Like Karen Davila, Mel Tiangco and Mike Enriquez. These people talk back and throw wordy daggers at people who criticize media. They have found the weapon and power behind microphones and have been irresponsibly using them so. This has been acknowledged, and disappointingly so, when Noynoy had to send his officials to a seminar on how to deal with media. How disgusting! Who are we pleasing here?
The media, it now seems, find themselves the C-officials in Noynoy's You're-My-Boss government. Don't we notice, media thrive better in governments so rottenly corrupt; the latter are at their beck and call lest they be featured in IMBESTIGADOR?
Media pros in the Philippines are the kings of the world; the messiahs of the underdogs. We almost always go to media personalities than to the police to complain against abusive government officials. We return lost-and-found valuables to radio stations, not to police stations. A product or service that we purchased or subscribed to sucked and we threaten the companies bad exposure to media.
The Mangundadatu's found themselves defenseless, they took refuge in the media. We now know what happened after that.
Ex-police officer Mendoza wanted his job back, hostaged a busload of tourists, paraded them in Quirino Grandstand and displayed his "cause" in front of the media. We, too, know what happened after that.
Now, people are telling media to hold their horses and control their scoop-first mentality, but the stalwarts say we don't know what we're talking about; that we aren't the experts in journalism. Yeah, right. They are the only ones who know their business.
When we complain about the abuses of media, where do we go? No where. So we blog ourselves hoarse instead.
No, we can never throw our pearls to the pigs. They will trample them under their feet.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Backseat Experts
But on Monday, they were just couch potatoes glued to the tragedy that's unfolding like most Cannes films. Surreal with much magic realism. Too real to be real. Everyone suspended their disbelief.
The next day and the next, everyone became an overnight expert on hostage negotiations, on psychology, on tactical operations, on journalism. Forums worldwide raged with brilliant should-have-been's, should-have-done's and should-have-not's.
But last Monday, the world was just watching while hostages die and get killed in color, in crisp CNN, GMA 7 and ABS CBN's HD sound. What do you call people who just watch and let people die, as if it was some gothic entertainment?
When they finally meet their gods and the gods ask, where were they when that happened? What would they say?
Millions of people all over the world were watching when eight innocent people died. Millions of people their hands on the remote, but not tied. If millions of educated, civilized, upright people couldn't stop a single man from committing a coldblooded act, how can the same people stop deep-rooted cultural and religious wars?
Imagine what the victims felt looking outside the bus window, at people gawking at them and the media, both local and international covering the "event." The world is watching, but why are we still here, death coming to us any moment?
That was Monday.
The next day and the next, the couch potatoes became experts, conceived without sin.
The next day and the next, everyone became an overnight expert on hostage negotiations, on psychology, on tactical operations, on journalism. Forums worldwide raged with brilliant should-have-been's, should-have-done's and should-have-not's.
But last Monday, the world was just watching while hostages die and get killed in color, in crisp CNN, GMA 7 and ABS CBN's HD sound. What do you call people who just watch and let people die, as if it was some gothic entertainment?
When they finally meet their gods and the gods ask, where were they when that happened? What would they say?
Millions of people all over the world were watching when eight innocent people died. Millions of people their hands on the remote, but not tied. If millions of educated, civilized, upright people couldn't stop a single man from committing a coldblooded act, how can the same people stop deep-rooted cultural and religious wars?
Imagine what the victims felt looking outside the bus window, at people gawking at them and the media, both local and international covering the "event." The world is watching, but why are we still here, death coming to us any moment?
That was Monday.
The next day and the next, the couch potatoes became experts, conceived without sin.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The Types of Teacher I Have Become
(Delivered during the Pinning Ceremony of Interns, Philippine Normal University, Taft Avenue, Manila. August 11, 2010)
For the past 18 years I have become three types of teacher: First, I was a Student Teacher; second, a Professional Teacher; and third, a Teacher of Professionals.
As a Student Teacher
I had pretty good grades in student teaching. In Education 7 (Preservice Practicum I – Student Teaching), I was given a grade of 90 by my Supervising Instructor, Ms. Pearlie Lucy Agnes Pascua of the Lab School. In Education 8 (Preservice Practicum II – Internship), Prof. Alido gave me 95. You may ask, did those grades give me any Latin Honors? No. But the experience helped me develop attributes which I still possess to this day.
