Being 27

Another year was added to a growing number of years of a not-so-constant trend in living a life that seemed to be so intricately intertwined now. I was born on Valentine’s Day, 1982, so my mother says and my birth certificate indicates. Foggy memories of an estranged mother always speak about a crammed room full of unmarried women in their late 20s giggling, a traditional birth attendant preparing birthing paraphernalia, boiling water in a kettle shooting hot vapor. The cynic in me always thinks about loose perspectives brought about by excessive infatuation with the idea of a child’s birthday falling on February 14th, of the idea that it is too emblematic of a lover’s fruit so executed in complicity, of the idea that so a relationship may be glorified in the height of its heydays. Maybe it was on the 13th or the 15th or on the 29th and because of the fears of a drought in leap years.

But it is, 14th etched indelibly in the registers consistently. All those years when I get to be socially active and was entering the realm of social environments did I come to realize that there are some consistencies, commonalities within the celebration of a birthday so engrossing for people except me. Why aren’t you named Valentino? was a question never to be not asked because it’s a protocol and You must be kulang-kulang because you were born in February was a supposition I can quite vouch? For 27 years I have been rammed up with those conjectures that sometimes distress me for their built-up ordinariness and sometimes elate me because I am a figure or a ¬go-figure elated to have more and more people remember my birthday and be a recipient of all their bright and common wishes of a longer life, many-more-birthdays-come, and wishes of well-wishers of a sumptuous treat at a fancy restaurant (just-kidding).

Yesterday I had a steamed white chicken for breakfast at a Chinese Restaurant, a call from my mom all the way from Oregon, a morning song from my love streamed all the way through my ear canal like a cleaning cotton bud tickling the softest part of me, a dinner treat from my boss at a Korean Restaurant with her lovely daughter seated in front of me were the best gifts I ever had. There are wishes, yes, like enrolling in the Environmental Law Program of the Lewis and Clark Law School, a better economy at the close of the year, bright prospects for this year, my name included in the Rolls, a cure for my sickness, a life with my love still intertwined strongly beyond a boa-constrictor’s capability, purging in the government, more rights for the underprivileged like me, alleviation of poverty, more sincere and true leaders for this country and more aftertastes of coffee from my love.

27 and I am old. Woke up early this morning quite a bit terrified by the documentary on the ice meltdown, the rising sea levels and the cataclysmic consequences. There’s not enough action to stop it, taking out of the picture the role of governments, the fact is that there is really no stopping now the phenomenon because all the efforts to cut carbon emissions today if and when the IPCC’s instruction will be followed without skirmishing sovereign egos, will really never halt anything except only to mitigate the catastrophe. The documentary has a footnote on climate change refugees, its rise and its probable impact on matters of survival, dwindling resources, and state-to-state conflict. There’s a lot ahead really. I may never cross through such events within my time but it keeps me wondering about the future of the world and generations. Sometimes this news really makes you old but the inescapable fact is that you’re part of it.

So here’s my definition of being 27 in this century. It is about thinking, trying to belong to a world of causes making even the slightest of difference, making one’s voice heard, trying to blend love with every issue that comes, trying to live life to the fullest while you can, achieving for others, and just being me, being you.

A Letter to My Son the Day before the World Ended

Encrypted: Capsule Casket Code: 22445544 Origin: Pacific

Year of the Earth: 2500 A.D.

Last entry in memory:

July 21^st, 2050 4:00PM

Dear Son,

The last news I heard about you is that you are chosen among those to be billeted to the Greenhouse, scientists erected in Mars. You’re lucky son, for all you know part of your genes which helped you to be qualified in the gene test screening came from your father who is now living afloat somewhere in the Pacific in a transparent capsule casket, scientists have provided for those who were not among the short listed and those who chose to stay and witness the coming of Armageddon.

The world became inundated since the spark of escalating temperatures, which melted the ice left at the arctic and antarctic regions. I am telling you this in the frailest of hopes that somewhere in time this history could be imparted to you in your Martian refuge. I do not know how will this be possible since you were allegedly been reprogrammed in a tabula rasa state. They have meted out on you the worst of all crimes against humanity, and that is to take away from you the earthly memories you have. Scientists have long been floundered on including ethics as part of their constitution but not to this harshest degree. According to them, their intention was for your flock to start waywardly anew in that habitat and to cleanse your understanding about harmony with the world. This may be true but this leaves you to be eternally detached from your ancestry, your mutual connection to those you have left behind including me, your forlorn father.

