The writer of this letter could smell things a block away. He could smell the gasoline from an automobile being repaired. He could also hear the grumble of its crusted engine as the grease monkey attempted to choke it back into life.
The automobile’s bonnet was latched up and the work from home monkey was deep into lecturing a witless customer as though he had memorized the bibles of mechanical and electrical engineering. But surely learning by rote had long since gone out of fashion? After five years in residence in one of many Brooklyn streets the prolonged drawl remained unmistakable to the traveling writer. He could tell from the tone of this man’s voice that he was no longer wearing a facemask.
Not that he ever did much.
2
But he chose to. The writer still wears his mask, still convinced that the world he lives in is within an era of pandemics now. But thankfully, there were no side-effects to taking the vaccine, twice no less, when the opportunity was presented. And there was certainly no need to attempt to jump the queue or bribe an official at the door. Those days were long gone, and there were eyes everywhere. And indeed, not many people had showed up. Herd immunity was not achieved. There appeared to be more believers than non-believers. In conspiracy theories and the like. Not the rapture. Nevertheless, the writer chose to ‘be well’.
And the virus did eventually enter a stage of remission, just as it had always done in years gone by.
He no long idled outside the corner shop, watching the moving diaspora, downing a lukewarm Coke. He had done enough collecting by now. Scented tea with honey is finally palatable. And he had long since ‘kicked the habit’. She did too.
They seemed like ordinary and even less than common folks to a repressive few. He felt as though he was walking amongst giants, at a more strident pace, custom tattered boots long since discarded. The Congolese vegetable vendor. She is gone now. The Malawian corner shop ‘minder’ still referred to as ‘boy’ by his Bangladeshi ‘bosses’.
Who still ordered him about while at the same time lamenting the ongoing persecution of the Rohingya and Chinese minorities.
The old lady with her crutch peddled second-hand books which no one would ever read, alongside her home-made pickled onions, red chilies, green chilies, not too strong, mind you; weather permitting. She’s gone now too. The butcher and his African assistants, meat always fresh but no pork, so sorry. Pasta imports from who knows where. Off the back of a truck or the boat from Manila, docked in a still-barren Cape Town port. But the writer’s mask stayed on. The air was clean, cool and crisp for now. The fog had to come still.
3
Metro Manila’s airport terminal is no longer as busy as in the past. Even so. There are no longer coups. Democracy finally took root amongst Filipinas and Filipinos alike. Small groups of tourists hesitantly shuffle their way through the turnstiles and check-points. Broad-shouldered entrepreneurs are barging their way through. The soldiers with sub-machine guns slung over their shoulders no longer mind them. A new broom is sweeping the backstreets of Manila clean. She is not there to meet him. She is working now. And by now, he knows the way. Not much time spent squeezing his way through.
No need to hail. His driver is already there. They drive no further than four miles out of town. The driver still thinks he is as daft as a bat. Why take a jeepney when you can … But never mind, it always seems to fall on deaf ears. The wet markets will have to wait for now, it is far too crowded for his liking, we will eat out later tonight rather. His room is quiet. That is to be expected. Clean and tidy, everything in its place. As usual. Ah yes, the percolator is ready, buffed so that he is able to see his reflection in its shiny mirror. Mugs as always stand close together, joined to the hip.
Like soulmates, and like its owners, these two have no gender.
I was not born in the USA. But I am a son of the soil.
And no, I was not conceived immaculately. Nevertheless, I suspect I may have been conceived in a low to middle class cabin on an ocean liner traveling along the South-east African coastline. It would go no further than the Durban port. I cannot truly be a water baby because, boyo, this baby cannot swim to save his life.
Later;
Brother One was born.
I was over the moon. Because a year later, Armstrong landed on the moon too.
And you Loved me to the moon and back.
But it was during that year that the world lost three great men, all three citizens and servants of the United States of America. Senator Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King Jnr. And Malcolm X. They removed these men.
And Armstrong crooned that it was a wonderful world indeed. Marcos and Imelda certainly thought so.
Much later;
Brother Two was born.
In number order.
The one is no less important than the other. But what might they make of Brother Zero? No matter, but sometimes it does feel like that. Like you’re still at the ground zero of your life. Or what do you think? Brothers? Sisters? Nanays, tatays, uncles and aunts. Women and children first.
It did not happen in Vietnam. Before that horrendous war ended, women and children were killed.
Still in that same year.
The Birthday girl. She was born, just a little earlier than Brother One, is all.
But like B1, she never forgets a birthday. Which is why I refer to her still as the birthday girl. I forget birthdays sometimes but not this kid’s. Good reason why.
And the year you were born?
And do you remember how it all started out for us?
And now there are these days. Things have changed. But it is not water under the bridge, my Love.
To this day, I still have many pet names for you; I wonder if any one or two of them could be patented? Because seriously folks, things are tough out there.
And we could all do with a little extra cash as of now.
It’s tough in Batingan. The streets are empty and quiet. It is like a ghost town. There is no work to be done. Not even good old housekeeping chores, washing and ironing too. Because there’s just no money around to pay the hired help.
