The dread that followed the announcement of a pandemic enveloped the country and in the days that came after, the atmosphere was consumed by an air so seemingly ominous I swear I could smell death. The usual bustle of daily life — the footsteps of those rushing to work, the clanking of metal crates being unloaded at a nearby market, the honking of the jeepneys passing along Capt. Sabi Street in the city where I work in — they now seemed to quiet down to the sound of my own breathing.
Astounded by how the virus was gripping the world at its core, I thought of the “subaudible.”
I first came across this word while reading Stephen King’s “The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon.” In the novel, a character named Larry McFarland explained what the subaudible is: sounds we constantly hear, in fact so constant that we often do not hear them at all; sounds that have virtually become inaudible simply because our ears have grown so accustomed to them. The whirring sound electric fans make, the creaking of floorboards, the low humming noises of a refrigerator at home, the muffled sounds of people on the streets — patterns of auditory stimuli we hear every day, obscured by our familiarity.
Usually, the subaudible goes unnoticed, but it comes through as a resounding realization during dismal moments such as this. This thought dove deeper into my mind, intensifying the gravity of the new pandemic which resonates a different reality for me. Every subaudible I know appears to represent something: the small-scale business owners, street vendors who already had trouble making ends meet, and the homeless people who scavenged the streets for food and rested their bodies on cold pavement. These are the ones constituting the faintest sound in our daily ravings of self-importance and superiority amid such crisis.
I’ve seen them often: mopping airport floors while I make my way through departure halls, cleaning the hallways leading to our office before 8 a.m. on weekdays, regularly wiping bathroom counters and stalls. These are the garbage collectors, janitors, deliverymen, farmers, and fisherfolk that I have probably come across while waiting for a ride home at the northbound terminal. These are the nameless, smiling faces that welcome us as we enter the malls and supermarkets. Indeed, we have been so accustomed to their existence on the sidelines that we have expunged them almost entirely from our narrative. Their services in making our lives easier have become so customary that we seldom talk about them — these persons are the subaudibles of our society.
When the clamor brought about by the pandemic set everything in motion, a much heavier dependency on our subaudibles came along with it. As the fight against a deadly virus continues, I am able to listen more intently to the actual cries we are too familiar with, but have often been left unheard. These are the cries of hunger, of despair, and of hopelessness.
Acknowledging the importance of every subaudible in our society seems to reverberate at a much higher volume now and leaves a much deeper impact with this crisis. But it shouldn’t need another pandemic to validate their voices.
As we head toward the end of the enhanced community quarantine, each waking hour seems to oddly radiate a sliver of hope — at least for me. The bustle of daily life will soon regain its vibrance — the footsteps of those rushing to work, the murmurs of people from different directions, the honking of jeepneys, the clanking of metal crates. Soon, everything will slowly return to normal. My only hope is that the lessons we have learned, at a very steep price at that, will not be forgotten.
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Rachel Lois Gella, 22, is from Silay City, Negros Occidental. She is a law student of the University of Saint La Salle, Bacolod City, Negros Occidental.