by Noël Alumit
I spent the day in the library, looking up everything I could on Amnesty International. They had been around for years. An independent organization. Not associated with any government. They fight for human rights all over the world. Amnesty International won a Nobel peace prize for their work.
I thought of Mrs. 45, but really 60. Amnesty International sounded like an organization that she would have heard of. I thought of her blotches.
I put a blotch of my own—well a small dot—on page 168 of all of the books I checked out of the library. A small mark that said, I was here.
Amnesty International has an office in Los Angeles. I called them.
“Can I come into your office? I need your help.”
“What kind of help?” Operator Man asked.
“I’m looking for someone. My parents.”
“What happened to them?”
I told Operator Man the whole story.
“So, its been what five, maybe six years since you’ve seen them?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He heaved a deep sigh, and said, “Why don’t you come in next week.”
My first of many meetings at Amnesty was in December of 1981. I remember it being a dismal day. It took three busses to get there. I was hoping for some quick answers but a gloom set in in that first meeting. I met Mr. Boyd and he said some things I didn’t want to hear.
“It sounds like your father was a Prisoner of Conscience,” Mr. Boyd said. Prisoners of Conscience were people who were detained because of their nonviolent expression of beliefs. That’s what my father was: a prisoner of conscience.
“But you and your mother got away?” Mr. Boyd asked.
“Yes. But she’s missing, too. She was supposed to come to the U.S. once she found my dad, but she never did.”
“Son,” he said, “I want you to know something.” Mr. Boyd had lines on his forehead, lines around his eyes, lines around his lips, lines on his lips. His face looked like a well-detailed map, with his nose as a famous landmark. He wasn’t real old, maybe thirty-five. “When a person disappears, the ripe time to try and find him is within the first two weeks they’re gone, okay?” He looked at me like I was stupid. “That’s usually how long they’re held, guards wait to see if anyone will make a fuss about the disappearances. To see if whoever was taken hostage will be missed, understand?” I nodded. “If a human rights group or a religious group doesn’t say anything, then…”
“Then what?”
“Well, they are put away in prison for a long time or…or they’re killed.”
Never once did I consider my father dead. I looked out of Mr. Boyd’s window and I saw him: Monty. Despite what some of the doctors said, it was him. It had to be. He walked across the street in a tan suit. I watched him walk away until he was a speck in the distance. Then he vanished. I was happy to have him near me.
“Son, are you OK?” a faraway voice said. It took me a second to realize it was Mr. Boyd speaking.
“I’m fine.”
“Now your mother wasn’t detained, right? She could be free at this moment.”
“I don’t know where my mother is.”
Mr. Boyd gave me some paperwork to fill out. I asked him if I could take the paperwork home with me and return it. He said that would be fine.
I tried to fill out the PRISONER DATA QUESTIONNAIRE. I picked it up and put it down. Six pages of questions. Most of them, I didn’t have answers for.
I filled it out for my dad because he was the one who was taken.
NAME OF PRISONER: Emil Luwad. COUNTRY WHERE IMPRISONED: Philippines. ADDRESS BEFORE ARREST: I don’t remember. FAMILY DETAILS (I.E., WHETHER MARRIED, HOW MANY CHILDREN AND DEPENDENTS, ETC.) PLEASE GIVE NAME AND AGES WHERE POSSIBLE: He had one wife. Her name is Cessy Luwad. She’s missing, too. One son. Me. Bong Bong Luwad. I don’t remember how old Mom is. I’m thirteen. DATE AND PLACE OF BIRTH, OR APPROXIMATE AGE: I don’t know. EDUCATION (NAMES OF SCHOOLS AND UNIVERSITIES ATTENDED): I don’t know.
OCCUPATION(S) OR PROFESSION PRIOR TO ARREST: Writer. PAST OCCUPATIONS: I don’t know.
More questions and more questions.