No. 1 Attribute: Patience.
In Education 7, we were tasked to log ALL our activities every hour every day of our duties; breaks included. The logbook recorded time, activities, remarks and insights.
In the logbook, I chronicled everything – comments, criticisms, suggestions, petty observations, complaints, praises, fears, doubts, expectations, despair, plans and aspirations. In my logbook, I wrote about my SI, my co-student teachers, the students, the Lab School management, the classrooms, the restrooms, the library, the auxiliary service, the prayer rally for Ormoc victims, and believe it or not, even about former Senator Erap Estrada when he was invited to celebrate “Linggo Ng Mag-Anak” here at the College Auditorium, on December 5, 1991 between 10:40 and 11:30 AM. Sen. Estrada said that society’s well-being begins in the family. How do I still remember? I still have the logbook with me – now yellow, not because of Pres. Noynoy Aquino but because of its 18 years of existence.
Have patience with the details and you will conquer the devil.
The idea of putting everything in the logbook seemed trivial to me 18 years ago but when I returned to it and read it a few months ago, I was very happy I took it seriously and patiently. My grandchildren will love to read it. If I ever get to have grandchildren.
But patience has its limits. Take it too far and its cowardice. That’s according to an American convict I’d rather not name. So let’s seize the moment.
No. 2 Attribute: Carpe Diem
This is one of the many principles I learned from my favorite Doctor Venancio Mendiola of the College of Language and Linguistics. There seemed to be not enough time. There was always something that we needed to read to analyze and synthesize and critique. And there was no Internet. And how I thank God there was no Internet during my time in college! Without the Internet, we learned how to do real, hardcore research. The newly built and very posh PNU Library was too small for us. We would go to the DLSU Library then to the British Council then to the National Library to do our research all in one afternoon. No, we didn’t just photocopy, we actually read ALL of them because a single reference for one topic was an insult to our teachers. I’d rather die than let Dr. Mendiola know I failed read the thousand books he asked us to read. Sleep was a very rare commodity especially if you were a student teacher and a working student at the same time like I was. I seized every non-working, non-school waking hour to read and study. As if there was no tomorrow.
This attribute helped me make it through my internship. It is true, we cannot teach what we do not know; we cannot give what we do not have. And there are a million things we do not know and another million which we do not have. So every opportunity to learn counts. At Araullo High School where I took my internship, I had students who would ask questions totally unrelated to the topic. Brace yourself. They will test your superhuman powers. One would ask: “Is it true what my father said that the best language teacher for beginners is a talkative person with limited ideas? My father is a lawyer, you know.”
No. 3 Attribute: Love
“Work is love made visible,” according to Kahlil Gibran. This mantra gives a whole new meaning to the popular excuse of the underemployed which is “Love what you do, if you can’t do what you love.” But in our case and I assume, we are doing what we love. However, we cannot choose our Cooperating Teacher. We cannot choose the sections we will be assigned to handle. We cannot choose the students in those sections. But we can choose to love our students, our CT, our co-interns and our off-campus school.
Please, allow me to share with you excerpts from my Narrative Report which I have written as an intern 17 years ago.
“On November 13, the intern was introduced to the classes she was to handle. The students were not new to student-teachers. Thus, some were quite apprehensive. It was perhaps due to their past experiences with other student-teachers. But the intern was out to give marking impressions.
“The intern observed her Cooperating Teacher at work teaching literature and grammar. At both angles, Mrs. Milarita Jacquez was very proficient – unfolding concepts in a way that the intern’s former high school teachers of English never did. Mrs. Jacquez, later on stressed that accuracy is as important as fluency. That teacher should aim for the highest learning outcomes.
“Hard work, perspiration, inspiration, tears, new friends, joy, embarrassment, frustration, despair, pain and cheers conglomerated in this chapter of the Intern’s life.
“She did not expect that teaching was all glory for pain is a mutual enemy at any time. It gives a little light to the obscure idea of life. Yes, there were times when she asked herself why she was there in front of fifty or so strangers, making a fool of herself while those kids acted as if she did not exist. There were times she wanted to walk out of the classroom to never come back. There were times she longed for silence only. But most of the time she choked back all the words she wanted to say and just went on with what she was there for – to teach. Most of the time she just let things be. Most of the time.
