Author's note: This is actually not a story--well not exactly the same as how I usually write. This is a reflection. I dedicate this to my Lolo Gil and Uncle Ariel. I will miss you both.
___________________
My great-grandfather was a stowaway. A war hero during the Japanese war. Or so, I was told.
It was that late night in my last visit in the Philippines when that conversation came up with my grandfather—who I got used to calling Daddy—and my uncle Edwin. I have heard of my stowaway great-grandfather, but as much as I was ashamed to admit that I never paid much attention to this detail when I was little, I regret having to ask about it now.
“Why am I asking about it just now?” I remember thinking to myself.
He was happy and excited that, finally, one of his grandchildren actually wanted to sit down and have this chat with him. His long suppressed memories of his parents and our family history were finally pouring out. My Daddy was leaning on the couch with full hand gestures to tell me what happened. His dad was a rich man who wanted to set foot in Manila just like everyone else.
He gave up that life, changed his name, and became a soldier.
The stowaway man reached Manila and worked. He was a cheerful man who earned a peso and fifty centavos during his time. He was doing well on his own without the need of his old life. My Daddy looked like he really admired his dad, and I could not be in any more awe than I already was.
“Why am I asking about it just now?” I thought again to myself.
The story continued up until when, he met her. The stowaway met the love of his life—a lady who was an orphan and who was abused by her aunt as she was growing up. She was taken into custody by a politician family who loved her very much.
They somehow found that spark and got married. They had 8—or maybe 9—children, one of them being my grandpa.
The stowaway lived his life from becoming a soldier, to a sealer, to a retired old man. Every day, he would walk the streets of Pandacan, Manila until he would reach the market. He would sit down there in the mornings or in the afternoons, smoking his tobacco, and would just carefully observe the people. No one really found out why he bothered to come there every day just to watch the people.
“Here! Take the 10 centavos and buy some ‘lugaw,’“ He would call out to his grandchildren as he handed them the money. ‘Lugaw’ was the Philippine version of the famous congee.
Of course, the money was enough to be pocketed by the grandchildren. Sometimes they bought the congee, sometimes they bought something else.
As the years passed by, in the year 1967, the stowaway outlived his wife. They said she was cruel even to her children, but somehow she never was to the stowaway. She never liked taking pictures—and so they did not have any pictures of her.
It was a mystery no one found out about. Why she never liked pictures, I meant.
As I was pressing on for more details, my Daddy told me that he could not remember any more. “It was a long time ago,” he then told me. My grandpa talked about his dad’s time of death—having hallucinations during his deathbed—telling stories about his life.
That was when it all came out. How he was a stowaway from a rich clan. None of them knew about his life until his deathbed. It was all a mystery to them and it was all too late for them to ask. He only left only so much on where to dig deeper on to, but nothing concrete.
I felt cheated. Yes, I knew some about the stowaway’s life until he became one. The stowaway did not start as a stowaway. He was a child—a man—before leaving his old life.
Who was he before then?
“Jessica, we do not know. We only found out about some of these stories when he was dying,” My uncle told me.
“You know who’s a good resource to ask about these things? Daddy’s sister and your uncle Ariel. He knows a lot.” My uncle added, “But you know, his memory has been deteriorating. He’s been sick.”
I was sitting there with an empty void in my heart. There were too many puzzle pieces that I did not get to piece together because not one of them knows the full story.
They were all scattered.
I left the Philippines back to the United States carrying a piece of white paper with me. I took notes like a student would. This was a night I would not be able to bring back in the later years. Maybe I could share it to my children?
When I got back home, I finally asked one of my aunts to go ask her mom—my Daddy’s sister—and her older brother about any stories that they could remember. She gave me her word that she would ask the soonest about the life of the stowaway.
Life got busy. I put the story of the stowaway aside.
I forgot all about it. As life got busy, the stories became muddled.
Until the phone call.
“Hey Jess,” my uncle called my phone early morning. “Bad news.” I did not like the sound of his voice but I knew I had to hear it. “Uncle Ariel just passed away due to cardiac arrest.”
No. This cannot be it. I cannot piece it together. A part of me just lost my connection to the stowaway. I wanted to know more.
Why did I not ask any sooner?
Why was I asking about it just now?
What do you know? Did you share it to any one?
Was it passed on? Or did you carry it with you?
Uncle, I wanted to know more.
Please.
Somehow it hurts to say that a piece of that story will never be complete. My uncle Ariel carried some of those stories with him, and I do not think anyone could ever tell the story as authentic as he would.
