Charlie

He used to ask me where I want to go and what I want to do. In fact it became too often I'd get angry hearing him asking me the same question over and over again.

He'd ask me in anger. And I'd reply in anger. Because my reply would always be "of course I'd want to retire in Sagpat (a sitio in Zambales) and help Aytas. It's my destiny- or so I'd think.

But when the hubby died, I thought about the same question. Was he asking this because he was really jealous- which was the reason I'd tell him why he's angry and why he'd repetitively ask me that question. Maybe it was because he was jealous of my barkada-teachers in school, my own family because I was his second wife, my education because I graduated from UP and he finished high school- not even if he was accelerated in class and graduated valedictorian.

And I'd remember myself seething with rage because he'd often ask me the same question when he's drunk. He explained to me that if you're a real organizer, you'd have to learn to drink with the masa- magsasaka, manggagawa, katutubo.

"But why should I," I'd shot back at him. "Hindi ba parang mas lalo ko pang ibinaba ang pagtingin ko sa kanila pag uminom ako at 'nakisama' sa kanila?

"Dahil hindi mo maiintindihan ang kalagayan nila kapag hindi mo sila nakasama," he'd reply.

"Perhaps," I would reply in anger.

Charlie's the kind who'd look real angry while raising a fist against all the dictators in this country. He's the kind who'd go at length organizing the have nots to encourage the masa to join rallies and forget about earning (in whatever way) for a day and probably days. He's the kind who'd return sa bundok, after all these rallies, with the katutubo at magpasan ng sako ng puso ng saging so that a farmer-Ayta father and mother could feed their children. He's the kind who'd bring our kids ("immerse" them, in my language) for weeks and months sa bundok to see him organize the Aytas, dance with zest to Talipe in lubay (g-string). He's the kind who'd come home thin and with sunken eyes because there's just nothing to eat sa bundok. He's the kind whose soul we thought was still washing dishes because he never wanted to see his mother do this chore.

Thinking about these things, I thought my accomplishment ("pakikipamuhay" sa masa described one of my professors in Community Development) as development worker is not even comparable to his or pales if actually compared with his accomplishment.

Ako'y burgis. Which is probably why I cried the first time I ate sinangag, in my in-laws' house, na walang ulam.

I would somehow play up that I was angry, during rallies, for the inequality in this country. And walk with the masa wearing rubber shoes and hankerchief in hand to rub my sweat off. While the masa around me walked in soon-to-tear slippers na walang pakialam sa tindi ng sikat ng araw.

I'd be amused at an Ayta leader who'd never run out of anything to say on top of a makeshift stage, bellowing hard facts of injustice. Me? I thought "marami pa akong kakaining bigas" to be like him. That's read as I'd have to attend so many seminars and trainings to be endowed with such "skill."

"Sigurado mo'ng gusto mo'ng tumulong sa mga Ayta? o naaawa ka lang sa kanila?," the hubby once asked. That was surprising for him to ask. But I thought he had a point. Though I also asked myself if he just wasn't confusing me.

One time feeling desperate seeing poverty at home I asked him. "Hindi kaya magbago (read: sumama) ang ugali natin kung yumaman tayo? And he smiled. For a poor family, it was difficult to imagine being rich.

But I think everybody wants to be rich. The opportunities are just so few- perhaps for the many impoverished.

Management books like "Rich Dad and Poor Dad" would say "it's all in the mind." "Believe and you will see," they'd say.

But your conscience asks you. Must I leave organizing, development work and the masa in order to be rich? Does this sense of communalism- with my in-laws' family work?

I scrimped on my meager salary as a teacher to buy/ loan a hand-tractor, a mini-thresher, and an old jeep. We'd let no chemical fertilizers touch our palay farm because this is costly, anyway. But the miracle of richness never came.

The hubby has died - having been riddled with bullets which sounded like sinturon ni Hudas on a New Year's Eve.

Me? I'd probably spend some more New Years with my kids before Kamatayan tells me "Time's up!" My accomplishment in this lifetime may still pale compared with other organizers', and development workers' accomplishments. But I hope my own contribution to a more peaceful and equitable world for my kids and the future generation will not have been for naught.

It's 3 am. I hope I'd merit sleeping under Inang Laya's kanlungan someday.