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andthepetalsfall · 4 years

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disappointment, a lump swallowed with each bite

Summary: Syaoran’s relationship with Yelan is complicated.

A/N: I had a friend post this a while back on AO3 as an orphaned fic (she came up with the title), mostly because I felt I might have revealed too much about myself. But I feel there’s so much about Syaoran’s Cantonese heritage left unexplored, both by fandom and CLAMP, that I want to tap into it myself. Writing this felt a little raw, but it meant a lot that this resonated so much with Canto readers I thought I’d share it here. I hope you enjoy.

[AO3]

Syaoran’s life has been a series of disappointments, one after the other.

Disappointment is the first memory his mother shares with him over dinner. “When I married, I moved to Hong Kong to be with your father’s family,” she explains.

He nods as he ravenously shovels roast pork into his mouth and his eldest sister reminds him to chew slowly.

“But I was originally from Shanghai. I tried to teach you Shanghainese when you were very small, but you never used it.”

“You used to cry, ‘I want to talk to Mama!’ because she doesn’t understand Shanghainese,” the second eldest suddenly remembers with a bright smile.

“Yes, and she would tell me, ‘You married into a Cantonese family, let the boy speak what he wants. You have to teach him Mandarin and Japanese later on anyway.’ You were so resistant, your Mama asked what the point was of teaching you Shanghainese when your sisters spoke it but never used it.”

His mother reaches for more gailan. Although his mother and grandmother had shown nothing but respect for each other, he’d always noticed a cold air between them. “I remember I was very...”

She doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Syaoran doesn’t say anything and picks up the pork more delicately.

…

It’s the third Qing Ming Jie since his father’s death and he can’t relate to any of the stories his sisters and mother laugh over as they lay out the food and incense.

“Didi, you remember?” his Ga Jeh asks. “All our cousins were playing with each other, but you stayed in the corner practicing your magic by yourself. You were two.”

“You always wanted to be alone, even back then,” the second sister adds.

“Baba was laughing at you and called you his little lone wolf,” the fourth sister says.

“Oh, is that where ‘Syaoran’ comes from?” His family never used his real name, it was baobei to his mother and didi to his sisters. On occasion they called him Syaoran or Siu Long, dialect chosen on a whim.

But when he frowns, they see he doesn’t remember any of it, so they silently reach for the incense and pray. He looks at the red name etched on the tombstone and the emptiness he feels hits him like a train. How must Baba feel knowing his only son doesn’t remember him?

He already knows the answer and as he takes the incense, all he can think is, I’m sorry.

…

“Again.”

For the thirty-fourth time in a row (he’s been keeping track in his head), he strikes his sword into the ground and in a split second the faintest trace of a magic circle glows beneath him. Then, just as suddenly, it fades.

His mother rubs her temples and Syaoran braces himself for the lecture coming to him.

“How many times have we tried this and you still don’t understand it?”

He doesn’t protest that he’s trying, because she’ll only counter that he’s not trying hard enough.

“Your mind is off somewhere else and you’re not focusing properly. Do you not understand how vital it is that you get this right? Don’t you know what it means to be a descendant of Clow Reed? The only magic child of this family, no less!”

He doesn’t say that technically, they’re descendants of his mother’s family, and that Syaoran’s own mother wasn’t related to him either, just married in.

Still, his mother somehow senses what’s on his mind and says, “I know it is not my bloodline. But when I married your father, his family became my family. You think your Mama just let any random outsider marry her only son? No, it didn’t matter that I had magic in my veins. It took me ten years to perfect my magic and even be considered worthy of the prestige of the Lei clan! And now you have a chance to be Master of the Clow because it is your birthright! What did I work so hard for if all you want to do is throw it away?”

Syaoran bites his lip and feels hot shame welling up inside him. He fixes his stare at the ground so his mother doesn’t see his wet eyes.

“Don’t look at the floor. Look at me.”

He complies and sniffles.

“Do you want to be Master or not? Answer me.”

“I do,” he whispers, unable to control the shakiness in his voice. All he wants is to be like any other second-grader and go play at the park or something.

“Masters of the Clow don’t cry. Go again.”

The thirty-fifth time isn’t much better than the last, and he can slowly feel his mother giving up.