“She learned to discipline herself: to work on her lesson plan instead of meeting her friends and watching “A Few Good Men” (translate that to the Twilight Saga of today); to study her lesson instead of watching TV, to check test papers instead of reading her favorite authors; to proofread formal themes instead of writing her own story; to smile when she wanted to frown; to watch her language; to watch her manners; to be like a teacher.
“However, there was one thing she could not learn and that was to go out of the classroom after 40 minutes and not feel guilty of a crime which was her failure to reach out to every one’s capabilities. A teacher, she realized, is not equipped with an extraordinary power to transfer learning like magic to everyone of the fifty or so students within 40 minutes. She has yet so much to learn.”
Those are excerpts from the Narrative Report, dated March 1993, which I submitted to Prof. Alido which she so generously marked 98.
Seventeen years ago, I wrote I have yet so much to learn. Seventeen years later today, I still say I have yet so much to learn. As teachers we are all forever students.
As a Professional Teacher
There is not much difference between a student teacher and a professional teacher except for the following:
1. A professional teacher is a degree graduate and has passed a licensure exam to teach.
2. A professional teacher has a boss who is paid to boss her around.
3. A professional teacher is paid to be bossed around.
Everything else is the same.
As professional teachers, you will realize that being intelligent and hard working will not necessarily make you the best teacher. Intelligence and hard work can make you department heads. But love and patience will make you the best teacher.
And of course, you do know that teaching will not make you rich, don’t you?
How many of you are here because teaching is your childhood dream? (Show of hands, please.)
How many of you are here because someone inspired you, (not coerced or forced, :D ) to become a teacher?
My sincerest appreciation to all those who raised their hands.
How many of you want to become Overseas Filipino Workers?
My sincerest thanks to those who did not raise their hands.
“It is a sorry day for those who cannot see any opportunities where they are but think they can do better somewhere else.” That’s Og Mandino speaking.
This country needs good teachers. Never mind the other things that we lack. People of old learned on the streets, at marketplaces, on mountainside. They didn’t have what we wish we had now – enough classrooms, restrooms, textbooks and computers. But they had great teachers and they survived and built cities and chartered golden years of history.
So, please, stay. And to quote Og Mandino once again, “The opportunity for a better life is available right where you are, right now.” How many of you have read Paolo Coelho’s The Alchemist?
It is a story of a Spanish boy who had a dream of finding hidden treasures in another land. After the long journey and interesting characters and events that brought him new discoveries and wisdom along the way, he discovered, at the end of the journey, that the treasure he dreamed about somewhere else is, in fact, buried and hidden at his own backyard.
My question, therefore, is this. Do we have to travel the world to see that our islands are the most magnificent and our people the most beautiful?
When are we going to be color-sharp instead of color-blind and realize finally that the grass is also green in these tropical islands?
Like what every other Filipino did when Noynoy was proclaimed president-elect in the May 2010 elections, I wrote a letter to Noynoy. I posted it on my blog and I would like to share that letter with you.
Noynoy, Have You Ever Been In Love?
“This supersedes the last Dear Noynoy letter I wrote you.
“I admit the first letter spoke of fear and of doubt on my decision of voting for you. That if you screw up, I may not be able to believe in this democratic exercise again.
“I guess many of those who supported you are as apprehensive. But it is true what Kiko Pangilinan said that GMA leaving Malacanang is having half of the problem solved.
“I read a very good article recently about love of country. That advanced economies in the eastern world have this as foundation of all things in their respective country. I guess that's what you get being in a continent intoxicated with religion (India, to have been the first to be described as such). The Philippines is also intoxicated with religion, but unfortunately here, love of God doesn't always extend to love of countrymen.
“Noynoy, have you ever been in love? As in so in love you can walk on air or water? Celine Dione hits the bull’s eye singing: "Some place that you aint leaving. Somewhere you're gonna stay. When you finally found the meaning. Have you ever felt this way?" That is the kind of love this country needs. The kind of love that will make you stay despite.
“No, we cannot pay our debts with love. No, love alone cannot keep our people fed. No, we cannot move the economy with high stocks on love. No, love alone cannot educate the youth as they deserve.
“But love makes us compassionate. Love moves us to do good, not just to do right. No, I do not expect you to do the right things every time. I only expect you to do what is good for the majority all the time.”
As a Teacher of Professionals
In 2007, I was lucky to be named as Informatics Philippines' Employee of the Year from among hundreds of employees nationwide. In 2008, I was chosen as the Manager of the Year from among high-profile managers with impeccable education background and impressive work experience.
