Writing for HS, AM (Scalice, '07): Emily Sun

My Dear Allos Where Have you Gone?

(esun) — Wed, 18 Jul 2007 23:59:14 GMT

As I sank deeper into the depths of America is in the Heart, I felt as if I was slowly losing the sense of Allos. Allos, climbing an acacia tree while smelling papaya blossoms his long raven hair flowing in the wind. Only to be replaced with Carlos the boy with whose eyes were torn from the reality that ripped his simple mentality into shreds. Allos represents Bulosan’s gentle Filipino nature that undergoes a radical change when forced to adapt in a fabricated promise land crushed by malicious reality. Where is Allos, our lovely naïve boy, and why did he leave or does he still live on in the heart of Bulosan?

“Well, let us go home and I will cut your long hair,” said Marcario to me. “Don’t you ever cut your hair, brother?”
I was speechless. I was ashamed to say anything.
“He needs it for protection against vicious mosquitoes and flies,” said my father. “It is also his shield from the sun in hot summer.”
“I will make a gentleman out of him,” Macario said. “Wouldn’t you like to be a gentleman, Allos?” (pg.21)

A sudden insight that opened Allos’ eyes, for at that instant he was exposed to a modern ideal that was foreign to his indigenous ways. He understood Marcario’s words were not meant to afflict hurt but it left a sense that the old ways were dying due to the western communized generation whose ideals proclaimed profanity that was the American way. I wondered if Allos’ father ever looked upon Allos’ long hair and smiled knowing that his son was growing into a fine man. In Marcario’s eyes they were traditionalized and untame compared to the sleek fresh cut look that represented style and chic. Due to these two dissimilar perspectives, Allos must choose which outlook he will accept. His first reaction was undeniably shame which he endured and sought Marcario’s comments as truth. Thus he slowly began to fall into a whirlpool that is Western ideals that was sweeping away all that he once knew.

“Run! Don’t go back! Run!
I lift my shirt and wiped the blinding tears out of my eyes. I ran swiftly in the dark. I was running away from love, from all that was good and true.” (pg.281)

Every boy has a middle passage in which he struggles to become more whether he achieves that dream or not it evermore determines who he is as a man. Allos no longer wished to spend the rest of his life in poverty, starving for a purpose to live. He wished to seek out a future that was seemingly bright beyond the shores of Manila and into the vast unknown. Young and restless he ran into the night and its claws dug deeper into his heart leaving irrevocable hollowness. Further and further into night’s depths he searched for it blindly as the dark ate all that was him leaving him empty, a concave shell filled with pain. Until he finally realized what he was running from years later in a godforsaken hospital bed his hand trembling as he wrote the story of his life his heart aching to return to what he knew as home.

“Long afterward I found myself standing in the heavy rain, holding my rattan suitcase and looking towards the disappearing Philippines. I knew that I was going away from everything I had loved and known. I knew that if I ever returned the first sight of that horizon would be the most beautiful sight in the world.” (pg.93)

Realizing all too late, Allos has crossed the line into a society where he must learn to survive in the midst of all that was wrong, striking him severely with blows that left him shaking on the floor. He still held that simplicity that is so dear that shone from within him. For at that moment he was still Allos in heart but his mind was developing and his horizons have been broadened. Although he was traveling alone, he was bringing a part of the Philippines with him. Cradled in his arms he held all that he knew was true and while the wind whipped him mercilessly, his eyes were clear and full of hope staring towards this faraway land he had heard so much about. Little did he know that he was venturing into a false reality that he would not escape with his life.

“Someday you will understand, Carlos,” he said.
Carlos! He had changed my name, too! Everything was changing. Why?” (pg.130)

Everything was different in this alien land where Allos can no longer be called Allos but Carlos even by his own flesh and blood. There was no shelter from the harsh reality only pain and sorrow. It did not bring itself upon Bulosan but instead he had wandered innocently into it, a mess he could not overcome. His eyes slowly became familiar to his surroundings and before long he was adapting to it. Like a primitive animal he evolved into an offspring of a common mother, violence.

