether opinion or news, was always presented with a balanced perspective. If one person accuses another, I wouldn’t dare publish that accusation without getting the other side's rebuttal. That’s democracy."
"Now, let me ask you, what’s your opinion about what you read in the papers, Alex Maskara, my PT?"
I shrugged. "Apung Belto, I don’t give a shit. Journalists can write whatever they want to write, just like I can write whatever I want – though of course, they’re getting paid by the public, and I’m not."
"Bingo!" Apung Belto exclaimed. "That’s the key. There’s a difference between getting paid to write and writing for yourself. If you’re a newspaperman, you’re paid to present news, and it’s your responsibility to present that news in a balanced way. Why? Because for every reader who agrees with one side, there’s another expecting to read the other side. At least in fiction, readers won’t buy your stuff if they don’t like it. But to be one-sided and call yourself a journalist? That’s an abomination in my book. You’ve crossed over into propaganda – like an advertising machine. It’s unfair to the public to promote your personal agenda in the name of journalism. Those agendas should be expressed in non-paying forums."
"Like blogs?" I volunteered.
"Yes, like blogs. Blogs are neutral ground, especially since readers can respond to your posts. That’s where you can push whatever agenda you want. But when you write for public consumption, and you’re getting paid for it, you have to be as balanced and objective as possible."
(Here, Apung Belto paused, as if reminding himself of something.) "If I were to blog my thoughts, they wouldn’t matter to you or to anyone else."
"Why not, Apung Belto?"
"Because after ninety years on this earth, the only thing that matters is how honest I am with my feelings. What matters is being true to myself – not adjusting my feelings based on what society thinks. That’s probably why I survived as a journalist. I removed my feelings. To me, a stone is a stone. If it hits the water, I report how the stone hit the water and how it caused waves. I wouldn’t dare talk about the stone and ignore the wave."
Apung Belto wanted me to stay with him a bit longer, but I had other patients to see. I didn’t agree or disagree with him because, honestly, I didn’t care.
I’m a working man, paid for my services, and those services are meant to produce results. If I listened to every patient’s complaints, they’d all stay in their beds, dying one by one. Anyone who's had orthopedic surgery doesn’t want to be touched. But I push them. I *force* my way into their lives because that’s my job, and that’s how I get paid. I *know* they’ll die if I don’t move them.
And in my private time, when I write and blog, I express my thoughts the way anyone does. I’m free – and irresponsible. No one’s going to die if I write something that isn’t exactly “right.” It’s the responsibility of those educated and tasked to write for the public to improve society through their work. If they think being propagandists is the way to save the country, so be it.
Because in the end, all my writings and thoughts will become irrelevant. That’s life. We all turn old and irrelevant.
What matters is my sincerity in what I do today – to grow old and die with a smile on my lips, knowing I gave the best I could, even if it’s never enough.
It will never be enough. And that’s okay. It’s always okay with me.
2024-11-11 11:26:04
barrio