Let’s just say I didn’t move to Canada when I was twenty-seven years old, confused about how my life was going to turn out after I pissed off an entire community of would-be priests, their loving parents, family, and relatives — an entire community of priests who didn’t think I had a bone of a snitch in me, my friends who didn’t see it coming, and the rest of the community at St. Augustine School of Theology, who knew something was wrong with me, but they just couldn’t put their fingers on it.
Let’s also just say that I didn’t believe in second chances, that as long as I was willing to do the work and master being selfless instead of being selfish, things could change, and the course of my life would eventually turn toward my childhood dream of becoming a priest. Although my mother was convinced by a numerologist that I would never become a priest no matter how many times I tried to go in and out of the seminary, she agreed it was for the best that I moved to Kamloops, British Columbia. I had no idea what life would be like away from my family, from my former friends, from my enemies, from people who hated me for valid reasons, from people who hated me for no reason at all. All I wanted was a fresh start.
Let’s just say that when I attended a seminary in Edmonton, I chose to keep my secrets to myself as a typical Pinoy would. Let’s just say I’d stuck to “I’d rather die than lose face for airing out my dirty linens” to someone who had no idea about the arduous struggle I already went through, keeping a lid on this mistake I made fifteen years ago. Let’s just say I didn’t emerge from being a victim and didn’t claim my chance at redemption. Let’s just say I didn’t tell my shrink about that night when I was a foolish, impressionable fifteen-year-old high school student in my hometown. Then I wouldn’t have to remember every detail of that Friday night in October 1986.
There was something about the blowing wind that Friday night when my friends and I rode our bikes along the bay in my hometown of Calauag, Quezon. Old people often said it meant rain was afoot. We, the kids, didn’t believe it. We thought it was simply a ploy to keep us home, to keep us from our bicycles at night. Growing up, we played physical games, such as taguan, a local version of hide-and-seek, tumbang preso, which involved hitting an empty can of milk with a sandal or a flat stone, or tubigan, a group game involving a skillful passing through ground-drawn lines without being tagged by the guards. Tumbang preso and tubigan were played mostly by younger children. Youngsters my age — I was fifteen at that time — had usually graduated to riding bikes. On a night leading to the weekend, we usually rode our bikes until everyone was bone tired and nobody could kick the pedal anymore.
We rode across the urban area that night, stopping at spots where there were other kids to see and chat with. Since there was no school the next day, the streets in town were alive. There were all kinds of people wandering about. Some kids engaged in a boisterous tumbang preso; another group played hide-and-seek near a school ground. Some adults sat in front of their houses exchanging the latest about the neighbourhood. Everyone in my house had gone to bed. I was the only one still out and about.
Along our bike route, we came upon a makeshift eatery selling bibingka, a type of rice cake baked in a clay pot, topped with burning coconut husk. Even today, the smell of burning coconut husk still conjures up memories of my childhood. We could only afford to buy one cake, so we shared and each got a bite. After chowing down the bibingka, we pedalled away from the eatery and headed back to our hangout near the school, where we chatted a little more.
Earlier that day, I was in the school library when an official from the provincial education department dropped by for an impromptu visit. I was researching an article I was writing for the school paper. I had seen this man before. A six-footer, which was unusually tall for a Filipino. He was wearing a short-sleeved barong, signalling he was a person in an important position. His smiley face showed friendliness and an air of being approachable. He sported a receding hairline. I threw a glance at the visitor. He smiled at me. I respectfully bowed my head and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Guillermo.”
“Is this an obra?” he asked, glancing at the research notes I’d scribbled on index cards. I laughed perfunctorily. I thought that was supposed to be a joke. “It’s nothing, sir, just a piece for the school paper.” Saying that it was nothing was a way of showing politeness, self-deprecation perhaps, and somehow saying that I was a person of no consequence compared to the man speaking with me. The principal, who briefly left the guest by himself so she could speak to the librarian, saw that I was speaking with the man. She approached us.
