Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
SCHEMER AND OBSERVER
While Rene was walking home, he was already devising a scheme to oust his roommate Sonny from the lodging house. To Rene, it was all a matter of maintaining a certain image. Having a provincial kid like Sonny as his roommate would hardly impress his peer group. As far as he was concerned, one of them had to go.
He opened the door and felt a sudden heaviness in his heart when he saw Sonny sitting in a chair, quietly reading a book.
Silence prevailed.
Rene's thoughts began to wander:
How can I do this tactfully? How do I get rid of this provincial boy? Provincial people like him are famous for being indirect—always suggesting things, beating around the bush—and yet they get offended so easily and take everything personally. How do I tell him he doesn't belong here without ending up in a fight? I was nearly killed last night by that stupid hustler Jaime. I don't have the energy to fight another provincial boy, especially one this big of a provincial.
And indeed, Rene was up against a bigger opponent in Sonny. No matter what he did or what scheme he attempted, Sonny would not budge from a resolve every bit as firm as Rene's. Sonny would not leave the lodging house for reasons only his grandmother, Lola Sabel, fully understood. She had commanded him to stay put and remain close to his roommates. She had told Sonny that staying with them was somehow necessary for 'her' dreams to come true, although exactly how this would happen was something Sonny could not figure out.
The prospect was almost unbearable, but Sonny was certain of one thing: if he left, Lola Sabel would not be happy. Still, remaining in that room felt like standing with both feet over burning coals.
There was something else about Sonny that Rene did not know. Sonny did not fit the provincial stereotype that occupied Rene's thoughts. From his grandmother, he had inherited a blunt, straightforward way of telling people exactly what he thought, regardless of who might get hurt. His honesty came partly from extreme curiosity and partly from innocence.
It was a grave mistake for Maliwalans to assume that provincials were automatically naive, gullible, and subservient. People in Maliwalu sometimes ended up killing one another because of assumptions like that.
"Hi, Sonny."
Rene tossed his books onto the bed, pulled over a steel chair, and began untying his shoes.
"Hi," Sonny answered, watching and observing Rene's every move.
Sonny had thoughts of his own:
Why did he and his group laugh at me this afternoon when I passed them at the university? I admit I lack the "alertness" Jaime, our other roommate, reminded me about yesterday. But if being sophisticated here is simply a matter of speaking properly—the "Maliwalan way"—and knowing how to open a taxicab door properly, those things are easy to learn. Even a child could learn them in a short time.
But who, really, is more amusing between the two of us? He should know how ridiculous he looks trying so desperately to be "in" with the crowd, like rotten meat trying to pass itself off as a fresh cut. I ought to tell him that.
The silence continued, and so did Rene's thoughts.
It must be difficult dealing with a rural boy like this. He might misinterpret my suggestions—which, of course, are really just my way of telling him there's a nicer place somewhere else. I have to weigh the consequences.
First, he might become upset by the truth. And the truth hurts. Imagine discovering how poorly the university population regards you because of your clothes, your style, your mannerisms, and your complete ignorance of Maliwala's latest fads. All of that is surely flushing him down the toilet of society. And I can't clean him up. I don't have the time.
Second, what if he realizes I'm trying to get rid of him and becomes furious? What if he hires one of those Sparrow Units from his town—wherever that is—to assassinate me in broad daylight? Poor me. What an unglamorous way to die.
Third, what if he does the opposite and tells me to leave instead? Where would I go? Certainly not to one of those lodging houses across the Pasig River! Gosh, how did I end up crossing paths with this provincial boy? He'd better not mess up my plan.
My plan!
I have a personal agenda to carry out, and he isn't part of it. No way, José. I'm going to climb the social ladder as fast as I can and build the right connections. Then I'll use those connections, along with a solid background in Economics and Political Science, to amass wealth. Once I have money, power and fame will follow. I worked construction jobs under the scorching sun for this plan. I endured all of that for this future. And now... this provincial boy has to get out of the way.
I'll push him out tactfully if I can. But when push comes to shove...
What would my friends say if they knew this boy was sharing a room with me? That I have no taste? No class?
Across the room, Sonny was engaged in an equally intense examination of Rene.
What, indeed, is the true nature of Rene? After his fight with Jaime last night, and after acting like rotten meat this afternoon, what exactly is he up to? In my province, someone like him would be called 'nagmumurang kamias'. But is simple insecurity about his age his only excuse? His reaction to Jaime last night revealed an insulting and malicious mind. Is that part of the same insecurity? Poor Jaime. He was accused of prostitution. But is it true, or was it simply a false accusation?
Sonny could no longer concentrate on the lines in his book. His attention kept returning to Jaime and Rene, his two roommates. The fourth student had not yet arrived.
His thoughts eventually shifted to Lola Sabel.
She always seemed to have answers to whatever perplexed him.
"There is always a root cause for everything," he remembered her saying. *"When you see a tree and notice only its fruit, you have a shallow understanding of things. When you look at a tree, do you also look at its bark, its branches, and its leaves? That is what is missing among the youth today. They are too naive, too innocent of the ins and outs, the whys and hows of the world around them. They are content to learn and understand things only superficially.
