I was born with a crocodile in my palm. Not a blessing, but a curse. Elders called me a buayahon. In our secluded barrio in the South, people believed that I had a crocodile in my hand, nestled within my palm. This is the reason why I have no brothers or sisters, that I am an only child. Five of my siblings died. Mamang also miscarried twice. It was all because of Croc. Croc is the name I call my twin crocodile, who resides within my palm. She trespasses the literal, metaphorical, and symbolical meanings of each of us.
I spoke to her when I was alone. During times when no one was watching. Times when the people surrounding me couldn’t understand me. Whenever the world stopped making sense. Whenever I wrote, after I washed the dishes, or did the laundry. Whenever I was resting. Or whenever I was at a loss. Or whenever I walked home after class. I talked to Croc in my head and sometimes in my dreams. And she gave me her full attention. She didn’t judge or ridicule me. She was like a friend ready to listen. I told her everything that happened at school: how we had to draw the urinary system in Science, how I ate by myself in the back of the classroom, how my classmate Justin made fun of my huge eyes, and how Mark Vincent placed a worm in my bag in high school because he knew how terrified I was of worms when we had to till the soil of our school garden. After that, I heard that Justin fell sick and had to miss taking the summative test. Sometimes, I confided in Croc about my dreams. How exhilarated I was when people applauded me as I received a medal on stage. I was the best in Filipino in elementary! But most times, I blamed her: out of all the people in our barrio, why did she choose me? Was I a murderer? Why couldn’t Saigon, the shaman, kill her? Why had she resided in my hand until now? Why wouldn’t she leave me? Why was she still here? Why did we grow up together? This was how our conversations usually went.
“Croc, why are you still here?”
“Because I am almighty.”
“But Saigon already caught you.”
“Don’t you see? If I were to die, you would too. I am you and you are me,” she said.
In those rare instances, I could see Croc swimming in my palm. She swam without being in water. Even without the presence of water. I saw how long her tail was. Her jaws always wide open and ready for the kill. Her sharp fangs. Sometimes, she would show her webbed feet or tail. Or even her large eyes. Croc would take a nap after eating her fill or she would be alert when she was hungry. Sometimes, I couldn’t see her. Sometimes, I couldn’t recognize her. But she would always be with me. I could feel her every move and action. Even the beating of her heart. She would sometimes tell me about the ancient realm and how they were revered as kings of the waters. Croc was from a distant age. And right at the beginning, she was there. They were there.
How did I know that I had a crocodile in my hand?
I was born in August 1996 at high noon. Although it was raining, the rays of the sun were hot. Tikbalang were said to marry during a sun shower. A fiesta was happening in the sky. I was only seven months along when Mamang gave birth to me. I was exactly seven months and three weeks along, so Lola Pilag called me pito-pito. I almost died because of how early I was delivered into the world. I was as large as a bottle of soft drink, that was what Lola put hot water in to warm my tiny body. With her I slept. Mamang couldn’t afford an incubator or to give birth in the town hospital. It was in a bamboo bed in a small bamboo house that she gave birth to me with the help of Lola Leonora, a midwife who was said to belong to two sexes: otinan and bilatan, which gave her the powers to deliver children for the women in our town. Lola Leonora was a boon to Mamang those days as it was far too expensive to give birth in a hospital.
I was the first child of Mamang and Papang. If they knew that their eldest child had a “curse,” perhaps they would not have wanted me to exist or be born into this world. If I had been born last, it would have been a different matter. Or perhaps it was I who wouldn’t be born. Why was I the first to be born? This was the question I asked Croc, but she had no answer. I also posed this to God and the universe, but I received no reply. Croc always reminded me that everything had already been set. When I was born, she was already fated to be born to the world, not as a god but as a guiding spirit enshrined in my palm. She couldn’t escape from me and I couldn’t flee from her. We couldn’t be severed from each other. It was like a pact. A covenant in blood. Croc also added that she was more powerful than I could ever imagine. And I was more powerful than I thought. I was the granddaughter of a shaman, and my ancestors had entrusted me to her ancestors. It was difficult to understand, but many had died ever since I was born. It was then that I knew of Croc. That was the time when Mamang called me a “buayahon.” That was the night of Princess’ wake. Princess was the only one who survived for up to a month. I was a small child back then. Mamang was twenty-four. Papang was thirty-nine.
