Beyond the Chamber of Our Dreams

As the sun kiss the horizon goodbye and as the sky welcome the macabre hug of the night, I saw Mang Kanor sitting on a decade old chair reading today’s newspaper. When he noticed me, he gave me a smile and it reminded me so much of the person he is: An old man who used to have an aspiring dream of becoming young.

Mang Kanor, from what I could remember, lived most of his life as a tricycle driver. He got his wife pregnant before she could even turn seventeen and they were forced into a life that no one in this world wanted. His first child became a drug addict who was later on shot down by the current Philippine administration. He was buried alongside the many unmarked graves populating all the unnamed cemeteries. His second child got pregnant at the ripe age of sixteen and now is a mother of four. She works in a laundry shop nearby, aspiring to become an OFW and earn enough for her ever growing family. Mang Kanor’s third child is an inherent genius and I always admired him and aspired to become like him. He worked as a call center agent in Sykes, answering calls coming from the other side of the world, answering to complains for problems that he didn’t deserve. He saved up enough money to work and study in Singapore, leaving his family behind. It was, actually, Mang Kanor’s decision for his third child to leave, because Mang Kanor knew, more than anyone that dreams should be chased even if it comes against the tides of the family.

Mang Kanor, now aged sixty still drives the motorcycle at the brink of dawn, in hopes of providing enough money to feed his second daughter’s children. Such is the life of anyone who enters this unforgiving and circumstantial world of ours.

“Hoy, Charles! Na-ayos ko na yung sapatos mo. Sandali lang at kukuhanin ko muna sa loob ha. (Hey Charles! I finished fixing your shoes. Wait here as I get it.)

His words forced me to a standstill. I had forgotten that I asked him yesterday to fix my shoes. He approached me and handed me over a pair of overused Sperry shoes to me.

“Thank you, Mang Kanor. I really needed this.” I said out of gratitude.

“Tangina, pa Thank you-Thank you kapa diyan. Mag tagalog ka naman paminsan ‘o. Pinoy na pinoy nga mukha mo eh, maliban lang sa mga mata mo, wag mong kalimutan yan. (Stop with the thank you’s Charles and maybe speak Tagalog once in a while. You look very Filipino aside from your eyes, don’t forget about that.)

And with those lines I was reminded of my inheritance. Maybe a couple of decades ago, I would be considered an alien, a freak to some. But now, my kind litters the streets of Manila. Half-Filipino, Half-American, a Fil-Am to most.

“Ah, sori po.” I responded with an awkward laugh. I grabbed my wallet from my pocket and opened it.

“Potcha, naman Charles! Babayaran mo pa talaga ako! Ilang beses ko na- ayos yang sapatos mo? Parehas na yata kami ng eded niyan ‘eh.” (Damn Charles, you’re still planning to pay me after all those times I fixed those shoes of yours? It seems like your shoes and I have the same age now.) He said as he hit me softly in the head.

I nodded at him kindly. His hand on my head started to pat me.

“Pahiram nalang nung painting set mo. Kailangan ko mag pintura ulit sa bahay eh.” (Let me borrow your painting set instead. I need to paint the house again.) He added. “Kukuhanin ko nalang mga next week ha?” (I’ll get it from you by next week if that’s alright.)

“Sige po. Salamat po ulit, Mang Kanor. (Aright. Thank you once again, Mang Kanor.” I said. He gave me a nod and sat back to his chair with his newspaper.

I started my walk back to my house.

As I walk into a dilapidated apartment complex that my mother and I call home, I can’t help but think about his remark, stating that I had to speak Tagalog once in a while. I guess it’s true that I speak English way too much and that’s not to sound fancy or anything, it’s just that I feel more comfortable speaking it despite my inheritance.

I was greeted by my mother who was cooking my dinner on her work clothes.

My outstanding mother, my hard-working mother, my loving mother.

She raised me on her own, ever since my father left the both of us for the States. I still have his voice echo in my head, telling me that he’s going to come back. I was four back then. I’m twenty now. Sixteen years of experience have already cemented the idea that no, he’s not coming back with all the toys he had promised me. I’m just glad that I’m not cursed by his face or skin, just his blue eyes.

