Grip

by Cheryll Caalim

I learned how to say “I love you” straight from my mother’s mouth.

Mahal kita, she said. Or heard from the background of the teleserye as flavors of lumpia, dinengdeng, sisig, and arroz caldo sizzled on the stove.

Mahal na mahal na mahal kita. 

“I love you so so so much,” exclaimed one of the characters' voices, 

pounding through the television speakers as I sat, chewing messages that 

crunched, 

downpoured for weeks in the rainy season, 

squealed from my Ate’s pet pig from childhood, 

and prayed for a child with a cold to return to good health.

All heard from the dinner table.  

My mother spat out 

Ping-gul

As her lips pointed in the direction of an elastic while styling my morning braids. 

The tautness of the band tightened as I enunciated:

Ping-al

My mother said I would soon look even prettier.

Ping-ool

I could hear it tie all together.

Ping-ul

Yet, my mother’s tongue was forbidden.

Her language pulled down on my updo, 

Was welcomed into the cafeteria with the ridiculed laughter from my friends, 

Drowned my ears amidst the clamor of ten year olds, 

Tangled the meanings of words—my friends’ words, my teacher’s words, my mother’s words

My words—detangled from the      snap 

of a hair tie too tired to endure twisting.  

Silent, I tried teaching myself the common language.

Or, as I whisper now, the        language of the      conquerors. 

They dare not listen to the stories stolen from my ears,

Hearing miles into the distant kitchen and the tightening of a hug trying to teach me how to say, 

          “You are always welcome       home.”

Cheryll Caalim is a third year at UVA majoring in Global Public Health on the pre-med track. She's an avid plant mother who loves bringing to-go containers to buffets and is looking for people to practice taking blood pressure on for her CNA certification exam.