“There were times when I found myself inextricably involved, not because I was drawn to this life by its swiftness and violence, but because I was a part and a product of the world in which it was born. I was swept by its tragic whirlpool, violently and inevitably; and it was only when I had become immune to violence and pain that I was able to project myself out of it.” (pg.152)

As Bulosan grew into this environment he sprung like an intricate tropical plant in soil that was dry and coarse. Furthermore he evolved into a cactus but felt completely isolated for he could not escape the irrefutable fact that he was indeed a tropical plant. This was perpetual fight between Allos and this outer violence that wished to consume all that was pure, or tropical in a more humorous term, in him until he became just another victim. To become its prey who is unable to breathe without breathing in the toxins of its reign. Bulosan was young and was not aware of the severe aftereffects of violence only the adrenaline rush of the moment. The sudden high that made him feel superior over the fictitious foe, to see justice in the face of death.

I tried to find a justification for my sudden rebellion-why it was so sudden, and black, and hateful. Was it possible that, coming to America with certain illusions of equality, I had slowly succumbed to the hypnotic effects of racial fear?” (pg.164)

In my eyes the violence was simply dormant churning in depths of Bulosan, patiently waiting for the moment it could unleash itself upon Bulosan. For once he accepted violence as a way of life it became a part of him. Now it was simply a matter of time before it made itself known like a ticking bomb just inching to be triggered. Bulosan was not so as he was before, he has changed in a way so he might survive to see another day no matter the how dark the future lay before him.

“Did you ever smell papaya blossoms? There is nothing like it. Someday I will go back and climb these guavas again. Someday I will make a crown of papaya blossoms. Do you think I am sentimental?” (pg.198)

When Bulosan exclaimed this it was as if at that moment he was that simple boy again with dirt scrawled across his face. Amidst callous reality he illuminated a docile light that shone within the pages. In a second his cold heart melted and something sprung, like a budded sprout in the snow. It gave us a glimpse into his desires, what he truly held dear. It was as if Allos had never left this entire time. He simply shrouded himself with an air of mystery and hid in a forgotten chamber in Bulosan’s heart. All this time it was Allos and Carlos, who he was and who he is becoming, slowly unfolding like an immortally blooming blossom, its delicate petals rippling as sunlight dances leaving it aglow. Two parts of the same, he is Buloson.

“It was broken, trampled upon, driving me out into the dark nights with a gun in my hand. In the senseless days, in the tragic hours, I held tightly to the gun and stared at the world, hating it with all my power. And hating made me lonely, lonely for love, love that could resuscitate beauty and goodness. For it was life I aspired for, a life of goodness and beauty.” (pg.164)

Thus bringing into light the blinding consequences of violence for when he finally realizes all he has done wrong, it is now pitch black and the stars will refuse to shine under his head for he cannot see their beauty. When Bulosan first committed a dishonest act he felt that violence was an ally, to justify those who have wronged him only to find he was drowning deeper into its nadir. Violence was reality, perhaps the only reality in this America, but he fought against it groping in the darkness he searched for truth. For through all he endured he longed for what seemed almost surreal.

“That’s it, Carl,” Pascual would shout, storming around the room. “Write your guts out! Write with thunder and blood!” (pg.183)

Bulosan had found an outlet to his internal groans that finally found voice in pen and paper. He poured out he blood and dreams in his writing and made immortal his words. He was Allos but he was Carlos and yet he was entirely Bulosan. Although he was born into poverty’s crevice and hunger was his former brother he lived to tell his tale as Allos. Breaking free from the old ideals he set forth into a place where it did not accept him, he was Carlos. A name is a name, but Bulosan has become more for when all that grappled at his heels threatening him with death he triumphed as he wrote his heart out into words that spoke a speech comprehensible to all .

