"Which questions are worth asking?"
I arrived in the Philippines three days ago after three months of unparalleled bliss in Western Europe. As the plane was landing, several thoughts went through my head:
"I'm going to miss Delia."
"I'm going to miss all that cheap European wine."
"I'm going to miss all that fabulous European art."
"I'm going to miss all those incredible European landscapes."
"I'm going to miss not sweating like a pig all the time."
"I'm going to miss not having to worry about life, work, and money."
"Uh... just why am I going to the Philippines?"
I exaggerate. There were good reasons for the way I laid out my itinerary. July was to dance in Vienna... August and September was to fuck around Europe in general and check out European art and culture and, you know, stuff...
... and October till December was time I planned on spending with my parents after having lived away from home for nearly ten years.
My mother---in addition to being overworked, underpaid, and the recent recipient of a pacemaker---is diabetic. (My father is also overworked and underpaid, and has had a heart infarction, but he's another story.) Since I arrived in the Philippines three days ago, I have taken it upon myself to be the diet and exercise supervisor of Nanay (Filipino for "mother"). Not only did I encourage her to take out a membership with me to the local gym (a mind-boggling, multinational fitness facility that boasts an indecent amount of exercise equipment, plus a wet sauna, a dry sauna, free coffee and pop, and an aerobics room outfitted with a 72-inch screen so that you can watch poignant films like "Dick and Jane" while treadmilling calories away); I also become hyper vigilant whenever we're around anything edible and (in particular) carbohydrate-laden. Earlier tonight at the dinner table, I reprimanded Nanay for buying a slice each of chocolate-and-mint meringue pie and carrot cake, and for eating two pieces of fried chicken and some rice. Nevermind that she actually hadn't had dinner yet, and that I ate most of the dessert, including all of the pie.
She turned to me and gave me a look that clearly said, "No rice? No dessert? Have you lost all common sense, my son?! Where is your compassion for your fellow human being?!?!"
Filipinos are notorious for being gourmands, and I was determined to singlehandedly change Filipino culture. It's for their own good, for god's sake, and I myself will be a shining example. I was determined to go easy on the rice, to eat slowly and with great deliberation, and to engage in deep and meaningful conversations over lunch so that a single sandwich will seem like a feast. Just like "the Europeans" do.
So I ignored Nanay's icy and silent protest. I put all the food away before she had a chance to help herself to seconds. Satisfied that I had done my duty as son and benevolent dictator, I locked myself in my room and sat myself in front of my laptop, which kept track of my thoughts around my current preoccupation: deciding on a graduate degree to pursue.
This was my grand-scheme-of-the-month: Next year, I want to pursue a Master's in Philosophy specializing on the history of science particularly in relation to art. Since starting Sian Ede's latest book, "Art and Science", I had become obsessed with the Ede's central question, which the book's back cover blurb poses eloquently:
"Scientists weave incredible stories, invent wild hypotheses, and ask difficult questions about the meaning of life. They have insights into the workings of our bodies and minds which challenge the myths we make about our identities and selves. They create visual images, models and scenarios that are gruesome, baffling or beguiling. They say and do things that are ethically and politically shocking. Contemporary scientists frequently talk about 'beauty' and 'elegance'; artists hardly ever do."Is science the new art?"When I first read this in Delia's apartment in Leiden two months ago, I went absolutely nuts. Now THAT was a question worth asking. The heavens parted and a beam of light shone upon my exultant face. The heavens soon clouded over again when I heard myself asking, "Does that mean I won't be doing a Master's in Choreography?" Chaos. Turmoil. All certainty, lost.
Fast track to two months later. I am in my room, having just deprived my mom of mint-and-chocolate meringue pie and rice and fried chicken, and I am contemplating the question: "What kind of graduate degree do I want to pursue?"
Two hours of unfruitful contemplation later, I decide to drop the subject. I tell myself, "Just give yourself time to think. See what comes over you."
A second later, something does come over me, and it takes on the form of a wave of guilt. I was unduly harsh on Nanay earlier. Even diabetics need carbohydrates. And I should spend some quality time with her.
Nanay is in the living room where she's watching the late night news. I join her. (This way, I realized, I can also make sure that she carrot cake is safely out of her reach.)
The news is depressing. I had forgotten how depressing Philippine newscasts are. It's not the reports on wars, epidemics, and general human suffering that gets me down. It's the case studies of the wretched lives of individuals and families that really drive home the message that this is the Third World. A woman attempted to commit suicide in jail when her five children perish in a fire while she was incarcerated. A cement manufacturer repackaged low-grade cement mixed with lime to look like higher-grade (and thus more expensive) cement. A family of nine lived, and continues to live, in a makeshift home under a bridge that spans a putrid, toxic river. Their room is maybe 8 cubic meters big, and is as hot and airless as an oven. This family is one of several who live in what they call "their condo beneath the bridge".
My mom laughs at the name. I stare at her for a second in horror: how can she laugh at this? And then I realize three things at the same time.
First: she laughs because the name carries a brand of irony that people unused to suffering cannot find funny. It is the brand of irony that gives birth to comedy based on topics like humiliation, hunger, suicide. It is cruel humour, and complex. Maybe even sophisticated.
Second: she laughs because that's what any Filipino worth their salt would do---laugh at misfortune, even if it's the misfortune of others. What else can we do to prevent ourselves from drowning in despair? Nothing. Nothing at all.
Well... there is another thing one can do. Turning off the TV, as I feel my heart grow heavier, I feel my stomach getting lighter. A curious, phantom rumbling in my guts, not really based on true physical hunger, displaces a deeper desire, and I have my third realization:
What else can we do to prevent ourselves from drowning in despair? Why, eat.
The heavens part. Ah. Of course.
I say good night to my mom. I kiss her on the cheek, gently. I head back to my room and consider resuming my contemplation on doing a Master's in Philosophy or in Choreography or...
I pause. Have I lost all common sense? Where is my humanity? Why do we live in a world where people have to live under bridges? Now THOSE are questions worth asking.
I walk over to the fridge and unearth the chicken, the rice, AND the carrot cake. Armed and ready, I sit down in front of the computer. I drop the subject of my Master's degree for now. "Just give yourself time to think. See what comes over you."
I begin to type.
~ Today, I bathed in warm tropical rain for the first time in ten years. ~