“This is Renato,” the principal introduced me. “He’s one of the students we chose to compete in the upcoming school paper writing competition. He’s also one of our top honour students among our juniors.”
“A bright student. I like bright students,” Mr. Guillermo said without missing a beat. I also noticed a smile on his face that was somehow puzzling. I blushed, a tad embarrassed, but I also felt proud I’d been called a bright student and that somebody liked me.
I forgot about that friendly encounter until that night when Mr. Guillermo and a teacher from another school passed by where my friends and I were hanging out. They stopped briefly near us and then kept walking.
“Wasn’t that the visitor at school today?” asked my friend Ramon. “My brother knew about him.”
“How did your brother know about him?” I asked.
“Nestor was in boy scouts. He went on a lot of camping trips and that shit that they do, what was that again?” he said, scratching his head, trying to remember what it was. “Scout forums. Right, scout forums. He got sent to a couple of those, and Mr. Guillermo was one of the guest speakers. The scouts slept in the school, and apparently, Mr. Guillermo asked the boys to bring him a ‘crying banana’ at night.”
Guffaws ripped through the deserted streets. People had gone home. Kids stopped playing taguan, tumbang preso, or tubigan.
“He promised unsuspecting kids stuff to get what he wanted. But he never lives up to them,” Ramon added.
“If he proposed to me something like that, he’d get a kick in the shin and another in the groin,” chimed another kid, which elicited even louder reactions.
We were still in a banter when Mr. Guillermo’s sidekick teacher came back and approached us. Mr. Guillermo was half a block from us, heading toward a guest house where he was staying for the night. The teacher pointed out to us that it was time to go home and that our parents would soon be looking for us because it was late. We all got up, picked up our bikes, and headed our separate ways. My house was about three blocks east of the guest house. I was just about to mount my bike when I felt a tight grip on my left wrist. The heavy-set teacher, who was slightly taller than me, had wrapped his hand around my wrist.
“We have a visitor who wants to talk to you,” he said. I felt disturbed. Nervous. He held my wrist tightly as if I was going to escape.
“Did I do anything wrong, sir?” I asked.
“Do you want to graduate at the top of your class?” he asked me.
That confused me. What did the visitor have to do with me graduating at the top of my class?
“He can make it happen, you know,” said the teacher.
It’s still sometimes difficult to talk about that night. Every time I do, it means reliving that experience. It means feeling the same guilt over and over. It means going through the thousand ifs and buts in one vicious cycle.
“Leave it up to the Lord. Lift your worries to the high heavens.” That’s how my grandaunt, a Catholic nun, would have advised how to deal with things like this. “Go to confession. Leave all your burdens to the Lord,” I could hear her insistent but calm voice. I’ve lost track of how many priests I’ve told about this in the past. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve left this burden for the Lord to bear. I feel better temporarily, but the pain comes back. The burden reappears. The fidgeting of my hands recurs. And there I am again. Back in that room. With that man.
My hands were fidgety and my knees were shaky when Mr. Guillermo came out of the washroom. The teacher who fetched me was gone. The door behind me was shut. With that, I convinced myself that I was simply going to talk. There was nothing wrong with talking. It would be over soon, I thought. Mr. Guillermo was powerful and he could change the course of my future. If I could graduate at the top of my class, I’d get scholarships.
It started to rain. The old people were right about the blowing wind by the bay. I could hear raindrops pelting the glass jalousies as the shadow of swaying coconut leaves was projected on the windows. The diaphanous fabric of Mr. Guillermo’s barong rose above his head, eventually landing on the floor. He was a big man, definitely taller than me. His head was balding. He asked me to grab a chair while he opened a bottle of beer and asked if I wanted one. I declined. There was no legal age limit to consume alcohol in the Philippines. At least there wasn’t at that time. Anyone could buy beers or liquor from a corner store. Some of my classmates had begun drinking at age fifteen. I had not. Given my experience with my alcoholic father and grandfather, I didn’t want to partake in any of that.
