May 11, 2007
Dear Jessie
I was making turkey sandwiches early Thursday morning in semi-lethargic state when an image from more than 20 years ago flashed back in my mind. While spreading mayo on bread, I remembered Jessie, a dark-skinned woman who lived in the same fishing village where I grew up. Jessie’s long, wavy hair fell past her shoulders and she struck me as someone who seemed to sway a certain way when she walked by our house. I’ve no recollection of her face now but I don’t think I ever saw her smile. Like most kids in those days, my mind was preoccupied with fitting in my brother’s band of boys on the block to get invited to their games and so Jessie was an inconspicuous image in the neighborhood. Not until I saw her stark naked one afternoon, bound to a duldol (cotton) tree.
In small villages, it only takes one gossipmonger for news to spread like wildfire. That is exactly what happened that day. When word broke out that Jessie had “gone wild,” neighbors rushed to her house to catch all the action. I am not sure if I went there on my own or I’d been dragged to the scene by someone in the family, but I became part of the mob that had gathered outside their lowly home. That was the first time I saw a fully naked grown person. I must have been eight years old when this happened.
Jessie had gone crazy, was how neighbors summed up her bizarre behavior. I don’t think the men in the crowd were interested in the details; Jessie’s state of undress was a welcome distraction from their tuba drinking session that dreary afternoon. I learned that Jessie was married. She had kids. Her hapless husband had enlisted the help of neighbors when she tore off her clothes and ran around exposed. There are some gaps in the information I collected on what happened next. In the end, an incoherent Jessie was tied to the trunk of the tree.
That day, Jessie earned a moniker that will stick for sometime. When she got a little better, kids followed her around and called out, “Jessie bo-ang! Jessie bo-ang!” Crazy Jessie. Grown folks didn’t spare her either. To me, Jessie was a curiosity. I never got to the bottom of that moment of her insanity but began to notice her more and more. In my infantile mind, I wondered if the duldol tree had partly cured her. I wondered if that tree was specifically picked out for superstitious reasons.
Jessie eventually blended in again with the routine of rural community life. She sold vegetables in the market. We moved to the city a few years later and my mother and I chanced upon her one day at the market. They engaged in small talk, updating each other on the whereabouts of people from the old town. Jessie seemed well and once in a while offered a tentative smile. I stood there trying to reconcile the woman burdened by hard labor in the city and the Jessie who had an episode of lunacy. That was the last time I saw her.
Why I thought of Jessie that morning while preparing the husband’s lunch escapes me. My memory of her however brought back recollections of that small village, such as the times my brother and I snuck out of the house during siesta time to go to the beach. We knew we would get a spanking at the end of the day but we felt riding the waves was worth it. Or the times we stood on the shoreline at sunset, waiting for the fishermen to unload their catch. I remember the days when exchanging meals with neighbors was the norm. I remember summers spent selling home-made doughnuts. I remember bolos being brandished by men in drunken stupor, and people rushing out in all eagerness to see a live sparring match. Those were the days when we would strap a mad person to a tree. (Photo from Slideshow World)
Posted by fleur at May 11, 2007 12:52 PM