So, how does one become an Employee of the Year for two consecutive years? If you have been listening closely since the beginning of my speech, I’d like to note that everything I have shared with you was how. Always remember that patience, carpe diem and love are not nouns. They are action words.
As a senior executive, I manage close to a hundred people. If you think classroom management is difficult, I don’t have the words to describe people management. Employees have guaranteed pay every 15th and 30th of the month. They get paid whether or not they perform. They get paid whether or not they report to work, whether late or on time. And as Og Mandino observes, employees begin their daily work functions with reluctance, as late as they can and they end them with joy as early as they can.
Students, on the other hand, get graded based on performance. They don’t get guaranteed passing marks for effort alone. And students give you flowers on Teacher’s Day.
Where I work, intelligence comes cheap. It is credibility that gets high premium. Please, do remember that when you teach.
There are yearly conferences attended by representatives from the academe and business sectors to “bridge the gap” between what graduates learned in school and what the workplace really needs. Do you know what the usual complaints of the business sectors are?
It is the employees’ attitude towards work. No, not their skills or the lack of it. It is absenteeism and tardiness. It is the utter disregard for company rules and regulations. It is the intentional mediocrity at work. It is the lack of self-motivation. It is the guiltless abandonment of work in favor of another that gives higher pay or sign-up bonuses. Please, do remember that when you teach.
And finally --
Teaching requires and mandates patience. Patience makes women beautiful in middle age. Please, do remember that when you teach.
Teaching requires and mandates seizing all opportunities to learn so that we can teach only what we absolutely know and give absolutely what we have. Please, do remember that when you teach.
Teaching requires and mandates that we love selflessly and unequivocally our profession. Because work is not only love made visible. Work is God’s answer to everyone’s “Our Father’s.” Please, do remember that when you teach.
For the past 18 years I have become three types of teacher: First, I was a Student Teacher; second, a Professional Teacher; and third, a Teacher of Professionals.
As a Student Teacher
I had pretty good grades in student teaching. In Education 7 (Preservice Practicum I – Student Teaching), I was given a grade of 90 by my Supervising Instructor, Ms. Pearlie Lucy Agnes Pascua of the Lab School. In Education 8 (Preservice Practicum II – Internship), Prof. Alido gave me 95. You may ask, did those grades give me any Latin Honors? No. But the experience helped me develop attributes which I still possess to this day.
No. 1 Attribute: Patience.
In Education 7, we were tasked to log ALL our activities every hour every day of our duties; breaks included. The logbook recorded time, activities, remarks and insights.
In the logbook, I chronicled everything – comments, criticisms, suggestions, petty observations, complaints, praises, fears, doubts, expectations, despair, plans and aspirations. In my logbook, I wrote about my SI, my co-student teachers, the students, the Lab School management, the classrooms, the restrooms, the library, the auxiliary service, the prayer rally for Ormoc victims, and believe it or not, even about former Senator Erap Estrada when he was invited to celebrate “Linggo Ng Mag-Anak” here at the College Auditorium, on December 5, 1991 between 10:40 and 11:30 AM. Sen. Estrada said that society’s well-being begins in the family. How do I still remember? I still have the logbook with me – now yellow, not because of Pres. Noynoy Aquino but because of its 18 years of existence.
Have patience with the details and you will conquer the devil.
The idea of putting everything in the logbook seemed trivial to me 18 years ago but when I returned to it and read it a few months ago, I was very happy I took it seriously and patiently. My grandchildren will love to read it. If I ever get to have grandchildren.
But patience has its limits. Take it too far and its cowardice. That’s according to an American convict I’d rather not name. So let’s seize the moment.
No. 2 Attribute: Carpe Diem
This is one of the many principles I learned from my favorite Doctor Venancio Mendiola of the College of Language and Linguistics. There seemed to be not enough time. There was always something that we needed to read to analyze and synthesize and critique. And there was no Internet. And how I thank God there was no Internet during my time in college! Without the Internet, we learned how to do real, hardcore research. The newly built and very posh PNU Library was too small for us. We would go to the DLSU Library then to the British Council then to the National Library to do our research all in one afternoon. No, we didn’t just photocopy, we actually read ALL of them because a single reference for one topic was an insult to our teachers. I’d rather die than let Dr. Mendiola know I failed read the thousand books he asked us to read. Sleep was a very rare commodity especially if you were a student teacher and a working student at the same time like I was. I seized every non-working, non-school waking hour to read and study. As if there was no tomorrow.
