She was the tiniest of the seven young and beautiful aspirants. The simplistic and innocent looks on their facades took the speculators in awe. She wore this refurbished gown given to her by this woman who worked as a maid in Hongkong. I learned she was her God Mother. After tiring shifts of introduction, talent, parade of different wears, the decision of the judges was handed down. "And the winner is,....." No drums rolled, it was just a small beer event in a remote village. "And the winner is.... Joanna Aubrey." The gay master of ceremonies announced with a blast.
She smiled, paused and looked at me with the sparkle of her eyes wanting to say 'Thank You'. She brought out the best in me. I knew she knew the queer character in me. But she was reserved, perhaps not wanting to hurt me. It was my fault after all, I was so defensive then. When she paraded down the narrow street almost sizing up the village, her parents were so proud. They kept telling me they'd hold a party for their only daughter. She was their trophy.
Before leaving the teen years though, she started chasing the word "virginity." She got pregnant. Beautiful as she was, she maintained my admiration. She continued her studies while she could. She gave birth to a female angel, divorced with her hubby. To cut the story short, she is now one of the many Filipinas in Canada, full pledging her time to look after the aged.
I still admire her and she remains beautiful in my sight.
People are people and people matter to me. Such is my uncle. It is so sad though to learn that the thoughts we have for one person often comes after his demise. As we learn the zigzag road of living, we come to a point where different personalities affect our individuality, our extant struggle in this world.
Scared of ghosts? The first person that comes to my head is my uncle John. He was such a recreant knowing he was muscular and a big adult then. He certainly left an impression which I don't think would deduct the measure of my respect for him. On some instances, he didn’t have the nerve to make his way home after a few rounds of drinks with my dad and his friends. His house wasn’t that far but when the night catches up on him, he trembles worrying about how to make his way home. My older brother and I always had to be his body guards, and when he was in drunken stupor, we were his human canes. How shitty scared he was then.
He was a person I always looked up to in my younger days. He was a jeepney driver and a bachelor until he was 44.
Numerous early mornings in the past, he would send my family pandesal-Filipino traditional bread, enough to suffice up the measly breakfast my parents could afford us. On Christmas occasions, he would be our Santa Claus, giving away money to every kids in the compound.
His home was also my home, my resting place in my innocence, my comfort in my naïve world. He died and I was gloomy.