…

As he holds the results of his Japanese exam, his hands tremble. He’s not worried about his other scores, but he’ll need to work twice as hard in this area if he wants to keep up with his Japanese classmates next year.

That semester had been a flurry of sleepless nights, cramming and studying over and over to perfect his language skills. It had been one of the few times in his life when his mother relaxed her strict exterior, quietly bringing a bowl of sweet pears to his room and placing it on his desk.

“Study hard, baobei.”

He sharply inhales as he opens up his results, and exhales when he sees the red 100 on his kanji scores. His eyes scale down to keigo.

96.

Four points. He was only four points away.

He’s far, far from the bottom of his class, but it’s not enough. The endless complaints from his classmates, none of whom he’s ever played with or been friends with, saying, “My mom always asks why you can’t be like your classmate Lei!” or praise from his teachers, “Let’s all follow Lei tung hok’s example,” are never enough for the Lei clan.

He neatly folds the exam and slides it into his backpack.

…

When he submits his papers to Tomoeda elementary he gives them his real name. It sounds foreign even to him.

“Rei—” the office lady frowns. “Sorry, how do you pronounce that?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have started off with Cantonese. And then he has the craziest idea. “Ah—never mind,” he says, furiously scribbling out his name. “Use this one.”

She purses her lips into a tight line. “Ookami?”

“It’s, ah, a traditional name,” he lies through his teeth, hoping his accent isn’t too heavy. “Li Syaoran.”

“The Chinese use such interesting kanji,” she murmurs, scribbling down some notes. He doesn’t remind her that kanji came from China first.

“Well, you’ll be in Terada-sensei’s room, Li-san. It’s down that way.”

It all fits, in a way. When has he ever been worthy of his own name?

…

“He speaks kinda funny.”

“Chiharu-chan, he’s from Hong Kong. You can’t expect him to speak perfectly on his first day,” the quiet girl with chestnut colored hair reminds her.

“I heard Terada-sensei saying if he needed help he could talk to Tomoyo-chan,” the one with glasses interjects. “The way he repeated her name was sooooo cute. Daaai-daaau-jiii.”

It’s not malicious, the way they’re giggling. But he keeps his expression stony and vows not to say any other name.

...

His face is burning as he runs. He’s failed to retrieve the cards on his first day, and the boy…

The boy was beautiful.

He thinks of his mother’s warning. “Don’t play around with girls.” She’d wrinkled her nose. “Especially Japanese girls. You remember what they did to our country?”

She’d never thought to warn him about boys. It would never cross her mind he would tell her something like that.

He prays, prays, prays he’ll never need to.

...

The ocean wind is icy and pinches at his skin, but he’ll never show weakness like the girl beside him. How was this whimpering thing, who was never raised with a quarter of the discipline he has, deemed more worthy to be Master than he was?

But the more she talks, the more he realizes he has never known a night like this. A night of no training, no studying. Just the crashing of ocean waves and a light conversation under the moonlight.

He’s not thinking when he says, “Well, I feel that way about him too, but…”

He freezes as he realizes and holds his gaze at her, anxiously waiting for her response. What will she say? Will she tell people? What if, Heaven forbid, it gets back to his family?

But she carries on like it’s nothing. He’s brave enough to press her further about her infatuation, and she asks him the same.

“Both you and I are so much younger than Yukito-san, but we can’t help it,” she says. “We just… like him.”

When she smiles, it’s genuine. It’s serene. There is no judgment in her jade eyes.

When his form reappears in the cave, she doesn’t reprimand him for not having the strength to fight off the card. She thanks him.

It’s a foreign feeling.

…

“They call me a different name, Ma.”

Even though she’s only on the phone, he knows she’s frowning. “Oh? And what’s wrong with the name we gave you?”

“They can’t pronounce it. It has nothing to do with you.” With the safety of distance, he can be a little bolder.

“And this new girl? How does she have the cards?”

“Cerberus chose her. There’s really nothing I can do about it, especially a Guardian made by Clow himself.”

“Hm. Are they treating you well?”

He thinks of those jade green eyes. “The people in Japan are very nice, Ma.”

“I see.”

An awkward silence hangs between them.

“Baobei?”

“Mm?”

“Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes,” he lies, eyeing the sword he’s been practicing with all night.

“Never forget to eat, Baobei. You need your strength.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Ma.”

...

