ABACADA

The beauty of Tagalog is the importance of syllables. Our alphabet is ah-ba-ca-da instead of A-B-C-D. Our sentences are percussion, where one repeated syllable can express a question and an answer.

My mother once told me of a funny exchange between her and a colleague at work as they waited for an elevator together, a white American watching on.

“Bababa ba?” asks my mother. Does this go down?

“Bababa,” her colleague responds. It goes down.

The white American gapes at them, unable to fathom how a single change in pace of a syllable constructs an entire conversation.

But even the way different syllables are woven together in Tagalog is complex. There are a plethora of matched syllables that cannot be translated into English. They are unique to me, my culture, my language, and my experiences.

I am twelve years old, giggling in my mother’s embrace as the two of us study the ruby red carnation lying on her nightstand.

“My crush gave it to me for Valentine’s Day,” I whisper to her. Butterflies flit about in my stomach and my cheeks ache from a million-watt smile.

My mother rolls her eyes, but there is a small smile playing at her lips. “Ano ba? Isang bulaklak lang at kinikilig ka na.” What’s the matter with you? One flower and you’re so kilig.

Kilig is a noun that cannot be directly translated. But it is the swooping, fluttering sensation in your stomach, one that you get when your crush gives you a flower on Valentine’s Day. When you watch a particularly romantic scene in a teleserye.

I am fifteen years old, my father seething at a snappy retort I made to him in his car. His knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel.

“Gigil na gigil ako sayo,” is all he can say to me. I am so gigil towards you.

A tense silence fills the car until we arrive home.

Gigil is also a noun that cannot be directly translated. Though it can have many meanings, in this circumstance it is an emotion expressing anger beyond words or reason. It is a feeling you get when your child talks back to you. When a person frustrates or irritates you past your threshold. (And yet it also means the urge to hurt someone because of how cute they are, like babies - our language is funny like that.)

I am every age. Every time I ask my parents “why?,” I receive this response.

“Why can’t you tell me what this email is for?”

“Basta.”

“How come I can’t tell my friends about this?”

“Basta.”

“Why is Dad/Mom acting out like this?”

“Basta.”

Basta is quite difficult to translate. It is more of an exclamation than a word with true meaning. Perhaps it is closest to whatever or don’t worry about it, but not quite. It is often dismissive, urging the questioner not to ask any more questions because the asker does not want to tell you. It is a Filipino parent’s favorite phrase when their anak is being particularly bothersome.

Kilig, gigil, basta. Ki-lig. Gi-gil. Bas-ta. All these syllables are strong. They are snares and drum kicks, and they form the skeleton of a rhythmic language that can neither be defined nor literally translated into the English language.