To Drown
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As your mother sways beside you, droning on and on about your deceased grandmother, you watch the water. A stream slithers down the driveway, a small tendril reaching out along the concrete, effortlessly dragging a large body behind it. The stream stops at the unleveled crack in the ground, bunching in gelatinous ripples before breaking over the centimeter-high step. It slithers closer. Trembles by your toes. When it’s just about to touch your black Nikes, the stream veers to the left, chasing down another crack in the ground, disappearing behind the corner to explore the covered alleyways that connect all the houses in the compound. Still, with a dull, grating screech, you drag your chair back, closer to one of the houses and away from the torrential rain that slaps down feet before you and that drives the house geckos into hiding.
The rain’s drumming drowns out the jangle of your relatives’ voices. But the rain, usually a cool reprieve for you back home in Seattle, only enhances the tropical humidity. Sweat pools at the base of your tailbone and against your chest, though is thankfully not visible through your new white blouse, which clings to the dip of your spine and the creases of your elbows and armpits. But you wonder, watching as a motorized tricycle revs through the puddles out on the street past the compound gate: What would it feel like if that stream of water had puddled around your feet, soaked into your sweat-drenched socks, slipped up your ankles, and pulled you out into the rain? Would you dance like that stream beseeched, reach your arms around for a ghostly partner’s hand, one that would never manifest except in sharp, bristling raindrops? Become relieved, distracted from the sweltering heat? Drink the rain, as it pours down, down your throat, for refreshment? Or drown? Drown. You never formally learned how to swim, despite living beside the Pacific Ocean your whole life, and you already felt like you were suffocating, breathing through a wet rag. You kick your right foot up and under you to numb the nerves trickling down your legs. You scuff your left foot along the concrete, testing how gravity feels heavier in this humidity and in your bored, inebriated state. With a lick of your upper lip, the flavors of your sweat, your mint lip balm, and the Red Horse malt beer mingle on your tongue. Your mother’s still rambling. Her voice is the only one you recognize among your innumerable relatives, but even then, her somber tone is unfamiliar. It makes you shift again, want to escape her tirade, but you can’t leave the barangay yet; your family won’t finish for another hour or so, drowning themselves with conversation, food, and alcohol. And you don’t speak the language or have the cultural or familial knowledge to take part in conversations; don’t have reliable Wi-Fi or a book to distract yourself with. Your only respite is your third bottle of Red Horse. Her voice fills the din of rain and Kapampangan and whimpering aspins, slurred English recounting memories of your grandmother, a woman you’ve only interacted with so many times as there are fingers on your hands. She explains in a whiny drawl that, even if she wasn’t there to take care of your grandmother in her final moments because of the ocean between them, your grandmother still favored her over your uncle, her younger brother who had stayed back in the Philippines while she emigrated. This is a scene you are rather amused if not confused by, since your uncle sits not even a few feet away. She usually has more tact than to insult your uncle—or anyone—in front of him, especially on the day of your grandmother’s funeral. But one look at the way she slouches in her seat, leans her sweaty, tear-stricken face against your drenched shoulder, her cheeks flushed redder than you’ve seen before, and you sigh. |
Veronica Anne Francisco
is a Filipino American writer from Tacoma, Washington, situated on the traditional homelands of the Puyallup Tribe. She earned her B.A. in creative writing from Western Washington University, located on Coast Salish, Nooksack, and Lummi land. She is currently a graduate student in the Asian American Studies master’s program at San Francisco State University, on Ramaytush Ohlone land. As part of her studies, she is developing a project exploring the representation of queer Catholic Filipino American women in YA literature. Some of her writing can be found in Jeopardy Literary Magazine and International Examiner, and her undergraduate culminating project, "Where Are You From." |
When you had first stopped by your grandparents’ home earlier that same humid September week, straining a plastered smile to distant cousins however many times removed, you had been shocked by how much had changed since your last stay however many years ago. The main house had been remodeled, no longer the original bamboo bungalow with the cramped loft and attached modern, ground bedroom. Upon entering, the bamboo ramp that once functioned as the stairs was gone, as well as the hole that led into the (no longer existing) loft-turned-storage. The small kitchen that had sat in the back right corner was removed and replaced by a cabinet, a dining table, and rows of photographs of your mother’s family, extended relatives included. Past the metal screen door at the far end of the room, the previous dirty kitchen was now not only covered and insulated but functioned as the main kitchen and dining nook.
