By MIXKAELA VILLALON

For ma,

The things that make you cry are entirely your fault.

Remember when I was very young and we lived in one of those box-units on the third floor of Pag-asa Bliss, those sad, gray buildings skulking behind the shadow of SM North Edsa? There was no playground, no space for childhood games. All we had were grimy hallways and a lot of stairs.

You knew that it was no place for a child, so you read me stories on the balcony of our little house. With no view to speak of, and the skyline of SM blocking out even the stars, you read me fairytales to fill my grayscale world with colors. You would guide me throughout the story, your patient finger underlining the words as you read, and you would hold my hand until we reached that inevitable happy ending.

My favorite story has always been “The Snow Queen.” I remember how you would describe that magic mirror, the one imbued with so much evil. One day, mischievous imps stole the evil mirror and flew it up to the sky. But it slipped from their hands and shattered, the pieces swept by the wind and scattered around the world. Shards of that evil mirror flew into the eyes of some people, and they were doomed to never see any good. Some shards ended up in some people’s hearts. That is why there are evil people, you said.

You weren’t happy when I told you of my decision to be a writer. We both know writers don’t have bright futures in this country, especially those who write in our mother tongue. I understand why you keep trying to convince me to take up law, but I won’t—and it is entirely your fault. You filled my head up with those stories, and though I am thankful, I am also stubborn. I write because I don’t want your stories to end with me.

You cried when you first saw me in the news, caught by an intrusive camera at a student rally. You said we aren’t rich, and you wouldn’t know what to do if something should happen to me. You asked me why I would repay all those years of your parenting with heartache. When I begin to explain, you say my intentions are delusions. Nothing but fairytales, you say. We could never see eye-to-eye.

Earlier this year, I went to Quiapo to interview a fortuneteller for my article. She said I’d be the one to make my mother weep. I scoffed at her, the old fraud, even when I knew deep down that it might be true. If you didn’t want me to do what I do, you shouldn’t have read me all those fairytales.

If you didn’t want me to stand up for what I believe to be true and just, then you should have taught me early on that greed and evil are virtues in this world. You honed my sense of justice at my bedside, and it is too late now. I am nothing but hardheaded.

If I should make you cry, I don’t do it deliberately. I will continue to write and join rallies in the hope I could melt the shards of the evil mirror lodged in people’s hearts. I will continue to break your heart. But I will do it for you, because of you, even if you would never understand. This is the only way I know how, and I want to be the one to hold your hand and guide you toward our own happy ending. ●

Published in print in the Collegian’s July 23, 2008 issue with the title “Fairytales.”