Stripped and Ecstatic

Hey!

2005-11-08T11:43:00.000+08:00

I would like to let you know that I miss all of my UPCYM friends. Take care always!

I WOULD NOT QUIT

2005-11-03T10:37:00.000+08:00

One day I decided to quit...

I quit my job, my relationship, my spirituality...

I wanted to quit my life.

I went to the woods to have one last talk with God.

"God", I said. "Can you give me one good reason not to quit?"

His answer surprised me...

"Look around", He said. "Do you see the fern and the bamboo?"

"Yes", I replied."

When I planted the fern and the bamboo seeds, I took very good care of them.

I gave them light. I gave them water.

The fern quickly grew from the earth.Its brilliant green covered the floor.

Yet nothing came from the bamboo seed.

But I did not quit on the bamboo.

In the second year the Fern grew more vibrant and plentiful.

And again, nothingcame from the bamboo seed.

But I did not quit on the bamboo. He said.

"In the third year, there was still nothing from the bamboo seed.

But I would not quit.

In the fourth year, again, there was nothing from the bamboo seed.

"I wouldnot quit." He said.

"Then in the fifth year a tiny sprout emerged from the earth.

Compared to the fern it was seemingly small and insignificant...

But just 6 months later the bamboo rose to over 100 feet tall.

It had spent the five years growing roots.

Those roots made it strong and gave it what it needed to survive.

"I would not give any of my creations a challenge it could not handle."He said to me.

"Did you know, my child, that all this time you have beenstruggling, you have actually been growing roots"

"I would not quit on the bamboo. I will never quit on you."

"Don't compare yourself to others." He said.

"The bamboo had a differentpurpose than the fern.

Yet, they both make the forest beautiful."

"Your time will come", God said to me.

"You will rise high!"

"How high should I rise?" I asked.

"How high will the bamboo rise?" He asked in return.

"As high as it can?" I questioned.

"Yes." He said, "Give me glory by rising as high as you can."

I left the forest and bring back this story.

Father

2005-11-02T10:11:00.000+08:00

I had no father and didn’t know I had one until I was ten.

It was two weeks after my appendectomy when a family acquaintance came with an old man in tow. The teary-eyed gray-haired, medium built man was introduced as my Papa. I was introduced as his “xerox-copy”. He didn’t hug me as if it was the end of the world like it happens in movies. He choked back a tear and said that he expects all his children to kiss him on the cheek. I got up from the hospital bed and kissed the air near his cheek.

Papa was said to have died of heart attack, lung cancer, and when my aunties, uncles and our neighbors were in a good mood, they would tell me that he died because he drowned himself by drinking too much soup. When people, especially my classmates, asked me where my Papa was I would readily lie that he was in the States, when I really had no idea where he was, much less what he looked like or what his name was.

Mama met Papa when she was a student assistant of the Silliman University Alumni Office where Papa was the Alumni Director. He also served as the legal officer of Sulpicio Lines. They believed themselves to be in love, but that posed as one big problem: Samuel Aseniero Malayang was already married and had five children.

Desire or love proved to be much stronger than commitment to one’s marriage, so their affair continued until he got Mama pregnant. They tried to hide it from the public and from his family by traveling to Mindanao—him pretending that it was part of the demands of his position and her merely disappearing.

When she was almost nine months pregnant, they were forced to go back to Dumaguete where her obstetrician was. On September 28, 1982, she gave birth to an 11-pound baby on the seashore of Bacong, Negros Oriental, a thirty-minute ride from Dumaguete City. There on the tranquil beach, Papa, Mama and I sought refuge. But our family couldn’t hide for long. Mama’s family learned where she was, and they set out to get her and her baby. It was time for her to go back to her family, and it was time for Papa to return to his wife and their five children.

Mama never talked about him nor showed me his photo. It seemed that both of them moved on with their lives—Papa with his family and Mama busying herself with her work in Manila. They seemed to be ignoring their little child who needed them, who needed to know the truth. Out of her goodwill, Mama left me in the care of my lolo, my aunt and a yaya. Papa was non-existent.

Then he came.

After a little wooing, Mama decided to marry Papa. I was in Grade 5 then, and it proved to be the happiest year of all. It was my first time to experience the thrill of having both parents around and doing most of the things together—eating and praying, going out for picnics, buying groceries and celebrating birthdays. Papa saw to fetching me everyday from school then we would always linger on the Boulevard, eating siopao from Chin Long and just talking about what my half-siblings are like, my favorite author, the books I’ve read. There was a time he showed me the pictures of his five children—four boys and one girl—and told me how much he wishes for us to meet one day and accept each other as brothers and sisters. He told me about the family of each and the things he did in the US—where he also served as a church worker. Papa talked about his childhood days, being the eldest of twelve and being so poor that he supported himself throughout college and how he worked as a helper of a missionary couple working as professors in Silliman University. Even though he was pressed for time because he had to cook, clean the house, feed their pigs, and was short financially because he was also supporting his younger siblings, Papa finished law school. He recounted the time he was reviewing the bar exam and lived on balut, and how sick he was during the exams. He seemed very pleased with all the things he went through and I, too, was both pleased and in awe. It was at that time that my Papa became much more than a father to me, he became my idol.

The year had to end and so did our precious moments together on the Boulevard. Both Papa and Mama decided to transfer to Dipolog City, Zamboanga del Norte—a four-hour boat-ride from Dumaguete—because he missed farming and was bent on managing the farm he had purchased. I was, again, left alone in Dumagute City with my lolo, aunt and her children so I could finish elementary in Holy Cross. Grade six passed by uneventfully, except for one event that made Papa so proud of me—the declamation contest. Even with a storm brewing, they made it a point to go to Dumaguete City and watch me compete. I was so happy I made it to the number one spot. The bad news was, that event marked the beginning of pressures to win and achieve more just to make them smile.

I graduated from elementary and it was time for me to leave the place I was most familiar with and the people whom I shared most of my life with. I had to leave Dumaguete City and transfer to Dipolog where they were. They enrolled me in Andres Bonifacio College and, for four years, my life revolved around academics and extra-curricular activities both in and out of school. People expected me to excel because I happen to be the daughter of Samuel Aseniero Malayang. I was third honors, a placer in the Mathematics Olympiad, I won another declamation contest in school, I also became columnist of Diwang Malaya, our school’s Filipino newspaper and a reporter of The Blue Quill, the English organ among others during freshman year alone. Being a transferee was a difficult thing because I had to make friends, but, it proved to be more difficult to keep my friends and have a barkada not because they didn’t like me nor I them, but Papa prohibited me from spending time to bond with them.

Papa imposed a 5 p.m. curfew rule, no TV, no Saturday gimmicks, no sitting beside guys, no boyfriends, no telebabad. To make it worst, because I happen to be a girl and girls would eventually become housewives and mothers, he made it a point not get a helper so I would learn how to cook, wash clothes, clean the house, and iron clothes. I was Cinderella except that no fairytale took place. I just realized that all these necessary training, as he called them, were, I thought at that time, the end of my life-long dream of having a loving dad whose attention is on me and who can’t help but shower me with so much love. As tears flow every time my father points out a petty mistake and succeeded in making me feel like an ignoramous, I would keep on regretting the moment he came back into my life.

My pains did not end when freshman year ended. As years progressed, pain upon pain was heaped on me. Yes, there were happy moments, but these were never with Papa.

I was a sophomore when I became a pocketbook addict. I pretended to be studying when in fact I was just reading Ludlum, Sheldon, Grisham and the like. The result was I didn’t make it to first place as was my standing during the first two periods. I ended up falling flat fifth place. Mama and Papa decided that I needed a good spanking—this will, as both of them said, teach me to prioritize my studies. As a result, it became difficult for me to walk straight and sit without supporting myself with my arms. I tried so hard to conceal what they did to me, but it became so evident that something terrible happened. Unluckily, Sunday came and I was not in good condition yet. I was wearing an ankle-length short-sleeved dress, as dictated by Papa, and was ordered to sit in the third row from the front where we usually sat. The worship service was about to start and people were coming in. I said my hellos and limped towards the front, all the while supporting myself with my hand, palm down on the wall. My walk seemed to last forever, and by the time they all stood signfying the start of the worship service, I was still limping slowly towards the chair. As soon as I arrived on the third row, the liturgist requested that we be seated. They seated themselves rather quickly, but I, on the other hand, took such a long time because I had to check my seating position as to the means of sitting without inflicting more pain on my bruised bottom.

This was not the most memorable event during that year, however. One Saturday that same school year, Papa ordered me to cook fried chicken for lunch because Mama was not feeling well. Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to cook, and, at that time, I had no idea how to cook fried chicken except for the preparation part—washing, rolling chicken parts on flavored breading, putting oil on the pan and the dropping of coated chicken part. But I did not know how to tell a cooked from an uncooked chicken. The result? The chicken was burnt on the outside, while the inside was oozing with blood. To say that dad was mad is an understatement; he was so furious that he yelled at me saying I was a no-good, irresponsible person. He accomplished in making me feel that I was so much lower than a pest. Mama was so mad at Papa that they fought. Mama kept on yelling how unfair Papa was and how inconsiderate of me, and that perhaps Papa never treated me as his. I kept on hearing mama telling him akong anak… (my child). Objects were flying everywhere, and bodies were slammed on walls and floor. After a while, Papa called me and asked me to choose who I wanted to be with. In my mind, though I chose to run to my room without saying anything, I would definitely choose my mother.

