Letter To Pedro, U.S.

Citizen, Also Called Pete by Rene Estella Amper Pete, old friend; there isn't really much change in our hometown since you left. This morning I couldn't find anymore the gra e of !imeona, the cat we buried at the foot of "iguel's mango tree, when we were in grade four, after she was hit by a truc# while crossing the street. The bulldo$er has messed it up while ma#ing the feeder road into the mountains to reach the hearts of the farmers. The farmers come down e ery !unday to sell their agony and their sweat for a few pesos, lose in the coc#pit or get drun# on the way home. A steel bridge named after the congressman's wife now spans the gray ri er where Tasyo, the old goat, had split the s#in of our young li$ards to ma#e us a man many years ago. The long blue hills where we used to shoot birds with slingshot or spend the summer afternoons we lo ed so much doing nothing in the tall grass ha e been bought by the mayor's son. %ow there's a barbed wire fence about them; the birds ha e gone away. The mayor owns a big sugar plantation, three new cars, and a mansion with the gate o erhung with sampaguita. Inside the gate are guys who carry a rifle and a pistol. &e still go to 'onga's store for rice and sardines and sugar and nails for the coffin. !till only a handful go to mass on !undays. In the church the men tal#, sleep; the children play. The priest is sad.

(ast night the storm came and blew away the cornflowers. The cornfields are full of cries. )our cousin, *ulia, has +ust become a whore. !he li#ed good clothes, good food, big money. That's why she became a whore. %ow our hometown has se en whores. Pete, old friend, e ery time we ha e good reason to get drun# and be carried home in a wheelbarrow we always remember you. ,h, we miss both Pete and Pedro. Remember us to your American wife, you luc#y bastard. Islaw, your coc#-eyed uncle, now calls himself !tanley after he began wearing the clothes you sent him last .hristmas. P.!. Tasyo, the old goat, !ends your li$ard his warmest congratulations. THEY SAY FILIPINA IS ANOTHER NAME FOR MAID by (uisa A. Igloria In /ong 'ong last summer my office mate and I too# turns, smiling for pictures in front of 0The .ourt of 1inal Appeal,0 as a +o#e, or maybe in a #ind of atonement--because two women boarding the same ferry we too# that morning said, in the dialect they were sure we would recogni$e, Is it your day off too2 ,ne of them had a 3uic#, ner ous way of smiling, as if ready to ta#e it bac# if we had turned on them with indignation. The other was clearly ready to challenge, if the wellintentioned e4pression of solidarity were read otherwise. It was a day filled with rainclouds, a s#y

the color of aluminum, the dull sheen on the inside of an old rice coo#er. )es, we smiled, it's our day, off too. Is your amo #ind2 entured the younger of the two, shyly. )es, we said, thin#ing of the airconditioned offices and computers we had left behind for two wee#s of r 5 r, as we leant bac# on the green railing. The boat punched forward, toward the red and yellow buildings, the ric#shaws lined up in the shade. "ine too, she said; now. 6ut the first one7 and her oice trailed li#e a scarf o er the water, hesitating. &e had to force our way in, said her friend, pic#ing up the thread. I called the center, you #now, the one near the church2 "igrante. !he was this close to being raped. 8id you hear about the last one2 The one who threw herself off the hospital roof2 Instead of an autopsy they scraped her insides clean, stuffed her with cotton. %ow no one can pro e anything. If the body can #eep secrets, what can it tell of them2 The body as a scroll9 what calligraphy, what message, did that woman's family unwrap when they recei ed her body aerogrammed in a bron$e cas#et2 1or so many dollars, you can get your name car ed in ideographs on an in#ed stamp that is also called a chop. The shy one as#s me to braid her hair. !he calls me ate, older sister. !he shows me the scar on her left leg from shimmying down a mango tree in their old bac#yard at home. !he has +ust turned nineteen, and her smile can still be warm as a ripe mango. I run my fingers through the in# of her hair,

di iding into three sections. &hat was loose and rippling in the wind, she has let me gather in my hand. I braid, pic#ing up the faint scent of coconut oil; yeasty, warm, li#e good bread, rising. !he could be my daughter, my niece, my cousin, my best friend. ,ur new friends ta#e us to the .entral !tation where they will share a picnic meal with others9 garlic por# and rice, sour broth, rice ca#es, meat stewed in blood gra y. They will tal#, e4change numbers, letters, news of better openings, the meanings of insults in a foreign language; pictures of grade school children proudly stepping up to recei e medals on closing day at school. Their hands the si$e of their sleeping 3uarters. E en on their day off, the army ponders the different ways to share strength in the many lands of the enemy, abroad where they are #nown by only one name. THE ODS !E !ORSHIP LI"E NE#T DOOR Bienvenido Santos The gods we worship li e ne4t door. They:re brown and how easily they catch cold snee$ing too late into their slee es and brandishing their arms in air. 1ear grips us when they frown as they wal# past our grim deformities dragging with them the secret scent of lo e bought by the ounce from gilded shops abo e the rotunda of the bright cities. In the cold months of fog and hea y rains our gods die one by one and cas#ets golden are borne on the hard pa ements at e en down roads named after them, across the plains

where all gods go. ,h, we outli e them all, but there are +unior gods fast growing tall.