Genealogies

By Madelyn Calventas

Click. She freefalls. Her face is upturned towards the sky, the clear blue sky, her long rope of black hair streaming past her face as she falls ever faster, the tarnished cross on the rosary around her neck coming free from her billowing blouse to float above her eyes.

She wakes up, heart pounding. It is only a dream.

Hail Mary full of grace . . . the lord is with thee . . .

Click. The red light spreads across the pale gray-blue of the sky like a watercolor stain, and in the communal house, made out of bamboo and palm fronds, Elena sleeps flat on her back, dreaming, ever dreaming. Her left hand rests on top of her protruding belly, all tension and opposing forces. She comes awake with a gasp, and her mother, kneeling on the banig—a woven mat of banana leaves—looks over. She clutches the crucifix of the rosary around her neck, waiting for her heart to slow down. “I dreamed. We will have a visitor.” Her mother nods briefly, and goes to tell the matriarch of the family. Elena’s belly and breasts are heavy, and she cannot bring herself to get up just yet, so she clutches at her cross, eyes closed, listening to the soft murmur of her aunt’s prayers from across the room.

Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus .

Click. Maria Isadora Velora-Monteras lowers the Polaroid camera, waiting for the subsequent square of a picture to take form. She is following a narrow dirt path in the underbrush. Around her the foliage is jewel-toned greens, layers and layers growing eagerly towards the sun. Ahead, a straight-backed cousin sent to meet her at the bus depot, leads the way. They are strangers; it is Mari’s first time here but her cousin, whose name she has already forgotten, does not seem too impressed.

For the thousandth time, she asks herself why she is here. She wants to say it is out of academic curiosity, coming all the way from California to research matriarchal societies for her thesis. She wants to say that the fact that her mother is descended from a family that is matrilineal is just coincidence, but it’s untrue. What Mari cannot bring herself to admit, is that she’s hoping for some answers and perhaps, a miracle.

Her mother had left this place some thirty years ago, in search for something more. To Mari’s knowledge, she has never come back. Her mother cut off all ties from her own mother in crossing the Pacific Ocean, and now it seems, Mari is to follow in her mother’s footsteps. She too, is estranged from her mother. They have not spoken in a year, and the only way Mari knows that her mother is okay, is through phone conversations with her father.

So she is here now. She decides that she likes the burble of the stream in the distance, like someone haphazardly flicking through the radio stations, and then there are the cicadas. Mari does not consider herself a very fanciful person, but it seems that once she starts on that dirt path towards her mother’s birthplace, the cicadas’ symphony rises in crescendo.

Click. After they cross the stream at its narrowest point, they climb a rough set of stairs into a huge lot. The family is gathered to greet her. She looks at her extended family, seeing parts of herself in this multitude of faces. They smile wordlessly, they know this woman-child from across the sea can speak only broken Filipino, having rejected her mother tongue for the language of foreigners. The crowd parts, and her grandmother Ynez, a woman with papery skin and spidery wrinkles, hobbles forward on bare feet. There is no hesitance as she envelops Mari in an embrace that smells of coconut oil and tobacco. The old lady inhales as if she is trying to breathe in Mari’s essence, and she flashes strong teeth despite the tobacco stains. Finally, here is a language that Mari can understand.

Click. Mari eases the latest Polaroid into the weave of the palm-frond walls. It has been a dizzying two weeks since her arrival. Her grandmother has installed her in her mother’s old room. She has spent her days taking pictures, taking notes on post-its and attempting to interview her many relatives. The last endeavor is difficult, they are shy around her. The only ones who seem willing to talk to her directly are Elena and Ynez. She stares at the collage of faces and images that cover the wall of her small room. Mari has not begun to ask about her mother yet, but if there are any answers to be found, she would have to talk to those two. She sleeps and she dreams.

Click. The rains have come, and Mari photographs a trail of red fire ants under the shelter of a mango tree. She yawns, and hunches deeper into her plastic poncho.

“You do not get any sleep do you?” the question is asked softly in Filipino.

Mari looks over to see her cousin Elena watching her with deep solemn eyes, her belly dominates her frame, but she stands straight bearing the burden regally.