"Do you, my dear Sonny, always try to put yourself in another person's shoes? Do you try your best to adapt your mind to another person's way of thinking? Are you capable of becoming anything to any of them? Or have you joined those young people who waste their time only on the who, what, and where of life? Only when you begin asking why and how will you truly understand—and create—so many things in this world."
Only Lola Sabel, Sonny thought, would be capable of understanding the intricacies of Rene's heart.
Sonny stood up, leaned against his bed, and watched Rene change clothes. Rene was completely uninhibited. He slipped into his shorts and undershirt, then sat beside the table, which held a single empty flower vase surrounded by piles of books.
Perhaps to demonstrate to Sonny what it took to become a true city dweller, Rene deliberately left his locker wide open, displaying dozens of T-shirts and pants, bottles of cologne, and various other supposedly manly accessories.
In Maliwalu, such possessions could supposedly reveal the great divide between two kinds of students: the lower and the upper, the rural and the urban, the provincial boy and the city boy.
But were accessories sufficient criteria? Were language and mannerisms reliable standards?
Rene pulled out a Marlboro, opened a book in what he apparently considered a "classy" manner, stretched his legs across the bed, and whistled a rock-and-roll tune while pretending to read a magazine.
Is that all?* Sonny wondered. *Where are the mild, well-bred manners taught by generations long ago, the ones Lola Sabel always emphasized?
The questions reverberated in his mind while Lola Sabel's voice seemed both near and impossibly far away.
"Sonny," Rene finally began, "have you heard about that nice coed apartment across the street where pretty girls roam the corridors at midnight?"
"No."
"You should visit it sometime. I'm sure you'd like it. I'd transfer there myself if it weren't for all this self-control I'm trying so hard to practice. Girls are my weakness, you see. I'm sure I'd never graduate if I lived there. I'd be awake twenty-four hours a day. Those legs, that delicate skin... mmm, *muy delicioso*."
He winked at Sonny.
"If you're insinuating that I should transfer there, no, I won't."
Sonny was always blunt.
"Why?"
"My grandmother told me to stay here. That's why."
"But, Sonny, you don't see legs and skin like that in Banqueruan. Of course, I'm not trying to throw you out, am I? I just want you to experience the different colors of Manila. That's what rural boys love about the city. Girls are the best showcase."
"Are you teasing me? And how did you decide what we rural boys want?"
"Of course not. I'm trying to help you."
Rene almost wished he could simply blurt out the truth.
"Well," Sonny said, "if what you're really trying to tell me is that you want me to leave this lodging house because you're ashamed to have me in this room, then let me confess something: I'm equally disgusted and ashamed of you. I can't stand living with you either. The only reason I'm staying is because my grandmother wants me here, for reasons only she understands.
"Do you think I enjoy staying here because I've been blessed with the company of your fake, classy city-boy act? No. If you're proud of your accessories and outfits, my Lola could send me truckloads of those if I ever wanted them. If you don't want to be associated with a rural kid like me, then I don't want to be associated with an old cowboy desperately pretending to be a punk like you.
"I'm sorry, Rene. I'm staying here as long as I want, as long as my grandmother tells me to, and as long as the landlord accepts my monthly payments—even if every girl in that apartment across the street runs naked through the corridors at midnight."
Rene could not believe it.
The madness.
The bluntness.
The impertinence!
"Sonny, I don't like the way your tongue is moving."
"It's probably being activated by the foul odor coming from your mouth."
Now that everything was out in the open, Rene had little choice but to admit the truth.
"You're right. I don't like seeing you in this room."
"This isn't your room!"
"I was the first one to occupy it, excuse me."
"I've already paid my rent, and there's nothing you can do about that."
"You son of a bitch. You'd better leave, or else—"
"Or else what?"
"This is the city. My territory."
"Are you threatening me?"
"You could end up dead in the Pasig River, you know."
"Do it. And I assure you, machine guns will blow your guts out before you fall dead into a nine-foot-deep hole you've dug for your own final resting place."
"Sonny... Sonny... don't push me to my limit. I'm offering you a deal. Get out, and I'll find you a very nice room somewhere else."
"Rene, my decision is final. If you can't stand me, then you leave."
"I won't leave! I was the first occupant of this room. What would my friends say—that you, some stupid rural kid, threw me out?"
"Well, then, it's settled. Since neither of us is leaving, we'll both stay right here. Now let's end this conversation and let me finish my reading. You can go to sleep if you want."
"I won't take this!"
The heated exchange continued. Ten minutes might have passed, perhaps more, before the door suddenly opened.
Jaime stumbled inside.
He was obviously drunk.
"Halt!" he shouted when he saw Rene and Sonny on the verge of beating each other up.
Neither of them paid him any attention. Who was Jaime, after all, to stop them?
Jaime staggered toward the bedroom and suddenly vomited.
The sound immediately caught Sonny's attention. Fearing something was wrong, he abandoned his argument with Rene and rushed into the room. Jaime was leaning over the sink, sweating heavily and twitching.
Sonny reached out to steady him, but Jaime shoved his hand away.