SPECIFIC CIRCUMSTANCES OF ARREST (ARRESTING AGENCY, ARREST WARRANT, ETC): I think it was a government agency who arrested my dad. RELATED ARRESTS: I don’t know. LEGISLATION UNDER WHICH HELD: I don’t know what this question means. HAS HE/SHE BEEN CHARGED? DID HE/SHE APPEAR BEFORE A JUDGE? IF THE PRISONER HAS BEEN CHARGED, CITE RELEVANT LEGISLATION (E.G., ARTICLE OF PENAL CODE) WHERE KNOWN, AND GIVE SPECIFIC DETAILS BROUGHT AGAINST THE PRISONER. SPECIFY ACTS OF WHICH THE PRISONER IS ACCUSED. IF PRISONER HAS NOT BEEN CHARGED, WHAT REASONS HAVE BEEN GIVEN BY THE AUTHORITIES FOR HIS/HER ARREST? FOR WHAT ACTIVITIES ON THE PART OF THE PRISONER DO YOU BELIEVE HE/SHE WAS DETAINED? WHAT ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE FOR LEGAL AID, IF NECESSARY? DOES THE PRISONER HAVE A DEFENSE LAWYER? HAS HE/SHE SEEN A LAWYER SINCE ARREST? WHO CHOSE THE DEFENSE LAWYER? NAME AND ADDRESS OF HIS/HER LAWYER. HAS HE/SHE BEEN TRIED? IF SO, PLEASE GIVE THE FOLLOWING DETAILS. DATE AND PLACE OF TRIAL. NAME OF COURT.
UNDER WHAT CONDITIONS IS THE PRISONER BEING HELD? (E.G., SOLITARY CONFINEMENT, RIGHTS TO CORRESPONDENCE AND VISITS FROM FAMILY, LAWYER?) PLEASE BE AS SPECIFIC AS POSSIBLE. PRISONER’S STATE OF HEALTH? HAS THE PRISONER BEEN TORTURED OR SUBJECTED TO ILL TREATMENT? IF SO, HOW DID YOU KNOW THIS? DOES THE PRISONER REQUIRE MEDICAL TREATMENT (PLEASE SPECIFY, IF KNOWN).
On and on and on and on. Less and less I knew.
I called Mr. Boyd. He said to mail the form back. They had to send it to researchers in London and have them check on the situation.
I waited.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wild Horses
Dear Monty, January 8, 1982
Today is my birthday. Mrs. A gave me a cake with fourteen candles.
“Make a wish!” she said.
I wished my father, the Prisoner of Conscience, well, wherever he may be.
Dear Monty, Feb. 25, 1982
The Arangan house has gotten a little more crowded. Amada was booted from boarding school. She’s going to school with me now. I have the shitty task of walking with her.
She walks to school like a person wading through mud. She doesn’t know how good she’s got it. In the Philippines, I knew lots of kids who wanted to go to school, but their parents couldn’t afford it. Not every child in the world has the privilege of school. In America, education is a right for every child. It amazes me when kids don’t take advantage of it.
At lunchtime, I agreed to help one of my teachers grade papers. The classroom is on the third floor. I sat by the window and I saw the entire schoolyard. Amada sat by a tree sipping orange juice. I could see some kids behind her laughing. I think it’s because Amada has that weird colored hair. I think Amada was going to cry. She got up and sat by herself near the soda machine.
Sincerely,
Bob
I saw a part of Mr. and Mrs. A I hadn’t seen before. I was just home from school when Mr. and Mrs. A came screeching up the driveway, the car heading right for me. Mr. A jammed on the brakes.
Mr. A got out of the car and slammed his door. Mrs. A stepped out, fanning herself. A blonde girl sat in the backseat.
Mr. A pushed open the front door of the house and entered. Mrs. A followed. I waited for the blonde to enter the house, but she just sat there.
“GET IN HERE!” Mr. A yelled. It was a shock to hear his voice at that decibel.
Mrs. A came outside and said, “Amada, please do what your father said and come inside.” Gone was Mrs. A’s graceful demeanor, something a little more insecure set in.
“I’m not coming in while he’s screaming like that!” A voice bellowed from the backseat.
“He’ll stop yelling. Won’t you, honey.”
Mr. A didn’t say anything.
The car door slowly opened and a girl with white blonde hair emerged like a star going to a movie premiere. She sashayed into the house.
I stood there in the driveway. Mrs. A tugged on my arm. “Go into the house,”
she said, “before neighbors start looking at us like animals in a zoo.”
Amada headed up the stairs, but Mr. A grabbed her by the arm and shoved her into the living room. “How could you get expelled?” he said, spit shooting out of his mouth.
“I don’t know,” Amada said meekly.