Mari shrugs and answers in a mixture of Filipino and English, “I think it’s jet lag.”

“Jet lag? What is that? Never mind, I know why you cannot sleep at night. You dream.”

Again the shrug, “Everyone dreams.”

“The dreams of Velora women are not that of everyone else.”

“The famous Velora women,” Mari says slowly, “My mother always said that. Like it meant something special. I may be a Velora, but don’t expect me to understand what that means.”

“Perhaps, if you tried to really see us instead of hiding behind that machine of yours, maybe you’d find the answers you are looking for,” Elena’s voice is cool. “Maybe then you’d understand your dreams and your family.”

“Elena wait,” Mari calls, but it is only the drip-drop of rain that answers.

Click. Her grandmother summons her the next afternoon. She is surprised when her grandmother meets her near the falls at the edge of the family property. Elena is also there, but she does not meet Mari’s eyes. The matriarch gets directly to the point, “Elena tells me you dream.”

“I apologize for—” Mari begins, leaning forward, but her grandmother silences her with a raised hand.

“That is not needed. Know only that Elena is only trying to help you. This place may not be much, it is, after all, only plants, earth, sky and ocean, but your blood flows from this place, your roots are here. You must always remember that.”

“Yes, I know.” Mari whispers.

“You are so much like your mother. Always yearning for a pair of wings, when it is roots that serve better in the face of a storm,” Ynez, pulls something out of the pockets of her housedress, and presses it into the palm of Mari’s hand. “Elena tells me you are doing some sort of project for school and you would like to know more about how your mother was, before she left. I think this is good. Perhaps in telling the story of your family you can begin to understand yourself.”

Mari can only nod, surprised by the mention of her mother.

Ynez’s hands tighten around her walking stick. “You must understand that your mother chose a different path from what I saw for her. Velora women have always dreamed but she dreamt a different dream. It was a dream I could not understand, and in the end, that dream took her away from me.”

Mari remains silent. She is remembering the last explosive argument she had with her mother about switching from pre-med to anthropology.

“For generations Velora women have served as healers in this area, despite the Spaniards, the Japanese, and the Americans. It has been our charge, our responsibility, and it has been passed on. Your mother has the gift and so do you. Times change, but there has always been a Velora woman to serve as healer. For your mother to reject all that . . . it was unforgivable.”

Ynez sighs, and beckons Elena to help her back to the house, leaving Mari to contemplate the falls.

Mari opens her hand. It is a rosary. Made of blue sea-glass, strung together by twine, it is simple except for the tarnished silver cross at the very end.

Holy Mary, mother of God…

Click. The lemon-slice moon hangs low on the horizon while Mari steals an illicit cigarette on the porch. She smiles grimly to herself, the half-moon matches the shadows under her eyes. She hates to admit it, but her cousin is right. She does dream.

“Dreams again?” Elena appears out of nowhere, causing Mari to drop her cigarette, a glowing red tip disappearing into the night.

“Shit!” Mari curses in English, but quickly reverts back to Filipino, “You scared me. It’s not only the dreams, I was just thinking about my mother. Elena, can I ask you a question? Why won’t grandmother forgive my mother? I mean she is a healer, after a fashion.”

“I think the more important question is, why can’t you?” Elena lowers her bulk slowly onto a bench.

“My mother is—complicated,” Mari says slowly. Leanor Velora-Monteras is strong willed and a perfectionist. These characteristics serve her well, as one of the top neurosurgeons in the Bay Area, but did little to endear her to her free-spirited daughter. Mari loves her mother, but years of resentment become a force of nature that can only end in an explosive argument. Now there is only silence. It seems that emotional baggage is inherited, Mari muses.

“There is a lot that you don’t say, I think,” Elena says gently. “You ask all these questions, but you have not said much about her.”

“I think I need time, to figure things out. I’m trying to understand her, this family, this place.”

“Family is important. When your mother left, it broke Grandma Ynez’s heart. The rejection of tradition, the willingness to leave, Ynez saw it as betrayal.” Elena pats Mari’s hand. “You don’t know how touched she is that you are here.”