While your mother and uncle spoke with relatives about the funeral preparations in a language you still couldn’t understand even at eighteen years old, you wandered around the space, swatting at mosquitoes and flies, avoiding the trails of ants marching along the tiled floor and the house geckos shuffling along the walls. You joined your brother in counting the number of pictures your grandparents had displayed containing yourselves and your cousins, competing to see which grandchild was shown the most. You couldn’t help but notice how each photograph featuring you or your brother was from when you were young children, often faded grade school yearbook photos leaning against framed portraits of deceased relatives, or the occasional photograph from a vacation you had thought was only a dream.
Of course, your brother won the competition, the baby of the grandchildren. And growing bored with his victory, without internet or air conditioning, you both asked to see your grandparents’ pool. Your eldest cousin offered to lead you there, and you all ventured out back to see what was left of your grandparents’ land.
You passed by the new dirty kitchen, nervously greeting the extended relatives-slash-neighbors-slash-caregivers cooking lunch for your family.
You scurried by the pig pens, the last of the farm animals your grandparents owned and raised. There used to be turkeys, chickens, ducklings, goats, and even a carabao—but now all that was left were three or four pigs, which your family was preparing to sell.
The land wasn’t what you had remembered, either: you recalled large trees that bore leaves bigger than your head and swaying grass that would brush against your thighs. Now, though the dried grass was nearly the same, the trees weren’t as numerous, the field more barren and sepia-tinted than your memories painted them.
And as you trekked behind your cousin, minding the trail so as not to trip in the too-big sandals you borrowed from your mother, your brother commented on how much farther out the pool seemed than when you both were younger. He was right. So much had changed, including distances. Including the pool.
The teal-tiled pool, in your memories at least half as big as the public pool at the local military base (or something like that), was barely the size of your college dorm room back in the U.S. But the image reminded you of when you used to swim in the pool as a child during the occasional family visit to the Philippines during Christmas, too small to ever reach the bottom but too easily excited to stay by the pool’s sides.
Staring into the empty, above-ground crevice from the small nipa hut built beside it, you lost count of all the browned leaves along the bottom.
Something shifted below the leaves. A pale gecko squirmed out from beneath them, and you flinched.
While your mother and uncle spoke with relatives about the funeral preparations in a language you still couldn’t understand even at eighteen years old, you wandered around the space, swatting at mosquitoes and flies, avoiding the trails of ants marching along the tiled floor and the house geckos shuffling along the walls. You joined your brother in counting the number of pictures your grandparents had displayed containing yourselves and your cousins, competing to see which grandchild was shown the most. You couldn’t help but notice how each photograph featuring you or your brother was from when you were young children, often faded grade school yearbook photos leaning against framed portraits of deceased relatives, or the occasional photograph from a vacation you had thought was only a dream.
Of course, your brother won the competition, the baby of the grandchildren. And growing bored with his victory, without internet or air conditioning, you both asked to see your grandparents’ pool. Your eldest cousin offered to lead you there, and you all ventured out back to see what was left of your grandparents’ land.
You passed by the new dirty kitchen, nervously greeting the extended relatives-slash-neighbors-slash-caregivers cooking lunch for your family.
You scurried by the pig pens, the last of the farm animals your grandparents owned and raised. There used to be turkeys, chickens, ducklings, goats, and even a carabao—but now all that was left were three or four pigs, which your family was preparing to sell.
The land wasn’t what you had remembered, either: you recalled large trees that bore leaves bigger than your head and swaying grass that would brush against your thighs. Now, though the dried grass was nearly the same, the trees weren’t as numerous, the field more barren and sepia-tinted than your memories painted them.