My father proved to be an irresistible man. After lovely flowers were given and scoops of ice cream were served, mom and dad were all lovey-dovey again. And I was both happy and miserable at the same time.

Then came my junior year in high school. As if to slap Papa, I landed second without much effort and with much pocket-book reading. I started to watch television especially Tagalog movies, which he hated, when they were resting or sleeping and when they go out with friends from church. I became an expert in stealing moments with our television set, making sure that they won’t find out. This meant that I had to sit by the window instead of sitting on my favorite chair near the TV to better hear the sound of our approaching vehicle. I brought friends from school and from our church in our house and made sure that we hung-out inside my room, a thing he was against believing rooms to be private and for family members only.

I accomplished much for Papa even when I couldn’t help but hate him. I became managing editor and won in both division and regional press conferences, I won the extemporaneous contest against college students, awarded emcee of the year in our city, storyteller of the year, debater of the year and won in five quiz bees. All these accomplishments meant nothing to him, and he made sure I get the message loud and clear by disregarding medal after medal that I proudly handed to him. It was always the same treatment: blank stare, nod and, a lot of times, “so?”. I longed for him to say “good job” and, so, I tried to do more and accomplish more.

I became the editor-in-chief, winning editorial and feature writing competitions in press conferences, I won the battle of the brains, was awarded impromptu speaker and extemporaneous speaker of the year again, storyteller of the year again, debater of the year again, won in six quiz bees among others.

Still no pat on the back until the Rotary International’s annual competition. This is a competition where forty honor students belonging to different schools compete for various positions in the local govenrment. Forty of us were questioned and were expected to elaborate and defend our answers by ten rotararians—lawyers, doctors, judges, politicians, businessmen and bankers—about issues in the society, politics, laws and entertainment. The youth city mayor—the highest seat all vied for—would serve the city for one year. He or she is expected to help in forming ordinances with students who won as councilors, would be paraded in schools and business establishments and, of course, would be speaking to the public at the start of his or her career.

The pat on the back I was waiting for came. Papa was so proud that I won the top seat in the local government that he forgot about his independent study policy—he actually made my speech. And he trained me, a most unfortunate thing. He would make me go through the three-page speech over and over again, not letting me rest until he was satisfied with my delivery. The big day came and Papa was there, beaming as I delivered my speech like a real pro. He even bought two copies of each local newspaper that had me as the banner story and sent them to our relatives in Dumaguete City.

Then it was time for me to go to college and be separated from them again. Papa was to be heeded, thus I ended up studying in Silliman University. Studying in this institution brought more pressures because it’s a school where the Malayangs excelled—my half-siblings graduated there, taught there and, not only that, my uncles and aunties graduated there with much accomplishments. It has always been exaggerated that the Malayangs brought honor and recognition to the school not only in the Philippines but also abroad because my uncle, Papa’s youngest sibling who graduated from the Silliman University Divinity School, became the first Filipino to become the first Secretary-General of United Church of Christ USA, and he was awarded more than twice as Outstanding Sillimanian of the Year. Papa’s eldest became the undersecretary of the Department of Energy and Natural Resources and Dean of the College of Environmental Science in UP Los Baños. He became member of the Board of Trustees of the University and was awarded both Ford and Rockefeller Foundation grants for MS and Ph.D. Most of my aunties and uncles occupied high positions in the University. It is undeniable that the Malayangs are popular in Silliman University, and it was because of this that I struggled to make a name for myself; not wanting to merely share and bask in the limelight the older Malayangs have created.

I took the exam and got 99 percent, thus scholarship programs came pouring in. I was accepted in the most prestigious scholarship grant in the school, one which does not require you to pay a single peso for your schooling, I became a campus ambassador, a writer in the Weekly Sillimanian, played the part of lead roles in two plays, became a member of the debate congress, rotary actions club, the student government ,etcetera. On top of these, I maintained an excellent academic standing. Papa’s smile was immeasurable.

In the middle of the year, I went to Dipolog City to celebrate his birthday. It was the only time we really talked. Though it lasted for less than an hour, it was the only time Papa made me feel important. The talk was not so much to be bragged about, but it meant so much to me because that was the only time he listened as I talked about my dreams and the things I would love to reach. Not once did he belittle my dreams of becoming both an international human rights lawyer and a Supreme Court justice. In fact, Papa, the man who disregarded my accomplishments for so long, the man who made me feel so insignificant, encouraged me to be what I dreamed I would be. His smile was an assurance that he believed in me.

The world was suddenly bright until, when I almost thought it could last forever, it ended.

Doctors found out that he had prostate cancer. He was in and out of the hospital and all Mama ever did was take care of him. Both of them had to share the burden of transferring from one hospital to another, from one city to another—Dumaguete, Cebu and back again—looking for specialists that would help papa. Before the second semester of my freshman year ended, I endured sleepless nights as I took care of Papa when he was admitted in the Silliman University Medical Center. It was painful to see him with a catheter and a urine bag taped on his leg.

It was at this time that the annual honors’ day was held. His doctor was adamant on not letting him attend the honors’ day for fear of aggaravating his condition, but Papa proved to be a worthy opponent. In the end, bound in his automatic wheelchair, Papa came to see me received an honors’ certificate and the Freshman of the Year award. Papa was all smiles as he bragged about my abilities to the university officials who attend to him during the recognition day. But this did not matter anymore. I was smiling not because he was obviously very proud of me, but because he was there, cheering me on.

Little did I know that this would be the last time I would see him smile.

December was supposed to be the time of laughter, of much happiness and excitement for the future, but when I arrived at the Philippine General Hospital, none of these came to being. Even the sight of the Imelda Marcos Wing where Papa was placed did not do anything to improve my state. I feared opening the door of him room, not wanting to see him. When I finally entered, all I could do was stare at the man who was my father but looked nothing like him. Gone was the smile, the chubby body, the authoritative presence; he was replaced by a man with a shock of white hair, blank, unfeeling eyes, sagging skin. I refused to believe that this mass of bones covered by a thin layer of pale skin was the papa who showed so much authority in his stature that one could not help but fear him. I felt my heart sank. I ran to the bathroom and let the sorrow and anguish flow. All the while I hear the television set blaring with news and the loud side comments of Papa. I had to smile; at least, even in his commenting and strong opinions, I recognize the man I came to love and fear.

That night, while Mama was sleeping, I went to sit beside him. I studied him in the semi-lit room, as if memorizing every detail of his face. I could not contain it anymore, I hugged him, wetting his neck and his face with my tears. I couldn’t see the reaction of his face, but as he caressed my back I knew Papa was also crushed.

“I love you” was all I could say to him; nothing else could be made to come out of my mouth however much I tried. It was as if by showering him with love I might be able to redeem the time I spent on hating him whose only fault was not knowing how to express his love to his children.

**************************

2005-11-02T10:07:00.000+08:00

I would trade every good thing that happened to me to let my mom live for another thirty or forty years.

Personal

2005-02-17T23:30:00.000+08:00

The key word is personal.

In the genre called Creative Non-Fiction, subjectivity is highly encouraged. It is, in fact, the key element that sets it apart from mere journalism. And, I believe, Nick Joaquin totally believed in this when he wrote Journalism Versus Literature. Don't get me wrong here. When I say "personal", it doesn't imply pure ranting and raving, such things are trash and not worth any of your time. It is "personal" in the sense that apart from researching using the qualitative method, you insert your own experiances of the issue at hand. Meaning, you just don't tell the readers about the issue, but you also show the readers what you were thinking, what you were feeling, what you were smelling, what you were hearing during the time you experienced the thing you wanted to write about.

Among, the sub-genres of Creative Non-fiction, social commentary is what I love the most. Not only because it involves both intensive and extensive researches, but you get to weigh your opinions of the matter and, of course, you get to find out about the truth behind it and not just get a glimse of a half truth. Most importantly, in social commentary, you don't talk much about you. Not like the other sub-genre, the memoir.

Last Tuesday, my professor pointedly ask me why I avoid talking about myself. He said that I am too much enamored by social commentary and he thinks that it is a problem, a hindrance, in fact, in developing the craft of writing a creative non-fiction. Thus, I lamely attempted to tell them - it happened in the class, by the way - about my life starting from the time I didn't know I had a father to the death of my father.

My professor applauded. He loved my story and told the class that my story is the "winner". He even asked me to let him publish it. I was in a dilemma, and still am. I know I have a very interesting past, a horrid, a painful one, in fact. The truth is, I am still not reconciled with the pains of the past that whenever I write about it I couldn't stop the tears.