“Goddamn it. Thousands of dollars down the drain. All of that money to send you to that school and you throw it away by running off to San Francisco for a week.”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Mr. A gave Amada a furious look, his face twitching and ticking like a firecracker on the floor. He stormed out of the room, almost knocking me over.
“Mother, don’t be mad at me.”
Mrs. A shook her head, pulled out a neatly folded kerchief and blew her nose. They both looked up and saw me.
Mrs. A reached for me with one hand, frail and weak, gesturing at me to come over before she fainted.
“Amada,” Mrs. A said, “this is the young man I had been telling you about. This is Bong Bong.”
“Bong?” Amada said, “Cool. As in Marijuana Bong?”
What a dip, I thought.
“It’s Bong Bong. Two Bongs, not one. And it has nothing to do with marijuana,” Mrs. A said. “Besides, his name is Bob now.”
“Welcome to our happy home,” Amada said with a smile and went up to her room.
Mr. and Mrs. A had one problem in their perfect life: a daughter named Amada.
•
One night, I stayed up late to watch The Misfits. The movie was about to start when Amada came into the room.
“What’cha watchin’?” she said.
If Mrs. A was careful about everything she did, her daughter was the exact opposite. Amada’s voice wasn’t like her mother’s. Amada had a sing-songy way of speaking. A breathy and high-pitched sound.
“The Misfits.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
She sat beside me, her hair pointed straight up or bent in all sorts of directions. She decided to get rid of the blonde and dyed it a darker color: a deep purple. Along with her black sweats, she looked like a large bruise.
We watched the movie, transfixed. Monty was good, simply wonderful. Everyone in the movie was good. Marilyn Monroe was good. Clark Gable was good. I liked how all of them set out to catch wild horses, trying to catch something that was out of their reach or couldn’t be tamed. Monty tried, though. He kept hoping, and chasing those wild horses.
I knew what Monty was feeling. I was chasing something, too. Sometimes, I’d wake up in the middle of the night, sweaty and nervous, my arms outstretched like I was grabbing for something. But there was nothing there.
Monty cared for Marilyn Monroe, making sure no one hurt her. It looked like Marilyn reciprocated. Monty’s character gets hurt, his head bandaged up. She cradled his damaged, bandaged head in her lap while they talked of trust, of knowing people.
After the movie, Amada cried. Through her tears, she said, “Isn’t she beautiful? That was Marilyn’s last movie. She died in the middle of her next one. Marilyn was a goddess. She had this rough childhood, you know. When she was a kid, no one wanted her. But she became a star anyway, a great big fucking star.” She said some other stuff, but she was crying so much that her words came out garbled. Before I could comfort her, she got up and went to her room.
I knew Montgomery Clift liked, maybe even loved, Marilyn Monroe. In The Misfits, I saw the way Monty looked at her, a dreamy admiration. I liked, no, loved Amada in the same way. She was different, no one like I’d ever met.
The next day, on our way to school, Amada asked me if I liked The Misfits.
“Yeah, I did. I’m a big fan of Monty Clift,” I said.
“I’ve seen all of Marilyn’s movies,” she said. “I really like her. The first time I saw Marilyn was in All About Eve starring Bette Davis. Marilyn had a little part in that movie, she wasn’t a star.
“Someday, I’m going to be just like her. I’m going to be an actress. I don’t know how to act yet, but sometimes I practice in front of my mirror. I practice acting. I’ll say a speech over and over to myself. If the speech is real sad, I’ll feel like crying, you know. I think that’s the mark of a real good actress, don’t you? Feeling like crying at the sad parts?
“I think about going to school and study The Method. That’s what all those great actors studied, The Method. Marlon Brando, James Dean, all those people studied The Method. I don’t know what The Method exactly is, but I’m sure it’s some great secret to acting.
“I’m going to learn how to sing, too. I sang at my old school. I sang in the church choir. I’m an alto. My voice needs some work. I know that much, but I know I can sing. Once the choirmaster made me sing “Amazing Grace” all by myself and he said I did a real nice job. He said I could have a real good voice if I practiced and studied.
“I’m going to sing and act. Then I’m going to learn to dance. I dance real well at parties and stuff, but I’m going to learn for real. Take ballet and jazz classes someday. Be real good. I’ll be able to stand on my toes and do the splits without it hurting.