Now, seeing as you love your green gardens so much, how different things could have been had you started up your own veggie patch. Instead of leaning on the wet markets which are, nowadays, out of bounds anyways.
But it is not water under the bridge as well you should know.
Well, since ouma and oupa were first carted off from District Six, otherwise known as Kannalaland, it’s always been tough in Manenberg. And today still, it remains a gangster’s paradise. I remember how it was when I first visited the ‘township’.
Unless you were really desperate for another quart of warm beer, you would go no further than the steps just outside of your front door. The endless steps.
Today still, it remains a middle-class suburb. Mowbray is a haven for all students who must get to their lectures on time. But today, it is a ghost town as well. Years back though, B1 and B2 were born in the town hospital’s maternity ward.
And while B2 was being babysat by gran and Joe, well, gran most of the time I would imagine, B1 and BZ were munching on popcorn as quietly as humanly possible, trying very hard not to catch flies while gawping at their first introduction to the star wars.
Years later it was so pleasing to learn how much the generation gap has closed. Because I soon learned with certain marvel in my breast how B2 and his Princes were analyzing, reviewing, dissecting, applauding, reviling and pretty much doing cartwheels together while the recognizable soundtrack continued to hum overhead.
But as all solid to good dads would do, I gather, came the terse reminder.
I am still your father.
I lived briefly with B1 in this quiet town. Or was it because I was practically deaf? Anyways, so as I was saying.
Although I never actually felt it, it could have been ground zero for all we knew. The earth shook, you see. But I never got to see my young pop scampering about in his birthday suit to make sure that mom, ‘cat’ and I were A-Okay. Oh, and B1 too. It was an earthquake. But – phew! – no volcanic eruptions.
And so it goes in this country of ours that we have a creaking old nuclear power station literally stationed on fault lines with the Atlantic ocean’s waves lapping its ageing cement walls.
The birthday girl and I spent many a year traipsing up and down this famous long street bordering a quaint set of homesteads and shops and tinkering and tailoring sheds. It was known to its residents and all others as Bo Kaap. It was originally an enclave for slaves from the Islands of Malaya. Today these are known as Malaysia.
Traveling northwards by boat, you will have reached Indochina. Today it is broken up into free and independent states of which the following.
Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, Thailand. Singapore too for that matter but you do know that it is quite expensive over there. And if you thought PDA (public displays of affection) were bad in Binangonan or Manila, go to Singapore.
But we could go to Thailand. I have it on good authority that it is very nice over there. You see, B1 once took an extended vacation over there.
And so we go on to the islands.
The birthday girl and I used to talk philosophically and yet so spiritually at times on the tetchy matter of racism in this our tale of two cities. In those days, we did not talk too much of gender prejudice. It would not have entered my mind. She brushed racism to one side and believed that the white man’s sentiments were perfectly understandable.
Until it happened. It remains an unpleasant and humiliating experience being on the receiving end of racism.
And gender prejudice.
I remember the birthday girl’s birth date because it is on Human Right’s Day. Some South Africans commemorate the day when white policemen cowardly gunned down 69 human beings. Not 67. 69. In the back. There were women and children. And they were black.
You know the story well by now. I eke out a living as a copywriter. I ghost-write for others too. And I am still working on my short stories and novel drafts. But you inspired me, indeed you gave me courage, to pursue my objective but uncompromising approach towards human rights abuses in this world of ours. What did we call it? Ah yes; my passion projects.
I remember the day when it happened.
It was the day that the earth shook.
Nope. It wasn’t the plague. But as I have said to you before, I sometimes wonder. Had we never got to experience a global pandemic in our lifetime, I am still not sure whether or not we would have met. Long before the lockdowns, I was lacking that courage.
But it was time well spent. Social distancing and all that. No longer under the influence of others. I speak my mind. I act out as my heart rules.
The day the earth shook was the day that you and I met.
Today is your birthday. Stay inside awhile. And the day before that, it was the eleven-month anniversary of us agreeing to be together.
Brooklyn; you will love it here. But I did warn you. Heads will turn as we waltz our way through the main road. From top to bottom. Not because; well, you know. But because you’re so damn gorgeous.
My Love; I love being around Batingan. But can we please go to Metro Manila more often. There is just so much to see and do there. The gardens, the opera house, the markets, the barrios. The museums. The galleries. And the woman with one and a half thousand pairs of shoes.
Happy Natal Day.
Mahal Kita.
But Jesus Loves you more.
‘Against all odds, I still hope to meet a man who will overlook my birth gender and care more about mutual understanding. I want him to take me as an individual. He doesn’t have to accept me as a woman because I’m not one …. and never will be. We should gradually learn about each other and decide if we should live together. I prefer him to be gentle, polite, honest and educated. He should be able to overcome obstacles in life and still maintain a positive outlook. I hope to find him eventually, but have no idea when. Call me old-fashioned, but I think it’s in the hands of destiny.’
From Ladyboys; The Secret World of Thailand’s Third Gender – Published by Maverick House, 2008.
Mark Whelan 