Only a few know about the things kept hidden in my closet. You see, I am not safeguarding myself from the opinions of the public rather I am protecting my mother and the memory of my Dad.

Creative Non-fiction, my favorite genre. I guess I'm caught up with it now. Can I not stick with social commentary? For now, nope. In the future, yes. Who knows? I might excel in the sub-genre I'm dreading right now - the memoir.

For the sake of completion, I will write about a part and parcel of my past. When I could finally manage getting pass the tears, I promise to have it publish whether here or elsewhere, whether under my real name or under a pseudonym.

So, Godspeed to me.

BLANK

2005-02-14T23:43:00.000+08:00

Can't write. Can't think. Oh well.

TOMORROW I WILL WRITE.

A totally BIG project

2005-02-03T23:43:00.000+08:00

God's grace is really humbling and uplifting.

Last week, Sir Paolo gave me an emphatic NO to my thesis proposal. It was about deconstruction of heroes through character sketch and profiling. I hit rock bottom. I was speechless for a while, trying hard to swallow the reality that what I thought as the best project was rejected. To add to that, he lectured me on not knowing my subject - my love, creative non-fiction. It was devastating.

Giving up is not in my vocabulary. I then prayed real hard about it, asking God to just grant me strength to endure the trial, to embrace it and allow it to teach a fast-becoming sluggard like me. You see, I love reading. But because my course is literature, everything I read is required. And I hated it. I really don't like it when my passion, my way of de-stressing would become a requirement. The idea of it relaxing me is long gone. It actually stresses me out.

But because reading is what I love to do, it did not take long for me to get back on track. Yesterday, I did a lot of researching. I borrowed creative non-fiction books and actually read all of the four books plus the one that I own well before midnight. This morning, after having been backed with so many facts, I knew what I wanted to do.

I decided to show the types of social commentary in creative non-fiction. I definitely love profiling and it is handled very well by Kerima Polotan and Sylvia Mayuga in the essays entitled Love Never Gives Up and The Rise and Fall of Pasay. Mayuga also used the letter type. In her book entitled A Spy in My Own Country, she wrote Letter from Ermita wherein the place Ermita is supposedly writing to two persons about the condition of the Philippines. Conrado de Quiros and Randy David pretty much handle satire very well what with their broad knowledge of current issues and their implications. All of these I presented to Sir Paolo just this afternoon complete with information and my own analyses of every article. He, finally, said yes to my proposal.

The thing is, he wanted me to trace the origin of each and compare each article with another, of course, both being in the same sub-genre. It is quite a big project, lots of reading and writing to do excluding the analyses of each essay. I would be examining at least a hundred essays and at most a hundred and fifty. Notwithstanding the fact that I would have to read the history of each sub-genre.

I believe that God is with me when I started and He will finish this with a bang. I am definitely excited. Imagine what God can do!

Time

2005-02-02T23:30:00.000+08:00

I need time.

I have two papers due tomorrow.

I have tons of reading to do, four books, no, make that five.

I have to do some research on the net.

I have to analyze a sociological something.

But, ironically, here I am ranting about not having enough time while writing on my blog. I wanted to write something sensible today... About time and the essence of time plus the implication of time seemingly wasted. Because I have no time, I can't brood on the topic of time. All I know is that time really does fly so fast when you seem to have your hands full and time runs so miserably slow when you want something to get over and done with. The best examples would be horrible, sad memories, forgetting pains, forgetting someone, taking an exam you have no idea how to answer, the anxiety of waiting for graduation day....

I wonder. Could I write a story on time? Could I somehow write an essay on time? A personal narrative perhaps? I believe so. But I would need time for that.

So much for long entry. Had I been given much time, I would have written an entry worth your time.

I hear the clock ticking, saying, shouting: It's time for you to begin writing your paper.

Until next time then. Ciao!

All for the sake of making money

2005-01-31T23:00:00.000+08:00

“Mabuti na eto kaysa sa wala kaming makain.”

Such was the claim of Mang Nanding, a pot-bellied man I know whose cream-colored shirt with holes on the sides seems to be his uniform. His shirt is up midway, showing his belly button and his faded denim short pants is really pants shortened to fit him as he is too short and his legs too stubby. He has a supposedly white “good morning” face towel wrapped around his balding head like a Rambo thing, and his face, as I see it, is full of mirth.

Everytime I visit my tita in Balagtas, which is once a week, I get to have a glimpse of this seemingly toothless man whose voice needs no megaphone shouting “O, SM, SM! Miss, Divisoria?”. He would be the one eager enough to approach prospective commuters and ask them their destination. Actually, ask is such a mild word. The truth is, he is the one who shouts the destination of either bus or van right at your very face then points you to where it is as if you are too short-sighted not to see it. I couldn’t remember exactly the number of times I glared at him, but I could still remember elbowing him. And that was the time he blocked my way just to shout his all-too familiar line not even mindful that the bus he was shouting about was already getting away. Not being a sprinter, I was left seething; waiting for the next bus to arrive.

It was at that time when my Creative Writing professor assigned us to do a character sketch on ordinary people that caught our attention. The pot-bellied man I elbowed, I thought, should be it. I thought of it as a brilliant idea because I would get to interview him. After all, if I could not tell him that he is quite bastos without sounding like a brat then I could actually imply it in my questions. I was not supposed to visit my tita that same week, but I did, not because I miss my tita, but because of the walking pot-bellied megaphone.

I found out that he is shy after all. He couldn’t make out the fact that I chose him to be my subject that he simply could not stand still and could not even look at me straight in the eye. I thought, at first, that maybe he was just embarrassed over what he did to me a few days back or he simply could not stand being out of job for even ten minutes, that he was itching to call out the next commuter. In my haste and fear of not being accommodated, I offered to pay him for his temporary rest saying that I would pay him the exact amount he receives as a barker for one Public Utility Vehicle. That was a bit clumsy of me. The good thing was, the amount he normally receives is, at most, twenty pesos.

Mang Nanding a.k.a Andrew Gonzal is married to one and lover of many. As to why he told me that, I don’t know. He has three legitimate children, all in elementary, and one illegitimate new-born child. This forty year-old man is a high-school drop-out and has been a “barker” since sixteen years old. He claimed that he had no choice but be a “barker” because no one would accept him, not even his mother who was a fish vendor. At least, he said, that he has a regular job and could actually support not one but two families with his income of at most Php 300.00 a day. I asked him if he is satisfied with the pay, he smiled broadly and said “oo naman,eh yung iba nga walang trabaho. Istambay lang”. The thing is, I could really see how proud he is with his odd job for when I asked him about the life of a “barker”, he plainly told me that it is “masaya” and does not demand time. He does not need to log in or to file vacation leaves, sick leaves or anything like that or even feign sickness when he feels too lazy to go to work. He added that “pa-upo upo ka lang habang naghihintay ng pasahero tsaka di ka talaga mawawalang ng pera hanggat may mga sasakyan”.

I had this pre-conceived notion that “barkers” are self-employed. I thought that anyone could actually be “barkers” just by shouting at commuters and ushering them to the PUV. I was proven wrong. Mang Nanding told me that for you to be hired as a “barker”, you should apply to the association of jeepneys, fx, vans, and bus drivers. He added that “mas okay talaga kung may kaibigan kang mga draybers para siguradong pasok.” You see, I found out that many are actually lining up for this job. After all, you don’t need a college or high school or even elementary diploma, an experience, a beautiful face, a certificate of good moral character or anything else needed when you apply as a sales person, kargador, driver or to any low-paying, unstable jobs.

Then came the one million dollar question. I summoned all my courage and asked him why he had to shout at commuters’ faces. He merely laughed. I did not like the answer so I asked him again, making sure that he would get it this time. Mang Nanding admitted that commuters are so snob that the only way they would be noticed it to shout at them. Of course, he confided, that it is also for show. If the drivers see how much effort they have to pull off, then they would not entertain the thought of not having them around anymore. I smiled at this, but I could not help but suggest that he should make it a point to tell his fellow “barkers” to do their show in a respectable manner. I calmly pointed out that their shouting is actually irritating. To get the message across I asked him: what if a man gets so irritated he would punch you right then and there? What would you do? What if the drivers would not want you anymore for fear of violence? He nodded rather enthusiastically that I had to smile.

Mang Nanding’s job does not come as a surprise to us Filipinos for anywhere you go in the Philippines, you would see people involved in amazing odd jobs. Much more odd than the odd jobs of the Americans like walking dogs to parks, babysitting among others. Their odd jobs, I believe, would pale in comparison to our odd jobs. Have you heard of the women hired as guinea pigs by deodorant companies? These women actually endure the job of having their armpits applied with all sorts of chemicals. Of course, the same goes with the guinea pigs of shampoos, facial products, skin products, etcetera. The list does not stop there. Who could overlook the watch-car boys and girls, the pulot boys and girls, the extras in movies and advertisements among others? The thing is, these odd jobs I mentioned are somewhat needed, though unheard of, but, depending on context, needed nonetheless.

