Aimee Nezhukumatahil's "Swear Words"

Even now I laugh when I see the look on my mother's face
when I swear in Tagalog. I have no idea what these phrases
really mean, but they've been spattered on me since I was still
a fat, bawling baby--and scattered onto my head when I've toppled

juice glasses on white carpet or come home past curfew.
Sometimes even the length of my skirts or driving her through
a red light produces ones with a bit of a gasp, a wet sigh
of disapproval. Now I catch myself saying them out loud

when I knock my knee against the coffee table,
slice a bit of my knuckle with paper. When I asked her,
she told me one phrase meant 'God,' so of course I feel guilty.
And another is 'crazy female lost piglet," which doesn't even

make sense when I think of the times I've heard her use that,
and still others, she claims, are untranslatable. But the one
I love best is Diablo--devil--pronounced: Jah-blew! She uses it
as if to tell me, "I give up! You do what you want but don't

come running to me, " after I tell her I bounced a check
or messed up a romance with a boy she finally approved of.
Diablo! Diablo! Here comes a little red devil, tiny pitchfork
in hand, running past the terra-cotta flower pots

in my mother's sunroom Diablo! Diablo! And still another from behind
the kitchen curtains, a bit damp from the day's splashes of the sink.
Today when they meet, they dance a silly jig on the countertop, knock
over the canister of flour, leave little footprints all over the place.

Super Extra-Special Valentine From 2005

"Mommy"--Mom's mom, my last surviving grandparent--passed away last week and her funeral is this Valentine's Day.

Writing in this journal is supposed to be mind-clearing, and I don't know when I'll be "ready" to confront [or finish coping with] the loss of the woman who helped raise me until I was three years old; the person I nicknamed "Mommy" as soon as I learned to speak English.

In a way, I'm grateful to be unavailable for the Wake. I'd like to remember her as she was the year Before, when I flew up for Daddy's funeral. The image of my newly inked back delighted my grieving grandmother. Mom, true to form or Nature, was aghast by the shoulder-to-shoulder design. While she scolded her only daughter--a lesbian!--over unfeminine tastes, Mommy sat shaking in her wheelchair, hysterical-laughing over the tattoo and absurdity of the situation.

C. Masikat (a former seamstress and then teacher by profession, whose first name bears my namesake) was a bright and enduring presence. She never lost her courage or sense of humor in spite of increasing physical debility. Following in her footsteps, I don't mean for this post to sound morose. In the Philippines, death is just another excuse to throw a party. It's like celebrating a birthday only you're saying goodbye to a loved one.

Bye Mommy. Love you.

(Mahal kita, 2/15/2005)