Catherine Hernandez

A poignant multi-voiced novel about the troubled yet noble lives of urban warriors living in low-income neighborhoods.

Scarborough

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"Isn't it a job to do saintly things while you're alive?" "No one pays for saintliness, anak"

My tears were finally unleashed in the dramatic fashion of Filipino mourning, like lacerating a boil so the infection could heal. I remember as a young child watching, for the first time, the novena being recited in honour of my uncle's death. The repetition, the sorrow expressed in every rosary bead, the pouty-faced Mother Marys at every turn of the page in the novena prayer book were enough to make one wail. And that was the point. Just short of sCreaming at the deceased, we were, as a community, telling Tito Ferdie to leave us. Leave us behind, look forward into Gods embrace, and walk. Walk far away from us. Even though in our hearts, we wanted the person to be alive, we knew that if we didn’t encourage the spirit to pass into the after life, it would linger, and it would worry about us.

So I cried. I cried until my cries turned to wails. The louder, the better. Go, Daddy. Go and walk. To the other side where you will feel better. It felt right to treat his parting like a deaths It was the death of everything I knew.

Hakim, still on his knees, crept forward. His wet mittens grabbed bold of my hood, and he kissed me. His cheeks were cold. His nose was snotty. But it was like a movie kiss, with his head turning side to side, his tongue twisting here and there. I was motionless, burning inside, not wanting it to end. Then he pulled away from me suddenly and returned to digging. I was too busy hearing music in my head to wonder at the hard- ness under my snow pants. I almost died in the arms of the boy I love, I thought to myself. We almost died doing what was dangerous, forbidden. I didn't need to be a saint any longer. I was a secret-keeper from now on.

“I know, I know. I hear everything youre saying, and that is damn hard" "Hey, look at me. You are going to take this one breath at a time. Soon you'll be lying down, wondering how you'll get through the nght, but you will. You will. And tomorrow is a new day."

"The secret is to let the string go into the wind. You gotta feel with your hands when the moment is right, and let go."

This was my son. Beyond sainthood. Beyond Jesus. Beyond survival. Beyond lipstick. Beyond singing in the mirror. This was my son. My beautiful child.

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