An American author once commented that pinoys have a knack for mediocrity while observing a konduktor in one of Cebu City’s jeepneys. A konduktor’s job is to collect the fare while hanging onto the rear part of the jeep, bills neatly entwined on their fingers forming a fan. It is supposedly his job to act as a “barker”, but poverty says that he should designate it to others who also need a small amount of money. When you analyze the situation, it is so true that a PUV does not need a konductor or a “barker”. Drivers could do the collecting and the cardboard signs in front of the PUV could serve as “barkers”. But in the Philippine context this could never be. With the economy down, the VAT raised to 12%, the number of people homeless and jobless, more odd jobs would come pouring in. What the American did not know is that in the pinoy’s eyes, a konduktor is somewhat a legitimate job, and could pass off as not being too noticeably odd. I wondered why he overlooked the “barkers” in his commentary. In my opinion, a “barker” is unnecessary, I strongly believe that they even contribute to the congestion of both vehicle and human traffic. You would see them stopping people, hailing PUVs and pointing them to spaces where they are not even allowed to park or drop people off, walking or jogging along the side street chasing vehicles and, believe it or not, talking loudly to drivers. They contribute a lot to noise pollution.

The job of a “barker” is to collect passengers for real PUVs and private-turned-public utility vehicles. You see, the signs on the windows of the PUVs are not enough to bring in passengers maybe because these are too small to read. If you are a commuter, being met by two or three or sometimes more “barkers” all at once shouting the destination of the vehicles in terminals or waiting sheds is a normal thing. It is also normal to smell garlic, onions, alcohol and cigarette combined in their breath and have their sweaty arms brush against yours. Of course, you could never escape inhaling their bath-deprived bodies. It is also normal, if I may say so, based on experience, to be sprinkled with spit as the “barkers” see to it that you get the message by placing their unkempt faces two or three inches away from your face.

I have to admire these “barkers” for their ability to be heard even though they are surrounded with honking cars, loud people who are either laughing or quarreling their hearts out, street vendors calling out costumers, blaring music/noise emanating from vehicles, the whistles of traffic officers, and the pleading of street children who would never give up blocking your way until you give them a peso or more.

The state of the Philippine economy is such that would really compel the increase of “barkers”. Mang Nanding is just one of the many victims of poverty that is really consuming the pinoys to the extent that many people belonging to the lower class would not mind if their job is not honorable. But when you look at the “barkers” in a positive light, you would see perspectives you would never get when you delve on their bastos image. The first thing I realized is that these “barkers” did not dream of becoming a mere “barker”, but society dictated that this is one of the ways they could survive in this poverty-stricken country. These “barkers” are an uneducated lot not because they chose not to study, but because they are or their parents are too poor to finance their education. In this society that values prestige, they could never be anywhere nearer to the society’s concept of success – a graduate of UP or Ateneo with a title before their names.

A “barker”, as I see it, is a symbol of perseverance. Mang Nanding proved to me that he is one of the many who are employed in odd jobs who never gave up on life. When struck with poverty, humans have the tendency to wallow in self-pity that they usually have a difficult time getting themselves out of the pit of depression. Then they would either want to die, stop looking for a job altogether, or, the easiest, beg.

I could never thought of “barkers” in contempt after realizing these. I now see them as fighters, as real people immersed in jobs they did not choose but have learned to value it. They are people who dared to take a step in a strange, dishonorable, humbling occupation just for the sake of making money, just for the sake of putting food into their mouths and live a somewhat easier life.

Morning Devotion

2005-01-30T16:30:00.000+08:00

I woke up at 5 A.M today.

I could not believe that I actually woke up at 5 in the morning to have a quiet time with the Lord for like an hour. I have to admit that I love it - no noise... nothing but silence, no one but God and I. Now I know why Jesus woke up early in the morining to pray to His Father. Would you believe that I actually knelt in prayer for like thirty minutes without even feeling restless and tired? Amazing.

My Father is really, amazingly great. He actually gave me the strength to pull myself apart from my bed. I would love it if this would go on for my entire lifetime.... But this testimony has its downside, and that is, I know you will believe this, I slept again. My bed was welcoming me back to share a deep slumber that I had to accommodate. I woke up at around 9 a.m making me late for my Sunday school class. So much for discipline. But then again, at least, I tried.

TRUTHS

2005-01-29T13:30:00.000+08:00

The truth shall set you free: another powerful statement Jesus made. This is, of course, THE absolute truth. But how can it be absolute when the truth I am facing right now grips my heart the way Popeye crushes an empty can of spinach?

Last year, my mom was diagnosed sick with something she would not tell me. I thought I was over that and I thought that God being the God of healing would took pity on me and cure her. I was right about God being the God who heals, but not about Him curing my mother. When I went home last December, I was struck with the absolutely awful truth: she still has something inside her breast that makes her cry in pain. Believe me, I tried a number of times asking her about the real score, but she plainly would not tell me. She would just shrug it off and say "don't worry".

My mom, when they separated, supported me all by herself. She has experienced selling palamig while waiting for the result of her application at Wica International. She has endured the pains my dad's family has caused her when they got back together, she suffered along with my dad for the whole year he was in and out of the hospital, she remained strong when he passed away...My mom, my beautiful, generous, loving, faithful mom.... It was painful losing my dad, but it is a lot more painful knowing that my mom is sick and is trying not to appear sick for my sake.

This is the truth: A friend told me that her doctor said that when a woman, above 30 years old, is experiencing stabs of pain in her breast, there is a 99-100% probability that she has breast cancer.

As I am writing this, my tears couldn't help but flow. I haven't been honest about what I'm really feeling to my friends, I have always appeared okay and in-control when in fact I am breaking inside. Truths are really difficult to face especially when it affects you personally, especially when it could mean losing the person that means so much to you.

Mama, I love you so much. For all the times I failed you, I'm really sorry. How could I tell you that I'm so afraid of the things to come? I am terribly ashamed of myself...I am so sorry for the false hopes I've given you, for lying to you about my grades to save face. How could you ever love me? Mama, I have caused you so much pain for such a long time. How could I ever show you that I'm also in pain for it? When can I show you that my love for you knows no measure? Would I be too late like the way I was too late with dad?

Take me in your arms, Lord, and do not let me stray away from you. Help me heave myself out of this horrible pit of depression. You are the God who heals, I still cling on to you, in faith, that you would heal my mom. Grant me a heart that accepts and forgives. Lord, all these are but small requests to you. I beg you to take hold of this heavy burden that is threatening to drag me down. I pray, Lord, that in this time of trial, you would grant me peace - perfect peace that comes only from you. I submit to you all these knowing that you alone are God and you alone knows why these should all take place. I am totally down-trodden, I can't take it anymore. I need your help for you alone are the mighty One. With your strong and loving hand, I know you will uphold me and look at me with favor. Forgive me when I blinded myself too much with rebellion. Forgive me for even questioning your goodness. Let your will be done, not mine, but yours.

The words of Jeremiah rang true once more: For I know the plans I have for you, say the Lord. Plans to prosper you not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future.

I now claim this truth: He will never leave me nor forsake me. He will uphold me with His righteous right hand as I learn to submit wholly to Him.

For Starters

2005-01-19T01:43:00.000+08:00

New year is best known for new resolutions or old resolutions that didn't materialize thus beginning it anew. I have to say that I believe in resolutions. The thing is I have three problems concerning it. One is that I normally fill up one page of my diary with it, but having no conviction to really do all of it. Second is I usually give up doing all of it or some, and, finally, and this is where the big problem lies, I tend to forget my resolutions.

This new year, I summed all of my resolutions into one - that is: to put to death all the negative attitudes everyday. This, of course, stems from my desire to grow spiritually. What I really love about my resolution is that it is easier to remember. The consequences, I love as well. But the process is of different matter entirely. It would involve so much of me (oh no!). It has so many implications and I don't have the inclination to name even one. Forgive me, but I am still in the process of stuffing all the possible implications into my already toxic system.

I'm not so sure I could consistently do all these, but one thing is for sure: my resolution would teach me to surrender myself wholly to the Maker. And this is what I am aiming for.This is it. I myself couldn't remember what I ate during the day I thought of this all-too difficult resolution. So I say to you, are you also willing to murder (is this too bloody?) your evil side? If yes, tell me. I would very much like to have a partner in this crime.

Edna Mode

2004-11-20T02:43:00.000+08:00

The little woman with so much to boast confidently exclaimed: fight! win!

I just came from CRL and I could feel tiredness seeping in my already-disgruntled nerves. I would not dare tell you about my harrowing day because it is something I don't want to talk about right now. But I would very much like to tell you something very amazing.

