Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
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Short Stories
~
(written early 2000s)
You are probably not interested in his story, the story of Miguel. It is not one filled with laughter, philosophy, or life-altering lessons. It is written in poor English, broken like his heart. And you know what a broken heart is—it weeps with blood. Blood that floods the brain, making it go crazy. Sad, dirty blood. And Miguel washes it away with wine. Wine cleanses his mind, scrubs it empty. Reality, memories, dreams—gone, at least for a while.
Sometimes it is difficult to understand his English, but don't worry. You'll get it. It won't hurt you if you keep hearing him repeat himself. You understand? His English is gathered from the groves where he picks oranges, from the women who sell their bodies, from the men who sell their souls, from bars that pour cerveza negra, and from Taco Bell. It is tangled with prayers to the Lord Jesus Christ and punctuated with the echoes of home. "Hola, my life is fine, Teresita," he says into a prepaid calling card, standing inside a phone booth by the side of the road.
Dressed like a farmer ready to cultivate an entire continent, he holds the receiver against his ear, unmindful of the cars rushing past, their drivers either oblivious to his existence or fully aware of his non-existence. Ay caramba.
He once arrived in this country well-dressed, with good manners and great confidence. But now, reduced to second-hand clothes from Salvation Army, he wonders—who here in the USA cares to see him dressed as handsomely as he once was? Who even cares to see him at all? Standing by the roadside, his eyes plead with passing drivers. "Have you a job for me?"
And the jobs he takes—less than minimum wage—lifting, pushing, shoveling, cultivating, digging, planting, cementing, cleaning, washing. What is left? Every kind of labor except the one he trained for.
Back home, he was an accountant. But what is an accountant's worth in a place where numbers do not add up to survival?
You see, in his home country, you can have many decent things—education, love, romance, respect, dignity, honor, history, friendships—but without money, they all crumble into dust. Here, he has no home, no family, no full grasp of the language. But that does not matter. What matters is that he has muscles, silence, servitude. He will not flinch if poked, spat at, cursed, treated like dirt. Because at the end of the day, for real, at the end, he earns dinero. Yeah, dolares, for real. Money—that’s what counts. Everything else can wait. It doesn’t matter how he is treated in Gringo-land. Who cares, as long as he can feed himself and send something back home?
Miguel places the receiver back on the hook. He turns his gaze to the long, winding road, so clean, so well-kept. Thanks to workers like him, America remains beautiful.
Every day, cada día, he learns more about the Gringo system. He notices that hard work is rewarded here. There is no such thing as a low-class job as long as you pay taxes (but he is still illegal) and commit no public scandal or crime (so far). In Gringo-land, you can live your life, mind your business, and no one will bother you—so long as you follow the rules. And so, he will be here—weeks, months, years, even forever—until he becomes one of them. A Gringo who pays taxes. A Gringo who is treated as an equal.
This plastic calling card in his pocket—someday, it will transform into an American Express card. Or Visa. Or Mastercard. How does he get there from here?
Miguel sits by the roadside, plotting his future. He can marry a Gringa. He might be lucky and receive amnesty from some politician looking for votes. He could enroll in an American school, become a nurse like the Filipinos. He could start a landscaping business and apply for a business visa. So many possibilities, yet all seem just out of reach.
Today, he cannot even find someone to hire him. Is this what life is meant to be? Born in a poor country, drawn to a land of promise, only to scrape by, endlessly scheming for a way to belong?
He is a migratory bird, flying toward abundance, hoping it will last long enough for him to blend in, to become a native. But how long will it take to acquire the plumage of the local birds, to fly like them, live like them, build a nest like them?
The other migratory birds have scattered. They once flew together, but now they part ways, each seeking a branch to call their own. There is no more flock, only solitary wanderers, drifting in limbo, chasing a dream that is both near and impossibly far.
And he has chosen Gringo-land. But where does he begin?
2025-03-14 02:51:53
shortstories
### Measure of Success
“It is over,” he said.
As those words fell from his lips, the entire nation erupted into sorrow. "Apu," they cried, "don’t leave us! We are lost without you. You are our hero, our greatest writer, our leader, our philosopher…”
“Enough, you idiots!” he thundered, pressing his hands against his ears. His voice cracked like a whip, silencing their pleas. “Enough with your empty praises and hollow words. Stop speaking, you spineless, witless masses! Let me not hear another word from any of you.”
With that, he slammed the door, shutting out the world. From that moment, no one dared approach him. Whispers spread—had their hero gone mad?