Then Jaime began to cry openly.
Sonny stood there, staring at him.
The longer he lived in that lodging house, the less he understood the students he was sharing it with. Rene, with his schemes, pretensions, and obsession with status. Jaime, with his secrets, his drinking, and now his tears. And somewhere beyond the room was still the mysterious fourth student, yet to arrive.
Sonny was becoming more and more baffled by all of them.
And he was getting angry.
Burning angry.
2026-09-19 23:53:39
4students
Oh well, here I am, 36,000 feet in the sky, waiting for this very long flight to end, and we have barely covered half the distance from New York to Seoul. I keep closing my eyes, hoping sleep will finally come, but it never does. As I mentioned earlier, this was my second time passing through JFK—not by choice, but because the airfare made the route worthwhile. From New York, I am flying to Seoul and then finally to Manila.
I paid a little extra for an aisle seat, and now I am especially grateful that there are several empty seats around me. At least I can change positions frequently, stretch my legs, and move around when I need to. Being trapped in a middle seat for a sixteen-hour flight is not for the faint of heart. The first meal was surprisingly good and more than made up for the breakfast and coffee I missed after getting up around three in the morning. My stomach is satisfied, my body is tired, and yet my mind refuses to shut down.
So I write.
Leaving the Weight Behind
Despite the exhaustion of this journey, I feel an enormous sense of relief. Much of the financial burden of maintaining my Florida lifestyle and home is finally coming off my shoulders. I still have my rental condo and other responsibilities in the United States, but returning home to the Philippines should reduce my regular living expenses dramatically. More important than the money, however, is the feeling that I will be able to sleep better at night knowing that family is nearby. There will be a different kind of security waiting for me there, along with good food, rest, familiar surroundings, and plenty of opportunities to exercise and remain active.
I don't particularly care about surrounding myself with a large circle of friends. I will certainly miss my American friends, but I have never needed constant company to be content. Much of my life has been built around solitary activities—walking, reading, writing, gardening, working on my computer, meditating, and simply thinking. I have always functioned well in solitude. There is a difference between loneliness and solitude, and over the years I have learned that solitude is often where I thrive.
Even good things, however, eventually come to an end. My American life was good to me. But perhaps it has simply reached the end of its season.
Money, Family, and What We Leave Behind
Before leaving, I had an intense discussion with Carl about protecting my U.S. investments and properties and eventually determining who should benefit from them. The conversation bothered me because it seemed to focus too heavily on which nieces or relatives should receive what after I die. I don't like the idea of favoring certain relatives over others without good reason, nor do I want the relationships I have with younger family members to become distorted by thoughts of inheritance.
It would be a terrible ending to a life of hard work if people eventually valued me more for what I left behind than for who I was to them while I was alive.
I have always believed that people should work for what they have. I certainly had to. An inheritance should never become someone's financial plan. Whatever eventually comes from another person's estate should be regarded as an unexpected blessing, not something to anticipate, calculate, or quietly wait for. Money accumulated through decades of work should not simply become an excuse for another generation to spend without understanding the effort and sacrifice behind it.
Perhaps that is another reason I feel so strongly about going home now. I want to enjoy what God has allowed me to earn while I am still alive. I want to use it responsibly. I want it to provide security and comfort, certainly, but I also want some of it to serve a purpose beyond myself.
There are people who genuinely need help.
I have never believed that money exists merely to be accumulated. Whatever financial security I have today came through work, sacrifice, opportunity, and, in my faith, God's grace. If I have more than I need, then perhaps part of the responsibility that comes with that blessing is knowing when and how to help someone else. That was certainly true during the years when my own family needed help.
This is what I hope the younger members of my family eventually understand. I want them to work hard, build their own lives, and learn the value of money through effort. If they someday have more than they need, I hope they will remember the people who helped them when they had very little and extend the same generosity to someone else.
Carl tends to think much more about protecting and distributing assets after death. Perhaps that is simply his practical way of looking at things. But sometimes the conversations make me uncomfortable because they sound as though my death and the distribution of my possessions are already being planned while I am still very much alive. I don't want that way of thinking to influence my nieces and nephews. I would rather influence them toward hard work, independence, gratitude, compassion, and affection for the people who helped them during difficult times.
Ultimately, I will ask the Lord for wisdom. I cannot control what other people think about money, nor can I know what is truly inside another person's heart. What I can control is what I do with the years, resources, and opportunities still given to me.
Thinking About Jim
Perhaps these thoughts about money, death, and what we leave behind are also connected to Jim.
Here I am, thousands of feet above the earth, thinking about a man who was alive only a short time ago. Jim had tried, in his own limited way, to save something for retirement. Yet from what I understood after his death, whatever he had accumulated may not even have been enough to provide the kind of burial or memorial I imagined for him.
I also thought about his mother. She is elderly, and losing a son is already enough of a burden. Having to deal with his remaining financial affairs, debts, paperwork, or other obligations would only add another layer of difficulty. Perhaps some of my reaction comes from my Filipino upbringing. In my culture, death can become an enormous family and community event. There are wakes, prayers, visitors, food, contributions, flowers, tears, stories, and expenses. People come together. Sometimes there is almost too much drama, but underneath it is the desire to honor the person who died and accompany the family through grief.