Yesterday, after pouring my pent-up emotions on my friends, I discovered that I was letting myself drift away from everything else that is good except from my ego. You see, thoughts of going back to the dark side of everything crossed my mind. Thoughts on wicked people getting all the blessings while I am slaving and ending up with nothing weighed heavily on my twisted, dark mind. Thoughts on things not making any sense, not having any worth blinded me. Yes, you could say that I hated the world and all that is in it. You could also say that I savored rebellion against my Maker. You could also say that my disposition, my mental state, my all was bordering on unbelief. I reasoned: it won't make any difference at all whether I live as a Christian being a Christian or living like a Christian being not a Christian. Everything is the same. Everybody goes through the same senseless matters. Everybody is actually really lost.

Then came this: CHOICE. An author said that the ultimate submission is really the surrender of your free will. It is a choice to use it for your benefit without the thought of God or use it for your benefit but giving God the driver's seat. When I went through this extreme emotional let down, I realized that in doing so I actually made a choice to rebel against God, to be negative, to look at a lot of people with intense dislike. It was a choice on my part to switch off the positive mind disposition and exchange it to the negative. Sad to say, but it was my choice to have the devil gain a foot hold of me. It was also my choice to let my emotions run. It was also my choice to let my will be driven by my unstable emotions.

A pang of pity hit me when I realized all these, but, believe it or not, it felt good to be slapped and kicked by the reality of my horrific mindset. I heard Edna Mode scream: fight! win! Then I asked:how could I be so sure that this is God convicting me? What if it was just me trying desperately to change, thus enabling me to create all sorts of uplifting reasons? How could I be so sure, after all He didn't even bother to answer all my questions? I let my thoughts wander and concentrated on Him for a while. Then it hit me: I do not know His answer because I did not bother to look for it.

The Bible, for Christians, is where THE ultimate answers are. I asked Him, then, what He wanted me to read knowing that there is a danger in merely opening your Bible by chance and interpreting it as something that is from God directed to you. Then He gave me John. I asked, where in John? Number 15 appeared. Which specifically in chapter 15? I asked again. Numbers 14 then 12 appeared. Time was ticking and I still could not get up and open my Bible. Then, after a long while, I got up and checked it out. I told myself that if it is from God then it would make sense and would somehow be related to what I was feeling. Lo and behold: John 15: 14 and 12 says "you are my friend if you do what I command; my command is this: that you love one another as I have loved you."

Creepy, huh?

Fight! Win! I would have to say that I definitely chose to let my will control my emotions. I chose to stop letting anger get me and decided to excahnge it with love. I chose to fight and win. After all, if God made all the amazing things in this universe, then, I would certainly win this batttle.

Join me, then, in this journey that is worth losing everything, even yourself. BUT gaining it all in Him. How to start? Ha!ha! by simply ASKING Him to give you the perfect faith. He will certainly give it. *wink*

Beach(ing) Around

2004-11-18T23:30:00.000+08:00

I could never understand why a lot of people absolutely LOVE swimming in the beach. Sure, I love the beach and all that, but just the feel of it, the look, the freshness and beauty of it. But that’s that. My attitude could be best explained by, first, I grew up in a place where you could go swimming like every day and it has lost its thrill, second, I don’t know how to swim, and, finally, I’m too afraid of sharks.

Call me ignorant or a joke, fine. But you could never blame me. Blame it all on the people who created Jaws and all those movies that showed sharks eating people like humans do with Pork Lechon. When I was a kid, I saw this movie featuring a killer shark that attacked people even while they were near the shore. That movie left a mark in my already-twisted memory that whenever I’m in the sea, I’m not comfortable at all. Every time something touches or brushes my leg, body or hand, I freak out. I think of either a water-thriving snake or a baby shark. Whenever that happens, I usually scream then run, not swim, towards the seashore only to find out that it was just a stick, a plastic, seaweed or just the body part of my companion/s.

The problem is I am surrounded with people who love the beach – my close friends mostly at the UP Christian Youth Movement. They couldn’t get enough of it that they always plan one trip after another to Zambales, Subic, Puerto Galerra and to where the beaches are. There is a pattern, though, that I’ve seen. Most of them did not grow up in places where beaches are everywhere. And, I dare say, they are what I call the fearless ones. I say that they are fearless because they do not cower from huge waves. In fact, they love it.

Last August, we had a retreat/adventure/gimmick in Zambales. From the day we arrived to the day we departed from the place, rain was pouring (not all the time, though), thus the water was high and the waves monstrous. Thankfully, I was not the only one who do not know how to swim, thus I had companions wading very near the shore. We were perfectly enjoying the beach, scooping the water with both hands as if bathing ourselves, dipping our heads and bodies a lot and crawling once in a while when Ian, the beach lover of all beach lovers, called us to join them in their activity. The activity? Battling the waves with their bodies while holding onto the person next to them. I hesitated, of course. What if I drown? What if a shark suddenly bares his pointy teeth at me? I had two choices: to join them and squeal to my heart’s delight or remain where I was – alone. I ended up doing the former and, boy, what fun! The thing was I swallowed enough sea water that I had a fleeting thought of urine sliding around in my intestines. I brushed the thought aside and concentrated on squealing, but I couldn’t do it anymore. I was becoming more and more paranoid of the gigantic waves coming onto us. I thought of a shark suddenly emerging, circling us. I thought of a shark coming among the gigantic waves then swallowing me whole, not even giving me a chance to scream for help. With that, I turned my back from the flirtation I had with the waves and headed as fast as I could to the shore.

Trust me, I love to learn swimming. Isn’t interest one major factor for a person to learn and enjoy what he or she is learning? Take for example Edmon. He grew up in Bulacan but he knows how to swim and skin-dive (thanks to P.E class) because he plainly loves swimming, while I, the one who grew up in Negros Oriental, do not know anything, not even floating. I would very much like to have for a reason disinterest as the one that deterred me from learning swimming. But, sadly, it’s not. It’s really the monsters lurking in the waters.

I did not want to remain the laughing stock in the group, so early this first semester, AY 2004-05, I took swimming as my P.E. class. I figured that if Edmon learned it from P.E class and ended up being a good swimmer, then, I, too, can be one. Unfortunately, I did not accomplish what I desired to accomplish. The teacher did not drop me from the class; it was just that I stopped going entirely. I did not lose interest, however, it was just that I couldn’t shrug off the horrific dream that I had.

I dreamed that I was swimming in the pool with my two cousins, Piolo Pascual and a lot more when, suddenly, people were screaming. Piolo approached me and made me leave the pool frantically telling me that the pool is infested with a shark. I hoisted myself out, all the while screaming the names of my cousins. Then I saw my cousin; the shark was an arm away from her. I screamed, instructing her to get off the pool fast, but too late. The shark had her by both legs. I ran towards her hoping to rescue her body from being eaten entirely, I pulled with all the strength that I had, but when I looked at what I was clutching I was shocked to see that it was the half part of a huge tuna, the tail part. Then I saw the greedy shark going back to the pool side, apparently his cage.

I did not drop out right after I had the dream, of course. I struggled to learn, but it was too much a torture to even close my eyes under water. I kept on looking closely, fearing that a shark would suddenly emerge. Because I dreamed of the pool side being the cage of the shark, I stayed far away from it and swam in the center. After two meetings following my dream of shark encounter, I dropped out.

My friends know how much I fear sharks. Ket, my org-mate, invited me to watch Open Water with her and my other friends saying, with a knowing smile, that she will pay for my ticket. I politely declined the offer telling her “kahit may libreng snacks pa ‘yan, di ako sasama.”. I wouldn’t dare add that movie to my already-crippling remembrances of sharks. But I did watch Shark Tale. It was cute, though, but it did not change my perception of sharks or helped erased my fear of them. The only consolation was it gave me hope and something to wish for: I wished for a time when all sharks will become like Lenny – a confessed vegetarian – and be that way forever.

It wounds me deeply when people say that I’m over-reacting. Wouldn’t it be much better to be just merely over-reacting? I would very much love to enjoy swimming in the sea, carefree, not paranoid over being made a day’s meal. Sharks, even in dreams, terrorize me. I love the beach, but swimming in it is another story.

The heart-stopping reminder I breathe is always this: where the beaches are, the sharks are there as well Argh!

Boredom

2004-11-17T22:35:00.000+08:00

How do you cure boredom? Why is it that all of a sudden I'm bored? I looked at myself a fleeting moment ago and I couldn't see the energetic me. What is wrong with me? Have I discovered that all I've been doing are senseless? Am I being overly critical? Overly negative?

a new day

2004-11-15T01:32:00.000+08:00

Good morning to you!Here I am, bubbly again (or so I mustered). I prayed a prayer of comeback a while ago, a thing I've been meaning to do since the day I was devastated by horrible news. I figured, what would I lose? He is a gigantic God and problems are mere fungi. I realized that leanong on your emotion to sort things out isn't the right thing. The right thing is to be strong in faith, to look up to Him AND to go to Him for comfort, not on other temporary things and certainly not on people.

