Sapay Koma

Jhoanna Lynn B. Cruz

I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was talland in the
darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas
are in bloom.
Manuel Arguilla

On our first Valentine as a couple, he gave me a bowl of white

nondescript flowers. They had a distinctly sweet but faint scent. I had
never been a fan of Valentines Day nor of love like a red, red rose; but
that day, I became a believer. He told me they were papaya blossoms
from his mothers garden. At that moment, I knew I would one day
marry him. We had started dating only three months ago, but I knew I
would be Maria to his Leon. Why, he even had a younger brother the
same age as Baldo! And even though they didnt live in Nagrebcan nor
owned a carabao, the town of Itogon, Benguet was remote enough for
me. I have always enjoyed teaching the Arguilla story for its subversive
take on the role that ones family plays in a marriage; but having been
born and raised in Pasay City, I had no idea what papaya blossoms
smelled like. I imagined that my new boyfriend had read the story in
his Philippine literature class and meant for me to recognize his gift as
an allusion. In fact, I imagined we would defy societal norms and prove
that love conquers all. Instead of a theme song, our relationship had
a story to live up to. It was a disaster waiting to happen.
In the story, Leon brings his city-girl wife, Maria, home to meet
his parents for the first time. His surly father orchestrates several tests
of Marias suitability through Leons younger brother Baldo, who is
quickly won over by her papaya blossom scent.
The first time I met his parents was on the wedding day of his
eldest brother. By then, we had been seeing each other discreetly for
seven months, somehow knowing that no one would approve of our
relationship. In the midst of the beating of gongs and best wishes, his
Kankanaey father only wanted to know two things about me: where I
was from and what language I spoke. I gave the wrong answer on both
points. I was a Manilea and I couldnt speak Ilocano yet, having only
recently moved to Baguio City to rebuild my life after becoming
disillusioned with the institution that had once nurtured my desire to
excel. But no love lost, I was only their sons gayyem (friend), after
all. It didnt help that I was wearing a leopard print spaghetti-strapped

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dress, which exposed the tattoo on my back. I reasoned that the

