I approached the shack after a timid approval from the hesitant Ate Selma. Ate Selma, the owner of the wooden house, stood stiff inside the almost-empty shanty carrying her youngest child in her brittle arms. She had a certain smile on her face. Shy and retiring; and to a bold invading visitor like me, forgiving.
I initially stood 2-inches away from the house, looking up to her forged height brought about by the elevated built of the shelter. Now I understand why the houses in the dumpsite were built that way. Beyond the weather-stricken earth, it’s pride. It’s respect that the stature demanded. I quickly gave in.
She reluctantly danced in little steps, perhaps trying to put the child to sleep. I was trying to stay alive in the crowd of hungry-for-playmate kids who were elated by the presence of a friendly group with potential something to fill their growling tummies. The spot on the doorstep offered me a glimpse of two framed worlds in the dumpsite – young and old. The former, complacent, the latter, drained. Both voiceless.
Ate Selma’s eyes remained evasive. I told her my name, asked for her age, number of children, her husband’s whereabouts, lots of typical easy-to-answer questions. Until her dancing swayed as natural as it would be when talking to an old friend. We just lacked the cards or a couple of lice infected heads to busy our hands with.
The little boney escaped her arms perhaps because it wasn’t really sleep that she needed. As she parted from her skinny mother‘s bosom, I confirmed it was something Ate Selma could no longer provide.
I learned that the child was almost 2 years old. She looked like she has not reached her first year. It didn’t surprise me to later know that the rest of the kids are of ages way older than how they look like and how much they weigh. In the dumpsite, you wouldn’t take that as a compliment.
Ate Selma casually disclosed she was 31.
Her tiny shack reeked with flat sour smell but was considerably clean. You must understand why because it’s empty. All it had was the round blue-green wall clock, which was the only fixture in the house. The wall facing the entrance door was forcibly embellished with a white silk curtain. On the left wall drooped a tacky dried animal horn where somebody hung a cotton thread cone and a brassiere. The family has the floor for sitting, eating, playing, sleeping and welcoming guests just like what she was doing to me. The only thing you cannot probably do is jump. Else, the box will definitely plummet to the filthy earth.
“(Eh, Ate), where do you keep your clothes?’ I eagerly asked in the vernacular.
Her eyes beckoned to a space on the right part of the shack where another white scraggy flowing curtain drapes and divides our spot from an area which she referred to as the family’s closet. I wonder how much dirt and pain it masks for its outside to look spotless.
“Are you all by yourself,(Ate)?” still in the vernacular.
“No, I have the kids with me…” still with a timid smile. Slowly, as if they were ghosts surfacing out from the bare walls, three of Ate Selma’s older children appeared with a familiar look on their faces. It wasn’t clear to me where they came from but I felt they were too warm to be dead.
It wasn’t hard to smile back at them. I learned that they were from 6-9 years old. The tallest made her move to help the youngest put on a new set of clothes. Ate Selma mentioned that her eldest was 13 years old. “She lives with her husband in Taytay”. She revealed it with calmness and I thought, a sound of relief. Ironic, it was. I nodded and tried not to look like I was losing my composure.
That was when I noticed a white sheet of paper hanging in between a tiny fissure on the wall that has got the only window of the house. Her tallest daughter took it out for me. I remained glued yet relaxed on my visitor spot.
“Ah, that’s my husband’s baranggay certificate.”
The name on the document crafted a cheerful contortion on my face – Filipino Bacolod.
Isn’t that a heavy, sad metaphor? The realization straightened my expression.
“We paid 50 pesos for that. My husband needed it to get the ‘pahinante’ job in the trucking business nearby.”
My jaw dropped heavily at Ate Selma’s sight. This document is worth just a stick of cigarette in our neighborhood for the person who types in the name on the sheet. If the dupe does not smoke, it’s free.
Just a couple of minutes ago, I heard Kuya Jess, the street educator from Kanlungan, talk about how meager the families in the dumpsite earn in a week. 400 pesos.
One drum of water costs 50 pesos. Ate Selma has 4 tiny mouths to feed. Hers and her husband’s had to be tiny too, I surmise. Accounting is such a gruesome career in the dumpsite.
Ate Selma laughed at my display of annoyance. I wonder how she could effortlessly make that genuine sound.
Her all-around floor leads to an opening towards a ground-floor vicinity that looked like a kitchen to me. My vision reached what seemed to be a pile of capsized sparkling silverware carefully arranged on a two horizontal shelved table. They looked new and unused.
And because I couldn’t contain such an amazing sight, I said, “Ate, wow, you have a lot of silverware!”
With that she muttered, “(Sus), those have not cooked anything. Those can cook a feast only when it’s Christmas…” She went back to her Ate Selma self – humble and reserved.
That day was August. I maneuvered my fingers to manually count for December.
I forced a smile and jokingly told her, “That’s only four months from now, ate.”
The word ‘four’ hardly came out of me. ‘Months’ mangled my spirit.
I heard my heart shatter in pieces when I realized I needed to go back to the site to meet with the group.
“Ate, we’re coming back.” I promised while waving her goodbye.
Her sparkling silverware need not wait for December.
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