You know, the scary thing is I know these things but in my pigheadedness I plainly refused to let these facts sink in. You see there are times that a miserable person would gladly cling on to misery rather than hope. I am right, right? You smile. Well, the explanation is that we sometimes find comfort in misery because it is a known ground, but hope? NUh-uh. Hope is something kinda far-fetched and so you would sigh and tell yourself that you are merely building castles of sand. Then you would abandon hope and fix on misery. Poor you, poor me...but that's the reality.

As Christians, we should hope on one thing and one thing alone: that in everything God works for the good of those who love Him. There will be a lot of tribulations that will threaten to crush us, but we should take heart because we have Jesus. This is not our fight it is His. If you think I'm bluffing, well, GO READ YOUR BIBLE, MAN!

I am really okay now and it feels sooooo good!

A bit of me

2004-11-13T15:16:00.000+08:00

I say hell. It was hell and hell and hell. BUT I’m back again.

I say that I am okay relative to the last weeks of October, but not that okay. I planned to make my blog a sort of something where I write meditations and stuff. I want to, really. It’s just that I’m not ready yet. I can say a lot of things but it would be plain hypocrisy. I believe I have to muster all the courage to come face to face with Him. I am tormented by so much grief and my heart, honestly, is not right with Him. He is teaching me something – a something I couldn’t fully give Him.

In my days of sadness, I found out one thing: the more I resisted Him, the stronger I felt His presence in me and around me. I believe it was hope or that faith I have or just the positive-thinker me. Hopefully, it was both hope and faith. God carried me through. I am in the process of dealing with it and nursing peace in my heart, and so forgive me if I would seem aloof, distant and kinda cold.

I am truly hoping to recover, to get up and fight, to trust Him enough to give my all. Right now, I am praying for that. As the plans I built melted before my very eyes, I know deep down that God would build it up with His faithful hand. As the gigantic fear looms, I know He would protect me.

I am in so much pain and all I want right now is to embrace it, to taste all of it and swallow it whole. I have shared the gift of pain to my friends, and all of it are coming back to me – hammering me with its truth. I could only stare and ask God: how much more could I bear? God has good plans for me, this I know. I pray that, in time, I would get to see it. This very moment all I see is a blank piece of paper. May God write His plans for me on it and let me have the full view.

Do or die question:

2004-10-13T12:56:00.000+08:00

What is your god?

Have you read any of the stories I mentioned in my anthology?

Have you been checking out blogs so far?

If yes, which is the coolest? *Because this is my blog, it is imperative that you choose mine*

Do you think that a blog is an effective way to express your love for a person?

If yes, post a comment and DARE not forget the HOW. This might come in handy one time.

SERIOUSLY:

I am oh so thankful to PK for allowing me to do a biography on him for my non-fiction class. I beat the deadline, and, I learned one thing: profile-writing is much more difficult that character sketches. Argh! But, I did it. Thank you, PK.

Sir Paolo Manalo, I truly hope you're reading this. Thank you for your offer. Next time, I'll tell you ahead of the scheduled interview to give you more time. Thanks, though. As for the Yellow Cab thingy, sorry for not making it. I hope you'll treat us to another food place next time - I'll be there for sure....I truly hope against all hope that you'll let me pass CW 199. Oh well...it isn't too much to ask, is it? :)

gods

2004-10-13T11:51:00.000+08:00

To title my anthology “gods” is more than appropriate. It is destined to be its title. What comes to mind when gods are mentioned? Do you think of power, of control, of manipulation, of divine intervention, of driving force, of a person, of an object or of a state of being? People automatically associate gods with idol worship, of a pagan sort that religions like Buddhism, Hinduism and Catholicism revere. Did it ever occur to you, even once, that gods do not only mean carved idols of the catholic churches and Chinese temples or even of the popular gods and goddesses of the Greek Mythology like Zeus, Athena, Apollo, Neptune, Venus among others? Gods do not refer only to idols and the gods of the Greek Mythology. Gods, in my opinion, are those that drive you and make you.
Gods are ambitions, that need to prove one’s self, the past, the future, fear, beliefs, death, the crave for power, for control, for manipulation, vanity, culture, and everything else that occupy you and drives your whole being. It becomes a mentality, a something, a state of being, that would dictate your every action and, ultimately, enslave you to the point of exhaustion, and, even, death. These gods make a person. I have to be clear that there is nothing wrong with ambition, there is nothing wrong in wanting to be a success, there is nothing wrong with being powerful or the ambition to have power, nothing wrong at all in following traditions and being loyal to one’s culture and beliefs, nothing wrong in the need to be beautiful, appreciated, liked, loved. But when all these things control you, then, these things become your gods.
Estrella Alfon’s “Magnificence” is one that speaks of a god of punishment, that need to avenge, that need to grasp justice and hurt the ones who caused you pain. Because of this, she never hesitated to show it by inflicting physical pain. But, of course, her god is not as strong as the god of the man whose inflicted pain on the child would forever torment and would eventually create a god out of it.
This, then, proves that your past, both ugly and beautiful ones, would make you. Take for example John Cheever’s “The Swimmer” whose longing for his past made him do something unheard-of and caused him to block the present situation he was in. His god made him unable to move on with his life. Ninotchka Rosca’s “The Goddess” deals with an experience of the past that tormented the main character, Martha, and gripped her being. The god she created was one of fear, thus, it changed and dictated her decisions from then on.
Speaking of fear, this one god is felt strongly and is, actually, the root of a lot driving forces in people’s lives. This is best exemplified in “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber” by Ernest Hemingway, “The Masque of the Red Death” by Edgar Allan Poe, “In Exile” by Anton Chekhov, “The Necklace” by Guy de Maupassant, and “A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner. If you examine closely, however, you would see that most, if not all, gods are rooted by the god of fear. It is fear of the future that drives one to success, to wealth. It is fear of abuse, of oppression, of enslavement that drives one to power, to manipulation, to control. It is fear of being neglected, discarded, that make one pressured into driving themselves into exhaustion by constant pleasing of other people. It is the fear of being unwanted that would drive a woman or a man to vanity. It is the fear of punishment that would drive a person to kill, to get away with something, to lie, and to point sins to other people. One could even pinpoint the fear of being ridiculed, castrated, reprimanded, insulted, hurt, risk in some of the characters in the stories of this anthology.
“The Necklace” by Guy de Maupassant, “The New Dress” by Virginia Woolf, “Short Happy Life of Walter Mitty” by James Thurber, “Tomorrow is A Downhill Place” by Erwin Castillo speak of that god of proving one’s self. This god resulted into good and bad thing. Woolf’s “The New Dress” is a reflection of vanity in its real sense. One could see, smell this god in most celebrities whose concept of beauty is physical appearance. One couldn’t blame them, of course.
“The Last Rite” by Lee Yu-Hwa and “The Summer Solstice” by Nick Joaquin are of the old system, of tradition, of culture. I challenge you to look at both of these closely. Tradition, the Old System has a way of enslaving the people, of closing the doors to changes, of affecting your state of being, of dictating your future. The story by Lee Yu-Hwa focuses on Chinese tradition and the conflict of the old and new system within the young man’s mind. Tradition dictates another and the new-found beliefs say another thing. It is not so much as him creating his god, but of the powerful presence of these gods that made him helpless. These are gods that tore him apart and demands of him to choose only one.
Joaquin’s “Summer Solstice”, on the other hand, is another god of tradition, of culture. But it speaks of a god that empowered and emboldened a woman to liberate herself from the manic presence of an old system.
“The Other Wise Man” by O. Henry, “Faith, Love, Time and Dr. Lazaro” by Gregorio Brillantes, and “God Sees the Truth but Waits” by Leo Tolstoi speak of another god. This is a god that Christian reveres and a god that most claimed “Supreme”, a god that is God and Lord. These stories show this “Supreme Being” in different lights: one that calls for disregarding yourself and completely searching for Him, one that is within your grasp but you could not understand, thus, you wave it off, and one that teaches through a bad experience, an experience that made you a better person. These stories show faith in a Lord, of searching with your whole being and finding Him within you.
In this anthology, you would see for yourself what gods the characters revere. You would see how these dictated them, how powerful their gods are, and how stupid and awesome it all is. Either you get frustrated or you applaud. But, more importantly, I hope that, as you read the stories, you would come to identify which god you worship, which god made or is making you.

Do or die question:

2004-10-12T12:50:00.000+08:00

In the Rainwoman, what do you think really happened to Joseph? Did he really fell or somebody murdered him? If your answer is the latter, then who murdered Joseph? Try arguing your case. Oh, by the way, I do have friends named Joseph (Josh) and Ben (Melvin). Of course, I only used their names...the characterization is another matter entirely. As for the rejected(?) Ben, who loved (?) or fell in love with love and got defeated, haha! guess who that is? A friend, but I chose to not name him (he might cry AND I don't want that :) ). To you, my friend, don't cry too much over a lost love. Another Sarah will come knocking on your door soon and it won't be Sarah the Rainwoman. Ciao, dudes!

NOTE: My friend was not rejected, however, but he thought and convinced himself that he was! Aww, mann!