Cordillera culture has a long tradition of body art; so they should
appreciate the significance of mine. None of us knew at that time that
I was already carrying a half-Igorot child in my womb (which, I
imagined, somehow made me an acceptable quarter-Igorot for the
nonce).
Against better judgment, we decided to get married. We were
under the influence of hormones, of pregnancy, of the Catholic church,
of Manuel Arguilla. We would have gotten a quickie secret wedding if
he were old enough, or I, wais enough; but by law we needed his
parents consent. Which they refused to give. For perfectly good
reasons.
They could have said, You shouldnt marry because he is too
young (and you are ten years older). Or You shouldnt marry because
he is still studying (and you were even his teacher). Or You shouldnt
marry because he has a calling (and you are snatching him from God).
But instead his mother said, We cant give you permission
because his brother had just gotten married. In the theology of the
Cordilleras, if siblings marry within the same year, one of the
marriages will fail. The community will blame us if we allow you to
marry.
So I called my mother, who promptly came to my rescue, writing
them a demand letter based on a fallacy: If your child were the
woman in this situation, you would rush to marry them! Im sure she
was so eager to get me married off because she knew it was a fluke.
What was most ridiculous (though I refused to see it at that
time), was that I was a self-proclaimed lesbian feminist. Despite all the
tragic relationships I had had with women, I still believed that it was
worth fighting for the right of a woman to love another woman. What
business did I have getting married to a very young man? And for all
the wrong reasons. Must have been oxytocin overdose sponsored by
the baby in my womb. Or a planetary alignment exerting mysterious
forces on my consciousness. Or, gaspLove!
Whatever it was, it came to pass. My mother didnt have to bring
my grandfathers rifle. But I had to do it all on my own: filing the
license, finding the Judge, buying the rings, reserving a restaurant,
paying for everything. It was a good thing his parents didnt allow us to
tell anybody about the marriage that way I didnt have to invite
anyone -- which lessened my expenses. I had to understand that they
had spent all their savings for his brothers recent wedding, where they
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had butchered eight pigs for a traditional Igorot wedding feast. And
after all, lest we forget, we were getting married against their will. But
hey, there they were, on hand to sign the marriage certificate in the
sala of the Honorable Judge Fernando Cabato of La Trinidad, Benguet.
The ceremony itself was quick but peppered with omens. First,
when the court clerk asked for my mother-in-laws name, I told her
Constancia because I figured that was where her nickname
Connie came from. When I asked my nervous groom, he agreed.
When the Judge confirmed the information, Constancia objected
because her name is actually Conchita. Judge Cabato made the
correction and lectured us about how important it is not to make errors
in a legal document. Then, when it came to my father-in-laws name,
the Judge refused to believe that Johnny was his real name.
When he asked for the rings, my groom gave him the little box,
but when the Judge opened it, it was empty. The elderly honorable
Judge sat down and asked, Is this a prank? It turned out that the
rings had slipped out of the box and were floating in my grooms pants
pocket.
When it was time for the wedding kiss, the Judge got even with
us. He pronounced us husband and wife and then said, No more
kissing, its obvious theres a deposit in there! Then he laughed hearty
congratulations. I wonder now how many times he has regaled a party
crowd with our story.
At the reception in a Chinese restaurant, we occupied only one
round table, with only ten guests. The pancit canton was very good.
We didnt get any gifts, except for a framed copy of 1 Corinthians 13:
Love is patient, love is kind love does not keep a record of
wrongs It wasnt the wedding of my dreams, but the whole event
cost me only Php 2,500. It was as do-it-yourself as DIY could get. That
didnt include the cost of the wedding rings, for which I had to sacrifice
some of my old gold jewelry. The irony of it escaped me at the time;
but for a modern woman on a budget, there was no room for finesse.
Thus we began our married life: full of contention, confusion,
and concealment.
We couldnt live together immediately; nor was I allowed to be
seen in their little neighborhood, where everyone knew everyone. A
very pregnant stranger ambling up and down the steep Upper Mangga
Road would have been a conspicuous mystery. I continued to live
alone in my apartment, with my husband staying weekends, and I
pretended in school that my husband is from Manila. Im not sure
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anyone actually believed the drama, but I was bathing in first-babylove, so I couldnt care less.
My other Igorot friends assured me that when the baby is born,
my in-laws would finally accept me as the mother of their grandchild.
But as I said, I couldnt care less. I was a Manila girl I truly believed
that our marriage would succeed even without his parents approval of
me. I was used to flouting norms and not needing anyone. And for his
part, my husband argued existentially that we should live by the
integrity of our own little family. You see, he was a Philosophy major
under the tutelage of two young Jesuit-educated instructors, who had
come to the mountains from Manila to indulge their fantasies about
love and teaching (in that order). We, the migrant teachers, smiled at
each other in the College of Human Sciences silently acknowledging
each others foolishness; ignoring the fact that most of the other
native faculty members looked askance at the three of us.
When our daughter was born, we decided it was time to move
into the family home. In the innocent presence of the new half-Igorot
baby, all would be forgiven. It seemed the most practical thing to do.
But I soon realized how nave we were. We didnt take into account all
the new wrongs that could be committed while sharing one household.
Before I got married, I had a dog a black mongrel I had named
Sapay Koma, which is Ilocano for sana. It is both a wish and a
prayer difficult to translate into English, unless in context. Koma was
my companion throughout the two years I had lived in my dank, quirky
apartment the mute witness to the drama and dilemma preceding
my decision to marry. We took him along with us in our move, of
course. But the five other dogs in the new household didnt like him all
that much and they all raised such a nonstop racket, none of the
humans could sleep, particularly the newborn baby.
The neighbors offered to buy him for Php 500. Igorots like black
dogs because the meat is tastier. I was aghast. He was my dog, my
loyal friend. If anyone was going to eat him, it should be family. So my
husband invited his friends over to put Koma out of his misery.
I locked myself in our little bedroom with the baby, while they did
it. But despite the closed windows, I could still smell the burning hair
and later, the meat cooking. The putrid scent seemed to stick to my
nose for days after, accusing me of betrayal. I wept for Koma and for
all that was dying in the fire all the wishes that had no place in my
new life. I decided that this was the price for what Filipinos like to call
paglagay sa tahimik.