Mamang told me we were like Do-Re-Mi-Fa-So-La-Ti-Do when we were born. She became pregnant in quick succession. A boy came quickly after me. However, after she gave birth, she wept as the baby died immediately. I once heard Mamang say that my younger brother could have been a handsome man if he had survived. He had Papang’s nose. They even gave him a name, Angelo, because, according to Mamang, he had already become an angel in heaven. What a loss. If he lived, maybe Papang would send him to the military. That was because he was a frustrated soldier. After Angelo, according to the stories, came a girl, but like Angelo, she died without having been given a name. But she was a very healthy girl. They buried her in the backyard. Mamang couldn’t understand why she died. According to some of our neighbors, Mamang had been attacked by an aswang, so the third baby was born without blood. The next baby was buried next to my sister. Like what happened to the baby that came after Angelo, she died in the womb. Losing three babies was a serious matter. Someone advised Mamang to bring me to an albularyo to find out the truth. Mamang’s father, Lolo Tito, was an albularyo but could not cure a buayahon. So she and Papang decided to go to Tatay Karding. He was a large man who had a soft voice, refined in his movements and with a birthmark on his face. When he read my palm, the old man confirmed that I was actually a buayahon. Any baby born after me would not live. Not a single one. Not ever. Tatay Karding added that the crocodile was living in my hand. Her jaws were open, and she drained the life of my siblings when I touched them or approached them, whenever I stayed close to them. The crocodile in my hand grew up with me.
I don’t know how I processed her words during that time. Or how Mamang and Papang convinced themselves that I was who I was. Or how they had me understand my own condition. The elders of our clan accepted it. We needed a solution. The curse could be countered by a small cut. A cut on my palm. Making a cut was a ritual to kill the monster that was hiding in my palm. My palm had to be sliced in order to bleed. Once it bled, a black cloth must immediately cover it, and it must not touch water in the next three days. The ritual must be done on a new moon. Who dared not believe? Who dared not obey? If I were not a buayahon, how else could one explain that five of my siblings had perished? Perhaps people thought that the curse my hand possessed was a sufficient explanation. Perhaps it was a good enough reason for my parents to let me undergo the ritual. Those were the times when I spoke to Croc during my sleep. I was about to turn six years old. After the ritual, I suffered headaches. I almost had to be rushed to the hospital. Mamang told me it was a convulsion. I had high-grade fevers and suffered from sleeplessness. And it was during those days when I started to dream. I saw Croc in my mind. She was crying. Weeping. A wounded crocodile who could also heal herself. Croc squirmed during the ritual. She was like an injured monster. She wanted to fight back. In my dream, I saw Croc singing and dancing. She was uttering words I couldn’t comprehend. When I woke, the wound on my palm disappeared. I woke up seeing Croc in my palm. Her jaws were open. She was visible only to me.
However, because my parents wished that I had a sibling, they always tried to form another me. When I was five, Princess was born. People said that she was a beautiful child, like a princess. She had dreamy eyes and a pointed nose. Our relatives said that she was more beautiful than me. Mamang told me that I grew jealous and furious whenever people said that. But as far as I remember, it was not envy that I felt. I might have detested being compared to others. But perhaps this is what it’s like to have a sibling—you never escape being compared. Even though it isn’t necessary, because even twins who have the same faces could have different personalities and tastes. Even now, I force myself to imagine the faces of my siblings if they had lived. Who would look more like Mamang or Papang? Who would look just like me?
“At last, you’re not an only child anymore!” said the midwife who helped Mamang deliver, smiling at me.