This attribute helped me make it through my internship. It is true, we cannot teach what we do not know; we cannot give what we do not have. And there are a million things we do not know and another million which we do not have. So every opportunity to learn counts. At Araullo High School where I took my internship, I had students who would ask questions totally unrelated to the topic. Brace yourself. They will test your superhuman powers. One would ask: “Is it true what my father said that the best language teacher for beginners is a talkative person with limited ideas? My father is a lawyer, you know.”
No. 3 Attribute: Love
“Work is love made visible,” according to Kahlil Gibran. This mantra gives a whole new meaning to the popular excuse of the underemployed which is “Love what you do, if you can’t do what you love.” But in our case and I assume, we are doing what we love. However, we cannot choose our Cooperating Teacher. We cannot choose the sections we will be assigned to handle. We cannot choose the students in those sections. But we can choose to love our students, our CT, our co-interns and our off-campus school.
Please, allow me to share with you excerpts from my Narrative Report which I have written as an intern 17 years ago.
“On November 13, the intern was introduced to the classes she was to handle. The students were not new to student-teachers. Thus, some were quite apprehensive. It was perhaps due to their past experiences with other student-teachers. But the intern was out to give marking impressions.
“The intern observed her Cooperating Teacher at work teaching literature and grammar. At both angles, Mrs. Milarita Jacquez was very proficient – unfolding concepts in a way that the intern’s former high school teachers of English never did. Mrs. Jacquez, later on stressed that accuracy is as important as fluency. That teacher should aim for the highest learning outcomes.
“Hard work, perspiration, inspiration, tears, new friends, joy, embarrassment, frustration, despair, pain and cheers conglomerated in this chapter of the Intern’s life.
“She did not expect that teaching was all glory for pain is a mutual enemy at any time. It gives a little light to the obscure idea of life. Yes, there were times when she asked herself why she was there in front of fifty or so strangers, making a fool of herself while those kids acted as if she did not exist. There were times she wanted to walk out of the classroom to never come back. There were times she longed for silence only. But most of the time she choked back all the words she wanted to say and just went on with what she was there for – to teach. Most of the time she just let things be. Most of the time.
“She learned to discipline herself: to work on her lesson plan instead of meeting her friends and watching “A Few Good Men” (translate that to the Twilight Saga of today); to study her lesson instead of watching TV, to check test papers instead of reading her favorite authors; to proofread formal themes instead of writing her own story; to smile when she wanted to frown; to watch her language; to watch her manners; to be like a teacher.
“However, there was one thing she could not learn and that was to go out of the classroom after 40 minutes and not feel guilty of a crime which was her failure to reach out to every one’s capabilities. A teacher, she realized, is not equipped with an extraordinary power to transfer learning like magic to everyone of the fifty or so students within 40 minutes. She has yet so much to learn.”
Those are excerpts from the Narrative Report, dated March 1993, which I submitted to Prof. Alido which she so generously marked 98.
Seventeen years ago, I wrote I have yet so much to learn. Seventeen years later today, I still say I have yet so much to learn. As teachers we are all forever students.
As a Professional Teacher
There is not much difference between a student teacher and a professional teacher except for the following:
1. A professional teacher is a degree graduate and has passed a licensure exam to teach.
2. A professional teacher has a boss who is paid to boss her around.
3. A professional teacher is paid to be bossed around.
Everything else is the same.
As professional teachers, you will realize that being intelligent and hard working will not necessarily make you the best teacher. Intelligence and hard work can make you department heads. But love and patience will make you the best teacher.
And of course, you do know that teaching will not make you rich, don’t you?
How many of you are here because teaching is your childhood dream? (Show of hands, please.)
How many of you are here because someone inspired you, (not coerced or forced, :D ) to become a teacher?
My sincerest appreciation to all those who raised their hands.
How many of you want to become Overseas Filipino Workers?
My sincerest thanks to those who did not raise their hands.
“It is a sorry day for those who cannot see any opportunities where they are but think they can do better somewhere else.” That’s Og Mandino speaking.