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It took two hours for the meat to be tender enough to eat and
when we all sat down to dinner, I was glad they didnt expect me to
partake of the canine feast. Yet I did. I took one mouthful, which I
swallowed quickly without chewing, so I wouldnt have to relish the
flavors. I may have had the stomach for it, but I didnt have the heart. I
only wanted to show them that I respected their culture, even though
in fact, I would never belong. Also, I was hoping that this way, Koma
would forgive me for having failed him, for offering him as a sacrifice at
the altar of my marriage. This way, we could be truly together.
For weeks after, every time I overheard my husband reply Aw,
aw to his father, I would shiver at the prospect that we would have
dog for dinner again. They had five other dogs, after all. Luckily, it
turned out that aw only means yes in their language, Kankanaey.
Besides, they only butcher dogs on very special occasions. Ordinarily,
there was always the savory chicken soup dish, Pinikpikan, which
features a similar charred skin aroma and taste. I was quite relieved to
learn that his father did not require beating the chicken to death with a
stick before cooking, as is customary in the Igorot culture.
To this day, I have not been able to care for another dog. I do,
however, have another child. By the same man. Accidentally. It
happened on Fathers Day, when we thought having sex was a nice
distraction from the confusion that arose from our growing discontent
with the marriage. When we found out about the pregnancy, we
agreed, albeit reluctantly, that it was Divine Intervention a sign that
we should keep trying to save the marriage.
It was not just the food that was strange. I couldnt understand
why everyday, some relatives would come over and expect to be fed. I
had not been raised in an extended family, and even within our nuclear
family, we pretty much kept to ourselves. In my mothers house, we
were trained to share through one for you, one for me, then stay out
of my bag of goodies. You can imagine how I felt the day they served
my Gardenia whole wheat bread to the relatives, who promptly
wiped it out, because my peanut butter was delicious.
Not that I was being selfish. Aside from the fact that I didnt have
any bread for breakfast the next day and the house being a ten-minute
hike uphill plus ten kilometers to downtown Baguio City, I fumed about
not even being introduced to these relatives as the wife of their son.
They would introduce my daughter and her yaya, but I remained a
phantom of delight flitting about the house.
When I confronted my husband about the bread, he explained
that in the Igorot culture, everything belongs to the community. So I
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took a permanent marker and wrote my name on my next loaf of

bread. It was a Saussurean signifier of sorts and it was unforgivable.
My father-in-law was a man of few words. In fact, my daughter
was already two years old when he decided it was time to acknowledge
my existence and say something to me. In the past, he would use an
intermediary (usually my husband) if he wanted to get information
from me. It wasnt too difficult because by this time we had already
moved to Manila and were living in my mothers house which was
another disaster and another story. It was Christmas Eve and we were
spending the holidays in Baguio City. He was watching a replay of a
boxing match and I was playing with my daughter in the living room.
He asked, in Ilocano, Do you have a VCD player at home? I was so
shocked I couldnt reply immediately. He repeated the question in
Tagalog. It turned out he was giving us the VCD player he had won in a
barangay raffle. That night, as the entire family sang their traditional
Merry Christmas To You to the happy birthday tune, I felt I was finally
getting a fair chance to prove that I was worthy of being in their cozy
family.
In our six years together, I can think of more instances in which
our separate worlds collided and caused aftershocks in my marriage.
But none of it rivaled what I thought was the worst affront to me. My
mother-in-law is Cancerian, like me, so her house is a pictorial gallery
of her children and their achievements. She had a wall with enlarged
and framed wedding photos of her children. Through the years, her
exhibit grew, and expectedly, I and my husband didnt have a photo on
this wall. I figured it was because we had not had a church wedding. In
fact, when we told them I was pregnant with our second child, they
requested that we hold a church wedding already. They even offered to
share the expense. But I preferred to save my money for the birth of
the baby. However, given my theater background, I once tried to
convince my husband to just rent a gown and tuxedo and then have
our wedding photo taken so wed finally get on The Wedding Wall.
But he has always been the more sensible half of our couple.
One day, though, a new picture was added to the wall. It was a
studio photo of his eldest sister, her American husband, and their baby
boy. It wasnt The Wedding Wall anymore; it was now the Our
Children and their Acceptable Spouses wall. It was their version of the
Saussurean signifier. The message was loud and clear to me and to
other people who came to visit.
I wonder now why it so mattered to me to be on that wall. I guess
I felt that after all those years, we had been punished enough for
defying the culture. Maybe I actually believed in 1 Corinthians 13. Or
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perhaps I also needed to be reassured that I was indeed happily