She’s shocked when he tells her he lives alone.

“Then you have to do all the laundry and cleaning and cooking all on your own?”

Okay, maybe it’s a little odd for a ten-year-old to live alone in an apartment, but it’s not like she doesn’t do housework either.

“Well… yeah.”

“That’s so cool!”

There’s not an ounce of sarcasm in her voice, which flusters him.

“But… don’t you get lonely?”

Lonely?

He’s never been asked that before. He thinks of the phone call with his mother the night previously, where she instructed him to keep an eye on “the new girl” and reminded him to dress warmly.

“Not really.”

“So cool!” the girl gushes.

It’s such a trivial thing, housework. Maybe she’ll praise anything, but she’s never commented on his shortcomings.

Before he can say anything, her stomach grumbles. It makes the corner of his lips twitch.

…

His hands are trembling as he tells his mother the news. No, he won’t be Master of the Clow.

Sakura is.

He has a million counterarguments backed up in his head—no, he didn’t just give up. (Okay, maybe he did.) Yue deigned it. He was not about to go against two Guardians of Clow’s own creation. Clow predicted this would happen, anyway.

But she doesn’t yell. She doesn’t scold.

“Good,” she sighs. “I’m glad you were able to help this Kinomoto girl achieve her birthright.”

“Her birthright?” Syaoran asks, half surprised and half amused.

“Aiyooh, if Clow wanted it, who are we to go against him? He ought to have left some hints, though!”

He almost laughs.

“You did your best, baobei. And you helped the new Master. For that I’m grateful.”

Syaoran doesn’t know what to say, but maybe no words need to be said.

“Now, this Kinomoto—you certainly talk about her a lot.”

“What are you saying, Ma?”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“MA!”

“Aiyah, don’t be like that, I’m your mother! You have to tell me everything!”

#cardcaptor sakura #syaosaku #syaoran li #sakura kinomoto #syaoyuki #fanfic #yeah i have diaspora pain #and what the fuck are you gonna do about it

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shadows-of-almsivi · 7 years

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Snapshots: Old age, reflections.

The netch-leather straps were always most difficult in the mornings. They each had to be tightened just so, the arm beneath wrapped in suede and fur to spare the harnessing rubbing it raw. This morning, the polished brass clasps were being very particular about how they caught their respective notches, the prongs sliding away repeatedly to poke at his bicep.

“Hssst–! N’chow… Get in there, you bastard–”

It was easiest to start with the chest strap. Leather held taut in his teeth, the familiar faint acid of netch-leather tingling against his tongue, his clumsier left hand fumbled the buckle into place. One down, at least. He heaved a sigh; this would be so much easier with an assistant. Curse his damnable pride.

(Curse, too, this inconstant left hand, inclined to the most enraging tremors these past few years. He could hardly ignore that the medicines were not lasting so long as they once did.)

He turned the matter over as he started on the other straps, working down his arm one by torturous one. Had it been a good idea to send Lo’Droj to market so quickly? Really rather sweet, that one, always willing to help. And the dogs even liked him, certainly a first. Perhaps something might come of it, something a touch further than the occasional warm bed and some help with the housework, if he’d just ask Lo’Droj to stay a little longer in the mornings. Would that be so bad?

He gnawed one strap a little as he considered the matter, the leather’s tamed venom numbing the tip of his tongue. Lo’Droj was a lovely young thing, and Moraelyn really did like him. Perhaps it was that self-same affection that made him keep Lo’Droj somewhat at arms’ length; Moraelyn felt too much of a bitter old foreigner in private, too inclined to brooding and quiet rages at unpredictable moments. It seemed a shame to inflict his darker, more honest self on such a sweet boy. (So far, he had managed to avoid the issue entirely, explaining away his odd habits and eternally-present gloves as some mysterious, ancient Dunmeri eccentricity. Lo’Droj, fewer than thirty summers’ old and utterly devoid of worldly travel, innocently accepted every one of his blatant lies; yet another reason he was growing rather fond of him.)

However, he admitted to himself as he wrestled with the last strap, if he wanted Lo’Droj to help him with these blasted things every morning, it stood to reason that he would first have to explain them. To remove his long gloves and show the boy how the leather twined about his arm and torso felt like an insurmountably difficult task. If he were honest with himself, Moraelyn supposed he was making a terror of his own vanity, but in truth that was only part of it.