“Good thing you have a sister now!” said our neighbors as they greeted us.
“Ayaw na tukba ha,” a relative said in jest. She told me not to “butcher” my fifth sibling.
Mamang and Papang were overflowing with joy. I was sure of it. Because Mamang feared she would lose Princess, she decided that I would stay at Lolo and Lola’s other house. They temporarily separated me from Princess. They set me apart because they needed to protect my sister from me. Because I brought the curse with me. I never knew how I faced this truth about my being. I was a dangerous child that needed to be set apart or hidden in order to not bring about death. During those days, I blindly followed what Tatay Karding and Mamang told me. It was for everyone’s good. I talked to Croc in my mind. I told her not to touch Princess because she was my sister and I loved her and she was loved by everyone.
“Mamang and Papang love Princess. She can’t go away,” I told Croc.
“How is she different from your other siblings? This is a sacrifice. We both know that you can never have a sibling. This is the rule of nature. These are the terms of our agreement,” Croc said as she dived deeper into the lines of my palm.
I wanted Croc to understand that I’d formed memories with Princess. That we’d stayed with her and wanted to stay with her still.
“I am the god of your ancestors, I cannot bow down to man,” Croc exclaimed threateningly.
As I heard this, I knew that I was no match against her. She was a spirit and a force that would live with me for as long as I lived. That was why I had to make do. I stopped myself from visiting Mamang and Papang’s house. I distanced myself from them. Princess could not vanish from our lives. But there were moments when I approached Princess. Maybe she wanted to see me. I was a sister excited to play with her. At times, I couldn’t help but kiss her small hands and feet whenever Mamang fell asleep. I secretly went inside her room to see her after playing in the fields. But I didn’t know then that I was slowly killing her, suffocating and draining her. The jealousy I felt toward my sister made it worse. It made the crocodile in my palm more fearless and vicious. But Princess survived for up to a month.
We took turns falling ill. My family moved heaven and earth because of it. If Princess was not having a low-grade fever, I was burning up with it. The albularyo said our spirits were fighting whenever we were beside each other. Heaven became hell. Papang did not have enough money to admit her to a hospital because he was a CAFGU in the camp of our town. During the time of Erap, Mamang said that Papang only earned 900 pesos a month. So we had to rely on Lolo and Lola for my milk, and getting a consultation at a hospital was not in our family’s vocabulary. However, one day, I woke up to Mamang and Panang rushing to take my sister to the hospital. But it was all too late. The doctor didn’t know the cause of Princess’s illness. She merely had a convulsion. Mamang and Papang took home my sister’s corpse.
Those days, I confess, I blamed Croc. But I blamed myself even more. I ignored her in my head. I avoided her in my dreams. I couldn’t understand how Princess could have died. We followed the ritual. We did all that we could. But Mamang said that it might have been because the moon was not entirely round, or I had inadvertently gotten my hands wet. Or perhaps I didn’t believe in the ritual, so it didn’t work. Only those who believed or who had faith in it were cured. What was I supposed to believe? It might have been better to believe that I was really cursed and there was no end to it. I should’ve believed that Croc and I were truly one. Forever.
Mamang’s world seemed to crumble before her. I witnessed my whole family’s grief when my sister died. She was very much alive in my mind and it killed me. Though the details were a bit hazy, the scene stuck to me: Lolo punched a hole through the wall of Lola’s house, uncles sobbed as they made the small coffin, cousins embraced each other, aunts made paper flowers, and there was a picture of Mamang wailing as she dressed Princess with my favorite dress. The blouse was pink with embroidered flowers and pink laces. I wore it during my baptism. Mamang told me that I named the dress “Wow.” That was the best dress for the most beautiful sister in the world.
I approached Mamang while she dressed Princess. I don’t exactly know how I felt at the time. Was I sad because Mamang gave away my favorite dress, or was it because I felt that it was all my fault? Or did I feel that nobody loved me? Thinking about it now, I might have been wondering if I should have died instead.