A stowaway man lived, and I could not start the story.
___________________
My great-grandfather was a stowaway. A war hero during the Japanese war. Or so, I was told.
It was that late night in my last visit in the Philippines when that conversation came up with my grandfather—who I got used to calling Daddy—and my uncle Edwin. I have heard of my stowaway great-grandfather, but as much as I was ashamed to admit that I never paid much attention to this detail when I was little, I regret having to ask about it now.
“Why am I asking about it just now?” I remember thinking to myself.
He was happy and excited that, finally, one of his grandchildren actually wanted to sit down and have this chat with him. His long suppressed memories of his parents and our family history were finally pouring out. My Daddy was leaning on the couch with full hand gestures to tell me what happened. His dad was a rich man who wanted to set foot in Manila just like everyone else.
He gave up that life, changed his name, and became a soldier.
The stowaway man reached Manila and worked. He was a cheerful man who earned a peso and fifty centavos during his time. He was doing well on his own without the need of his old life. My Daddy looked like he really admired his dad, and I could not be in any more awe than I already was.
“Why am I asking about it just now?” I thought again to myself.
The story continued up until when, he met her. The stowaway met the love of his life—a lady who was an orphan and who was abused by her aunt as she was growing up. She was taken into custody by a politician family who loved her very much.
They somehow found that spark and got married. They had 8—or maybe 9—children, one of them being my grandpa.
The stowaway lived his life from becoming a soldier, to a sealer, to a retired old man. Every day, he would walk the streets of Pandacan, Manila until he would reach the market. He would sit down there in the mornings or in the afternoons, smoking his tobacco, and would just carefully observe the people. No one really found out why he bothered to come there every day just to watch the people.
“Here! Take the 10 centavos and buy some ‘lugaw,’“ He would call out to his grandchildren as he handed them the money. ‘Lugaw’ was the Philippine version of the famous congee.
Of course, the money was enough to be pocketed by the grandchildren. Sometimes they bought the congee, sometimes they bought something else.
As the years passed by, in the year 1967, the stowaway outlived his wife. They said she was cruel even to her children, but somehow she never was to the stowaway. She never liked taking pictures—and so they did not have any pictures of her.
It was a mystery no one found out about. Why she never liked pictures, I meant.
As I was pressing on for more details, my Daddy told me that he could not remember any more. “It was a long time ago,” he then told me. My grandpa talked about his dad’s time of death—having hallucinations during his deathbed—telling stories about his life.
That was when it all came out. How he was a stowaway from a rich clan. None of them knew about his life until his deathbed. It was all a mystery to them and it was all too late for them to ask. He only left only so much on where to dig deeper on to, but nothing concrete.
I felt cheated. Yes, I knew some about the stowaway’s life until he became one. The stowaway did not start as a stowaway. He was a child—a man—before leaving his old life.
Who was he before then?
“Jessica, we do not know. We only found out about some of these stories when he was dying,” My uncle told me.
“You know who’s a good resource to ask about these things? Daddy’s sister and your uncle Ariel. He knows a lot.” My uncle added, “But you know, his memory has been deteriorating. He’s been sick.”
I was sitting there with an empty void in my heart. There were too many puzzle pieces that I did not get to piece together because not one of them knows the full story.
They were all scattered.
I left the Philippines back to the United States carrying a piece of white paper with me. I took notes like a student would. This was a night I would not be able to bring back in the later years. Maybe I could share it to my children?
When I got back home, I finally asked one of my aunts to go ask her mom—my Daddy’s sister—and her older brother about any stories that they could remember. She gave me her word that she would ask the soonest about the life of the stowaway.
Life got busy. I put the story of the stowaway aside.
I forgot all about it. As life got busy, the stories became muddled.
Until the phone call.
“Hey Jess,” my uncle called my phone early morning. “Bad news.” I did not like the sound of his voice but I knew I had to hear it. “Uncle Ariel just passed away due to cardiac arrest.”
No. This cannot be it. I cannot piece it together. A part of me just lost my connection to the stowaway. I wanted to know more.
Why did I not ask any sooner?
Why was I asking about it just now?
What do you know? Did you share it to any one?
Was it passed on? Or did you carry it with you?
Uncle, I wanted to know more.
Please.
Somehow it hurts to say that a piece of that story will never be complete. My uncle Ariel carried some of those stories with him, and I do not think anyone could ever tell the story as authentic as he would.
A stowaway man lived, and I could not start the story.