He had not lost his mind. He had simply withdrawn to understand the measure of his life. Standing by the window, he gazed out at the city—his city, his country. His chin rested heavily on the cold steel frame of the very window through which thieves had crept countless times. A window that bore silent witness to the slow decay of his land and its people.
The streets were filled with the wretched poor. Divisions among the populace ran deep, sanitation was nonexistent, and the bridges were crumbling relics of a forgotten time. The fish in the ponds carried poison, infecting the minds of his people with dullness and apathy. Their weak thinking mirrored their poisoned state. Kindness was mocked; reform was futile. The only certainty in the land was uncertainty itself. Why, he cried inwardly, why had it all come to this?
He was revered as the greatest mind his country had ever known. He had ensured that no one else could achieve anything close to his brilliance. When confronted by political adversaries, he demolished them with sharp, unforgiving words, leaving them incapable of challenging him. His enemies conspired to kill him, but he outmaneuvered them, turning their schemes inward until they destroyed one another.
Through his daily newspaper columns, he sowed suspicion across the land. “Everyone is guilty of something,” he proclaimed, and the people, awed by his eloquence, believed him. His influence was so pervasive that the nation began to think, speak, and write as he did. To his followers, no one—whether politician, businessman, student, parent, priest, Catholic, or Muslim—was beyond reproach. Everyone was guilty until proven otherwise.
His philosophy was simple: to rise above others, tear them down. To smell sweet, ensure that everyone else reeks. To be superior, humiliate all who stand below. The philosophy was so easy to follow, it worked flawlessly. He became the best-smelling, most superior man in the country.
And so, everyone else failed. Failure became his country’s destiny.
By the end of his life, he was the most beloved figure in a nation of crooks. Yet he lived in constant fear of assassination. His home, fortified with the most advanced security systems, stood as a fortress against the desperate neighbors who had turned to theft and kidnapping to survive. His brilliant ideas, immortalized in writing, lay unread by an increasingly illiterate nation. He was celebrated as the greatest because he had silenced all who dared disagree. He was a philosopher in a country that no longer knew how to think.
On the night of his death, he reflected on it all—his victories, his philosophy, his legacy.
“It is over,” he said.
2024-11-30 12:58:08
shortstories
Migratory Bird
(written early 2000s)
You are probably not interested in his story, the story of Miguel. It is not one filled with laughter, philosophy, or life-altering lessons. It is written in poor English, broken like his heart. And you know what a broken heart is—it weeps with blood. Blood that floods the brain, making it go crazy. Sad, dirty blood. And Miguel washes it away with wine. Wine cleanses his mind, scrubs it empty. Reality, memories, dreams—gone, at least for a while.
Sometimes it is difficult to understand his English, but don't worry. You'll get it. It won't hurt you if you keep hearing him repeat himself. You understand? His English is gathered from the groves where he picks oranges, from the women who sell their bodies, from the men who sell their souls, from bars that pour cerveza negra, and from Taco Bell. It is tangled with prayers to the Lord Jesus Christ and punctuated with the echoes of home. "Hola, my life is fine, Teresita," he says into a prepaid calling card, standing inside a phone booth by the side of the road.
Dressed like a farmer ready to cultivate an entire continent, he holds the receiver against his ear, unmindful of the cars rushing past, their drivers either oblivious to his existence or fully aware of his non-existence. Ay caramba.
He once arrived in this country well-dressed, with good manners and great confidence. But now, reduced to second-hand clothes from Salvation Army, he wonders—who here in the USA cares to see him dressed as handsomely as he once was? Who even cares to see him at all? Standing by the roadside, his eyes plead with passing drivers. "Have you a job for me?"
And the jobs he takes—less than minimum wage—lifting, pushing, shoveling, cultivating, digging, planting, cementing, cleaning, washing. What is left? Every kind of labor except the one he trained for.
Back home, he was an accountant. But what is an accountant's worth in a place where numbers do not add up to survival?
You see, in his home country, you can have many decent things—education, love, romance, respect, dignity, honor, history, friendships—but without money, they all crumble into dust. Here, he has no home, no family, no full grasp of the language. But that does not matter. What matters is that he has muscles, silence, servitude. He will not flinch if poked, spat at, cursed, treated like dirt. Because at the end of the day, for real, at the end, he earns dinero. Yeah, dolares, for real. Money—that’s what counts. Everything else can wait. It doesn’t matter how he is treated in Gringo-land. Who cares, as long as he can feed himself and send something back home?