The tail of the last strap slid more-or-less meekly into its buckle. Stroking his fingers over the gleaming obsidian, tracing along the gilded letters engraved into the bones, he gave a thin smile. He hadn’t entirely deceived dear, naïve Lo’Droj, not this time. This was, in a very real sense, an object sacred to his Dunmeri sensibilities. He could hardly allow anyone else to touch something so precious as this.

The hand was, truly, a work of art. Painstakingly crafted by talented artisan-mages, it had been paid for with the blood of several dead men and the calling-in of various favours (those little connections he’d once made by the Sea of Ghosts had proven rather profitable). In a certain angle and a certain light, the ebony reflected like a black mirror, the kind witches were usually fond of. There was something insectile about the glassy, void-dark obsidian, how it shielded the precious bone with muscle-inspired shapes like a carapace, fitting for Redoran ebony. The bone itself was polished and inlaid with golden Daedric, down each finger and down each bone at the back of the hand, the letters turned to be readable to Moraelyn always. The bones weren’t carved to shape; these bones had known the shape of hands before.

“Good morning, Drerrin,” he murmured. He traced over the gleaming words along what were once his eldest brother’s fingers, lingering over each letter with aching tenderness:

WE GIVEOURSELVESTO MAKEYOU WHOLE

The lettering faintly glowed for a moment. He continued down, lovingly stroking the long bones of his second brother’s metacarpals. “Wake up, Ralias.”

WE SWEAROUR LOVEYOUR LIFEOUR BLOOD

The letters brightened, Redoran ebony and Indoril bone heating from within. The old ache of his missing forearm blossomed into a brief but searing pain, a beat of agony extending from his ruined limb as though the arm were not only whole, but in flames; his jaw tightened until the muscles shivered, fierce in his silence. Shuddering of its own accord, the arm’s volcanic glass chimed and rattled against the dressing table, fingers curling in clawed spasm. Golden light spilled from the engravings like mist, wreathing the arm in dawn-glow. In a breath of petrichoric chill, so foreign for the dry heat of Elsweyr, the shapes of two mer suggested themselves from shadow and glow, gathering substance from dust and cobweb until they seemed almost whole.

Moraelyn sighed a nervous breath he always held, washed anew in the daily sense of homecoming, a relieved warmth within the chest. To him, his brothers appeared just as they had when he was a child; youthful and hale, smiling faintly in welcome. He wondered what spectral horrors an unrelated onlooker like Lo’Droj would see; what ragged flesh and howling jaws would chill them, what yawning, accusing eye sockets would stare back?

Ralias’ kiss at his cheek tingled with static as always, raising the hair along his spine. “Another day, brother-sister?”

“Another day.” Moraelyn ran living, ever-trembling fingers over ghostly forearms in greeting, feather-light, barely stirring the air. The numbness that soaked into his fingertips felt warm and welcome, the confirmation his eyes hungered for. “How is Mother?”

“Well, quite well. She stalks Attribution’s Share for the season. Exploring the mazes, I believe.”

Ghostly and gleaming ebony hands rose in matching, languid motions of nereid grace, a flowing dance to test movement and response. With his brothers mirroring his every gesture, the substitute hand moved as though it were Moraelyn’s own living flesh. He tested each joint, the ebony and the gold-bound bone sliding over each other as smoothly and silently as bleeding. “Safe, I hope?”

“Safe and joyous,” Drerrin smirked. “Visiting her warriors. She’s found so many of her old friends there. Boethiah must have known her by name, I think.”

Moraelyn nodded knowingly, delicate lines deepening at the tails of his eyes, contented apostrophes quoting his smile. “And Father? He’s been quiet of late.”

His brothers were tactful, gentle: they made no mention of Moraelyn’s own decades of silence. “Boethiah’s realm suits him ill. He rests in the great city,” Ralias murmured, speaking of Necrom, that great metropolis of Dunmeri dead. “I believe he is still reading, actually. He’s found a lovely library, by the prayer-halls on Derata and Vrenmisu.”

Moraelyn always relished these tiny details, the streetnames meaningless but for the knowledge that his father was happy there. “Genealogy?”

“Novels,” Drerrin chuckled. “Romance and adventure. Says he’s had enough of his own, now he has time to hear someone else’s.”