married.
I confronted my husband about it and demanded that he finally
stand up for me and our family. And he did he wrote his parents a
letter that made his mother cry and beat her breast. We each tried to
explain our sides, finally coming to terms with the bitter past. They told
me that they are simple folk and didnt mean to ostracize me; that
when they agreed to the marriage, they accepted me as part of the
family, no matter what. I believed them. I told them I was never going
to be the woman they had probably wanted for their son; but that I am
a perfectly good woman, most of the time. We tried to make amends.
Our family picture was up on the wall within three days. Our kids were
quite pleased.
But it was too late. By then, my husband and I had been
grappling with our own issues for the past five years. He had gotten
tired of my transgressions and sought solace with his friends. After
coming home late from another Happy Hour with them, I screamed
at him, What happy hour? Nobody is allowed to be happy in this
house! It was then we both finally realized that we had to face the
truth about our marriage. By the time his parents were willing to start
over in our journey as a family, we had given up on ours.
Most couples find breaking up hard to do. It was particularly hard
for us because we had to convince his parents that it was not their
fault. On the other hand, I had to deal with the fact that maybe my
marriage did fail because of the curse of the superstition sukob sa
taon that maybe we were wrong to insist on our choice. Yet on good
days, I am pretty sure it was a perfectly no fault divorce, if there ever
was one.
Kapag minamalas ka sa isang lugar, itawid mo ng dagat goes
the Filipino proverb. Perhaps the salt in the sea would prevent the bad
luck from following you. So today I live with my two Igorot children in
Davao City fondly called the promised land. Everyone is astounded
when they learn that I had moved even though I knew only one person
here who didnt even promise me anything. I just wanted a chance to
start over. When we moved into this house, it had a small nipa hut in
the backyard. The kids enjoyed staying there during the sweltering hot
Davao afternoons, especially when their Daddy called them on the
phone. But it was nearly falling apart and was host to a colony of
termites that had actually begun to invade the house as well.
My generous landlady soon decided it was time to tear down the
structure. When I got home one day, it was gone. All that was left was
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a dry and empty space in the yard; yet everything looked brighter too.
We missed the payag; but soon the grass crept into the emptiness
and we began to enjoy playing Frisbee in the space that opened up. It
was a Derridean denouement of sorts.
Last year, we spent our first Christmas without any family
obligations. It was liberating not to have to buy any gifts for nephews,
cousins, in-laws. All the shopping I did was for my children. I was
determined to establish my own Christmas tradition with them. I
wanted to show them we were happy. I wanted them to grow up never
having to sing Merry Christmas To You ever again. I decided to cook
paella for noche buena as if my life depended on it. I thought it was
simply a matter of dumping all the ingredients in the pan and letting it
cook like the aftermath of a failed marriage. The recipe was so
difficult I ended up crying hysterically, asking myself over and over,
what have I done? My kids embraced me and said, Nanay, stop
crying na. But I couldnt. It seemed as if it was the first time I had let
myself cry over what I had lost. I noticed though, that the kids did not
cry. Embarrassed with myself, I picked myself up from the river of snot
that was my bed and finished what I had set out to do as I always
have. It even looked and tasted like paella, despite the burnt bottom.
But next year well just order take-out from Sr. Pedro (Lechon Manok).
That night, my mother-in-law sent me a text message saying
they are always praying for us to get back together, especially for the
childrens sake. I do not know how to comfort her, except to keep
saying that we had all done the best we could at the time; that we are
always trying to do the right thing; that despite what happened, or
perhaps because of it, we will always be a family. Of a kind. We are,
after all, inextricably linked by a timeless story and sapay koma.
Each of us in this story nurtures a secret wish to have done
things differently to have been kinder, more understanding of each
others quirks and shortcomings. But it takes less energy to wish it
forward. Sapay koma naimbag ti biag yo dita -- to hope that your life
there is good.
*

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