This country needs good teachers. Never mind the other things that we lack. People of old learned on the streets, at marketplaces, on mountainside. They didn’t have what we wish we had now – enough classrooms, restrooms, textbooks and computers. But they had great teachers and they survived and built cities and chartered golden years of history.
So, please, stay. And to quote Og Mandino once again, “The opportunity for a better life is available right where you are, right now.” How many of you have read Paolo Coelho’s The Alchemist?
It is a story of a Spanish boy who had a dream of finding hidden treasures in another land. After the long journey and interesting characters and events that brought him new discoveries and wisdom along the way, he discovered, at the end of the journey, that the treasure he dreamed about somewhere else is, in fact, buried and hidden at his own backyard.
My question, therefore, is this. Do we have to travel the world to see that our islands are the most magnificent and our people the most beautiful?
When are we going to be color-sharp instead of color-blind and realize finally that the grass is also green in these tropical islands?
Like what every other Filipino did when Noynoy was proclaimed president-elect in the May 2010 elections, I wrote a letter to Noynoy. I posted it on my blog and I would like to share that letter with you.
Noynoy, Have You Ever Been In Love?
“This supersedes the last Dear Noynoy letter I wrote you.
“I admit the first letter spoke of fear and of doubt on my decision of voting for you. That if you screw up, I may not be able to believe in this democratic exercise again.
“I guess many of those who supported you are as apprehensive. But it is true what Kiko Pangilinan said that GMA leaving Malacanang is having half of the problem solved.
“I read a very good article recently about love of country. That advanced economies in the eastern world have this as foundation of all things in their respective country. I guess that's what you get being in a continent intoxicated with religion (India, to have been the first to be described as such). The Philippines is also intoxicated with religion, but unfortunately here, love of God doesn't always extend to love of countrymen.
“Noynoy, have you ever been in love? As in so in love you can walk on air or water? Celine Dione hits the bull’s eye singing: "Some place that you aint leaving. Somewhere you're gonna stay. When you finally found the meaning. Have you ever felt this way?" That is the kind of love this country needs. The kind of love that will make you stay despite.
“No, we cannot pay our debts with love. No, love alone cannot keep our people fed. No, we cannot move the economy with high stocks on love. No, love alone cannot educate the youth as they deserve.
“But love makes us compassionate. Love moves us to do good, not just to do right. No, I do not expect you to do the right things every time. I only expect you to do what is good for the majority all the time.”
As a Teacher of Professionals
In 2007, I was lucky to be named as Informatics Philippines' Employee of the Year from among hundreds of employees nationwide. In 2008, I was chosen as the Manager of the Year from among high-profile managers with impeccable education background and impressive work experience.
So, how does one become an Employee of the Year for two consecutive years? If you have been listening closely since the beginning of my speech, I’d like to note that everything I have shared with you was how. Always remember that patience, carpe diem and love are not nouns. They are action words.
As a senior executive, I manage close to a hundred people. If you think classroom management is difficult, I don’t have the words to describe people management. Employees have guaranteed pay every 15th and 30th of the month. They get paid whether or not they perform. They get paid whether or not they report to work, whether late or on time. And as Og Mandino observes, employees begin their daily work functions with reluctance, as late as they can and they end them with joy as early as they can.
Students, on the other hand, get graded based on performance. They don’t get guaranteed passing marks for effort alone. And students give you flowers on Teacher’s Day.
Where I work, intelligence comes cheap. It is credibility that gets high premium. Please, do remember that when you teach.
There are yearly conferences attended by representatives from the academe and business sectors to “bridge the gap” between what graduates learned in school and what the workplace really needs. Do you know what the usual complaints of the business sectors are?
It is the employees’ attitude towards work. No, not their skills or the lack of it. It is absenteeism and tardiness. It is the utter disregard for company rules and regulations. It is the intentional mediocrity at work. It is the lack of self-motivation. It is the guiltless abandonment of work in favor of another that gives higher pay or sign-up bonuses. Please, do remember that when you teach.
And finally --
Teaching requires and mandates patience. Patience makes women beautiful in middle age. Please, do remember that when you teach.
Teaching requires and mandates seizing all opportunities to learn so that we can teach only what we absolutely know and give absolutely what we have. Please, do remember that when you teach.
Teaching requires and mandates that we love selflessly and unequivocally our profession. Because work is not only love made visible. Work is God’s answer to everyone’s “Our Father’s.” Please, do remember that when you teach.