“I want to take tap classes, too. When I was a little girl, I taped little pennies to my shoes so I could make those click sounds when I walked. Click. Click. Like in those old Hollywood musicals. I’d dance around, clicking away on my mom’s floors. She got mad at me, though. She said I was marking up her clean hardwood. So I had to stop.
“I’m going to be an actress. You wait and see.”
I had a new friend, an earthly one. I couldn’t help but feel Monty put us together.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Mirror World
Dear Monty, June 24, 1982
I dreamt about you. You told me, Not Yet Not Yet. I thought of telling the Arangans that I’m looking for my parents. You told me not to. Not Yet Not Yet, I felt you say.
I love the Arangans. I want to tell them about my life.
“Not yet,” you said. “Do not tell them about your parents. Do not.”
“Why?” I wanted to know.
“There will be a time to tell them. Not now. Not yet. Don’t tell them about your parents.” Your voice sounded haunting, but firm.
I woke up, and decided to write this letter to you. If you don’t want me to tell Mr. and Mrs. A about my parents, I won’t. I trust you more than anyone.
Dear Monty, July 10, 1982
Mr. Boyd said it didn’t look good. There is a team of researchers looking over the situation in the Philippines. He told me thousands of people have been abducted since Marcos started martial law in 1972. Still. They haven’t gotten word that my folks are dead.
“We’re going to church on Easter Sunday,” Mrs. A said. “The both of you need new clothes.” She dragged Amada and me to the Glendale Galleria. She bought me khaki trousers, a red tie with little horses on it, penny loafers (with no pennies), and a very starched oxford shirt. I tried on a navy blue coat and a salesman said to Mrs. A, “Your son looks very handsome in double breast.”
She brushed the hair away from my face, her long pink polished nails grazing my forehead. “Yes, he does,” she said, “yes, he does.”
I looked into the mirror and I wasn’t who I was. I was just a guy trying on clothes with his family. Mrs. A was behind me; Amada, like a sister, nodded approvingly, partly distracted by clothes some distance away. In this Mirror World, I was normal, like everyone else: I worried about the pimples on my forehead; I wanted to learn how to drive; I wanted to go on a date. A Sense Of Belonging belonged to me. A spell was cast in Glendale.
The spell took further effect when I watched Amada and Mrs. A debate the kind of clothes to buy.
“Just try on one dress,” Mrs. A pleaded. “Try this one on. Look. It has a pretty bow in the back, and peach is a good color for you.”
“Bows are for little girls. And that color makes me look sick,” Amada said.
“What do I have to do to get you to try on a dress? Any dress.”<
br />
“How about this one?” Amada pointed to a strapless tight-fitting cocktail dress. BABY OH BABY.
“Oh, Amada. You’re about ten years too young to wear that. Plus it isn’t ladylike,” Mrs. A said and picked out an orange lace dress with a satin collar.
“I told you, Mom, I don’t like looking like fruit.”
“Amada, you have two bags of jeans. You can’t wear those to Easter Mass.”
“Why not?”
“It’s disrespectful. Every single time we go shopping, it’s the same thing. Jeans, jeans, jeans. Can’t you buy just one dress?”
“All right. But no fruit colors.”
I watched them bicker like…like…well, like mother and daughter. I wanted to launch right into the conversation. I would’ve sided with Amada. Mrs. A may have impeccable taste, but it’s not suited for a teenager. I wanted to do this; I felt like a part of this family. I wanted people in the mall, the salesmen in the department store to know. I belonged.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel
Dear Monty, August 2, 1982
Sometimes in the middle of the night, just before I nod off, I’ll hear crying. Far off. Far away. And I wonder who it is. It’s my mom waving me off at the airport.
Sometimes I’ll look at Mrs. A and think about how beautiful she is. She makes a mean fried rice. A lot of garlic, just enough soy. Sometimes she’ll lay a sheet in the backyard. We’ll have a little picnic under a weeping willow. Amada is nice. Mr. A is nice. Mrs. A is nice. The food is good. The weather is just right. Everything seems to fit. I seem to fit.
Sometimes I’ll bite into my chicken and think this is how it’s supposed to be. Sitting around and just eating. Maybe Amada will say something like There’s A Guy At School Who Likes Me, But He’s Not My Type. Mrs. A will say something like, Amada, You Have Plenty Of Time To Think About Boys, Concentrate On School. Mr. A will say, Pass The Salt.