Jim's death was handled differently.
His body was donated, and there was no immediate send-off resembling what I grew up seeing in the Philippines. At first, I struggled to understand that. But I also have to remind myself that people and families grieve differently. American grief can sometimes appear restrained or businesslike from the outside, but outward restraint doesn't necessarily mean an absence of sorrow. Jim's sister told me that the family hoped to honor him later, perhaps in February. I hope they do.
And perhaps Jim gave something valuable even in death. If his donation helped medical education, research, or another human being, then there is something beautiful in that as well.
Jim was a good man. In terms of honesty, loyalty, and quiet affection, he was one of the best people I have ever known. He rarely demonstrated affection openly. That simply wasn't his way. But after knowing someone for thirteen years, you eventually learn to recognize affection even when it isn't spoken.
The Six Years We Shared as Friends
I will probably never know Jim's entire story. He was private about much of his past. I believe he would have answered me if I had asked, but I rarely did. I respected the parts of his life he didn't volunteer.
When I first knew him, he was struggling badly—homeless at times, dealing with addiction, and seemingly without much direction. I don't know what his life had been like before that, and perhaps there were happier chapters I never knew about. I can only speak about the thirteen years in which our lives crossed.
Of those years, I like to believe that the last six were among his most stable.
For that, I am deeply thankful.
I thank the Lord that somehow I was able to provide Jim with a place where he could experience stability, routine, friendship, and a sense of home. I don't say this to portray myself as his rescuer. I made mistakes. There were times when I probably helped in the wrong way. There were situations involving addiction in which compassion could easily cross the line into enabling. I didn't always know the difference, and I certainly didn't handle everything perfectly.
But Jim eventually found a measure of stability. In his own quiet way, he recovered enough to work, live more normally, and build a routine. That may not look like a spectacular success story to the rest of the world, but considering where he had been when I first met him, I consider it meaningful.
And now I wonder whether there is another reason the Lord is gently directing me home.
### Maybe Retirement Is Not the End of the Assignment
There may be people back in the country of my birth who, in some completely different way, need what I can offer. I don't know who they are. I don't know what form that help might take. I may never encounter another person whose circumstances resemble Jim's, and perhaps I am not supposed to.
But I am willing to remain useful.
It is easy to think of retirement as the stage when we finally stop working, slow everything down, enjoy what we accumulated, and quietly prepare for the inevitable end of life. I have thought about retirement that way myself. There is nothing wrong with resting. After decades of work, rest is deserved.
But perhaps retirement doesn't necessarily mean the end of one's usefulness.
Maybe there is still an assignment waiting for me in the old country.
When I look backward, I can see a strange continuity in my life. The Lord carried me through the poverty and difficulties of childhood and the painful years of college. He gave me the opportunity to work in the United States, where I worked extremely hard and was eventually able to help my struggling family when they were close to financial collapse. Circumstances allowed me to bring my sister to America and help her establish a life here, even though her journey later became complicated by failed relationships, illness, and ultimately cancer.
Along the way, I also encountered people living on the margins—people who were homeless, struggling with addiction, lost, or simply trying to survive. Sometimes I helped. Sometimes I probably enabled behavior I should not have enabled. Some people disappeared from my life without changing at all. Others failed despite every opportunity offered to them. And at least one of them, Jim, managed in his own modest way to build a more stable life.
I was never perfect in any of this.
I made mistakes. I failed. I went through periods that felt like hell and somehow came back from them. Yet when I look across the whole landscape of my life—the poverty, education, immigration, work, family obligations, friendships, losses, mistakes, successes, and people whose paths briefly crossed mine—I can still see something beautiful running through it all.
I see the work of the Lord in me and, occasionally, through me.
And now, while sitting inside an airplane 36,000 feet above the earth, somewhere between the life I built and the country where my life began, I find myself wondering what comes next.
Maybe going home isn't simply about cheaper living, better food, family security, gardening, reading, writing, and enjoying retirement. Those things are important, and I intend to enjoy them. I have worked for this season of my life.
But perhaps there is more.
Perhaps there are still people I am supposed to meet, things I am supposed to write, kindnesses I am supposed to offer, and work I don't yet recognize as work.
I don't know.
All I know is that something has brought me back toward the place where my story began. I don't need to claim that every tragedy was deliberately arranged to send me there. I don't believe the people I loved had to die so that God could deliver a message to me. Their deaths were painful realities that changed the circumstances of my life, and those changed circumstances forced me to make decisions.
But perhaps faith is not always about understanding why something happened. Perhaps sometimes it is about asking what we are going to do with what remains.
Jim is gone. My sister is gone. My Florida home is behind me. Much of the life I spent decades building is now shrinking into memories as this airplane carries me across the world.
Yet I am still here.
And as long as I am still here, perhaps my work isn't finished.
So yes, there may be a reason I feel myself being drawn—or perhaps gently pushed—back to the old country.
I suppose I am about to find out.
