That startled everyone in the family.
Later, I discovered it was the in-thing to be ugly. Still, I could not yet bring myself to do it the way that my boy would scrunch his face, distort it before the camera, revealing things inside out. Will that make him automatically an artist? Making a canvas out of his own face?
It merely made me more aware of how much of my own Mother's creature I had become. Was this also the reason I was junked at about the same age she was cheated, betrayed by friends, fellow teachers? corrupted supervisors?
She always gave us the English equivalent of things, although the Cebuano ones had more texture, more color. Why would I call kamungggay horse radish? Why would I call nangka jackfruit? kaimito, starapple, ampalaya, bitter gourd? My first writing composition, which had to be done in English, did not include the mud that got stuck and dried flaking on the carabao's back, or those that had caked around my shoes--I never had shoes at this point, she only bought me sandals! Mud wouldn't get itself into my writing composition because it was simply dirty, messy, and way below Mother's eyes. She always wanted things to be dainty, like the round white crocheted doilies she put on the table top or the settee. With Mother, I had learned to clean up; though, her things around the house were always so messy. She never had the time to fix them.
Now, as my adulthood deepens and I've been going through lots of pain and disorientation, I would consciously study the ugly. I would stare at it in the eye and I would not flinch. I should be the one to strip it naked, to describe it inside out. I should be the first to explore its underbelly. Speaking the ugly truth, this should be my project.