The Rainwoman

2004-10-12T12:30:00.000+08:00

Sarah was excited. In a few hours, she would see Joseph, her husband-to-be. Wait until he sees me, she thought. She had on tight denim jeans, a black halter top complete with silver hoops on her ears and the beautiful silver necklace Joseph had given her before he left for Canada. She remembered it as if it was yesterday. She cried so hard that day, knowing that he wouldn’t be seeing him for two long years. They promised to write each other everyday and just as she was almost paranoid about him meeting another woman (prostitutes as popularly called by the sea men) while aboard a ship, Joseph surprised her.
“Marry me, Sarah” and that was that. She looked longingly at the simple gold band then onto the parade of people streaming towards the arrival area. Where is Joseph, she wondered. Maybe he is just claiming his luggage, she thought.

Hours passed, but Joseph was nowhere in sight.
“Ah…uhm…is your name Sarah Galura?”
She looked up and saw a tall dark man. “Yes”.
“Ah…I don’t know what to say…but…ah…I’m Ben, by the way. Ah…”
Something is wrong here, she thought. Where is Joseph? She saw him fold and unfold his hands. What’s wrong with this guy? She wondered.
“I’m Joseph’s shipmate”
Her heart hammered inside her. “Where…?”
He groped for something in his huge bag. It was Joseph’s bag.
“Ah…I’m sorry. Joseph fell into the water…There was a storm at that time and he was out walking on the deck…Frankly, I don’t know what really happened…ah…Sorry”.
Sarah wanted to scream. This is not true, she was thinking. “But….we’ll get married…he promised...” she finished almost out of breath.
“I know. Joseph talked about you a lot. He even read all your letters to us especially the ones with the poems…”
Tears poured from inside her.
“Ah…here is his belongings…uhm…the company will send his family a letter, I guess”
“When did…when did he…fell?”
“The other day…after we received the report of our dismissal…it was night time”

Sarah stood up so quickly, grabbing Joseph’s bag. She ran and ran until she couldn’t see where she was going anymore. She fished a tissue from her shoulder bag and sat near the garbage can. She stifled a scream that threatened to escape. After a while, Sarah stood up and hailed a taxi. Then her cellular phone rang. It was Joseph’s friend.

“Hello…Sarah. I forgot to give you something. Can I come to your place?
“Ah…yes.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. She hung up her phone.

As soon as she spotted her place, she grabbed a bill and went out of the taxi. She ran skipping a few steps up her room. She banged the door and hurled herself to bed. No longer in the company of strangers, she cried and screamed and dug her nails into the white teddy bear Joseph gave as monthsary present.
She was like that for days and days. She never ate, bathed or dressed. She still had on her whole ensemble she carefully chose for Joseph’s arrival. Her family was distressed and they did not know how to comfort her. Because Ben came to see Sarah almost every day, they all knew about what happened. Ben was a constant visitor and sometimes he was the one who brought tray after tray of food outside her bedroom door. The food was always left untouched.

One night, Sarah heard a very loud thunder clap. She shuddered, thinking about Joseph in the storm. Then she ran and ran until she was outside her house. She soaked herself with the rain, tasting it then swallowing it. She touched her body, her face and her arms with the rain drops, all the while mumbling Joseph’s name. When the rain stopped she creamed for more, crying, touching and clinging onto her soaked clothes dearly. Joseph, Joseph was all she whispered.

Her mother was shocked, but she didn’t do anything. When her daughter entered the house, she couldn’t see her daughter anymore. Sarah’s eyes held on a manic glaze.
“Oh, mother! I had a wonderful time with Joseph. Isn’t he sweet? Look, look, these flowers – these are from him. Joseph knows how I love white roses”, she smelled the white roses that Ben brought. “Joseph is coming tomorrow, mother. Is my gown here? We’re going to get married tomorrow.”

Sarah’s mother just sat gaping at her daughter. She barely noticed the tears that trickled down her cheeks.

The next day, Ben was earlier than usual. He had another bouquet of white roses for Sarah. He was hoping to catch a glimpse of Sarah before embarking onto the next ship. He was talking with Sarah’s mother when he heard the roar of the sky. Heavy rain poured and poured. Then, after three long months of patiently waiting for Sarah to emerge from the room, he saw her.

She was wearing a beautiful all-white wedding gown with a veil covering her face. She had on the complete ensemble of a bride. She marched as if she was walking towards the altar, not even pausing to look at Ben or her mother. She walked on towards the rain, bowing, kissing her hand then suddenly spreading her arms, looking up in the sky.
“I love you, Joseph”, she shouted.
She danced and danced. She felt the water and touched all of her with it. Ben stared at the beautiful woman dancing gaily in the rain. He wiped a tear and walked towards her seemingly defeated.
“Sarah…come. You’ll get sick”
Sarah took one long look at him as if processing her memory of him. She smiled at him and said “I’ll be fine. Joseph is with me.”
“Sarah...,” Ben choked back a sob. He grabbed Sarah by the elbow making her face him. “Sarah…I…ah…I came to say good-bye.”
Sarah was startled and said, after giving him one long look, “oh. Good bye!” She broke free from his grasp then added, "Good bye, whoever you are". She was smiling and whispering Joseph’s name. She looked up in the sky, her arms spread wide open, loving every minute in the rain and longing for it not to stop.

Ben walked away no longer fighting the racking sobs from deep within him. He looked back, just once, as if hoping that she'll say his name. But Sarah was dancing in the rain, carefree and, sadly, happy. He knew he lost her, the one woman he had loved and would love, forever.

Until this day, Sarah still believes that Joseph is one with the rain and whenever the rain comes, she savors it just like she savors the memory of Joseph.

Picturesque

2004-10-11T14:15:00.000+08:00

Situated in the outskirts of civilization, the isolated Pinyahon Island is the perfect picture of splendor, of exotic beauty, of one untouched by the masks of ornaments humans put up for something to appear eye-catching, and of God’s loving hands.
It was in 2003 when I visited Pinyahon Island with my Mom and Dad. I wondered why it’s called Pinyahon Island, however, for it is not an island of “pinyas” (pineapple). It is, in fact, a far cry from the usual plantations of pinya that we are exposed to. My hunch is that it’s because of the numerous small, tree-like, leafless plants that sprouted from the huge, unperturbed corals.
It is merely one eighth the size of Malacañang Palace and all covered in white sand and surrounded by, believe it or not, crystal clear water -- you could actually see your feet the way it appears when you see it soaked in a tub of clean drinking water. That sunny day, I was in awe all the more when I looked beyond the clear water part and saw the magnificent blue water, a reflection of the blue sky and the good old Sun just peeking from above the fluffy clouds.
You would go ooh and aah, I know you will, when you’ll see starfish, beautiful corals, and different kinds of fishes all swimming in schools and all absolutely wow! I even saw a live angel fish and other fishes you only see in aquariums and on cable channels like National Geographic and Discovery Channel. The problem was, when my Dad was naming them all I was so preoccupied with the thought that the rope of the floating house attached to a cottage on the island might loosen. I feared that we might have to swim back that I didn’t catch all the names and all the fishes he was pointing at. You see, the bigger problem was, though I grew up in a place where beaches are a walk away, I do not know how to swim.
Thankfully, my dad felt his tummy grumbling. Did I mention that the island, though very small, has a helipad, a kitchen and a two-room cottage with a monkey named “ngoy” hanging onto the bamboo connecting the cottage and the kitchen? If I fell in love with the island a little bit at first sight, I fell all the more in love with it when I saw all the yummy seafoods – sinugbang bangus, boiled huge reddish crabs, fried and sinabawang tahong (lots and lots of it), kinilaw na tuna, roasted huge fish (yep!) complete with suka and toyo with chili peppers, plus fresh shrimps, lobsters as big as your forearm, and not to mention fresh buko juice where you drink it straight from the green medium-sized buko itself. To top it off, there were pineapple, yellow and green banana, ripe mangoes, and juicy, red watermelon slices for desert.
The thing is, we were not alone on the island. We were with two other groups – group of teens and group of the middle-aged – that the kitchen resembled that of small scale Jollibee during lunchtime except that we didn’t have to order our food to eat, we just had to compete to get our choice foods – I mistakenly grabbed a hand as I reached out for a lobster. There was a series of mumbling (“oops sorry”, “excuse me”) while eyeing the food murderously. We were like a group of street urchins who saw one small bag of pan de sal after a day or two of hearing our stomachs growl. My Dad said that cooking the day’s meal is part of the caretaker’s job description. He transacts business as soon as you arrive on the Island, and has his own minions (the bangkeros) to help him with the tasks. Bringing your own food, then, is absolute no-no unless you are allergic to seafoods.
The Island is the place to be when you want to escape from the headaches of the City life, but, the thing is, you should know the weather first before you decide to stay. You see, the Island, come high tide, becomes totally invisible except for the cottage and floating house. This bit of information scared me out of my wits. The good thing was, my Mom and Dad planned for us to stay until the afternoon of that same day.
Now, how do you get there. Pinyahon Island is an extension of Dakak Park and Beach Resort owned by the Jalosjos Family of Dapitan City, Zamboanga del Norte. You can go there by boat from Dakak, which would take about an hour or so, or you travel by land for two hours in mountainous places before you arrive in a small town called Sinuyak from Dipolog City. From there you take a thirty-minute boat ride to the beautiful Pinyahon Island. If you’re coming from Manila, of course, your travel is much longer.
It is rumored that the Jalosjos family owns the Island that’s why it has a sense of privacy. I have no idea how you arrange your visit there, though, but I don’t think reservation is required. People go there everyday, but, sadly (or, is it?), few people know of it. I believe that the reason for this is simple: the Jalosjos’ is on it again. My Dad said that they may be planning to develop it and fence it for themselves and their rich guests. Theirs is for both lucrative and manipulative business disguised under “WOW Philippines”.
Just recently, my Mom told me that Pinyahon Island is in danger of getting her beauty wiped out. The culprit? Philex Mining Corporation. Mom said that only few fishes could be seen and the tahong that we really love can’t be eaten due to the threatening Red Tide factor. There was even a time when beautiful fishes were seen floating – polluted by chemicals. In due time, the crystal clear water of the amazing Pinyahon Island would turn murky.
Pinyahon Island is, indeed, a sight to behold. It is a rewarding place, a real treasure to be grasped. If only civilization won’t exchange it for giant, murdering, money machines all would be well – the Island would be as beautiful as ever and the fishermen will enjoy plentiful harvests. I believe that if the Island has a voice, she would boom “Don’t you dare touch me!” If I could wish one thing, I would wish that the Island, in all her tranquil splendor, could lasts forever.

