they took so much of us it was like throwing berries into a basket how many filipinos buried in the same colonial casket adorned with a cross, gold, like the imperviousness of ivory and the gradual decay of bronze walls, leaving bare the core of brown self-ness; so gone, so gone it was taken away and made equated to hell i see paintings of the devil why is he portrayed as blackened why is he portrayed like my ancestors my history is sepia depicting threadbare savages barefeet, bareminded, bare civilizations of paganism and animalistic virtues my history is the white man, the savior in layers of stuffy clothing and swathed in the scent of spanish uncleanliness and the acridity of their god's damnation intermingled with the rosewater vapors of their god's promise of civilizacion my history is either pre-hispanic or post-colonialism it is never without either of these labels my history is shame, embarrassment, the need to throw away this history into the garbage heaps of manila's grayest slums.