With arms of grey skin and shining artistry, he held out his hands for his brother’s shades to hold and dwell within. It was no sacrifice at all, to yield up a little sensation and body heat for a time. “Will you take my love to them?”

Drerrin’s lopsided smile was soft, his forehead touching Moraelyn’s left temple, Ralias’ at his right. “They know,” he said. “But we will.”

“Thank you,” Moraelyn whispered; there were so many things to give thanks for that he could not possibly explain them all, though he had tried over many mornings. His brothers kissed his temples, let him move the writing hand they had helped return to him.

The arm moved easily now, borrowed and shared sensation letting Moraelyn feel traces of air currents, the muted texture of the table’s wood through hard fingertips, as if touching everything with the back of his fingernails. Every movement precise and unmarred, not a shiver to impede his will, only now could he feel complete.

The hand remained a conduit between Moraelyn and his brothers, a bound intimacy he clung to gladly. They would share the hand’s every touch and shift for a time, until the soft light faded from the golden letters at least; he dedicated his mornings to their whims, a changeable ritual of tasks as likely to involve prayer as it was to involve frying eggs. It seemed more than fair, in exchange for such a gift. “What shall we do today?” Moraelyn asked, love held beneath the tongue as it always was, the daily offering of experience for their mortal nostalgia.

“I want to light the candles,” Ralias admitted after a long, thoughtful silence, dutiful and pious as ever. “I miss the routine.” Moraelyn nodded, kissing the mist of his cheek.

Drerrin’s closed-lipped grin flourished bright and wide, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Pet the dogs. All of them. I want to touch every single dog you have.”

Moraelyn laughed, a tired shadow of his childhood giggle but no less delighted. “All right.”

He closed his eyes when he felt the air pressure drop and fill. Faint scents lingered for a moment, the scents of his brothers; golden kanet flowers and sandalwood, ozone and ash and bad shein. An errant draught, and the dry desert air filled his lungs again.

“All right,” he murmured again to an empty room.

He took up the tibrol-wood cane by his bed, tucked the long gloves into his waistsash. He would have perhaps an hour before Lo’Droj returned from the market. He would have to hurry.

He could hardly allow anyone else to touch something so precious as this.

#Anonymous #askmeme #family #Old Morry #this became a drabble whoops #drabbles #asks #askmemes

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rgmonzon-folio · 5 years

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Cinderella from Mahaplag, Leyte

As I watched my friend ringing up her siblings with her smartphone, promising them about her gifts for her nieces that would help them with school, I was astonished upon remembering her story from years back, and I realized how much had changed. I recalled when she was the one who needed help, but hardly anyone heard her plights, so much so that she would hardly voice them. They were so much as breathy whispers that dissipated into the harsh atmosphere.

Now, she would beam with life as she showed me what she had accomplished in her hometown of Mahaplag, Leyte - simple achievements from the slightest renovations of their simple home, the added household furnishings, the new piggery, and even the billiard house she had made for her father’s enjoyment and extra income.

I always thought if written down, her story would ready like a fairytale - and my friend would be Cinderella, from her humble beginnings, to her falling into the clutches of an evil stepmother figure, to eventually her ongoing happily ever after. But this story has a modern day twist - she didn’t rely on a Prince Charming to sweep her off her feet. And despite having a fairy godmother who kickstarted her journey, she was still in charge and did the hard work. She was the one who ultimately turned her life around.

So I did decided to fulfill my once floating idea to write the real-life story that had always inspired me and I hope would inspire many others: the story of a princess and her journey.

Humble Beginnings

The little princess in this story was born and raised in a small, provincial town; a quiet, rural village lush with greens at every corner called Mahaplag, Leyte. Their humble house stood at the slope of a mountain, something that was by heaps and bounds far from a royal palace, lit by oil lamps instead of electricity. It was more of a symbol of poverty, small for a family of eight children and a frail, single father. The little princess was the youngest, and despite the family’s lack of riches she was showered with love and care. Her name is Mary Jane Cozo, known affectionately as Mayie by her friends and family.