good morning...

2004-10-10T16:53:00.000+08:00

Having a new blog gives you a sort of beautiful feeling. I'm a
confessed technobobo, thus I relied a LOT on my roomie to help
me out. So,here it is.The thing is,I want to publish all mywritten works -
lousy and all - here. I have one blog reserved for journals and all that so I don't
intend to bore you with the angst of my everyday life. Oh well...I think I really have
to go.I intend to finish my critical essay before Sir Paolo decides to give me a
5.AND I don't want that.Na-uh!So,Ciao,pipol and have fun.I do welcome
your comments however hurtful or not(?).Bye!Until my next post
....

Second Voice

2004-10-10T07:53:00.000+08:00

Fool!
For being a child,
Gullible, gullible

Pathetic;
Crystal, beautiful
Now shattered

How pathetic.
Hollow promises
Consumed you

Naivete is indeed a crime
Words of a double-blade, like dagger
Killed you

Now what?
Your head shakes.
Ha! He’s laughing at you.

Now, now.
Cease the tears.
Bad. Yes, he’s bad.

You smile. Good.
You should,
You have a reason

No?
Pathetic!
Fool!

Stop!
Stop!
Punishment, yes.

Face to Face with Poverty

2004-10-10T00:30:00.000+08:00

The feeling of nausea greeted me when I finally summoned the courage to “check out” the place where most children I know live. I see crammed houses that are not really houses but boxes that are trying too hard to appear like one. They are dilapidated, yes, but not because of neglect but of mere pathetic yet sad reason – they simply couldn’t afford to buy concrete, wood, paint, aluminum roof and, even, as incredulous as it may seem, nails. I thought of my jeans for a moment and knew that with my single purchase I could actually build a house much grander than what was in front of me. Right then, I had this urge to hide, to clothe myself with their garments and hide my nakedness from them. How could a little child grow up normal and happy here? I didn’t delve on this thought for a long while, though, because the children who brought me there were literally swarming around me, saying, though not in a chorus, “teacher, ‘yan ang bahay nina Kevin, mayaman yan sila kaya malaki bahay nila.” Curious, I looked and, well, I found out that Kevin’s house is, true, much bigger than theirs and, also, that their concept of “mayaman” is a lot different from mine. Wealthy, in my opinion, is owning Mercedes Benz, Jaguar, Ford, Lincoln Continental, BMW and twenty other expensive cars with a one-block mansion in Forbes Park and CEO of three, maybe, five companies and whose idea of one-week vacation is touring and shopping Europe in three to five days, but certainly not a multi-colored, two-level, SM North comfort-room sized place where ten people live. I felt my heart split.
It was another thing to see the place where they sleep in, and entirely different to smell it. It was one big pink MMDA urinal with dark, murky ponds here and there that smells familiarly of Philcoa canal and of non-working sewage system with a similar group of thumb-like flies to boot. I wanted to puke, to cover my nose, but, conscience, ethics whatever it was dictated that I be sensitive. Don’t get me wrong, though, I was not in Payatas or in Smokey Mountain or someplace where people throw their garbage, I was in Pook Palaris, a place covered by a high concrete wall beside the University Hotel. Yep, the UH of the University of the Philippines Diliman campus. This may not shock you, after all, for when you ride an Ikot jeepney you would see countless of the sorry state I’m poorly describing to you. The thing is, people like me had become apathetic to these situations. After all, what can you do? But when you know most of the people who live in one of these miserable places, it is another story.
They were there; excitedly pointing out houses that belongs to which child and exclaiming surprises as to why, all of sudden, I visited them for the very first time. I have known them for almost three years. I taught them Christianity, the Bible, and even tutored them in their academics. I see them every Outreach class every Saturday in the Church of the Risen Lord and prayed, played, cleaned, ate with them. They are the central beneficiary of major outreach events that I organize. But, in almost three years, when I first visited them, it was the only time the reality of their condition sunk in.
These children ranging from four to sixteen years old, though not all of them but most, are watch-car boys and girls, they sell sampaguita with their mothers during Sundays outside the Parish, clean stalls, windows and comfort rooms in the Shopping Center. The very age that I was occupied with piano lessons, Barbies, fairy tales, collecting coins, stamps and stationeries to be bartered, sleep-overs, play and t.v time with a yaya in tow, these little children are worrying about where to get money to buy their notebooks, their projects, their allowance, and contributing to the day’s meals. Their goal is survival. And they do a lot of things, aside from decent jobs, to achieve this – quarrelling with another kid to get his or her share of food on our snack time after a Bible lesson, competing for food and gifts, and, believe it or not, there was a time when they even talked a new volunteer into giving them juices and food they knew was not for them by lying to her face, some even stole goodies right after praying, and some, sad to say, entered into a new kind of job, “ending”. I first heard of this gambling activity when, during Bible study, my student asked me casually, “teacher, gusto mo tumaya sa ending?” How would one react when faced by this dilemma? My student said he gambles to save money for the materials he needs to buy for school projects and to purchase another notebook.
After every Bible class, we give out snacks – usually biscuits and juice, and every after snack time, before they leave, one or two of the unkempt children would approach me and ask for one more biscuit for a younger or older sibling. It never fails to sadden me when I look at their expectant faces, but I couldn’t give them, not even in secret, for the others might know of it and would think that I practice favoritism. Of course, the giving of extra biscuits could be made possible if we have more food to distribute, but, unfortunately, we almost always have enough for fifty or so children.
The sad tales of reality never end. It could make you cry, it could teach you when you allow it to sink in or it could awaken you from the deep slumber of apathy and hypocrisy – or, hopefully, all of it combined so as to prompt you into action. Something happened that stirred my already-becoming jaded heart and compelled me to act fast: My eleven year-old student who has been with us for as long as I can remember missed Bible class for two consecutive Saturdays. When I asked his older sister his whereabouts, she just shrugged as if to say “I have no idea”. Then I saw him. It was a Sunday and he was playing with his friends near the Catholic Church, shouting in child-like glee. When he saw me looking at him, he hesitantly approached. “Bakit ka absent”, I asked. “Kase, teacher, wala po ako tsinelas eh”, he answered. When I looked down, the proof was glaring at me -- He was wearing his mother’s worn out slipper.
No wonder they couldn’t fathom the goodness and faithfulness of God that we’ve been telling them for almost three long years. No wonder they couldn’t understand it when we say Jesus loves them. I knew then that until these kids who were smiling so openly at me see bright days, they wouldn’t understand what we mean by blessings from Heaven and Jesus’ love. To them, these are not tangible, not real, but pain and abandonment is. Looking at the sea of expectant and smiling faces made me feel so small and so utterly weak. These children have tasted it all except the goodness of life. It seemed that the little children surrounding me were little adults I should learn from. They have seen, smelled, and felt the harshness of life, yet they go on living like happy, normal children. They may not have the luxury to enjoy life now, but because of what they are going through, if they continue fighting the fight against the all-consuming poverty, their victory in the arena of life is ensured. And then, hopefully, what we’ve been teaching may become, for them, a reality.

Vain

2004-10-09T08:53:00.000+08:00

When I see our elegant vase
Reminds me of mother
Intricately designed in gold

Chinese women in kimono
How beautiful it is
Powerful presence emanates

Announcing central importance
Look at me! Look at me!
The vase, vanity in itself