I Hope You Like Pain.

I wrote this back in March, but never really got to sharing it:

he was calm, rested, at ease. it seemed as if he had no worries, no fears. he was not frightened about his future or his past. the only flaw was his tired eyes, tired of the old images that plagued his mind. nineteen-forty-something, pilipinas at war! fast forward to nineteen-ninty-one, a new home away from home. no more banana plantations to care for, no more suffering in the hot, tropical sun. he was now in america, sponsored by and living with his very own son, my father. he was proud of who he was, a hero; my hero. a hero of the philippines. a hero of america. it's been so long since he's held his rifle, fighting for a land that he thought was his own, fighting for freedom that he thought was his. fighting for a cause that personally did nothing for him. you see, he is in america; but he is not american. he shared this same let down with his manongs, all who have had the unfortunate experience of having america turn its back on them. still fighting today--not quite. it's been so long since i've seen him; his ashes lie somewhere in the philippines. if it wasn't for the diabetes, or the old age, maybe he'd still be here today. still strong. still calm, rested, at ease. if it wasn't for the war, i probably would not be sitting in this american home in my american clothes typing on my american laptop made somewhere else. if it wasn't for america--not quite. america stills owes this hero respect, still owes this hero benefits, still owes all the manongs who fought the same putanginang war as their white brothers in uniform. america still owes these veteranos respect, respect that they still do not see to this day. respect that is still being fought for by the poor and unfortunate manongs that live in small bedroom apartments the size of closets. by the manongs who can no longer walk, by the manongs who are slowly passing away while america sits, watches, forgets.