Mr. Guillermo asked me to tell him something about myself. I didn’t exactly know what to tell him, so I bored him with school stuff. I mentioned I was number two in my class, that I was active in extracurricular activities, that I was a student leader, that I loved to write, and I was this and that.
“You’re ranked number two? I can change that,” he said with a particular sparkle in his eyes.
“What do I have to do to make that happen?” I asked.
“You don’t have to do anything. I will do all the work,” he said, again with that smile.
I fidgeted more. It felt as if my knees were shaking more vigorously, although they were not. My eyes avoided his stare. There was something off, but my fifteen-year-old self could not forget the prize of being at the top, the prospect of being a winner for a change.
The rain reinforced with gusty winds grew stronger. The coconut leaves slapped the windows more violently. I could hear water gushing from a downspout, crashing onto a rain barrel.
“Do you think you taste salty?” Mr. Guillermo asked me before taking a swig from the bottle of beer in his hand. “I heard the water supply in town was cut.” It had been two days since the supply of running water was cut. There was a problem with the source, and the whole town had to resort to using water from the wells.
“I showered today,” I said as a matter of fact.
“I was just kidding. You didn’t look salty,” he said laughing, seemingly amused by my naïveté.
I felt his toes touch mine. I swallowed my spit. Perturbed. No one had ever played with my toes that way. My discomfort intensified, but I seemed to have been bolted to the chair. I couldn’t move. I felt stuck and helpless, but I knew I could get up and walk out of the room. I could bolt and run home, forget about Mr. Guillermo’s offer to change things for me. But my feet felt heavy. They seemed to have grown roots and become planted on the floor. They seemed to become irreversibly attached to the wood and onto the ground.
Someone knocked at the door. Mr. Guillermo looked at me. I looked at the door. I hoped it was the teacher who brought me here. I hoped he came back to take me out of this pickle. Mr. Guillermo told me to open the door. It was the maintenance staff.
“Is there anything else that you need, Mr. Guillermo?” he asked. He didn’t acknowledge my presence.
“That would be all,” said Mr. Guillermo. “I noticed that you replenished the water container in the washroom. Thank you very much.”
The maintenance guy smirked and disappeared before I could say anything. My mind raced between grabbing the doorknob and running, and staying and finding out what Mr. Guillermo was really offering me. But I was glued to the floor. The wind outside was picking up speed.
“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” said Mr. Guillermo, as he emptied the beer to his mouth. He was right. I had the chance to leave, but I stayed. As his face became blurry to me, so was my resolve to take off. I could see his lips spouting words. “I don’t want you to do anything against your will. You came here voluntarily. Nobody forced you.” He came around me. Put his hands on my shoulder. I could smell the beer from his breath when his lips planted an unwanted kiss on my nape. His hand slid between my underwear and my skin.
He turned off the light switch by the door. The room darkened. My mind dimmed. The rain raged even harder. I wondered when it was going to end. I wondered how I was going home.
Fine.
I’m going to deal with this the right way. Not with the prescribed confessions to priests and spiritual direction that often suggested the Lord would heal me, would heal my wounds. And so, let’s just say I did talk to a shrink about that night. Let’s just say that my exposure to a plurality of thoughts in Canada led me to the comfortable chair in a therapist’s office somewhere in Edmonton, because if I didn’t, I would have relied upon the deep religious beliefs of my parents that someday the grace of God would heal me and make we well and whole again. And because if I didn’t, every time I saw a red bike outside a house anywhere in the world, I would be back to that house over and over.
My bike was still outside, standing by the fence, when I got out of the guest house. There was no other choice but to ride it home through the pouring rain. I loved the rain, but that night the drops of water were daggers hitting my skin. I had nothing to diffuse them with. They hit my head, intent on splitting it open. At least that was how it felt. My vision was blurry. The torrential rain made it impossible to see the street. I passed by a group of teenagers taking shelter from the downpour in front of the Muelsa, the town’s movie house. We lived just behind it. Although it was just a few kicks in the pedal, my legs felt they were ready to give up. Stormwater covered the street. It was difficult to plow along with my bike. I passed another group of bystanders in a makeshift shelter beside the wall of the movie house. Despite the sheets of rain, I caught a whiff of marijuana.