“My father cupped his hands and put them on his mouth, and the voice that called for me was disturbed and sounded far away. I was still a kilometer from our land, but I could hear his voice rolling down the valley. It was familiar and unforgettable, like the trees that whispered as I ran eagerly toward them.” (pg.12)

He ran with his words and illustrated the valleys that poured forth his heart, he returns to his homeland. Being painted forever were his memories, developing into vivid masterpieces as some dulled into the canvas. The ones that were closest to his heart were relived, time and time again until they were beating abreast with his heart.

“I had something to live for now, and to fight the world with; and I was no longer afraid of the past. I felt that I would not run away from myself again.” (pg.306)

As I neared the end of my beloved book, tears were brimming in my eyes for I have found Allos. He left momentarily as the violence soaked in leaving Bulosan in the night but as surely as the sun rose, he would spring like a phoenix from the ashes anew. His voice echoed throughout the book reminding Bulosan of who he really was. He was not a murderer, nor a drunkard, nor a gambler, nor a lie, he was forever Allos. No matter how far he ran away from his true identity he would always come back defeated to the reality that is him. In adapting to an alien environment one must become like them but never should one forget who they are.

Themes

(esun) — Mon, 16 Jul 2007 17:46:06 GMT

Why did they go through the Waig?

The relationship between Leon and Noel?

Aproximately how old is Baldo?

Why is the bull's call different from the otheres?

Why does his brother call him Maria?

How does the father feel about the arrival of his son's wife?

Why does Leon love Nagrebcan?

How do the two both know the song Sky Sown with Stars and what is its meaning for them?

Why is the bull restless?

Where did the two meet and fall in love?

Why does Baldo choose his words carefully when speaking to Aaria?

Why does the father interegate bl=aldo for information?

Why is the father concerned about if Labang has been watered or not?

Who is this Maira and why does she have multiple names?

Why is Baldo noticing her so much?

Gore, Bloodshed, Truth?

(esun) — Thu, 12 Jul 2007 01:47:51 GMT

That article displayed a mixture of feeling if I do say so myself, it covered alot of points that momentary overwhelmed me. It took a minute to collect my thoughts.

The most intresting part of the article was probably how the author referred to the leading men of sin city as God and us as the leading damsels in distress. I agree that Jesus (Trinity) saves us for we are in need of saving but we do not just "let" him save us so helplessly with our doe shaped eyes wide in awe. No, that is not how it happens. It does portray a symbol that i agree with, that we are Sin City and we need to be delivered.

Critics are paid to proclaim what the US thinks of something. It loves violence, gore and bloodshed. It's all the same they are targeting that paticular crowd, twelve through thirty, because it's all about the money. Sin City may display the violence that goes about today that is held secret and whispered by top dogs of society who have the power but do nothing about it. Sending out a movie, Sin City, filled with such violent images is not the best way to inform people of such violence.. because it's not real, therefore people are not going to take it seriously. I mean really, would you? To be exposed to the truth, we would probably shy away, our tails between our legs and simply back away, from the reality that we choose not to face.

If one were to watch Sin City they wouldn't think, "Oh, so this is what happens in Third World Countries." They would just say," What a disturbing movie," or for those sadistic people,
"That was frickin awesome. *rewind to guy chopping off head* AW-ESOME." Further more, even if a documentary was shot of what really happens in the world it would just go in one ear and out the other. "Thats... really depressing. Maybe I should care, then again maybe I won't."

Can YOU make the World a Better place?