“This is all your fault!” Mamang cried as I approached her. This is what I remember. I had hoped to forget it, but I hadn’t. Memory is a painful thing. It echoes in my ears. That echo I often hear even now. I don’t know why, among all the cloudy details, those words remain the clearest to me. I don’t know if Croc understands. If she knows how pain feels or if she has ever felt regret.
Since then, as I grew up, I felt the harsh treatment of my cousins and playmates.
“Buayahon!”
“You killed your own sister!”
“You will never be one of us!”
When I was in elementary, other children in our town feared me because of the crocodile in my palm, even though they didn’t see it. Whenever I went near children in our town, their mothers would always jokingly say “puwera usog” as if I carried danger or meant harm. I couldn’t explain the feeling. There are wounds that aren’t meant to be brought up, to be investigated for why or where they hurt or how painful they are, so they aren’t treated, aren’t healed, so they don’t become scars.
But indeed, in between episodes of sadness, Croc was there. She was all I had left. She made me stronger, stronger than I was before. I hadn’t been seriously ill. I had always felt that I possessed an unusual power as strong as a crocodile. I had always felt that I had a keener sense of my surroundings. Nobody could harm me. I could not be afraid.
I was in high school when I told my classmates that I was a buayahon. First, I was afraid that they might make fun of me or laugh at me and call me crazy. But later, I learned that I wasn’t alone. My friend Aprille also confessed that she had a crocodile in her hand and that three of her siblings passed away because of this. She told me the fetuses were kept in tiny bottles, which they buried in their backyard. Like me, she was the eldest child. She also added that the midwife of her grandmother asked her who she wanted to save: her child or her granddaughter? While she was telling me, I tried to find within her eyes the intense sadness and fear of our condition. But I found nothing. Aprille had already accepted that she was a buayahon. She relented that this was how we were.
“Have you spoken with your crocodile?” I asked her one day during recess.
“Ha? Never! Tatay Karding always said that I shouldn’t go near Mamang when she was pregnant.”
Tatay Karding was also her faith healer. The same warnings and advice were given to her. The difference was that Aprille didn’t undergo the ritual. She wasn’t able to talk to her Croc. Until now, it eludes me if she really did have a crocodile in her palm.
Whenever Mamang told others about my condition, others would immediately concur.
“Yes, the daughter of my brother was like that too. A buayahon, so an only child,” said Mamang’s friend upon hearing the reason why I had no siblings. Then the friend added, “Your poor siblings. So you are a buayahon.”
I had felt that being an only child was a great obstacle. You felt it, and it was made known to you that you were alone. But I was not actually alone; Croc was with me.
My parents didn’t lose hope that they would have another child. After Tatay Karding died when I was in high school, I soon met Saigon, the albularyo. Saigon was a T’boli from the mountain range by Lake Sebu in Southern Cotabato. Tatay Karding wasn’t able to kill the crocodile in my palm. But Saigon’s power could accomplish it. I made a visit to Lolo Tito’s home. Mamang told me that if I wanted to have a sibling, we needed to visit another albularyo. I don’t know how I felt at the time. But I know that my heart grew anxious. What would happen if they took Croc away forever? Should I surrender her to them?
But I was her daughter, and so I conceded to Mamang’s pleas. They said that Saigon was good even though he was already an old man. Mamang told me that he could counter and resolve any kind of curse. He was the grandfather of our neighbor Anti Mimi, wife of Angkol Roni, who was Mamang’s cousin. They said that Saigon could expel the crocodile from my hand. He had already helped many people with his magical powers. My family gave it no second thought. They wanted the curse wrapped around me removed or broken. That was why Saigon immediately came to the lowlands to visit us. I had just come home from school, I put down my bag and quickly went to Lola’s house. They were waiting for me to start the ritual.