“O’ kamusta nung Anime conference na pinuntahan mo?” (How’s the Anime conference you went to?) My mother greeted me sarcastically. She looked very young despite her age.

“Mom, how many times do I have to tell you that it wasn’t an Anime conference!?” I shouted at her as I drop my bag on the tattered couch of ours.

“Eh saan ka ba talaga pumunta, Charles? (So where did you really go to, Charles?)” She asked as she wrestles the frying pan as it sprinkles oil all over the kitchen. “Wag mong sabihin mo nag Dota ka nanaman buong araw, babatukan talaga kita!” (Don’t tell me you were playing Dota again the whole day. I’ll really hit you in the head if you did!) She added.

I sighed irritably at her remark.

“Mom, it’s writer’s conference, alright!?” I shouted at her.

“Pota, nag-susulat ka nanaman!? Di mo makakain yan Charles! Maghanap ka nga ng maayos na trabaho!” (Damn, you’re writing again!? You can’t eat what you write, Charles! You should start looking for a job!) She demanded.

She was right; I should really start looking for a job instead of following my dead-end dreams or else we’d both starve to death. I kept quiet. I was once again defeated by the natural order of things.

“O’ yan na ang hapunan mo. Sori na tuyo lang yan ah. Short tayo sa renta ngayon, kailangan natin mag tipid.” (There’s your dinner, I’m sorry that it’s just dried fish, it’s just that we have to save for rent this month) She said as she hurriedly places the food on the table and rushed outside the house.

I felt like a knife stab my chest when she told me that we were going to be short for rent this month if we didn’t save. It gave me flashbacks during that one time when I had caught her sleeping with Joseph, the landowner. I knew she did that because we couldn’t pay rent. I knew that we couldn’t pay rent because she had to use all of her money to pay the hospital because I had goddamn pneumonia. So she ended up fucking Joseph, that old-fucking geezer. I want to gut him. I want to hurt him, but I couldn’t because the natural order of the world wouldn’t let me do so.

“Sorry, ma.” I muttered. I didn’t deserve a mother like her. She smiled at me innocently as she grabs her malfunctioning umbrella from the floor.

“Wag ka naman umiyak, ‘nak ” (Don’t cry my son.) She said and hugged me. “Alam mo naman na mahal na mahal ka ni mommy.” (You know that mommy loves you very much) She whispered in my ears.

Tears started to form in my eyes. God, I feel like I’m a little child. I feel so hopeless, so goddamn useless in this life.

“Hayaan mo ‘nak, kapag balik ko bibilhin kita ng breakfast galling sa Jollibee.” (When I come back I’ll buy you breakfast from Jollibee) Tears started to fall from my cheeks. She started to wipe them. “Batang-bata ka pa, ‘nak. Subukan mo mag apply sa mga call center malapit dito. Magaling ka naman mag English, eh.” (You’re still very young, my child. Try applying to some call centers near here. You’re pretty good at speaking English you know.) She finally said. I nodded at her despite my tears.

She gave me a kiss on the forehead and went out, towards the unforgiving world.

I didn’t eat my dinner. It’s not that I didn’t like dried fish; it’s because of my mother’s suffering that took my appetite away. I can’t help but ask myself, almost single time: “How can we live like this? How can anyone live like this?” Civilization as a whole is a living failure, every civilian is open to be manipulated, to be used, everyone is a fuck-hole waiting to get fucked.

I just hate this world so much.

There is nothing in existence that could save us, nothing in this universe that could look upon us and give us meaning, nothing in this world that could give us life. We are beings living in a husk, becoming a slave to the society that we ourselves, built.

But I can’t give up just like this.

I lied down on my bed and breathe. I stared at the cracks on my ceiling and tried to count them all. There are those who can count stars, but for someone like me, stars are too far out of reach, so I count whatever’s in the ceiling.

The light of the sun hit my eyes. I had fallen asleep without wanting to. The orange hue of the morning surrounded my room. But its color was somehow was macabre as the night. My mom was already sleeping in the couch and she was honest to her word. She did buy me breakfast from Jollibee.