I have never seen the beauty of the skies this much, son. I am living each day like a castaway in this compartment the size of my body. But, the experience is unexplainable. I am lying buoyant for exactly sixty days now and I never got to see in my lifetime the splendor of the first light of day and the descent of the sun below the horizon. The magical play of the Divine creates million of hues at the big dome making it an infinite canvass where a billion of portraits and landscapes are painted every second. Two days ago, an albatross alighted on the curvature of the capsule, which eased a momentary feeling of solitude in me, and stared at me for a minute. That stare took me several miles to your heart; for the bird’s eyes reflected a lost son in his father’s embrace.

This is the day before your scheduled trip to the Greenhouse and I am bidding you goodbye for now. Today is the end of the world to me. This capsule is made to give you choices. The inventors did a good job for injecting freedom in this small and lonesome space. There is a portable switch at my right hand’s reach for the suicide and on my left the switch to record in memory my testament. In lieu of an epitaph-like memento mori, I would like to make a letter to you, son with the hope that somehow in the distant future, the memory of this capsule would be encrypted and relayed to you. Some scientists projected that in a few more decades, the waters will recede and will rapidly evaporate into space, and this planet will soon look like your new habitat; a desert. I am not sure if this will happen soon in your lifetime and what will happen to this hopeful capsule. But, in any case, the possibilities of imagination are always at hand to bring your presence to somewhere else together with your doting father and recover the time unspent and the foregone joys of being together. But, still, experiencing it firsthand is still primordial. Letting you know the sincerest desires of your father of finally meeting you and being with you for a moment through this letter could well be the last wish of personal happiness I can demand before the world ends.

Two days ago, my capsule collided with three other capsules. The two I was able to ascertain, are now resting in peace while the other gleefully looked at me and thrust a thumb’s up. Millions are said to have chose to float by themselves maybe because they already lost their loved ones and are living by themselves like your father. The earth is now but a pool where floating caskets abound. I do not want to see this as the last hurray for humanity’s proclivity for his ego but for the unending road towards his search for his own being. Noah’s ark would become a commonplace for people wanting to immerse themselves and thrive again in a community. However, since the tragic consequences brought about by such age-old idea, people in this ending era now want to regain themselves and try to live out a Tom Nealish adventure.

The water is still and quiet today. A thunderhead could be seen on the far north, however from here I could see the crispness of the lightning sparks which reminded me of a childhood memory I want to share with you. When I was a little boy like you, I used to travel for miles a day, walking along footpaths which traverse hectares of paddies to reach a small cogon hut where your grandfather stays after a long day’s work of feeding the fishes he cultures in a little pond near the hut to bring him his dinner. Usually during the interregnum between the coming of the rainy days and summer’s ending, I travel early in the afternoon to the hut because I am afraid of the lightning and the thunderclaps, which usually happen at dusk especially that I travel along wide-open spaces, which I believe would bring greater chances for me to be struck. One afternoon, I was late in preparing for your grandpa’s baon, so unfortunately I was caught up in the dreaded walk along the paddies. The lightning was crisp and the thunderclaps were deafening. I ran fast as I could to reach the hut but when I was midway I tripped and fell down flat on my face with all the rice and the ulam splattered on the ground. All I could do was to cover my ears and stay put until the storm will pass. It did not rain, and when the thunderclaps were gone I looked at the sky and saw a big mushroom cloud on the north that illuminated brightly like a big firefly in the night. The feeling of dread was transformed into joy. For in that moment I experienced a sudden rush of relief, the kind which made my heart euphoric. I heard your grandpa calling my name. He rushed towards me, lifted me up and carried me on his back to the hut. We didn’t eat that night. We decided to sleep and have a full breakfast the day after. Before we slept, however, I told him about what I saw in the skies and in return, he told me a tale about thunderheads. He said that behind those thunderheads lie an enormous gold castle where fairies and giants live. The lights produced behind those clouds signal that there is an occurring war in their kingdom. When it rains thereafter, it means that the good ones lost in the battle and that the rain symbolizes the tears the noble ones shed in the war. When it does not rain, it means the otherwise, that the bad ones lost and that the kingdom is rejoicing for yet another victory.

Your grandpa was a good storyteller. I owe him much all the wisdom I learned from the stories he shared with me. I hoped I could impart to you the wisdom as well but time and destiny won’t allow that to happen now. I love you son. The sixty days will be enough to add up to the days, weeks, months and years of not being with you.

Your Father