Eman squints at his laptop screen. Bright red background. Yellow font. Size 11. A picture of Jose Rizal squeezed into the corner. Eman rubs his eyes and squints again. It’s no use. The entire slide just melts into a bright red mess.
“Can someone read the paragraph?” chirps the young Araling Panlipunan teacher.
He looks at the rest of his third grade classmates in their own little GMeet boxes, their faces tainted with the bright red light from their screens.
“I’ll read, miss!” a student interjects through the call.
Ma’am gives her cue, “Go ahead, Gelo.”
Gelo clears his throat and reads, “Jose Rizal is known as the national hero of the Philippines—”
Clang! Eman jolts from his seat, his knee hits his desk. “Aray!”
Good thing he was on mute. Eman turns his head to the kitchen only a few feet away from him. He sees his mom pick up a kaldero from the floor. Eman shakes his head and turns back to the screen.
Silence. He looks at Gelo, seeing the most spectacular frozen face, half-lidded with his mouth curled in an almost alien way.
“Gelo?” Ma’am Denise calls. No reply comes. “It seems that he has connectivity issues. I will continue reading—”
“Ma’am, time na po,” the class secretary says.
Eman sighs in relief. After a chorus of farewells, he shuts his laptop off and moves to the dining area. His mom places bowls of rice and adobo in the center of the table before taking her seat. Eman follows suit. After a sign of the cross and a “Bless us, O Lord”, the two dig in. The boy switches on their TV, landing on a news channel. It looks like President Duterte is giving a speech again.
“Wala tayong national hero,” the president announces from a podium.
Eman is confused. “I thought it was Rizal.”
The President continues, “I raised Lapulapu to the level and dignity of a true warrior. And he was Tausug.”
Eman’s eyes light up. Being a warrior seemed more menacing than being a writer. Forget Rizal. Lapulapu actually did something cool.
“He killed the first invader of our country,” the President asserts. “I am very proud of him.”
After lunch, Eman rushes to the bedroom and takes his lolo’s old baston. He goes back to the kitchen and grabs a clean dish rag to wrap around his head. He puts a face mask on and makes his way out the door.
“Where are you going?” his mom asks, rinsing their plates at the sink.
“To kill invaders!”
The boy walks around the small neighborhood, prodding at chickens and azkals when he can. A few blocks on, he bumps into a masked Carlo, a friend from school.
“Luh, Eman,” he laughs. Eman pokes Carlo’s belly with his arnis.
“I am Lapulapu!” he calls out. “The greatest Tausug warrior who killed Magellan!”
Carlo’s brows furrow. “Is your brain working? Lapulapu did not kill Magellan. His men did.”
“Sinungaling.”
Carlo shakes his head. “Tsk! Looks like someone wasn’t listening during AP.”
Eman frowns. “Well, Duterte said so, and that Lapulapu’s Tausug.”
His friend explodes into laughter and places a hand on Eman’s shoulder. “Wrong again!”
“Ha? Then what is he?”
Carlo crosses his arms and raises his head proudly. “Igorot!”
