Linda Ty-Casper: Awaiting Trespass

...and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us...
—The Lord’s Prayer

’Bout time.

It took me a while to finish Linda Ty-Casper’s Awaiting Trespass—not because it wasn’t engaging, but because my computer programming projects kept getting more complex by the day. Ask any C programmer about strings, pointers, and arrays of pointers and you’ll understand the kind of mental contortions I’ve been through.

But I’ve finally reached the end of this remarkable novel, and I can say this with certainty: Ty-Casper writes for the serious reader. Her tone is calm, her prose polished and deliberate. There's a subdued religiosity in the work, yet it's tempered by a liberal sensibility. While reading, I imagined the narrator as one of those proper, well-mannered aunties who could casually drop savage truths over afternoon tea—without ever raising her voice.

The novel is richly layered—filled with money, memory, political commentary, and family anecdotes. Given my age, I can relate to the temporal and cultural context. I also understand why this book wasn’t published during the Marcos years: it’s a quiet yet potent articulation of anti-dictatorship sentiment.

My advice to readers: read it in one sitting. Don’t break it up like I did. This is a stream-of-consciousness novel. The story isn’t driven by plot twists or high drama but by introspection and philosophical reflection.

Ty-Casper begins with a simple but haunting question:

“But how did he die? In whose house? With whom?... And why will he hide from us? At this important time when we come to say goodbye to him! A sealed casket! Something is not right, besides the suddenness.”

And just like that, we’re pulled into the Gil family’s quiet storm of questions, reflections, and reckonings during the Marcos era.

To call this novel “tame” compared to the raw rage of activist literature written today would be to miss the point. For its time, Awaiting Trespass was brave, even risky. Ty-Casper wasn’t writing from the vantage point of a working-class protagonist or the usual activist perspective. No, she dared to write about political savagery from within the silk-curtained world of the upper class—and did it with grace. As one review aptly put it, she writes with "silk gloves." I wholeheartedly agree.

That’s the beauty of Linda Ty-Casper’s prose: she cultivates a quiet garden in the middle of a junkyard. Her work reminds me of Cecilia Manguerra-Brainard—fluent, elegant, and seamlessly interconnected. You can’t just stop reading midway and expect to pick up later; the flow is too precise. Ty-Casper clearly didn’t write this novel with MTV-attention-span readers like me in mind.

But let me give you a quick overview. The story revolves around a wake for Don Severino Gil, whose body arrives in a sealed casket, sparking suspicions and speculations. Why was it sealed? What are they trying to hide? The narrative unfolds through the reflections of family members who gather, each carrying with them layers of memory, trauma, politics, and personal regrets. The novel weaves together reflections on beauty, class, religion, society, military history, foreign exploitation, environmental degradation, and yes—more politics.

I won’t spoil the ending, but I will say this: the religious, philosophical, and emotional undercurrents build into something quietly painful and profound.

I pulled out some excerpts that really struck me—not to give away the plot, but to preserve these lines for myself. These are lines that echo the reality my generation lived through. If you grew up in the Philippines during the '70s and went to college in the '80s, you’ll feel it too:

“A friend mailed her Camels straight from New York to be certain of freshness and because blue seals could be faked...”

“She is about to live in her thoughts again, thirteen floors above the sea while on the dance floors behind the glass doors, retired generals are swinging old bodies to young beats; this one ordered the Metrocom to sweep students off the streets around Mendiola in '71... Where is the one who held Tirad Pass against American sharpshooters?”

“If the administrators of martial law were really concerned about the country they would not have allowed the Kawasaki sintering plant... But we hold life cheaply here. Pesticides, herbicides, tainted milk—anything unsafe in the world finds its way to the Philippines.”

“And I might as well say... if we do not stop selling our trees to Japan, we will be importing lumber by the year 2000.”

“I live in San Juan. In January of '73 our neighborhood was called to a meeting... The next day, there I was in the newspaper with my arm raised. The caption said, the new Constitution has been overwhelmingly approved...”

“The arrogance of the President in assuming powers he gives to himself makes it possible for tyranny to seep down... So many little dictators all over the country, clones of the one in Malacañang...”

These lines are not just quotes—they’re echoes from a past we once lived through. For those of us who spent our youth whispering about revolution and dictatorship, Awaiting Trespass reawakens a long-muted voice. I remember how hopeless things once felt. We thought there was no other way out of that regime but armed resistance. And yet, from that hopelessness emerged People Power.

I believe that’s what the protagonist Telly—Don Severino’s 49-year-old niece—is trying to say. She’s a divorcee, a poet, and a deeply thoughtful woman. She processes her grief, surroundings, and memories with an intensity that is both restrained and inspiring. Ty-Casper’s Telly is the antithesis of hysterics: convent-bred, dignified, reflective.

That, I think, is what sets Ty-Casper apart from the loud, dramatic divas of Philippine literature (myself included—I do like a good curse now and then).

From the book cover:

A wake in Manila for the aging playboy Don Severino Gil is the setting for social satire and personal awakening. The gathering family speculate about the reasons why Don Severino's coffin is sealed. Was it to protect his privacy? To show contempt for the society that indulged him? Did he want to conceal a mutilation, or is he still alive, in hiding?

Speculation soon turns toward the Pope’s upcoming visit to the Philippines. Severino’s sisters compete for visibility while planning to repaint the house in the Pope’s colors. The wake becomes a stage for deeper reflection by two isolated individuals: Telly, the sensitive poet who battles despair, and Sevi, a middle-aged priest struggling to discern his calling.

This book isn’t just a story—it’s a time capsule. It’s a poetic mirror held up to a nation grappling with silence, repression, and the aching desire for truth.

Read it not just with your eyes, but with your memory.
2025-05-29 17:36:15
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