I was ready to collapse when I reached our house. It was dark. Everyone was in bed. The only light inside was an electric votive candle in the altar atop a dresser in my parents’ bedroom. My parents had left the wooden jalousies of their bedroom open. The rain wasn’t spilling into the bedroom. An extended roof protected the windows from rain spills. My father usually shut the door at night, knowing I was still out and about. The door didn’t have a doorknob. I didn’t need a key to get in. I just had to pick a contraption he made and the door would open. I did the trick as quietly as possible. I didn’t want to alert anyone I was returning home quite late and soaking wet. When I got in, I tiptoed my way to the washroom and scrambled to find a dry towel. I found one hanging on a covered clothesline in my father’s furniture shop at the back of the house. The washroom, more like an outhouse, was adjacent to the shop. There was no light in it. Although I was afraid of the dark, that night I didn’t mind that I could barely see anything. I didn’t want to see anything. I wanted to stay in the dark. I was ashamed of what I had just allowed to happen to me.
For a moment I sat on the washroom floor, hugging my legs close to my chest, with all my clothes on. I sobbed like I had been mugged, like someone had stolen something from me. I wasn’t sure if I was sobbing for losing my innocence or for realizing that I had been had. The cold radiating from the cement floor seeped into my wet skin. I peeled off my shirt, shorts, and underwear and showered. I scrubbed every inch of my body with a bar of Irish Spring as if I could wash away that encounter.
I stopped sobbing. There was no use crying over something I had allowed to happen to me. It was partly my fault. If I hadn’t gone out on a bike ride, I wouldn’t have been spotted. If I had just ridden away on the bike. If I had just turned the doorknob when I had the chance, I wouldn’t have been nursing a broken innocence. I don’t remember how long I showered that night. It felt like forever, and even after scrubbing myself raw, I didn’t feel clean at all. While I was drying myself off, I heard someone get up from bed and go into the shop. It was my father. He was going to take a leak, but I was in the washroom. I heard a stream of water hitting a pile of firewood just outside. He called my name, probably checking if it was me in the washroom and not some unwanted intruder.
“I got wet in the rain on my way home,” I said. I felt the need to explain why I was showering that late. He said I should go to bed soon. I wanted to tell my father to stay and wait for me to get out of the washroom. I wanted to tell him what had happened, but I realized I didn’t have a change of clothes. It would be awkward to come out of the washroom with just a towel draped around my waist. I had always felt awkward being half-naked around anyone. I wanted to tell him I was hurt. I wanted him to hurt the man who hurt me, but I didn’t want to give him the impression I wasn’t man enough to defend myself. I didn’t want to face the consequences of telling my father, so I just wrapped myself in silence, in the dark washroom, where the evidence of any crime against my innocence had been washed with soap and water.
The rain abated. I got out of the washroom. My father left the kitchen light turned on. I didn’t have to grope in the darkness trying to find my dresser to get a fresh shirt, a pair of underwear, and shorts. When I had put on clean clothes, I climbed to the top of the double-decked bunk bed in the room I shared with my siblings. Somebody had set up the mosquito net for me. My mother probably told one of my sisters to do it. I wrapped myself in a blanket. I closed my eyes, though I didn’t want to fall asleep yet. My hair was still wet. I didn’t want to wake up the next day a crazy, mad young man. My grandmother had always advised us not to sleep with wet hair. “You will go crazy, the water will seep into your brain,” she cautioned.
I didn’t want to fall asleep, though I didn’t want to remember what had happened. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want any sensory memory from that encounter. But no matter how hard I tried, the smell of beer from his breath became indelibly inked in my consciousness.
Let’s just say I didn’t move to Canada when I was twenty-seven years old. Chances are, I would have become a bitter fifty-one-year-old priest caught up in an eternal tubigan, tumbang preso, and taguan back in my hometown. But I already told you I moved to Kamloops because Honolulu would have been boring.