And as you trekked behind your cousin, minding the trail so as not to trip in the too-big sandals you borrowed from your mother, your brother commented on how much farther out the pool seemed than when you both were younger. He was right. So much had changed, including distances. Including the pool.
The teal-tiled pool, in your memories at least half as big as the public pool at the local military base (or something like that), was barely the size of your college dorm room back in the U.S. But the image reminded you of when you used to swim in the pool as a child during the occasional family visit to the Philippines during Christmas, too small to ever reach the bottom but too easily excited to stay by the pool’s sides.
Staring into the empty, above-ground crevice from the small nipa hut built beside it, you lost count of all the browned leaves along the bottom.
Something shifted below the leaves. A pale gecko squirmed out from beneath them, and you flinched.
For the third time that afternoon (and in your life), you help your mother to the bathroom. The first two times, you stood nearby, awkward and irate, as she slumped onto the toilet—too exhausted, grief-stricken, and drunk to go alone. This third time, you grip her arm to help her through the doorway, leading her through your great-aunt’s house to the bathroom. The electricity has been out the whole day, which wasn’t an issue earlier in the afternoon when both the sun and spirits were relatively bright. But now, with the grey, hammering rain and the somber atmosphere, you release her arm to pull out your phone and switch on the flashlight app—dim white light revealing the small bathroom’s tile, toilet, and tabu.
You go to ask if she can manage on her own for the next part—only to stand behind her as she falls to her knees, curls over the toilet, and vomits.
You go to ask if she can manage on her own for the next part—only to stand behind her as she falls to her knees, curls over the toilet, and vomits.
Despite your inability to properly swim, you had loved going to the pool, like most other seven-year-old kids. Growing up in western Washington, the beaches weren’t the same sunny skies, golden sand, and teal waters as advertised on all the TV shows and movies—but cloudy overcast, kelp-covered rocks and drenched driftwood, and water as dark as the night sky. So summers had often been spent at the military base family pool, or a friend’s apartment pool, or a family friend’s backyard pool, or—even during vacations to warm, sunny Southern California—the crowded hotel pool. And even on rare occasions of crossing the Pacific to visit the Philippines, your family had never visited the beaches. Instead, you had spent your Christmas vacations struggling to float in your grandparents’ teal-tiled pool while your cousins teased you in accented English.
A towel was draped over your shoulders like a cape as you trailed your cousins. Your five-year-old brother stumbled behind you with his own makeshift cape, his arms and stomach bared to the hot Philippine sun. You all raced to the teal-tiled pool on your apo’s property, and you screeched something about your cousins cheating because they were older, had longer legs, could run faster. But it hadn’t mattered, because once you jumped into the water, all your anger had melted away.
Beside the pool, your adult relatives relaxed. The women hid from the sun in the stilted bamboo hut, while the men stood on the ground with their arms crossed casually as they all talked in that language you barely understood.
You were clumsily doggy-paddling and splashing your defenseless little brother when something tickled against your collarbone. While struggling to keep afloat, you scratched at your neck. But then your cousins started laughing, your brother yelling, “Ate! Ate!” and pointing at where the water lapped against your throat. With one look down, your dark eyes met the black stare of a gecko, its pale fingers clawing into your skin.
You had opened your mouth to scream, but your screams were swallowed by the floating leaves, dead bugs, and stale water. You’d lost focus on keeping afloat, and now, despite how much you kicked and waved your arms, were sinking fast—as if your limbs were becoming too heavy, as if something were pulling you down. You couldn’t see anything as your eyes stung from the chlorine engulfing your vision. You couldn’t hear anything as the water flooded your ears, except your own racing heartbeat.
As the water embraced you, everything felt cold.
But then someone gripped you under your arms. You were pulled out of the water, hauled onto the drying yellow grass. Dirt dug into your palms and knees as you knelt on the ground beside the pool wall, leaf bits and water purged through your mouth as you puked and gasped for air. Blinking away tears, you heard your own retching, so distant with all the water that still clogged your ears.