2026-09-19 23:28:46
blog
Four Students 9
SCHEMER AND OBSERVER
While Rene was walking home, he was already devising a scheme to oust his roommate Sonny from the lodging house. To Rene, it was all a matter of maintaining a certain image. Having a provincial kid like Sonny as his roommate would hardly impress his peer group. As far as he was concerned, one of them had to go.
He opened the door and felt a sudden heaviness in his heart when he saw Sonny sitting in a chair, quietly reading a book.
Silence prevailed.
Rene's thoughts began to wander:
How can I do this tactfully? How do I get rid of this provincial boy? Provincial people like him are famous for being indirect—always suggesting things, beating around the bush—and yet they get offended so easily and take everything personally. How do I tell him he doesn't belong here without ending up in a fight? I was nearly killed last night by that stupid hustler Jaime. I don't have the energy to fight another provincial boy, especially one this big of a provincial.
And indeed, Rene was up against a bigger opponent in Sonny. No matter what he did or what scheme he attempted, Sonny would not budge from a resolve every bit as firm as Rene's. Sonny would not leave the lodging house for reasons only his grandmother, Lola Sabel, fully understood. She had commanded him to stay put and remain close to his roommates. She had told Sonny that staying with them was somehow necessary for 'her' dreams to come true, although exactly how this would happen was something Sonny could not figure out.
The prospect was almost unbearable, but Sonny was certain of one thing: if he left, Lola Sabel would not be happy. Still, remaining in that room felt like standing with both feet over burning coals.
There was something else about Sonny that Rene did not know. Sonny did not fit the provincial stereotype that occupied Rene's thoughts. From his grandmother, he had inherited a blunt, straightforward way of telling people exactly what he thought, regardless of who might get hurt. His honesty came partly from extreme curiosity and partly from innocence.
It was a grave mistake for Maliwalans to assume that provincials were automatically naive, gullible, and subservient. People in Maliwalu sometimes ended up killing one another because of assumptions like that.
"Hi, Sonny."
Rene tossed his books onto the bed, pulled over a steel chair, and began untying his shoes.
"Hi," Sonny answered, watching and observing Rene's every move.
Sonny had thoughts of his own:
Why did he and his group laugh at me this afternoon when I passed them at the university? I admit I lack the "alertness" Jaime, our other roommate, reminded me about yesterday. But if being sophisticated here is simply a matter of speaking properly—the "Maliwalan way"—and knowing how to open a taxicab door properly, those things are easy to learn. Even a child could learn them in a short time.
But who, really, is more amusing between the two of us? He should know how ridiculous he looks trying so desperately to be "in" with the crowd, like rotten meat trying to pass itself off as a fresh cut. I ought to tell him that.
The silence continued, and so did Rene's thoughts.
It must be difficult dealing with a rural boy like this. He might misinterpret my suggestions—which, of course, are really just my way of telling him there's a nicer place somewhere else. I have to weigh the consequences.
First, he might become upset by the truth. And the truth hurts. Imagine discovering how poorly the university population regards you because of your clothes, your style, your mannerisms, and your complete ignorance of Maliwala's latest fads. All of that is surely flushing him down the toilet of society. And I can't clean him up. I don't have the time.
Second, what if he realizes I'm trying to get rid of him and becomes furious? What if he hires one of those Sparrow Units from his town—wherever that is—to assassinate me in broad daylight? Poor me. What an unglamorous way to die.
Third, what if he does the opposite and tells me to leave instead? Where would I go? Certainly not to one of those lodging houses across the Pasig River! Gosh, how did I end up crossing paths with this provincial boy? He'd better not mess up my plan.
My plan!
I have a personal agenda to carry out, and he isn't part of it. No way, José. I'm going to climb the social ladder as fast as I can and build the right connections. Then I'll use those connections, along with a solid background in Economics and Political Science, to amass wealth. Once I have money, power and fame will follow. I worked construction jobs under the scorching sun for this plan. I endured all of that for this future. And now... this provincial boy has to get out of the way.
I'll push him out tactfully if I can. But when push comes to shove...
What would my friends say if they knew this boy was sharing a room with me? That I have no taste? No class?
Across the room, Sonny was engaged in an equally intense examination of Rene.
What, indeed, is the true nature of Rene? After his fight with Jaime last night, and after acting like rotten meat this afternoon, what exactly is he up to? In my province, someone like him would be called 'nagmumurang kamias'. But is simple insecurity about his age his only excuse? His reaction to Jaime last night revealed an insulting and malicious mind. Is that part of the same insecurity? Poor Jaime. He was accused of prostitution. But is it true, or was it simply a false accusation?
Sonny could no longer concentrate on the lines in his book. His attention kept returning to Jaime and Rene, his two roommates. The fourth student had not yet arrived.
His thoughts eventually shifted to Lola Sabel.
She always seemed to have answers to whatever perplexed him.
"There is always a root cause for everything," he remembered her saying. *"When you see a tree and notice only its fruit, you have a shallow understanding of things. When you look at a tree, do you also look at its bark, its branches, and its leaves? That is what is missing among the youth today. They are too naive, too innocent of the ins and outs, the whys and hows of the world around them. They are content to learn and understand things only superficially.
