Chicken

published 3 Nov 2007

Okay, this Halloween piece is late by three days. But this is the only chance I get.

It is true that such a celebration in the Philippines is a recent phenomenon. In my youth—which wasn’t so long ago, I dare say—kids’ only form of entertainment was telling scary stories after we had tired of making balls out of candle wax.

That was a small consolation for those of us who had to carry our load of flowers, candles and casseroles of cooked dishes we had to put on top of my grandfather’s grave at the Chinese cemetery. Then we pasted multi-colored rectangles around his tomb. While the grown-ups chatted, we rolled sheet upon sheet of brown paper that we would burn in a little furnace. Then we packed up at around 11, to meet in my grandmother’s house for the customary reunion lunch.

After stuffing ourselves, we children gathered in front of the big black-and-white television set to watch reruns of old horror-slash-comedy flicks—the ones with Chiquito or Palito or any one of those actors with a single name—where coffins flew or corpses, toilet paper wrapped around the sides of their faces, walked on the streets with both arms raised forward.

That was just about it. Kids today have more options.

My children, who go to a school just across the street, had their Halloween program last Tuesday. The older ones, aged 13 and 11, would not be caught dead in any frilly attire so they simply donned their jeans and black shirts. The younger two, however, aged seven and five, were so excited that they had prepared their costumes as early as the evening before.

There were the usual witches, vampires and other creatures of the night. Of course, famous cartoon characters sort of turned the thriller parade into a fantasy one. There was Winnie the Pooh, Tigger, Superman, Spider-Man—and dozens of princesses. My daughter Sophie was a fairy while Elmo, in his fiery red overalls, was a little devil. As any mom, I clicked away with my cell phone camera and provided the kids an endless supply of biscuits and juice.

The program, parochial as it was, did yield some surprises. For instance, there was also a contest on headdresses. The prize went to a third grader who had an entire pop-up page (almost a tableau) over her head. Must have been heavy. And, aside from the common horror and fantasy costumes, there was one boy dressed like a suicide bomber—explosives wrapped around his chest—and yet another one who claimed he was a terrorist, sporting fatigue pants and wielding at least three toy guns. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the boys were brothers. What progressive parents.

Some people try to ascribe profound reasons for children’s way of celebrating Halloween. We have been criticized for muddling our Catholic faith with pagan practices. We have been called copycats, since these things originated from the West. Even the Ecuadorian president lambasted Halloween celebrations because he said it fueled unnecessary consumerism. I say it’s all in the name of fun. Kids love getting dressed up. It’s as simple as that and there is no need to wax philosophical. For their part, parents can always choose not to spend and instead get creative—and economical.

***

This year, I came to the conclusion that ghosts didn’t exist.

In late March, I was sent away to a foreign city—Berlin—on training. It was the first time I was ever really on my own.

I arrived at the hotel at 11 in the evening. Only then did I discover that I would not be rooming with my fellow Filipino in the course—she had one of her own, too. The hotel was luxurious. Beside my window was a large mirror. I tried not to look at it. What if some image appeared there? After all, that place was the site of many killings—atrocious ones—during the war. And what if I heard strange noises amid all that quiet?

It was terrible that first night. It must have been nearing four in the morning when I finally did sleep.

A few days later, I transferred to my own apartment, located on a street full of nursing homes (there were always emergency sirens at night). This was a much bigger place, one that had a separate kitchen even. It looked out into trees and distant buildings. And I was still alone.

But in those two months, I saw and heard nothing. Not even when I stayed up late nights for one writing assignment or another. There, I validated my theory: Ghosts were human constructs. This conclusion was significant for me who has always been too chicken to sleep in total darkness, or watch scary films alone.

This week, I was getting ready to announce in this column that I’m a braver person now. In fact, I was so eager to write this piece that on early Friday morning, I sat down in front of my laptop and started typing the first few paragraphs of this column.

My sister, who was on holiday from work, strolled into my room to ask how many fishes we should fry for lunch. As always, we ended up chatting. I turned away from my desk and leaned back into my swivel chair. The conversation lasted a few more minutes. When I looked at my computer screen, I froze: There were three paragraphs of characters—in foreign language, I can’t tell if it’s Vietnamese or Thai—that I absolutely didn’t type. There was also a Web site (I checked it later and found some spam site).

How could that have happened? I wasn’t even touching the keyboard since I was leaning back. And then, much later, I saw with my own eyes the cursor scrolling down the screen on its own.

My sister fled and returned to her cooking.

This column as published has slightly changed from that which I had intended. Originally, I had meant to be smug declaring that ghosts were mere figments of one’s imagination, or desperation.

That conclusion has been challenged, on the same morning as the day I’m supposed to turn in this article. So now I’m revising my thesis. Ghosts don’t exist—for me. And I will continue to find explanations why they don’t, and shouldn’t. Must have been a key which I pressed mistakenly. Or a freak accident. Heck, maybe I was asleep and dreaming. After all, how many computer-literate ghosts must be roaming the earth, right?

Boo.