“So you are to become a healer to take my mother’s place,” Mari says, changing the subject.

“Your mother was the only one in her generation to have the gift. I have it, and so do you. The dreams are there to mark us,” Elena places loving hands on her belly, “I cannot become a healer until after the baby is born.”

“Why not?”

“Every healer must go through the falls, it is a rite of passage that cannot be done in my state.”

“What do you have to do?” Mari is curious now.

“It is different for everyone. They say the answer is in the dreams. When you dream, what is it you dream about?”

“ I dream of clouds, and seeing things from up high.”

Elena gives her a queer look, “You are so very much like your mother, all wings, no roots.” She holds up the sea-glass rosary. “You left this in the bathroom.”

“I don’t go to church, you know that right? I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“Just because you don’t believe does not mean it is not real.” She gently places it over Mari’s tousled head of hair. “This was meant for your mother, but she left without taking it. She never went through the falls, but since you are here, you should have it.”

“Thank you.” Mari tucks the rosary into her t-shirt, feeling the cool sea-glass on her neck,

They are silent for a while, listening to the breeze visiting with the leaves.

“Elena? Do you think it is possible to have both roots and wings?”

“Perhaps,” Elena grimaces, and she clutches her cross, “Mari . . . I think my water just broke.”

“Ohmigod,” Mari stands up, “Ohmigod, okay, okay . . . breathe Mari. Breathe.”

“What are saying?” Elena demands crossly, “This is no time to start gabbling in your English.”
“Sorry,” Mari says weakly, and she helps Elena to her feet.

Pray for us sinners . . .

Click. Elena screams tear at the humid air, and Mari is jolted awake. She has fallen asleep at the dining table, where most of the family is gathered to keep vigil. She wipes the drool from her mouth, ignoring the snickers of her male cousins who are playing a card game next to her. In front of the alter, below the benevolent gaze of the Virgin Mary, some of the older women are praying urgently. Mari reaches up to touch her own rosary and glances at her watch. It is nearly nine, sixteen hours since Elena had gone into labor.

Her grandmother does not join the prayers. She is supervising the birth, but she beckons to Mari.

“I need your help. We have to take Elena to the falls, it will help the birthing. Her child is female, she must be welcomed into the world properly.”

“Should I go start the truck?”

“No. We need another healer for the birthing ritual,” Ynez murmurs. ?

“Isn’t Elena already one?” Mari says.

“She hasn’t gone through the falls yet.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” Yet, Mari remembers her dream, and everything is clicking into place.

“You have the gift, you must go through the falls. I know that I ask a lot of you. You came to learn from us, and in turn we taught you what it means to be a Velora. As a Velora this is your charge.”

Heart beating, Mari tucks her rosary into her blouse. “I’ll do it.“

Now . . .

Click. This is her dream, the feel of spray in her face, mist swirling around her and the land unfolding below her. The roar of the falls drowns all sound and thought. Her family has built a sort of bridge over the falls, two bamboo poles lashed together between two trees, a length of rope used for balance. She can understand why her mother could not go through the falls. The falls ask too much. They ask that she believe. To believe in her responsibility as a Velora and as a healer. To believe that this family was forever rooted to this place and would continue as always. To believe in miracles.

Mari takes a deep breath. She is a Velora. She steadies herself, ready to push herself off. Balks. She turns around. Believe. Arms spread wide, she lets herself fall, into the waiting air.

and at the hour of our death…

Click. Water roars in her ears. She flounders. Struggling to the surface. Conscious. Conscious. Strong arms pull at her, she struggles, struggles, and breathes. Gasping for air. Two of her cousins look down at her, grinning with relief. The older one says, “Good, you’re alive.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” Mari says, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

Amen.

Click. Across the Pacific, in a sterile but tasteful office, Dr. Leanor Velora-Monteras opens a plain brown envelope.

Inside, she finds one Polaroid. Mari smiles widely into the camera, cradling a red-faced baby and flanked by the women of the Velora clan. They are all soaking wet, and somehow, they are all surrounded by a nimbus of light.