Mayie had two older sisters who helped her bathe at the nearby stream every morning, usually exasperated with her antics of wading too long and playing with the clear and cool water, as they still had to rush home to put on their school uniforms and go to school. She had a father who would find ways to alleviate her suffering caused by the unnamed skin disease she acquired, despite of his inability to pay for expensive dermatological treatment. He would bathe her several times a day to ease the heat caused by the watery boils that erupted all over her body, and found herbs and juices from around them to try to diminish the symptoms. The poor girl even had to have her thick, wavy hair shaved as the boils spread to her scalp.

Those struggles hardly dampened her days, however, as she had plenty of time to play and have fun. Mayie loved trudging through the surrounding farmland for adventure, picking all the fruits she could want, playing all the games she could play with her friends. One of the things she truly loved was eating - all the chicken, crustaceans and rice cakes made her the happiest kid. Even though the seafood partly aggravated her skin condition, she didn’t care. Eat on, she would say when she’d recall to me her childhood. She was happy even as she sprouted into a plump, chubby kid who would get picked on not only for her skin and bald head but also for her size.

She would merely laugh as she described her younger self, eyes shimmering with genuine amusement. She recalled how in the end of the day, after a fun filled day of play, she’d have to take another bath, then her father would have her take a nap. Eventually when her hair grew back, she’d wake up with them braided by her older sister, who would complain about Mayie’s hyperactivity otherwise, if she were awake.

Despite the chance to wish for more - for more money, more food, even electricity - Mayie was happy with her simple provincial life. That is until her third year in high school, when she had realized there were things her family and her hometown couldn’t provide her. Despite her promising academic career, she had to drop out. The road to her dream of getting her diploma and donning her white toga turned into a big question mark.

She still looked at life with a positive lens. Her skin disease ebbed as she was touched by the first signs of womanhood. She had a handful of friends she shared precious moments with, marked by her sharp-witted jokes. The first boy of her dreams, her first Prince Charming, even reciprocated her affection, which blossomed into her first romance. She knew she would find a way to go to school eventually.

A distant family member from Laguna made the call one day, that he would help her finish her studies. Her Kuya Jerome was a seaman who made a significantly substantial income. Mayie grabbed at the chance and was plucked from Mahaplag, Leyte and placed in the photocopied row houses and eskinitas of Calamba, Laguna, my hometown.

Her Kuya Jerome’s house was bigger than she was used to, up and down with two bedrooms, a proper sala set and kitchen. They also had electricity and appliances Mayie’s father could not afford himself - a television, a stereo, speakers, a washing machine.

When Kuya Jerome ws aboard the ship he worked for, sailing to every end of the world, his three daughters and obese wife nicknamed Ling stayed at home, practically rolling in the dough a seaman could make. It wasn’t hard for Mayie to see why Ling had grown so large - she hardly lifted her behind from the sofas, chairs, and beds of the house. She would wake up, make a hearty, fattening meal and sit down singing karaoke for the rest of the day. When her husband’s money would come in, she’d spend it on alcohol, gambling, affairs, and her daughter’s whims.

For staying in their house as she studied, Ling decided Mayie should cough up some rent. Ling took this opportunity to have someone do the housework she’d neglected for karaoke, vices, and her incredible laziness. And so began Mayie’s toil as the household’s unpaid maid, who woke up as early as five in the morning to do the laundry, and then make breakfast for her four female masters. As the masters ate, Mayie would have to pour them juice or water whenever they asked, and had to be prepared, sitting at the edge of her seat, to go to the fridge or kitchen counter to grant the extra food requests.

Then she’d clean up the house from top to bottom, wiping every counter surface and table top then sweep the floor. At around ten in the morning she was allowed to turn on the T.V. and watch the morning slate of Tagalized anime, her only reprieve for the entire day.

After, she’d make lunch and dinner, where’d she’d have to wait around for her masters again, ready to respond to their every desire. Soon, Mayie’s plump body slowly shrunk into a thin, bony frame. The arduous labor stunted her growth at four feet and eight inches. Her skin, while free from her childhood boils, was dry and lifeless. Her hands were calloused from toil. Her beacon of hope still shone, however, and loomed as the new school year approached.

However, the opening of classes came and went, and Mayie was not sent to school. She carried on her life as an unpaid maid, whose labor was too much in exchange for food and a bed to sleep in - things she had enough of back in her Leyte home.

She was only fifteen when she landed in Laguna as a chubby, healthy teen who was promised a chance to study. She turned nineteen, frail and small, still unable to go to school.