I sat right next to her. I watched her as she breathes and snore ever so lightly. Her face started to look old and frail, but her beauty and radiance still shines through.

“I wish I had your optimism.” I said and stood up.

I took a bath and changed as quietly as I could. I was going out to world again, applying for a job in another call center. Little did my mother know that I have applied to many other call centers out there. None of them ever called me back, for reasons unknown. Or so I think.

I have a vague idea as to why they wouldn’t hire me. It has something to do with my stutter. Yes, I do stutter when I talk, but that’s only with strangers I don’t feel comfortable yet. I have anxiety issues. But somehow, the writer’s conference made me feel at home.

I applied to a couple of jobs there: content writer, copywriter, editor, any job that they could offer me as a writer. But it’s hard to be optimistic when everyone that interviewed you claims that they are looking for someone more experienced (once again another barrier to dreams). But when you’re desperate, optimism is all you really have. So I periodically look at my phone once in a while, expecting for a text message or a call that will never come.

I went out towards the world. The sun greeted me with its humid shine. Mang Kanor’s tricycle has already left, just as expected. Never have I seen him take a day off from his work. I wished that I was someone like him, resilient and hopeful. But I’m not. The warmth of the sun had already made me weak and my will started to slowly die out from the lack of self-confidence. I hailed a jeepney, got on it alongside everyone else.

The call center was filled with many buzzling creatures.  I had always believed that anyone who worked within its very bowels has lost tracked of time. Their night becomes their day and vice versa. They too have lost their dreams, they traded it for a meager amount, because they know dreams can’t feed an empty stomach. I entered the air-conditioned building with the same thought.

I went directly to their recruitment center, which was located in the sixth floor. As the elevator doors ding wide open, I saw a familiar sight. A room humid in atmosphere, filled by a mix of eager and tired people. The recruitment officers were too busy so they had to deduce their service into a numbering system. Grab a number and wait for your turn to be called. Some other recruiters don’t really resort this barbaric way of treating their “talent”, but today, everyone is desperate. But hey, the place was quiet considering all the people there, there were variant whispers among the crowd that was waiting but that was it. I grabbed a number and had a look at it.

72.

72 people had already been there it was still nine o’clock in the morning. Everyone was really desperate and just like them, I had to wait.

Five hours had passed before my number was called. They interviewed me and I was quite happy with my performance. I guess the writer’s conference did teach me a bit about self-confidence, however, I was still given the three famous words of: “We’ll call you.” I responded with a simple thank you and made my way out, encountering a new wave of people, giving themselves, both body and soul, for another chance at destiny.

It was already three in the afternoon and I decided that I could no longer apply to other jobs by then. I had wasted five hours for nothing. I rode a jeepney way back home. As I got down from the jeepney walked back home, I can’t help but remove my over-used long sleeves. The humid temperature had stuck unto my skin and I had been sweating from the jeepney ride.

It was four and the sun was still blazing hot. My stomach was grumbling so I decided to stop by one of the vendors that were selling a variety of miriendas (afternoon snack). I bought myself two bananacues which are just technically cardava bananas covered in sugar and fried. My mom loved them so I bought her one.

I saw Mang Kanor outside his house reading the daily paper. He gave me a smile and a nod. He also reminded me about the painting set that he was going to borrow from me. I told him that he can get it anytime he wanted.

As I walk inside the shitty apartment we called home, I had encountered my mom and Joseph the landlord arguing in the corridor. My mom had signaled me to get inside the apartment, which I hesitantly did. I had no other choice. What help could I possibly give her? And I’m sure there was only one thing they were arguing about.

She walked in the apartment with clear tear marks on the side of her cheeks. I called out to her.

“Ma, hindi nanaman tayo makakabayad ng rent ngayon?” (Mom, will we not be able to pay for rent again?) I asked.

She smiled despite her given sadness. A great sign of resilience, but a clear sign of a losing struggle. She approached me and sat beside me on the couch. She ruffled through my hair and kissed my cheek.

