This poem in Fighting Kite has an interesting history. It was written in an MFA poetry workshop in, probably, 1986. Some 20 years later, I was invited to read my poems on 26 October 2009 in the conference "Unsung Heroes: Asian Pacific American Heroism during World War II" at the Library of Congress. I read "Tatay" and two other poems there, as described in this blog post from that time.
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My grandfather in a faded photograph is
a centurion blowing a Christmas party horn,
on his head my foil Roman legionnaire helmet.
I remember him smiling like a boddhisatva
as he pulled on scuffed brogans to bail out
my uncle in the drunk tank—Tito Augusto
had been brawling again. But in 1933,
Tatay seemed another man. My father
at twelve was circumcised with a couple
of buddies. The ring of boys.
The penknife. Blood dwindling.
When Tatay heard, he bent my father
over the Army trunk again. Set up
the pitcher and glass. He made his
two-inch-wide leather belt lick the boy’s
naked back. Resting, he sipped water, then
got up, belt in hand. My father glanced over
at the pitcher to see how much was left.
There were other stories. How after
the Bataan death march, they met, father
and son, in the concentration camp near Capas.
Tatay shivered at noon, muttering of
bodies mantled with wings, ashimmer.
My father could see two compounds away,
they were burning wood—bark the Igorots
use to cure malaria. My father crept
under the wire. A butterfly’s
lazy tango in the glare. That itch
between his shoulderblades. A bead
of sweat. The imperial guard’s boots
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Page 12
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a yard to the left. The Philippine Army
regulars who were burning the wood smirked
when they caught him, gathering branches
in his arms. With fists and bare feet
pounding his head and back, did he recall
those rituals of trunk and pitcher?
Cradling a bundle of sticks, my father
crawled back. I can see the bark dancing
now in water, next to the cot where
Tatay moans in his sleep. I hear my father
singing softly. I can almost make it out, but
I can’t quite place the tune, a Tagalog lullaby.
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Page 13
Here's what I said about this poem in that 2009 blog post mentioned above:
As part of my poetry reading at the symposium, I read the following poem, which describes my father's relationship with my grandfather, my Lolo whom all of us grandchildren and great-grandchildren called simply Tatay, the Filipino word for "father," because he was so much the patriarch for us all. He was a gentle, soft-spoken old man when I knew him, so unlike the chilling stories Papa told me of Tatay's brutal discipline towards him as a child. The poem, one of three I read at the Library of Congress, describes two sides of that relationship: first, how Tatay whipped my father cruelly and routinely, and second, how Papa found Tatay in the Japanese concentration camp and cared for him as he would have his own child. . . .
In the poem, I highlight an ironic and iconic difference between Filipinos: the Philippine Army soldiers beat my father because he was a Philippine Scout, that is, a member of the US Army. In this context, because the US Army can no longer protect my father, they see him as too big for his britches because he is a Filipino in the US Army — uppity, someone whom they would see as having previously lorded over them. The irony is that Papa is beaten in order to save the life of the man who used to beat him.
Along with "Tatay," I read that day "Honor, 1946" and "Refusal to Write an Elegy," poems that will be discussed later in the Fighting Kite blog posts, since they appear in the book. It was truly an honor to be able to read these poems at the Library of Congress, especially "Tatay," which holds a special place in my poet's heart.
As always, I'd love to get some feedback or discuss anything with all y'all. Comment, okay? Thanks. Ingat.
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