A Failing Promise

Four years had gone by, and Mayie was never as much as taken to a high school to be enrolled. At this point, she would be much older than her classmates, at nineteen years old. She got tired of toil but never complained, her smile and humor still earning her friends to joke with and share music with around the neighborhood, whenever she would have sparse spare time. With her optimism, she was a joy to be with and a bell of any ball.

She had made friends with the woman directly behind their house, named Thelma. Houses in this subdivision were cramped and separated by eskinitas, some only by a sparse piece of land barely enough to be made into a room. Upstairs, where Mayie’s slave masters had their covered balcony turned laundry area, she could see Thelma right across, who was usually occupied with her laundry in the balcony-turned-laundry-area of her own. Their initial chit-chats eventually turned to friendship.

Thelma saw opportunity knock on Mayie’s door late 2006. Thelma, had found out about a friend who had recently underwent surgery named Emie, who is my mother. This is when our paths first intertwined.

During Emie’s recovery, she was not allowed to go about her usual household tasks such as laundry and heavy-duty general cleaning. Thelma was quick to recommend the hardworking and the toil-sharpened Mayie.

Emie was only looking for a part timer, someone who’d occasionally come in and do the laundry and most of the major cleaning. She’d pay per visit until she could do the chores once again. Thelma, saddened by Mayie’s unpaid state, decided that this would be good for her. Sure, added labor is involved, as Mayie would have to work for another household on top of working for the one she lived in, but she accepted anyways.

She first went to our house when I was a ten-year-old. Off the bat I was already taller than her, my built already bigger. She was a quiet stranger who was not frugal with her smiles and warm greetings. As she sat on our sofa, my mother nearby fished small details from Ate Mayie’s life, which soon became a vast collection with which to paint the persona of the girl.

With every visit she diligently and expertly went about her tasks, my mother supervising her as she did the laundry. As she often came on Saturdays, I’d join my mother in watching over, sometimes awkwardly attempting to help out. Chats were very much welcome, and they often turned to long conversations about Mayie’s life, and more. We’d bellow in laughter at the stories of her childhood antics in Mahaplag. Sometimes I’d hunch over in fear as she told me about her experiences with engkantos. She’d teach me how to properly scrub my clothes, explaining with utmost patience as I tried and failed to make the squishy sound she made as her hands rubbed the foamy cloth together. After work, my mother would let her share a meal with us, and we’d talk more as we’d eat dessert. Then I’d turn the T.V. on introduce her to my favorite Disney sitcoms, like Hannah Montana.

On Sundays she would drop by again, this time to iron the clothes she’d washed the day before. I’d come with her on the hot spare room upstairs, where she’d bring out the heavy ironing table and start working on the newly-dried, wrinkly pile of clothes. Eventually she started telling me about her high school life, her many friends, and her first love. I smiled and teased as she’d tell me about the letters exchanged, the jealousy fraught interactions with her Prince Charming, all the while she pushed the iron to and fro to straighten the creases out from my uniform.

I learned that she loved to read pocket books, so I went downstairs to my bookshelf, picked two or three of my absolute favorites and shared them with her. When she finished reading, we’d have more stories to share and jokes to laugh about.

In her first few days, she had brightened up the house usually occupied by just me and my mother, since my father was always at work. She’d make our bellies ache with laughter at her jokes. She’d foster a connection with my mother with their provincial upbringings, occasionally comparing my more urban one. Easily, Ate Mayie had become one of my closest friends.

One day, my mother had decided to ask if Ate Mayie still planned to go back to school. Ate Mayie was quick to answer yes. But she was still waiting on the promise of Ling and Jerome, which at that point was still in the mist. My mom was alarmed that the promise was pending for four years. Even more alarming was that Ate Mayie was unpaid.

We eventually learned about Ling’s unimpressive pursuits in life, her laziness, her squandering of her husband’s hard earned money aboard a ship. I would watch as my mother’s brows would crease together in frustration as our new friend confessed about her life in Calamba.

Taken to Ate Mayie, my mother bought her a gift of a simple apparel to ease her burden. Ate Mayie accepted with glee, only to have it taken by her obese slave-driver. It was clear at that point how exploited this girl was, and how unfair the course of her life had been. My mother and I were deeply dismayed.

