inklingfair It’s been difficult. Difficult ergo difficult to write about. The past month sort of shook me, just grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and woke me up.
1. My boss, the principal, accepted the job here (she used to work in Manila, like me) because her husband died (she’s sixty-two) and she wanted a change of scenery. Her daughter (the ex-assistant), came with her because she was brokenhearted over a failed relationship. What’s it to do with me, you ask? Far be it from me, I thought, to have my whole life depend on one person that when that person disappears, I would drop everything and go somewhere else. Indonesia*. Europe. Guam, I don’t know.
2. The principal retires at sixty-five. At her age, she says, she just wants to leave CCFT a legacy. She started the school (gave birth to it, the last of her “children”), and she knows it won’t be long before she has to go. She tells me about her days as a pretty young thing, care thrown to the wind, and regret oozes from her like pus from a sore. When we talk, I feel terrible for her but I can’t stop listening. I love her stories. I envy her strength, and how she can be so flippant about things, and sad and wise.
3. Old people. Age can be catching, I think. It makes me want to do things, it makes time look like it’s rushing by. I don’t want to be old. I’m the gingerbread man, won’t be eaten, no, no.
4. After an argument about splitting the rent – Lolo: I want to be able to support you, I don’t want our friends and our kids to think that if it weren’t for you around, we wouldn’t survive, make ends meet. I want your Nanay and Tatay to know I take good care of you.
me: Really, that’s extremely old-fashioned. I want to help out, too.
Lolo: I want you to be the one to save up for us, not pay for things.
me: I like paying for things.
Lolo: You have no idea what that does to the male ego, to a husband, to a father, knowing he’s not making enough for everyone.
Sigh. I see being feminist and liberated and all doesn’t make a difference in a place like Coron. Same old expectations, same old culture. Can’t seem to escape it.
Again, I hate all this growing up. I expect I’ll be laughing at my young, foolish, idealistic self in ten years or so, but right now it’s mighty uncomfortable.
*Chatting with Al, he suggested that if I were up for doing a runaway bride in February, he’d be around and we could go run to Bali. I sort of liked the idea. Or Bebe, we could pack up and go to Alaska. Hee.
Freedom has a scent like the top of a newborn baby’s head.
Photo by Alekon pictures on Unsplash