Saigon asked me to sit beside him. Many were watching us. As if they were watching a show or a movie, as if at a fair. Many of them were elders. Mamang and Papang were there, so were Lolo and Lola and Saigon’s men. I grew nervous. Saigon held my hand and looked at my palm. His palms were rough and calloused. His nails sharp and grimy. He looked at my palms as though he was reading my fortune. He pinched his nail against mine and pressed on it. I screamed in pain. But soon I cried because I didn’t like what they were subjecting me to. What were they doing to me? My nail bled. After that, Saigon blurted out words I couldn’t understand.
“Do you see the crocodile in your palm? It’s there, fully grown,” he said to me in his own language. One of his men translated it for me. But I saw nothing except the lines on my palm. He couldn’t see Croc. All the people there nodded. I didn’t know if they were seeing what I failed to see or if they believed only because Saigon saw it.
A few moments later, he pierced my finger. I howled. A few more moments later, he seemed to be pulling something invisible to the eye. Afterward, he showed us what he was holding. It was a crocodile. He had removed it from my palm. He joked that he would transfer the crocodile to Aunt Mimi’s palm. But the crocodile didn’t allow it. Everyone laughed.
After the ritual, none followed. I spoke to Croc in my mind. The next day, when I woke up, I looked at my palm; she was still there but she was no longer grinning. Croc was crying. I kissed my palm and placed it on my face. I was used to her being here, breathing beside me.
I didn’t know if Mamang and Papang attempted to have another baby. If they performed the ritual between couples after the ritual the albularyo did to me. I was already in college in General Santos City when Mamang got pregnant again. I received the news from Mamang that she was already three months pregnant. She was very much delighted. I couldn’t let go of my cellphone. I read her text many times while I was in class in Math 3N. I just couldn’t believe it. Perhaps the ritual had worked! Papang told me to behave and not to give Mamang a headache since her pregnancy was complicated. He only wanted to tell me don’t come home yet. So I told him I wouldn’t go home yet. Croc and I wouldn’t go home yet. I distanced myself from her. I asked her if she went to a doctor for her checkups. Papang said yes. Mamang was already four months pregnant when I went back home to visit. But it was perhaps true that I was cursed and perhaps Croc was right. Everything was determined. Mamang miscarried a few days after my arrival. I sobbed in my room. I knew that none of my siblings would survive. I accepted Croc into my life. Without her, I myself wouldn’t have been formed. I would also die.
For the next couple of years, I diligently pursued my studies. I wanted to fill what was lacking in Mamang and Papang. I wanted them to feel that even though I was the only one who survived, I lived a useful life, a life of meaning. After four years, I finally graduated cum laude from my university and became a teacher at a school in the city. But after two years, Mamang and Papang separated. They hadn’t slept together for a long time. I don’t know how everything changed. Maybe it was because of these hands that were busy reaching for my dreams. Maybe it was because of my hands that there were lapses and absences that could never be filled. Or maybe it was only because I forgot to visit my family. One day, I arrived home from work, and Papang had already left, taking his clothes with him. Or maybe they’d had a problem for a long time already. It was worse and far more terrifying than the crocodile in my palm.
As I remember all of this, I can’t help but rub my belly. The universe has its ways of revealing the mysteries of its existence. A few years have passed and I no longer live in that small town. I tried to flee from all the memories that hurt me—the death of my siblings, the separation of my parents, the loss of a life in a familiar world. I left the Department of Education and searched for opportunities elsewhere. The universe heard my prayers. I was given the chance to work at the peak of Mount Mailing in Los Baños, Laguna, as a creative writing teacher before I transferred to a University in Ermita, Manila. All this time, I was with Croc in the city. Crocodiles can live in the city, it seems. We get along sometimes. Sometimes like cats and dogs. She is the only one who knows my history. What happened to me on May 18, 2021, or what is my favorite food at the canteen in front of my apartment, or who among my students I have trouble understanding. Croc and I get along well, except when I have a boyfriend. My relationships with men I love always end up in separation. Croc’s jealousy flared when I got to know Darwin. He was my third boyfriend. He was a writer who I met at an author’s talk at a university on Katipunan Avenue. His child is the one I am carrying now. But before I could tell him that I was pregnant, Darwin died from a heart attack. He died one day in his apartment. Like the others I loved, he left. John died from a motorcycle accident in Crossing in Calamba, Laguna, when he was hit by a ten-wheeler truck. Chris died from an illness. I was left alone once again. Besides Croc, who I know is always within me.