"Do you, my dear Sonny, always try to put yourself in another person's shoes? Do you try your best to adapt your mind to another person's way of thinking? Are you capable of becoming anything to any of them? Or have you joined those young people who waste their time only on the who, what, and where of life? Only when you begin asking why and how will you truly understand—and create—so many things in this world."
Only Lola Sabel, Sonny thought, would be capable of understanding the intricacies of Rene's heart.
Sonny stood up, leaned against his bed, and watched Rene change clothes. Rene was completely uninhibited. He slipped into his shorts and undershirt, then sat beside the table, which held a single empty flower vase surrounded by piles of books.
Perhaps to demonstrate to Sonny what it took to become a true city dweller, Rene deliberately left his locker wide open, displaying dozens of T-shirts and pants, bottles of cologne, and various other supposedly manly accessories.
In Maliwalu, such possessions could supposedly reveal the great divide between two kinds of students: the lower and the upper, the rural and the urban, the provincial boy and the city boy.
But were accessories sufficient criteria? Were language and mannerisms reliable standards?
Rene pulled out a Marlboro, opened a book in what he apparently considered a "classy" manner, stretched his legs across the bed, and whistled a rock-and-roll tune while pretending to read a magazine.
Is that all?* Sonny wondered. *Where are the mild, well-bred manners taught by generations long ago, the ones Lola Sabel always emphasized?
The questions reverberated in his mind while Lola Sabel's voice seemed both near and impossibly far away.
"Sonny," Rene finally began, "have you heard about that nice coed apartment across the street where pretty girls roam the corridors at midnight?"
"No."
"You should visit it sometime. I'm sure you'd like it. I'd transfer there myself if it weren't for all this self-control I'm trying so hard to practice. Girls are my weakness, you see. I'm sure I'd never graduate if I lived there. I'd be awake twenty-four hours a day. Those legs, that delicate skin... mmm, *muy delicioso*."
He winked at Sonny.
"If you're insinuating that I should transfer there, no, I won't."
Sonny was always blunt.
"Why?"
"My grandmother told me to stay here. That's why."
"But, Sonny, you don't see legs and skin like that in Banqueruan. Of course, I'm not trying to throw you out, am I? I just want you to experience the different colors of Manila. That's what rural boys love about the city. Girls are the best showcase."
"Are you teasing me? And how did you decide what we rural boys want?"
"Of course not. I'm trying to help you."
Rene almost wished he could simply blurt out the truth.
"Well," Sonny said, "if what you're really trying to tell me is that you want me to leave this lodging house because you're ashamed to have me in this room, then let me confess something: I'm equally disgusted and ashamed of you. I can't stand living with you either. The only reason I'm staying is because my grandmother wants me here, for reasons only she understands.
"Do you think I enjoy staying here because I've been blessed with the company of your fake, classy city-boy act? No. If you're proud of your accessories and outfits, my Lola could send me truckloads of those if I ever wanted them. If you don't want to be associated with a rural kid like me, then I don't want to be associated with an old cowboy desperately pretending to be a punk like you.
"I'm sorry, Rene. I'm staying here as long as I want, as long as my grandmother tells me to, and as long as the landlord accepts my monthly payments—even if every girl in that apartment across the street runs naked through the corridors at midnight."
Rene could not believe it.
The madness.
The bluntness.
The impertinence!
"Sonny, I don't like the way your tongue is moving."
"It's probably being activated by the foul odor coming from your mouth."
Now that everything was out in the open, Rene had little choice but to admit the truth.
"You're right. I don't like seeing you in this room."
"This isn't your room!"
"I was the first one to occupy it, excuse me."
"I've already paid my rent, and there's nothing you can do about that."
"You son of a bitch. You'd better leave, or else—"
"Or else what?"
"This is the city. My territory."
"Are you threatening me?"
"You could end up dead in the Pasig River, you know."
"Do it. And I assure you, machine guns will blow your guts out before you fall dead into a nine-foot-deep hole you've dug for your own final resting place."
"Sonny... Sonny... don't push me to my limit. I'm offering you a deal. Get out, and I'll find you a very nice room somewhere else."
"Rene, my decision is final. If you can't stand me, then you leave."
"I won't leave! I was the first occupant of this room. What would my friends say—that you, some stupid rural kid, threw me out?"
"Well, then, it's settled. Since neither of us is leaving, we'll both stay right here. Now let's end this conversation and let me finish my reading. You can go to sleep if you want."
"I won't take this!"
The heated exchange continued. Ten minutes might have passed, perhaps more, before the door suddenly opened.
Jaime stumbled inside.
He was obviously drunk.
"Halt!" he shouted when he saw Rene and Sonny on the verge of beating each other up.
Neither of them paid him any attention. Who was Jaime, after all, to stop them?
Jaime staggered toward the bedroom and suddenly vomited.
The sound immediately caught Sonny's attention. Fearing something was wrong, he abandoned his argument with Rene and rushed into the room. Jaime was leaning over the sink, sweating heavily and twitching.
Sonny reached out to steady him, but Jaime shoved his hand away.
