My mission was to locate a copy of Agatha Christie’s short story “The Case of the Perfect Maid” which is to be found in an anthology “The Complete Short Stories of Agatha Christie”. National Book Store, the “national” book store of the Philippines, on Quezon Avenue, I was sure, was the best place to go to; its little branch at Robinson’s Magnolia was only good for school supplies. But I was aghast when a staff at the Quezon Avenue outlet politely informed me their store didn’t cary a single Agatha Christie book.
Being a bibliophile, I combed the rows of books and my disappointment quickly dissipated when I stumbled upon three interesting finds: “Beauty and the Beast – Classic Tales About Animal Brides and Grooms from Around the World” edited by Maria Tatar; “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge and Other Stories” by Ambrose Bierce; and “Practical Research 1 Qualitative” by Prieto, Naval, and Carey.
“Beauty and the Beast” was tucked at the bottom of a book shelf. I was immediately reminded of one of the Indonesian legends where a human character marries a dog as I looked through the contents table. I forget the title but it is a favorite piece of students who take part in story-telling competitions. Majority of the stories come from the Western and European literary canons, but, interestingly enough, a Philippine tale called “Chonguita”, of which I have never heard of, is part of the anthology. Another story that caught my eye was “The Frog Maiden” from Myanmar, a country mired in political turmoil that Burmese literary works, which are far and between, are absolute treasures when they come my way. The anthology will make a good reference when I get to tackle fictional narratives.
The second great find is the collection of short stories by Ambrose Bierce, a figure of interest for me since I read “The Gringo” by Carlos Fuente. Bierce is an enigmatic figure because, to this day, no one knows how and where he died. He became the main character, the gringo who vanished in the Mexican revolution, in the novel of Fuentes. The first story by Ambrose that I read is “A Watcher by the Dead”, a tale about three physicians in San Francisco who decide to test their theories on the nature of the fear of death, of whether it is hereditary or all based on superstitions. The macabre vibe of the written text was heightened by a reading of it by Welsh-Canadian stage, film, and TV actor- director Geraint Wyn Davies in the audio book “Great Classic Hauntings” of which I bought in a bookstore somewhere in Danville. Unknown to most, Bierce stands alongside literary giants Edgar Allan Poe, HP Lovecraft et al when it comes to tales of horror and the supernatural.
“Practical Research 1 Qualitative”, my last find, appealed to the teacher in me. Writing a scholarly paper is not an exercise to be engaged in lightly. Teaching it is equally difficult to do given the goldfish attention span and apathetic attitude of today’s students towards reading and writing. Skimming it, the “textbook” breaks down the steps of conducting a research, explains the importance of research, has exercises for immediate practice, and provides guidelines in writing a quality paper. It will be a good source when I restructure my lecture series on the research paper for my senior high students.
Still, the hunt for “The Case of the Perfect Maid” continues. When this bibliophile wants a book, her inexorable determination is hard to quell. It is time to visit other bookstores.
How does one start introducing something about herself? It begins with saying one’s name, I suppose. I’m called Rhissa by kith and kin, but other people call me Liana. Only one late grand aunt called me Liana – she was the only one who called me by that name until I left the Philippines and strangers automatically assumed that I’m called Liana simply because it’s the name that’s written first. It became tedious explaining why I had two names so I just let them call me Liana. Ex-lovers, meanwhile, called me “Hon”, “sayang”, “baby” and “sweetheart”. A former best friend called me Rhiss.
But what’s in a name? It’s a word that separates an individual from the rest. It rings hollow unless you get to spend a lot of time with that person. In my high school days, I was described, in our high school year book, “as someone who packs a mean wallop”. I was raised on the ideology of feminism, which rankled most of my classmates and teachers who lived their lives according to the word of the omnipotent being. It didn’t help either that I was free to choose my religion, which was absolutely unfathomable for most of them. My lack of religion became a big issue for the people around me. My classmates waged a war against me and refused to talk to me – they didn’t even look at me! My grade two teacher was of no help either. She freaked out when she found out that my religion was free thinker and interrogated me, asking me if I ate pork (I did at that time but not anymore) and celebrated Christmas (still do!). Those facts didn’t change her mind about me being, I suppose, an anti-Christ in her mind, and I became a marked student until I moved up to the next level.
Trained in the philosophy of “learning to be free” espoused by the late Doreen Gamboa, I wasn’t afraid to ask questions, talk to people, raise my voice in protest or agreement or was overwhelmed by the presence of the god on earth. I didn’t kowtow to anyone. This mindset helped me a lot in my college days where I walked, for the first two years, in the shadow of my father who wasn’t afraid to lock horns academically with his colleagues who happened to be my teachers. I wasn’t ruffled by the snide remarks uttered when their eyes landed on my last name during roll call. I breezed through their classes with flying colours except for my Shakespeare class because I dared to critique the bard who was her favourite author.
Some of my classmates in college thought I was tomboyish, which was worrying them to no end, because I was a soccer varsity player. Getting up at 5am, I was at the soccer field before 6am for training and off to class before 8am. My coach commended me for my tenacity and professionalism, and I’m certain he prayed then for my ball-handling skills to improve. I wasn’t bothered about what people thought about my passion for soccer. I was more concerned with the very visible sock marks I got after all the running and kicking under the sun. It took two years before the marks disappeared and I could wear flip-flops and sandals again in public.
Through the years other people asserted I was Muslim because I looked Malay. I was all the more seen as Muslim when they learned that I didn’t drink and didn’t eat pork, leading them, oddly enough, to pity me. But people are funny: some former colleagues also took to pitying me when they saw my work area flooded with sunshine. “You poor thing!” they would exclaim to which I would just smile and say, “I prefer the sun than the air-conditioning unit.”
How do I describe myself now? I feel that it’s my word against people I know. I’ve been marked as gregarious, which is true to a certain degree because when I’m in a good mood, I’m a social butterfly. Now when I say that I am shy, I am faced with laughter, giggles and looks of disbelief. Everyone is hard pressed to wrap their minds around the thought that I would rather remain in the background than take centre stage; that I get all anxious and uneasy in a large gathering filled with strangers; that I would rather flee into the night than speak before a crowd; and that I would rather sit quietly in a café with a book than attend a party.
I’ve also been described as sensitive and temperamental. I wonder if they read me my right. Am I really sensitive or are they desensitized? Am I really temperamental? Or are they too laidback to the point of being apathetic?
Amidst all readings of people about me, I know some facts about me are true. I write to carry on the family legacy of creative output. My father is an essayist-novelist- poet-critic; my mother is a journalist with more than 30 years of experience tucked under her belt; and my sister is a painter-illustrator. It's a cathartic process that keeps the mind alert and the soul light.
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