Miguel places the receiver back on the hook. He turns his gaze to the long, winding road, so clean, so well-kept. Thanks to workers like him, America remains beautiful.
Every day, cada día, he learns more about the Gringo system. He notices that hard work is rewarded here. There is no such thing as a low-class job as long as you pay taxes (but he is still illegal) and commit no public scandal or crime (so far). In Gringo-land, you can live your life, mind your business, and no one will bother you—so long as you follow the rules. And so, he will be here—weeks, months, years, even forever—until he becomes one of them. A Gringo who pays taxes. A Gringo who is treated as an equal.
This plastic calling card in his pocket—someday, it will transform into an American Express card. Or Visa. Or Mastercard. How does he get there from here?
Miguel sits by the roadside, plotting his future. He can marry a Gringa. He might be lucky and receive amnesty from some politician looking for votes. He could enroll in an American school, become a nurse like the Filipinos. He could start a landscaping business and apply for a business visa. So many possibilities, yet all seem just out of reach.
Today, he cannot even find someone to hire him. Is this what life is meant to be? Born in a poor country, drawn to a land of promise, only to scrape by, endlessly scheming for a way to belong?
He is a migratory bird, flying toward abundance, hoping it will last long enough for him to blend in, to become a native. But how long will it take to acquire the plumage of the local birds, to fly like them, live like them, build a nest like them?
The other migratory birds have scattered. They once flew together, but now they part ways, each seeking a branch to call their own. There is no more flock, only solitary wanderers, drifting in limbo, chasing a dream that is both near and impossibly far.
And he has chosen Gringo-land. But where does he begin?
2025-03-14 02:51:53
shortstories
Measure of Success
### Measure of Success
“It is over,” he said.
As those words fell from his lips, the entire nation erupted into sorrow. "Apu," they cried, "don’t leave us! We are lost without you. You are our hero, our greatest writer, our leader, our philosopher…”
“Enough, you idiots!” he thundered, pressing his hands against his ears. His voice cracked like a whip, silencing their pleas. “Enough with your empty praises and hollow words. Stop speaking, you spineless, witless masses! Let me not hear another word from any of you.”
With that, he slammed the door, shutting out the world. From that moment, no one dared approach him. Whispers spread—had their hero gone mad?
He had not lost his mind. He had simply withdrawn to understand the measure of his life. Standing by the window, he gazed out at the city—his city, his country. His chin rested heavily on the cold steel frame of the very window through which thieves had crept countless times. A window that bore silent witness to the slow decay of his land and its people.
The streets were filled with the wretched poor. Divisions among the populace ran deep, sanitation was nonexistent, and the bridges were crumbling relics of a forgotten time. The fish in the ponds carried poison, infecting the minds of his people with dullness and apathy. Their weak thinking mirrored their poisoned state. Kindness was mocked; reform was futile. The only certainty in the land was uncertainty itself. Why, he cried inwardly, why had it all come to this?
He was revered as the greatest mind his country had ever known. He had ensured that no one else could achieve anything close to his brilliance. When confronted by political adversaries, he demolished them with sharp, unforgiving words, leaving them incapable of challenging him. His enemies conspired to kill him, but he outmaneuvered them, turning their schemes inward until they destroyed one another.
Through his daily newspaper columns, he sowed suspicion across the land. “Everyone is guilty of something,” he proclaimed, and the people, awed by his eloquence, believed him. His influence was so pervasive that the nation began to think, speak, and write as he did. To his followers, no one—whether politician, businessman, student, parent, priest, Catholic, or Muslim—was beyond reproach. Everyone was guilty until proven otherwise.
His philosophy was simple: to rise above others, tear them down. To smell sweet, ensure that everyone else reeks. To be superior, humiliate all who stand below. The philosophy was so easy to follow, it worked flawlessly. He became the best-smelling, most superior man in the country.
And so, everyone else failed. Failure became his country’s destiny.
By the end of his life, he was the most beloved figure in a nation of crooks. Yet he lived in constant fear of assassination. His home, fortified with the most advanced security systems, stood as a fortress against the desperate neighbors who had turned to theft and kidnapping to survive. His brilliant ideas, immortalized in writing, lay unread by an increasingly illiterate nation. He was celebrated as the greatest because he had silenced all who dared disagree. He was a philosopher in a country that no longer knew how to think.
On the night of his death, he reflected on it all—his victories, his philosophy, his legacy.
“It is over,” he said.
2024-11-30 12:58:08
shortstories