At seven years old, you thought you would have died like this—feeling the weight of the water in your lungs.
But then you felt your ima’s hand brush your wet hair out of your face. She had been kneeling next to you, her warm hand covering the whole of your back. Her steady voice was telling you the gecko was gone, telling you to breathe calmly, telling you that you were okay. So you had tried--in and out, in and out—your desperate gasps for air mellowing down into deep, though stuttered breaths. You had wanted her to be right—you would be okay.
A towel was draped over your shoulders like a cape as you trailed your cousins. Your five-year-old brother stumbled behind you with his own makeshift cape, his arms and stomach bared to the hot Philippine sun. You all raced to the teal-tiled pool on your apo’s property, and you screeched something about your cousins cheating because they were older, had longer legs, could run faster. But it hadn’t mattered, because once you jumped into the water, all your anger had melted away.
Beside the pool, your adult relatives relaxed. The women hid from the sun in the stilted bamboo hut, while the men stood on the ground with their arms crossed casually as they all talked in that language you barely understood.
You were clumsily doggy-paddling and splashing your defenseless little brother when something tickled against your collarbone. While struggling to keep afloat, you scratched at your neck. But then your cousins started laughing, your brother yelling, “Ate! Ate!” and pointing at where the water lapped against your throat. With one look down, your dark eyes met the black stare of a gecko, its pale fingers clawing into your skin.
You had opened your mouth to scream, but your screams were swallowed by the floating leaves, dead bugs, and stale water. You’d lost focus on keeping afloat, and now, despite how much you kicked and waved your arms, were sinking fast—as if your limbs were becoming too heavy, as if something were pulling you down. You couldn’t see anything as your eyes stung from the chlorine engulfing your vision. You couldn’t hear anything as the water flooded your ears, except your own racing heartbeat.
As the water embraced you, everything felt cold.
But then someone gripped you under your arms. You were pulled out of the water, hauled onto the drying yellow grass. Dirt dug into your palms and knees as you knelt on the ground beside the pool wall, leaf bits and water purged through your mouth as you puked and gasped for air. Blinking away tears, you heard your own retching, so distant with all the water that still clogged your ears.
At seven years old, you thought you would have died like this—feeling the weight of the water in your lungs.
But then you felt your ima’s hand brush your wet hair out of your face. She had been kneeling next to you, her warm hand covering the whole of your back. Her steady voice was telling you the gecko was gone, telling you to breathe calmly, telling you that you were okay. So you had tried--in and out, in and out—your desperate gasps for air mellowing down into deep, though stuttered breaths. You had wanted her to be right—you would be okay.
But you had been a child then. You don’t even know if that is a memory or a dream.
And now you’re eighteen years old—on the precipice between adolescence and adulthood.
The rain beating on the roof could not drown out your mother’s retching. The darkness of the bathroom could not hide her hunched figure, dimly illuminated by your phone’s artificial light and the remnant sunlight streaming through the small window.
You turn away, a mix of bitter amusement, disgust, and uncertainty clawing up the back of your throat in an awfully familiar taste. Your phone’s flashlight glints against the bathroom mirror. You see your reflection, the shadow of a pale house gecko against the tile, and the image of your mother’s small, fetal form beside you.
How would your apu comfort her?
You look at your hand. It wouldn’t be enough. You don’t know if it ever will.
And now you’re eighteen years old—on the precipice between adolescence and adulthood.
The rain beating on the roof could not drown out your mother’s retching. The darkness of the bathroom could not hide her hunched figure, dimly illuminated by your phone’s artificial light and the remnant sunlight streaming through the small window.
You turn away, a mix of bitter amusement, disgust, and uncertainty clawing up the back of your throat in an awfully familiar taste. Your phone’s flashlight glints against the bathroom mirror. You see your reflection, the shadow of a pale house gecko against the tile, and the image of your mother’s small, fetal form beside you.
How would your apu comfort her?
You look at your hand. It wouldn’t be enough. You don’t know if it ever will.