Then Jaime began to cry openly.
Sonny stood there, staring at him.
The longer he lived in that lodging house, the less he understood the students he was sharing it with. Rene, with his schemes, pretensions, and obsession with status. Jaime, with his secrets, his drinking, and now his tears. And somewhere beyond the room was still the mysterious fourth student, yet to arrive.
Sonny was becoming more and more baffled by all of them.
And he was getting angry.
Burning angry.
2026-09-19 23:53:39
4students
Above-Air Thoughts
Oh well, here I am, 36,000 feet in the sky, waiting for this very long flight to end, and we have barely covered half the distance from New York to Seoul. I keep closing my eyes, hoping sleep will finally come, but it never does. As I mentioned earlier, this was my second time passing through JFK—not by choice, but because the airfare made the route worthwhile. From New York, I am flying to Seoul and then finally to Manila.
I paid a little extra for an aisle seat, and now I am especially grateful that there are several empty seats around me. At least I can change positions frequently, stretch my legs, and move around when I need to. Being trapped in a middle seat for a sixteen-hour flight is not for the faint of heart. The first meal was surprisingly good and more than made up for the breakfast and coffee I missed after getting up around three in the morning. My stomach is satisfied, my body is tired, and yet my mind refuses to shut down.
So I write.
Leaving the Weight Behind
Despite the exhaustion of this journey, I feel an enormous sense of relief. Much of the financial burden of maintaining my Florida lifestyle and home is finally coming off my shoulders. I still have my rental condo and other responsibilities in the United States, but returning home to the Philippines should reduce my regular living expenses dramatically. More important than the money, however, is the feeling that I will be able to sleep better at night knowing that family is nearby. There will be a different kind of security waiting for me there, along with good food, rest, familiar surroundings, and plenty of opportunities to exercise and remain active.
I don't particularly care about surrounding myself with a large circle of friends. I will certainly miss my American friends, but I have never needed constant company to be content. Much of my life has been built around solitary activities—walking, reading, writing, gardening, working on my computer, meditating, and simply thinking. I have always functioned well in solitude. There is a difference between loneliness and solitude, and over the years I have learned that solitude is often where I thrive.
Even good things, however, eventually come to an end. My American life was good to me. But perhaps it has simply reached the end of its season.
Money, Family, and What We Leave Behind
Before leaving, I had an intense discussion with Carl about protecting my U.S. investments and properties and eventually determining who should benefit from them. The conversation bothered me because it seemed to focus too heavily on which nieces or relatives should receive what after I die. I don't like the idea of favoring certain relatives over others without good reason, nor do I want the relationships I have with younger family members to become distorted by thoughts of inheritance.
It would be a terrible ending to a life of hard work if people eventually valued me more for what I left behind than for who I was to them while I was alive.
I have always believed that people should work for what they have. I certainly had to. An inheritance should never become someone's financial plan. Whatever eventually comes from another person's estate should be regarded as an unexpected blessing, not something to anticipate, calculate, or quietly wait for. Money accumulated through decades of work should not simply become an excuse for another generation to spend without understanding the effort and sacrifice behind it.
Perhaps that is another reason I feel so strongly about going home now. I want to enjoy what God has allowed me to earn while I am still alive. I want to use it responsibly. I want it to provide security and comfort, certainly, but I also want some of it to serve a purpose beyond myself.
There are people who genuinely need help.
I have never believed that money exists merely to be accumulated. Whatever financial security I have today came through work, sacrifice, opportunity, and, in my faith, God's grace. If I have more than I need, then perhaps part of the responsibility that comes with that blessing is knowing when and how to help someone else. That was certainly true during the years when my own family needed help.
This is what I hope the younger members of my family eventually understand. I want them to work hard, build their own lives, and learn the value of money through effort. If they someday have more than they need, I hope they will remember the people who helped them when they had very little and extend the same generosity to someone else.
Carl tends to think much more about protecting and distributing assets after death. Perhaps that is simply his practical way of looking at things. But sometimes the conversations make me uncomfortable because they sound as though my death and the distribution of my possessions are already being planned while I am still very much alive. I don't want that way of thinking to influence my nieces and nephews. I would rather influence them toward hard work, independence, gratitude, compassion, and affection for the people who helped them during difficult times.
Ultimately, I will ask the Lord for wisdom. I cannot control what other people think about money, nor can I know what is truly inside another person's heart. What I can control is what I do with the years, resources, and opportunities still given to me.
Thinking About Jim
Perhaps these thoughts about money, death, and what we leave behind are also connected to Jim.
Here I am, thousands of feet above the earth, thinking about a man who was alive only a short time ago. Jim had tried, in his own limited way, to save something for retirement. Yet from what I understood after his death, whatever he had accumulated may not even have been enough to provide the kind of burial or memorial I imagined for him.
I also thought about his mother. She is elderly, and losing a son is already enough of a burden. Having to deal with his remaining financial affairs, debts, paperwork, or other obligations would only add another layer of difficulty. Perhaps some of my reaction comes from my Filipino upbringing. In my culture, death can become an enormous family and community event. There are wakes, prayers, visitors, food, contributions, flowers, tears, stories, and expenses. People come together. Sometimes there is almost too much drama, but underneath it is the desire to honor the person who died and accompany the family through grief.