“Don’t worry ‘nak, maghahanap ako ng paraan.” (Don’t worry son, I’ll find a way.) She muttered. I knew what “way” she was talking about. I felt tears and despair bought welling up inside me, but I didn’t cry. I chose not to cry. I had cried enough in front of my mom.

That night, when my mom went out to work and when everyone else was already sleeping, I went to Joseph’s office. I saw him through his window, half-naked and watching television, laughing his ass out to whatever he was watching. I grabbed my pocket knife and walked towards his office door. I grabbed the cold doorknob. My intentions were clear but my body wavered.

I asked myself if I could truly go and do it. If I could seriously gut a man out of pure anger and hatred.

I still haven’t twisted the doorknob open and he still hasn’t noticed me. I looked at him and saw his balding spot and ugly beard alongside his fat belly and ridiculous face. I saw some of his missing teeth as he laughed through the show he was watching. I stared at him through the window and imagined how I was going to stab him all over. How I was going to cut his throat wide open. How his entire office was going to be filled by his blood. But imagine is all I could do. I started to walk away with tears on my face and dread on my heart. I wished then that I had never been born.

Where do dreams go?

Let me tell you from experience. Broken dreams—dreams that are taken away from us—go to the moon, then to the stars, then to the edge of the ever expanding universe, staying there, and becoming forever unobtainable.

Maybe once I become an astronaut then I could finally retrieve my dreams located at the edge of the universe. But I don’t think this lifetime is going to cut it. I can no longer count how many times I have lied down in my bed, crying and thinking as to how and when we’ll ever get out of this shithole. Then I realized, it will never happen. The cosmos was too big to fit in the palm of my hand. 

The text on my phone from countless companies, including the writing companies I had applied to, tells me exactly that. Nobody was willing to accept me, even if I could speak English fluently, even if I’m capable of doing any job they give me, even if I could do anything they wanted if they would just give me a try. It wasn’t the first time.

I keep trying and trying and it just won’t work.

Maybe it’s how I look?

Maybe it’s how I speak?

Maybe it’s how I wonder as to why my life is a joke with no punchline?

Maybe it’s because my life’s end is found in a noose hanging from a broken ceiling fan.

I can’t bear it.

When I was a kid I felt that I was destined to do great things, even my long lost foreigner father told me that, but I bet he told that to all his sons and daughters in the states too.

It was my mom who told me that I had to be practical, that I had to aim for something worth doing. I knew what she did before was worth doing. It was for us, it was so that we may have a roof on top of our heads, and food within our stomach.

But it pains me to think as to how some human beings could go to another country, fuck anyone they wanted, and just leave just like that. It’s like life is just a one night stand for them. A night full of empty desires and purposeless. I can’t bear a life like that. Maybe that’s why the sins of my father are bearing down on me.

I want to kill him. I want him to suffer for everything he has done to us. I want him to feel in his very veins the guilt he has given me, the crushing thought that nothing is ever going to be fine. But I know that’s not going to happen and he will always have the last laugh because everytime I see myself in the mirror I am reminded of him. He is in my very veins, beating within my very chest, and feeding my very blood. If only I could drain myself away from him and still survive, I would have done it a long time ago. But I can’t. It feels like my very essence relies on him, even if he lives far away. My very existence and survival is built from someone like him, someone who barely existed in my life. My genetic factor, my DNA, comes from someone that I have barely met. How could someone that’s almost never been in my life define my very nature?

One. Night. Stand.

But I still can’t help wonder as to why my mom still somehow admires someone like him. How she couldn’t bear to hate him after all this time. Maybe it is within the trait of every Filipino woman to never blame others for their mistakes. Maybe it’s just within her, knowing that I was never a mistake, that in the end, she loves my father and I, equally. But if I could ever turn back time, I would do everything in my power to put them in a life in where they never met. I don’t care if that would bring me to my own demise, but as long as my mother no longer needs to suffer then that's fine. But I know such a reality would never happen because we are nothing more but little insects in the mud.

Living life is the acceptance that everything we do is futile, that we will always be the inferior ones, the ants within the machine of an ever growing menace that will soon consume the entirety of the world. My country is just fuel for the machine. Our lives is just a resource willing to be taken advantage of. And our dreams are just blood for our hallowing veins.