(esun) — Tue, 10 Jul 2007 02:35:46 GMT

Pepe.. that was really deep in a sense that i was like.. gah.. but i remembered what you said in class and was like.. ooo.. and got it. I disagree with you in the sense that humans cause pain and so forth therefore humans must also change so that the world is gets better.
the world is sick. it sick from fantastican lies.. lol.. and we have forgotten all the truth in fantastica and the Moon Child is dying. no. but the world is indeed in need of a savoir. but being a pastor you must know that it did recieve a savoir. he was not of this world therefore the world did not accept it. the world isn't ruled upon human emotions and strife. not to frighten you it is based on hate. war. not peace. oppression not love. and we can't change that. because that is our nature. Therefore we cannot rely on ourselves for good. because we are not capable of that. in the depths of our hearts there is a hole.
the world will not get better. if you have hope. don't hope in a utopia because a utopia is a myth. if there is justice in the world why people dying of malnutrition and wars started by insolent people dining on cavier and champene? that's way of life. people are born into things that they cannot ignore but instead shape the outcome of their lives.
how depressing was that? hehe.. emily can took it to the next level hose! Alrighty, but since i'm christian too i belive that humans.. we self insufficient humans.. are capable of something extraordinary. but that is due to God. and him alone. we ourselves can not do anything meaningful... God gives us the ability to think. reason. love. but what we do of that is our own choice.. but what good that comes out.. i'd say give it up to God. but i agree with you about how it is our fault the world end up this way but not entirely. for somethings were made to be.
NOw.. i'm done. and i think the mistake was the ",however. it's supposed to be in the following sentance. i'm not sure.. what i wrote. it was more of a rant. please excuse me if i offended anyone by speaking my mind. and lovely topic. it was what i was going to write my persussive essay on. and pepe.. that was pretty depressing. go you.

A Bullet has No Names

(esun) — Thu, 28 Jun 2007 18:19:31 GMT

A red 99 Ford Explorer is going at around ninety miles per hour. It speeds along Highway 580, heading towards East Oakland. Emotions were splayed across my brow in such a muddle and butterflies swirled around my gut. Imagine you are on a rollercoaster with no form of resistance against the raging winds that whip you breathless. You feel a sudden unsuspected dip, that feeling when your stomach is dropped, left sinking to the floor. My eyes were brim full with tears and sadness overwhelmed me as I pulled up to the driveway.

People are scattered across the lawn and you can not quite label it as one emotion in that mixed atmosphere. The sun still shone ever so brightly on that devastating day and I perceived a couple familiar faces who were the boy's friends and family. Around twenty to twenty-five some people were here and probably beat me to the news. Muffled sobs, detached numbness, impassively frozen and condescending retaliation were perceptible in different pockets. As I climbed up the red asphalt steps, my heart sank with worry and concern for the family.

A deep sense of somberness came over me as I crossed over the threshold and here I was greeted by one of the boy's aunts.

"Hi Pastor. How are you doing?" She asked and wanted to know if she could get me anything. I reclined from the offer and we embraced as the tears began to run down her cheeks. "This is really a rough one." She choked out, her voice wavering. I asked to see her sister, the mother of the boy, but I didn't want to disturb her at the same time.

"No, she would really like to see you. Let me go get her." She said softly and motioned for me to have a seat.

The mother came into the living room, her eyes red and puffy from the news. She wasn't crying at the moment but there was still this dilapidated sense that could not be overlooked.

"Pastor, please, have something to eat." The mother said and my eyes traveled to the kitchen. Food, purchased and homemade, lay askew, piling on top of the counter.

"Pastor, this is really hard for me to deal with. I've never lost a child." She said as her voice broke into silent sobs. I told her that I was not going to preach to her or quote any passages. Instead I would be happy to pray with her and be an ear for her to pour her troubles to. When I told her that, a feeling of relief washed over her weary face and she told me that was exactly what she needed.

Then she began describing what a lovely son she had and I felt tears well up in my eyes. He always had such good relationships with everyone. How special he was and would always help with the young ones. Then she slowly began to weep again. I told her that is was soon, but I knew several groups that dealt with mothers that have lost their sons or daughters to violence.

"That would be good." the mother said and began discussing funeral arrangements but before we could go into the matter any deeper she started to cry. She began to depict the body of her son. He was shot several times in the face until her was unrecognizable from what her nephew, who was at the murder scene, had witnessed. Then she continued conferring about the funeral arrangements although tears were streaming down her face and her voice was barely comprehensible.

"We don't have to do this today." I told her and tried to comfort her but she shook her head and said through her tears, "No, no, this has to be done. I have to do this." Although she was trying so hard to be strong, she was broken with grief from the loss of her son, and she began to weep profusely.