Jim's death was handled differently.
His body was donated, and there was no immediate send-off resembling what I grew up seeing in the Philippines. At first, I struggled to understand that. But I also have to remind myself that people and families grieve differently. American grief can sometimes appear restrained or businesslike from the outside, but outward restraint doesn't necessarily mean an absence of sorrow. Jim's sister told me that the family hoped to honor him later, perhaps in February. I hope they do.
And perhaps Jim gave something valuable even in death. If his donation helped medical education, research, or another human being, then there is something beautiful in that as well.
Jim was a good man. In terms of honesty, loyalty, and quiet affection, he was one of the best people I have ever known. He rarely demonstrated affection openly. That simply wasn't his way. But after knowing someone for thirteen years, you eventually learn to recognize affection even when it isn't spoken.
The Six Years We Shared as Friends
I will probably never know Jim's entire story. He was private about much of his past. I believe he would have answered me if I had asked, but I rarely did. I respected the parts of his life he didn't volunteer.
When I first knew him, he was struggling badly—homeless at times, dealing with addiction, and seemingly without much direction. I don't know what his life had been like before that, and perhaps there were happier chapters I never knew about. I can only speak about the thirteen years in which our lives crossed.
Of those years, I like to believe that the last six were among his most stable.
For that, I am deeply thankful.
I thank the Lord that somehow I was able to provide Jim with a place where he could experience stability, routine, friendship, and a sense of home. I don't say this to portray myself as his rescuer. I made mistakes. There were times when I probably helped in the wrong way. There were situations involving addiction in which compassion could easily cross the line into enabling. I didn't always know the difference, and I certainly didn't handle everything perfectly.
But Jim eventually found a measure of stability. In his own quiet way, he recovered enough to work, live more normally, and build a routine. That may not look like a spectacular success story to the rest of the world, but considering where he had been when I first met him, I consider it meaningful.
And now I wonder whether there is another reason the Lord is gently directing me home.
### Maybe Retirement Is Not the End of the Assignment
There may be people back in the country of my birth who, in some completely different way, need what I can offer. I don't know who they are. I don't know what form that help might take. I may never encounter another person whose circumstances resemble Jim's, and perhaps I am not supposed to.
But I am willing to remain useful.
It is easy to think of retirement as the stage when we finally stop working, slow everything down, enjoy what we accumulated, and quietly prepare for the inevitable end of life. I have thought about retirement that way myself. There is nothing wrong with resting. After decades of work, rest is deserved.
But perhaps retirement doesn't necessarily mean the end of one's usefulness.
Maybe there is still an assignment waiting for me in the old country.
When I look backward, I can see a strange continuity in my life. The Lord carried me through the poverty and difficulties of childhood and the painful years of college. He gave me the opportunity to work in the United States, where I worked extremely hard and was eventually able to help my struggling family when they were close to financial collapse. Circumstances allowed me to bring my sister to America and help her establish a life here, even though her journey later became complicated by failed relationships, illness, and ultimately cancer.
Along the way, I also encountered people living on the margins—people who were homeless, struggling with addiction, lost, or simply trying to survive. Sometimes I helped. Sometimes I probably enabled behavior I should not have enabled. Some people disappeared from my life without changing at all. Others failed despite every opportunity offered to them. And at least one of them, Jim, managed in his own modest way to build a more stable life.
I was never perfect in any of this.
I made mistakes. I failed. I went through periods that felt like hell and somehow came back from them. Yet when I look across the whole landscape of my life—the poverty, education, immigration, work, family obligations, friendships, losses, mistakes, successes, and people whose paths briefly crossed mine—I can still see something beautiful running through it all.
I see the work of the Lord in me and, occasionally, through me.
And now, while sitting inside an airplane 36,000 feet above the earth, somewhere between the life I built and the country where my life began, I find myself wondering what comes next.
Maybe going home isn't simply about cheaper living, better food, family security, gardening, reading, writing, and enjoying retirement. Those things are important, and I intend to enjoy them. I have worked for this season of my life.
But perhaps there is more.
Perhaps there are still people I am supposed to meet, things I am supposed to write, kindnesses I am supposed to offer, and work I don't yet recognize as work.
I don't know.
All I know is that something has brought me back toward the place where my story began. I don't need to claim that every tragedy was deliberately arranged to send me there. I don't believe the people I loved had to die so that God could deliver a message to me. Their deaths were painful realities that changed the circumstances of my life, and those changed circumstances forced me to make decisions.
But perhaps faith is not always about understanding why something happened. Perhaps sometimes it is about asking what we are going to do with what remains.
Jim is gone. My sister is gone. My Florida home is behind me. Much of the life I spent decades building is now shrinking into memories as this airplane carries me across the world.
Yet I am still here.
And as long as I am still here, perhaps my work isn't finished.
So yes, there may be a reason I feel myself being drawn—or perhaps gently pushed—back to the old country.
I suppose I am about to find out.
2026-09-19 23:28:46
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