the philippines.

I'm not exactly sure what to write. I can't really explain my experience in The Philippines in words. I'm not even sure I fully understand what happened.
The emotions I felt and the poverty I saw, it all seems so unreal when I think about them.
Almost every house we saw was made out of some sort of scrap material. Be it cardboard, tin roofing, uneven wood or whatever. There was trash every where and the heady smell of diesel that permeated the city filled my nose and burned my eyes. On the little island, Puerto Galera, people walked around with bare feet and high on the mountain cows slept on the side of the road.
Everyone and everything was dirty. Although the poverty was terrible, I couldn't find it in my heart to feel sorry for these people. In fact I was quite envious. There was a certain peace and happiness that I had never before seen. I saw little children playing with a deflated basketball and wished that I was one of them.

The hot december sun beat down against my back as I walked up and down the beach mindlessly looking for pretty rocks that I would forget to take home. While I looked for these rocks I thought of how across the vast sea there was a magical world of flashing lights and loud noises. This was the world I had come from... America.
By American standards The Philippines is a third world country. But when I looked at it and compared it to my world I saw that we are the starving ones. The entire American collective is hungry for peace. Not the kind of peace where no bad things ever happen, the peace I'm talking about is peace of mind.
When I really think about it I think I would trade all of my modern conveniences for just a little bit of that peace.

»elizabeth«

I am in a room.  A room with wood paneled walls and multi-colored carpet.  I hear the sound of my keys clunking as I type, mixed with the "Sounds of Silence" album by Simon and Garfunkel coming from my iPod.  To my left I see three rusty filing cabinets, an unorganized desk and a bookshelf.  Behind me there is a door and another bookshelf. To my right is the bathroom that leads to the guest bedroom and another bookshelf and another door, this one leading to a closet. In front of me are two computers, a dresser with a retired copy machine on top and a window. A window that's blinds have been closed and curtains drawn for as long as I can recall.  The very brown decor is littered with racing memorabilia.  Pictures of race cars, pictures of people who drive race cars, coffee cups, hats, clocks, posters, flags, books and toys, all racing themed.

   I am in my grandfather's office.

I've known this place for all my life and nothing has really changed in the last sixteen years. I could come in here with my eyes closed and point to the picture of Dale Earnhardt, or the paper-weight of a man under a tree with a bird about to relieve it's self on him that reads, "Go ahead, everyone else does."

I know this room like the back of my hand, yet last night I found something I've never seen.  It started off as curiosity. I was curious to see who my record collection belonged to. Now, this statement deserves a bit of back story. 

Five years ago my great-grandmother died. My elder sister inherited the fine silverware and I inherited a stack of old dusty records.  I personally believe I got the better end of the stick.  But I didn't know it at the time. Fast-forward a year or two to mother's day. As a gift my mother got a brand new record player/cassette player/CD player/radio.  What I was most exited about was the record player. Every now and then I play one of my records while folding clothes in my mother's room. But one day I decided to listed to as many of my records as I could. Best thing I've ever done.  I was introduced to many fantastic rock n' roll artists like Chad and Jeremy, The Status Quo, The Dave Clark Five, Paul Revere and the Raiders, among others.  As I listened I question popped into my mind; "Who listened to these?"  Was my great-grandmother secretly a rock chick? Did my mother and uncles listen to them as children? Or did they belong to someone else?  Who else?  The only person I could think of was my great uncle, Donald Brantley.  Don died June 13, 1965 while he was still a teenager.

When I started to think of it, the only picture I'd ever seen of Don was of my grandparents' wedding.  Nobody ever talked about him and there are no pictures hanging in any body's homes.  This boy, my flesh and my blood was unknown to me.  I had no idea what kind of things he liked what kind of person he was, most importantly what kind of music he liked.  In a house where stories are told 24/7, not one is uttered about him.

So fast-forward to August 29th, 2007. While waiting for my grandfather to finish checking his email so I could get on myspace, I started poking about the office. One of the bookshelves had photo albums, so I decided to take a look.  I opened the time worn pages to find dozens and dozens of pictures of... cars. What a surprise! Pictures of race cars, race tracks, race car drivers, people who worked on race cars, pictures of racing trophies, any kind of racing picture you can think of.

After sifting through tons of racing pictures I found what I was looking for, the Holy Grail of my search. The Tucker High School yearbook, 1966. I knew that Don had died in 1965, but I was sure that he was the only person this yearbook could have belonged to. I opened it and flipped through the pages trying to find something about him.  I saw tons of great hair, a picture captioned "We can work it out..." after the Beatles song, and a whole lot of sports photos. But no Don. I was about to give up hope and close the book when I turned the page to see the "In Remembrance" section. Against the backdrop of celestial clouds was the Tennyson poem, "Crossing The Bar." Opposite there were four pictures of four young boys. I suddenly stopped breathing.  The first picture was of a large eared boy with perfectly placed hair and my great-grandmother's eyes.  Underneath was the caption, "Donald Brantley. September 20, 1946 - June 13, 1965."

I didn't think I'd be as shocked as I was to find it.  The clunky noise of my grandfather typing behind me seemed for a moment deafeningly loud. I shut the book and put it back in it's place.  I searched more but only found a few more pictures of Don when he was a child.

My search really didn't answer any questions. Most of my records are dated after June 13, 1965 so I'm still plagued with the question of who my records belonged to. But I'm glad that I searched.  If I hadn't no one might have ever opened that yearbook again and Don would still be a taboo subject to talk about. I'm reminded of the poem that floats among those clouds. The finality and hope which rest in it's words.

"Sunset and evening star,
  And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
  When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
  Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
  Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
 And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
  When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
  The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
  When I have crossed the bar."