Advanced Grammar and Translation

The Overpass

Jan Igor T. Galinato

I spent three years of my college years in a small room in the third floor of a boarding house
fronting an overpass adjacent to MSU-IIT.

(photo taken from IIT overpass FB group. No copyright infringement intended.)

I don’t know which one is older, the boarding house or the overpass; both look archaic.

I took the overpass almost every school day.

 Before it was just bare, with just gray cement, stainless metal railing, and a green-coloured
steel roof; now, it’s just the same; except that, attached to the railing, there’s shallow rectangular
boxes housing moribund plants.

(photo taken from IIT overpass FB group. No copyright infringement intended.)

Each day, in the overpass, there’s hustle and bustle. Students pass through the overpass like stampeding
cattles. Rhyme pun intended.

During the day, the overpass serves a most practical function: it’s so people can cross the
street without having to risk their lives and limbs every time. It’s a towering and stable figure that
offers safety to those who would take the minor inconvenience of climbing its stairs and possibly
shed a few sweat in the process. So it baffles me how some people would rather face the barrel and
risk dismemberment by jaywalking just two (2) feet from the overpass. They say when it’s your time,
it’s your time; but please, there is, for me, no more pathetic, anti-climactic, and stupid way to die
than being accidentally run over by a passenger jeepney in Iligan City. The knees usually fracture
first, followed by the femur, ribs, clavicle, and humerus. Then, all that politics, knowledge,
metaphors in the brain gets caved in by the shrapnel of the broken skull.

(photo taken from IIT overpass FB group. No copyright infringement intended.)

 (photo taken from Google pics of pedestrian hit whilst jaywalking. No copyright
infringement intended)

Hence, using the overpass makes perfect sense: it’s better to shed a few calories, than shed a
few brain matter.

But at night, ah at night, the overpass assumes a more metaphorical function; at night, some
truly amazing things happen in the overpass; sometimes transcendentally vivacious, sometimes
downright weird.
 I’m not a stalker. But late at night, there’s less vehicles running down the overpass, so there’s
a bit of holiness in the air for a change, something esoteric even. One can’t help but just admire the
pristine calm.

Case in point, it’s mostly couples in the overpass. Mostly they stand side by side in the rails,
sometimes they sit in the steps of the stairs. And when there’s a bright moonlight, I submit that the
overpass is one of the best places in Iligan to bask in it. Truly magnificent sight, couples in giggles
and whispers invading one another’s personal spaces and sharing streptococcus bacteria on their
skin, amidst the backdrop of the gargantuan moon. It’s one of those times that I understand why
Guy de Maupassant in the 18th Century found the moon to be holy, and Bruno Mars in the 21st
Century wound up “talking to the moon.”

(pic of Guy de Maupassant and the moon)

(pic of Bruno Mars talking to the moon)( pic of couple on rails)

(source of photo: Iligan City online community FB Page. No copyright infringement
intended. #FairUseRuleRA8293)

(source of photo: Gail Tomarong Photography FB Page. No copyright infringement

intended. #FairUseRuleRA8293)
 (source of photos: IIT Overpass FB Page. No copyright infringement intended.
#FairUseRuleRA8293)

But sometimes, police had to be called in, as two homeless persons, did something more
than poetic on that overpass. Their bodies were intertwined and contorted in a most malevolent
fashion. It’s a sight that I, and the rest of the boarders, wish we haven’t seen; but it a sight that will
surely haunt our dreams forever.

(insert photo of Rose’s hand on car of titanic)

I’m sure that overpass has been a witness to a lot of romantic segues. No doubt many
relations blossomed, many “i-do’s”, “lage”, “pag sure oi”, and “samoka oi” were exchanged in that
overpass. I’ve witnessed a few of the “cheeziest” moments ever. There’s nothing more "cheezy”
than two people promising each other impossible things.

And I’m sure that overpass has also seen the worst romantic endings ever; some with just a
few whispers; usually followed by muffled sobs. Others, sad to say, ended in bloodshed. Some years
ago, a young college student told her soon to be ex-girlfriend he would jump from the overpass head
first if she goes on and leave him. The beautiful lady called the bluff and told him to go jump. Our
man, a man of his word, did just that. The next day, when the sun shone on everything, my nursing
buddies and I were able to confirm that brain matter really aren’t green in color, but grey and
pinkish. Well, it’s actually grey and white. But blood makes white pinkish.

(picture of brain matter splattered on the floor)

But indubitably, there’s more joy that happened on that overpass than sadness. I remember
street urchins sliding down the rails with unrestrained glee. They looked to joyful, doing such risky
games. It makes me remember the pinkish brain matter.

(pictures of street urchins)

(Repeat brain matter)

Now, times have changed. Kids aren’t playing on the overpass anymore; they are selling this
sweet yellow pastry called “cheese sticks”. They carry about eight to ten of those on a plastic platter,
and sell them to those who pass by the overpass with very catchy lines like “maka bright ni, ser”
(this can make you smart, sir), “maka pa gwapa ni, mam” (this can make you beautiful, mam), “maka
slim ni mam (this can make you slim, mam).”

But the best of all, I’ll never forget this, was this scrawny little kid, about eight to ten years
old (he could be younger, it’s hard to tell), wearing tattered clothes, selling those yellow cheese
sticks.

(picture of street urchin selling cheese sticks)

Unlike most of his mates, he didn’t bum rush everyone he meets to sell his cheese sticks.
Unlike most of his mates, he carried only two or three cheese sticks on his plastic platter. He stood
there in the far corner of the overpass, with curious and surprisingly wide almond eyes that seemed
to pierce your soul. He wouldn’t approach everyone who walked by. He’d pick someone who
walked with a pace slower than others; people who, may be to his mind, had something heavy in
their minds or chest.

(picture of kid observing someone walking slowly)

Then, in a gentle and casual manner, he’d approach his person of interest, and without a hint
of irony whatsoever, he’d proffer his yellow pastry this calm, almost monotonous voice: “kini ser ai,
makapa wala sa sakit (This sir, can wipe away the pain).” I thought, while restraining my laughter:
“Wagas. Samoka oi (Bravo. Little Pest).”

So I bought two. I didn’t eat the candies though. I bought them for the joy, but not for the
Streptococcus.

(picture of hands with cheese sticks. streptococcus)