Welcome to the Philippines
an excerpt

Prologue
The Abandoned

The smell of cooked fish woke Jojo up. He rose from his tattered mattress, fingering the loose strands of the woven banig that served as his makeshift bed. Outside the wooden shanty his family occupied, he can see his mother crouched over a small pan, a fire kindled underneath. He looked around him. His three sisters and five brothers were still sound asleep, curled up under the think blanket they were all sharing. He stood up, careful not to wake his siblings, and spread the bit of blanket he used over his youngest sister, who was about three years old. He walked over to his mother, ducking down to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. The lamp flickered slightly; he walked over to it as it rested on an old, rickety table and blew it out. The room was suddenly dark; it was still dawn, and only a bit of the sun’s early rays were getting through the shanty.

“You’re up?” his mother called, and he could hear the merry crackling of the oil and fire. He looked over and saw his mother turning over one of the fish.

There were only two pieces of fish in the pan, two small fish that would certainly fill the stomach of only one person. They were thirteen in the family: he, his three sisters and five brothers, his mother, his father, his grandmother (on his father’s side) and his grandfather (on his mother’s side). The food wasn’t enough. Already he could hear his stomach rumbling. He hoped his mother didn’t hear that too; she had enough problems to deal with. Her husband, his father, was (like most of the fathers in his community) an alcoholic. He was usually in someone else’s house drinking liquor with the rest of the men in their community. The little money he earned as a tricycle driver was often spent in liquor and cigarettes, if not for his gambling and the local sabong. Jojo’s grandmother had appealed to her son to help with the family affairs, to no avail. His mother had already stopped nagging her husband, for fear of physical brutality. Already she suffered numerous cuts and bruises in addition to the hurtful words her husband hurled at her whenever she tried to stop him going.

She caught him looking at the pitiful pieces of fish she was frying and flashed him a brave smile. “Don’t worry, son,” she said, her voice cracking. “We’ll manage. I’ve got some leftover food from last night.”

He nodded, his speech deserting him. Leftover food? More like her own untouched food, he thought worriedly. He remembered last night’s dinner. His father had been away again, coming back only for a bite to eat and then leaving to play mahjong with their neighbors. His youngest sister, Angel, was crying with hunger then, and in her pity his mother gave her her own share. He wondered how long his mother had been going on without proper food. Then again, all of them had been living without proper food now, ever since his father lost his job at a construction firm and turned to his vices instead.

“And Pa?” he heard himself ask, and instantly he regretted saying so. His mother’s cheery face turned gaunt and grim, and turning her back to him, replied in a hard voice, “I don’t know. Probably down at Ka Anding’s, they’re having another pot session there, I think.”

Jojo stood there, thinking. His brother, Andrew, was only just released from jail after getting caught with sachets of prohibited drugs. Along with his friends, all of them minors, they were detained for several hours until some of the more influential in the community bribed the officers to let the boys go. Andrew was a free man, but his thinking has been affected and influenced by his friends and drugs.

His mother was saying something, but Jojo was far away. He thought of his eldest sister, Rosie. He remembered her getting home one night at past midnight, his mother crying and shouting at the same time. Rosie was, by then, two months pregnant. Her boyfriend, a boy from the neighborhood, had refused to acknowledge the unborn child as his own. He was the son of one of the influentials who had gotten Andrew out of prison. His mother did not dare pursue the young man, for fear of retribution from the higher-ups.
None of them are still attending school; he was supposed to be in his final year in high school, if not for financial reasons. He remembered his friends. They must be practicing for the graduation ceremonies now, he thought bitterly. It’s nearly March…

“…and Maan’s almost out of her antibiotics. Run down to the barangay clinic for me, son; get her new medicines. Just tell the nurse there her name, they’d remember.”

Jojo snapped back to the present. His mother was now putting the fried fish on a cracked and gray plate. It had been white porcelain, when times were better. It didn’t have any resemblance to the past now.

“Why don’t you have a bit of breakfast? I’ll make you some milk.” His mother handed him the plate with a smile. Jojo took it, then shook his head.

“It’s alright. I’m too old for milk, anyway. Save it for Angel and the rest.” He strode over to the little flat block of wood that the family used as a table and carefully set the dish on it. He went over to the little sink near it and took a sheet of plastic, carefully draping it over the fish. When he went back to his mother, she was now frying the rice.

“Listen, ma,” he began awkwardly. When she said nothing he continued, “I’ll get a job. I’ll go around the city, ask people if they need a helper or something. Maybe some street sweeping or car wash, people pay for that kind of work. Probably get me only a couple of pesos, but I think it can buy us another piece of fish or maybe Angel’s milk. It’s not that hard,” he finished. His mother said nothing. The silence stretched on and Jojo began to wonder if he had made his mother worry.

Finally she stopped frying and spoke. “I’m sorry, son,” she whispered. Jojo felt the sting of tears, but he stopped it. “Your age…kids like you should be playing, not working. Don’t worry. I’ll find myself a job. I know I only finished grade school, but I think I can find some laundry work around here.”

Jojo put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. She took it. He could feel her shoulder trembling slightly. “We’ll work together. I finished third year. People will take me in.”

She said nothing.

He persisted. “I’ll make enough money to send them back to school. Papa won’t have to beat you again. I’ll sell some of my things. I’ll study in the public library. I’ll try hard, I’ll work, I’ll—“

He was cut short when his mother wrapped her arms around her son. He could hear her sobbing quietly into his shoulder. Behind her, the fire crackled merrily and the oil sputtered out into the cold, damp ground.