Before my belly swells, I decide to go home to General Santos City. I can’t give birth to my child in Manila. It isn’t the best place for her. Work is waiting for me in Mindanao, and that is enough. I leave everything in Luzon. Everything seems painful. But I can no longer hide my belly. I want to talk to Croc. I want her to know I am pregnant. But I know that she knows. We are one. She’s been silent the past few days. For a long time, we didn’t speak to each other. Croc and the other crocodiles of this world are greedy and selfish. They are envious and territorial. What is mine is hers and what is hers is also hers. She might drain the soul of my child like what she did with my siblings. Croc is merciless. The all-powerful being doesn’t know how to love.
When I was still a child, Tatay Kardin and Saigon said that I couldn’t bear children like Mamang or Aprille. Or if I should get pregnant, the child might die or be an only child as she would drain the lives of those who come after. This was one of their hypotheses and speculations, visions of the future, like a prophet’s words or an oracle’s testimony. Before, I did not believe them. But when I feel Croc in my palm or in my heart, when I see her with my own two eyes—she seems to be immortal, alive, always with me. There is nothing she cannot do. She and I are one.
Each day, my womb grows heavier and heavier. My heart also grows heavy. What if Croc drains the soul of my child as well? What if she follows the fate of my siblings or Darwin? What if I’m indeed cursed to be alone for as long as I live? But how could I kill Croc, who resides in my palm? I’ve gone through many cutting rituals. How many albularyos have we consulted? How many lovers have passed? How many have died for me to live? How could I kill an immortal crocodile? How could I kill Croc without killing myself, too?
“This is all your fault!”
“Buayahon!”
“Your poor siblings! You’re a buayahon!”
The voices. They echo in my ears. Repeatedly. They keep coming back. They come without warning. Soft like a whisper at first, then growing louder. I let out a sigh before going into the kitchen. I leave the autofiction I was writing. Later, I can hear the dog outside barking. When I look out, I see Mamang enter the small gate. I’m surprised but I open the door without hesitation. She has brought fruit. I ask her to sit down. For the first time, Mamang is here.
“Take good care of yourself,” she says as she caresses my belly. Her eyes wander around my apartment. The scattered papers, the computer that is on, the rice that is cooking, the unfolded clothes.
“Don’t you want to give birth in the barrio?” she asks, looking into my eyes.
I nod. Then I smile. I think to myself that it is expensive to give birth in the city but the midwives in the barrio can no longer deliver babies.
In an unexpected moment, another greeting comes by the gate. When I go out, I see Papang. He has also brought fruit. I place his hand on my forehead. We enter together.
“You came far,” I say.
Papang smiles at me. He looks at me from head to toe. He says he can’t stay for long because his very young girlfriend is waiting for him. She is too shy to come in. I know that he isn’t getting back together with Mamang. After all that has happened, we have to let each other recover from our own wounds. What is more important is that they are still friends. Or two people who know each other.
“When are you due?” Papang inquires.
“On Wednesday,” I reply.
I am due on Wednesday. That is the expected day. I want to give birth at home or by myself.
“I’ll accompany you to the hospital,” says Mamang.
“What name will you call her?” asks Papang.
“Princess,” I answer.
We are wrapped in silence.
Afterward, I feel Croc moving inside me, but Princess’s kick is more powerful in my belly. Mamang strokes it. Wednesday is a full moon. On Wednesday, I will give birth to Princess.