I have lost my identity when I lost my ability to speak my language. My father took it all away from me.

My mother kept it all away from me.

There is no place for me here.

Maybe in the next lifetime.

I woke up with a headache. The whole world was fuzzy and that was maybe because of the lack of sleep I had because I was uncontrollably crying last night. I went out of my room and my mother was nowhere to be found. But I knew where to find her if I just choose to go there, but I chose not to. I can’t accept the fact that she had done such a thing.

My body felt weak, my brain felt lost. I had already feeling that for such a long time.

The life I’m living is just a glorified husk of an insect, derived of purpose and meaning. I never wanted my life to be like this, so did my mother, and yet here we are, waiting for the world to fuck us over, but I hopefully believe that it already did and that somehow, there is still the best to come. 

I decided to wait for my mom to come home.

I turned on the television. It was the news talking about a drug addict being shot ten times in the head by some policeman. He sounded proud of it and chances are, the current administration is too. We had lost our humanity a long time ago, anyways. Why should a no one matter in the bigger scheme of things? Why should a nameless person, a person defined by the circumstances of mortality, a person similar to me and everyone else but somehow different because he fell into a dark pit, stand against the dreams of a failing country? Today, death is truly the only option and ironically, it is the only way to save a life.

It was afternoon by the time she got home. She opened the door and for a moment, she looked startled for seeing me in the couch watching some television. It was as if she had forgotten that she had a child. Shen then smiled at me.

“Okay na ‘nak, wala na tayong problema. Bayad na ang rent.” (It’s okay now son, we no longer have a problem. The rent is now paid.) She said and sat right next to me with a broken smile. A wide smile. A grinning smile. A forced smile. A witch’s smile.

She looked ten years older. Her hair was all over the place, her eyes red, her teeth yellow. She wasn’t my mother and yet she was. I wanted to ask her how she paid the rent but chose not to.

Ignorance should be a principle for people like me. Better to die ignorant than to live with all the knowledge of the world.

I knew she wasn’t my mother. She wasn’t the same sane person I knew. She was broken and yet I cried on her shoulder. I screamed and shouted while she laughed and laughed menacingly. I had lost her.

I woke up.

The world felt surreal and yet I knew I was still here. It was already night, however, I don’t know what night it was. I went to my mother’s bedroom and I saw her there, snoring lightly. I approached her and saw her beautiful face. She was my mother and the person who did despicable things to pay our rent was just some witch from the street.

My mother would have never done such a thing.

I smiled. I decided to cook for her. I grabbed some dried fish from the counter and the two remaining eggs from the broken fridge. The sound of things crackling and frying had woken her up. She approached me on the kitchen counter and hugged me from the back. I had grown way taller than her throughout the years. She buried her face behind my back and I felt her tears wetting my shirt. After a while she sat down on the couch, turned on the television and waited for dinner.

I plated our food on two separate plates. Dried fish and scrambled eggs, our favorite.

I sat down right next to her and gave her one of the plates. We ate our dinner silently as we watch Probinsyano on the television. I felt her smile at me, her radiance filling my heart. I looked at her and saw tears on her cheeks.

“Thank you, ‘nak.” She said and from there on, I knew that my life would stand on one decision.

The noose looked stable. I tugged it one last time to check once again if the ceiling fan would hold. I’m sure it would at least hold me for a decent time, I only needed three minutes anyways and I’m gone. Away from this place, away from the thoughts, away from my dreams. I would no longer be a hindrance to my mom and to anyone else. For the first time, I had finally felt free.

I placed my head on the noose and kicked the chair. It felt alright for a second, then I realized the pain I had to go through. My veins were no longer holding blood, they were holding lava. I felt like I was being set on fire from the inside. My entire head felt numb and I felt the cold embrace of death. I felt solace. The struggle only lasted for a few seconds. As my vision started to turn black and the spasm from my body started to stop I heard a knock. Then more knocks. It was too late. The knocks had disappeared and my vision was completely back. Everything in my body was numb.