Then, Ate Mayie had seemed like a real-life Cinderella, living with a wicked stepmother and stepsister, yet still riddled with Disney-princess-brand optimism, with the will to still wish upon the star. We were moved at how positive she was despite her extraordinary hurdles.

I was sad when she had finished her duties with my mother. I missed the laughter that filled the room. I went back to keeping to myself, my books and shows, and Ate Mayie went back to the Visayas. She was sent to Ling’s sister, Vanessa, under vague promises of freedom, only to be entrapped once more into another round of slavery in Cebu.

“The sisters seem delighted with the free labor,” my mother would hiss under her breath when talking about Ate Mayie’s masters, “they want to live like queens even though they can’t afford it.” In the hands of her evil stepmothers, the promise of a brighter future went dimmer and dimmer.

Three years later she came back to Calamba, only to be a maid at my neighbor’s house, where at least she was free from the clutches of Ling and could keep her money for her own. It was still too measly however, to fund her education.

A New Hope

After her stint at my neighbor’s, my mother and her siblings decided to hire Ate Mayie to tend to my ailing grandmother in Marinduque. It was like she was sent back to her small town roots, living at my aunt’s where the house was surrounded by farmland, trees, chickens, streams, and even an ocean a few walks by. There, her only real job was to tend to my grandmother, who was resigned to her foldable bed.

With glee, Ate Mayie would change Nanay’s clothes and brush her hair, and she would tell the same funny jokes and stories. She’d even sing to Nanay and make her laugh and smile. Ate Mayie’s part time job was enjoying the warmth of my aunt’s friends and neighbors, who gave her food by the plenty. Without the arduous labor she got to stroll the scenic views of the town and meet the friendliest people.

My aunt, who was a high school teacher, was touched by Ate Mayie’s show of kindness and positivity, and decided to send her to school when the new academic year would have started. She’d provide Ate Mayie with her uniform and other necessities. Hope sparked again into a raging fire, into a certainty. After years, she was finally going to school.

After only a month, my grandmother passed away. Ate Mayie was without a purpose in Marinduque, all the while grieving the loss of Nanay with us. She moved back with us to Calamba for the meantime, all the while recalling her time spent in Marinduque to be her happiest.

Meanwhile my mother was growing impatient at the thought that Ate Mayie would have to wait until the school year started to actually go back to school. My mother had stumbled upon the Alternative Learning System or ALS, a project spearheaded by the Department of Education for people like Ate Mayie who have been out of school for a while. Despite it being the middle of the regular school year, Ate Mayie was enrolled there and started going to classes right away.

There, she was not out of place with her classmates, who were around her age and sometimes even much older. They were not required to wear uniforms, and classes were accommodating to their knowledge level, rather then sticking to the year-level curriculum. She met friends with amazing stories at par with hers - she met a girl who dropped out due to poverty, a mother who still wanted to finish high school, a formerly rebellious teen who wanted to straighten out his life. ALS was a beacon of hope not just for Ate Mayie herself, but for others like her who had seemingly lost hope. ALS was her glass slipper.

We were school girls together at the time. She lived twenty-four seven in our house, with complete access to our T.V. and my books. We had extended bonding sessions over them, and eventually even over homework. Together we read the Percy Jackson series and watched the latest flicks in the cinemas. She and my mother bonded over chores, but Ate Mayie was not required to wash anyone’s clothes but her own. She was a friend, not an employee.

We were there, my mother and I when Mary Jane Cozo finally donned her white toga.

Happily Ever After

After her high school graduation, she enrolled in a vocational course and applied as an operator in a company. She got her first taste of a wage, a wage that was finally more than a few hundred pesos and involved perks like a Social Security System I.D. After years of struggle and exploitation, she had made a life for herself - with the help of some fairy godmothers from Calamba and Marinduque.

Now, in 2017, she’s been working for several years. She’d helped her father start a piggery and a billiards house. She helped her niece go to school. She has money saved up in a bank and more so that she can go on occasional trips to Tagaytay with her officemates. Sure, there are the occasional workplace hang-ups, and occasional worries that the company she worked in would close down. But she could always go to another one. She could always find a way.

Armed with a diploma, she could never slink back to her life as Cinderella who’d wash off the cinders.

#nonfiction

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