And yet I still heard the sound of thunder from the door.

“Pota! Charles!” A voice of an old man shouted. Mang Kanor’s face somehow still popped on my mind and all of a sudden, hope surged through within me.

I didn’t want to die.

My consciousness came back but my entire vision was blurred. I moved my body as much as I could, trying to reach out for something, trying to reach out for one last chance at life. It felt that I was drowning.

I don’t want to die. Please. I muttered but its echoes did not reach the outside world. It only resonated within me.

There was always regret after the fall. But my entire body had already faded away. There was no longer any time for regret for I could no longer move or think. My eyes started to close. It was all too late.

---

“Charles, naalala mo pa ba si Kuya Michael mo? Nung pumunta sa Singapore para mag-aral?” (Charles do you still remember Michael? The one that went to Singapore to study?) Mang Kanor had asked me one hot afternoon.

We were both outside cooling off.

“Oo, Mang Kanor. Bakit po?” (Yes, Mang Kanor, I remember him. Why’d you ask?) I replied.

“Eh, hindi ko nasabi sayo, pero nung magparehas kayong edad, sinubukan niyang magpakamatay.” (I never told you, but when he was your age, he tried to kill himself). Mang Kanor said all of a sudden. “Nakita ko siya nagbigti dun sa sala namin. Pota, sobrang taranta ko nun dahil ako nung  na unang dumating sa bahay. Ayaw ko ng mawalan ng isa pang anak. Buti humuhinga pa siya nung pagdating ko.” (I saw him hanging himself on our sala. I was scared shitless cause I was the first one who got home. I didn’t want to lose another child. Thankfully, he was still breathing when I got home.) He paused for a while.

“Kumuha agad ako ng kutsilyo at upuan. Umakyat agad ako sa upuan at hiniwa agad nung lubid. Naalala ko pa nun sobrang nginig nung kamay ko. Hindi ko napigilan ang mga luha ko. Sigaw ako ng sigaw sa kanya, sabi ko, ‘nandito na si papa, ‘nak, sandali nalang.” (I got a knife and a chair. I got on the chair and started to slash the rope. I still remember how my hands were shaking that day. I couldn’t hold my tears. I shouted at him, telling him, “Don’t worry son, your father is here, just a bit longer.”)

I saw tears forming from the sides of his eyes.

“Tangina, sobrang saya ko nung natangal ko na ng lubid sa kanya. Nahulog siya sa sahig at umubo ng malalim. Tumawag agad ako ng ambulansya.” (Fuck, I was so happy when I got the rope out from him. He hit the floor and started cough heavily. I called for an ambulance right there and then.) Mang Kanor started to wipe his tears. “Charles sabihin mo sa akin na hindi mo gagawin yun.” (Charles, tell me that you’ll never do such a thing.)

I looked at him by the eyes for that one moment. I had seen his entire pain as a father and as someone who had lost way too many people in his life.

“Mang Kanor, hindi ko po yun gagawin. Mahal ko po masyado ang mama ko.” (Mang Kanor, I won’t do such a thing, I love my mother way too much.) I said and did my best to smile.

I guessed I lied. Sorry mom.

---

Our dreams lie beyond our grasp. It lies in a place in where we could never reach them, but may our dreams be in the edge of the ever expanding universe or in the very depths of a black hole, we will do everything to reach them. Its human nature. 

I may never become an astronaut, but that’s not going to stop me from travelling the planets, the galaxies, and the entire universe for a chance to have that dream of mine. Nothing is ever going to stop me from making my mother and I happy.

That day when Mang Kanor saved my life because he was supposed to borrow my painting set would never be lost in my memories and I will be forever thankful to him.

That night when my mother told me a simple thank you to me for simply living would be a memory I would bring everyday with me, for the rest of my life.

That fading moment when my father left me would be my fuel to break through the chambers of my dreams and into a realm beyond.

I am breathing as of the moment and feeling the warmth of the immortal sun. Today, I am walking through the streets of Cubao, as a man filled with dreams and carrying nothing more but his heart within his very hands, hoping that one day, someone will accept it for what it is, broken but unyielding against the forces of time.