As I Lay Dying
One can't talk about death while she is seriously dying. She will be too busy either worrying about life after death or the lack of it or thanking the Lord that the end is near and the beginning nearer.
But death is not always physical. Death comes in every loss. Any loss. Death comes with pain,too. Almost all of the time.
As I lay dying refusing to think of the why's of my decisions, the mistakes brought about by my actions, I let everything fall freely to crush me. I don't believe in fighting death. I believe in acceptance. No, not abandonment, but the sweet surrender to the inevitable.
It is over. What is there to analyze?
(Dear Faulkner, please, forgive me.)
But death is not always physical. Death comes in every loss. Any loss. Death comes with pain,too. Almost all of the time.
As I lay dying refusing to think of the why's of my decisions, the mistakes brought about by my actions, I let everything fall freely to crush me. I don't believe in fighting death. I believe in acceptance. No, not abandonment, but the sweet surrender to the inevitable.
It is over. What is there to analyze?
(Dear Faulkner, please, forgive me.)
Random Thoughts Ba 'Ka Mo?
Not one less. Chinese film about teaching and education. Mga Munting Tinig. Ferris Bueller's Day Off.
Nape aches.
Heavy rains caught my room unprepared. Open Windows = Soaked curtains, bed sheets and pillows.
Salem bed isn't waterproof.
My most recent Ex- requested me to add him as a friend. Ako naman si tanga, in-add s'ya!
At 41, someone died of cardiac arrest at 5 AM and was cremated at 2 PM the same day. WTF!! Didn't he have friends? Family? Did he actually live?
Robin Padilla almost got himself married to Vina Morales, but he got someone else pregnant so he married the latter instead. Very news worthy indeed!
Nape aches.
Heavy rains caught my room unprepared. Open Windows = Soaked curtains, bed sheets and pillows.
Salem bed isn't waterproof.
My most recent Ex- requested me to add him as a friend. Ako naman si tanga, in-add s'ya!
At 41, someone died of cardiac arrest at 5 AM and was cremated at 2 PM the same day. WTF!! Didn't he have friends? Family? Did he actually live?
Robin Padilla almost got himself married to Vina Morales, but he got someone else pregnant so he married the latter instead. Very news worthy indeed!
On Steinbeck, Mandino and Other College Dropouts
"John Steinbeck had once said when a friend of his, upon reading a just completed chapter of The Grapes of Wrath, told John that his punctuation was terrible and his spelling was worse. Steinbeck smiled and nodded and said he didn't worry very much about either of those skills. He knew his publisher had a roomful of college kids who got paid (1936) forty dollars a week to correct spelling and punctuation but he doubted if any of them could have written Of Mice and Men." - Og Mandino
Steinbeck didn't finish a college degree, neither did Mandino. And a battalion successful others.
I wonder why all the fuss about building classrooms when we can learn more outside of them.
Steinbeck didn't finish a college degree, neither did Mandino. And a battalion successful others.
I wonder why all the fuss about building classrooms when we can learn more outside of them.
The Virgin Hours
Commuting to Eastwood for work, early as usual because everything doesn't need to change simply because now I contribute to foot traffic and not to road chaos, I find bliss arriving early and walking in the soft sunlight of the morning - one with the early risers and shop openers and delivery van drivers and delivery boys and street sweepers. The peaceful rhythmn of the mopping of floors without the boss looking. The contentment in the heart shining through the middle-aged man's face while unloading cases of beer from the truck. The cheerful swishing of water on the pavement as the utility man cleans the outdoors of the bar by the park.
When will people of metropolis discover this beauty? When will the executives and housewives and businessmen stop frowning over traffic, cursing road freaks each morning they can't control EDSA?
The world is beautiful in the morning, the virgin hours of the day. The gift it brings to life is life's gift to us. And I thank God I am humbled.
Here I am going Villa-esque again.
When will people of metropolis discover this beauty? When will the executives and housewives and businessmen stop frowning over traffic, cursing road freaks each morning they can't control EDSA?
The world is beautiful in the morning, the virgin hours of the day. The gift it brings to life is life's gift to us. And I thank God I am humbled.
Here I am going Villa-esque again.
txm8
Yesterday, I was riding a jeepney to Alabang. I was seated at the rear of the PUV. From across me were two women, late twenty-ish, giggling like girls in their puberty. For two minutes, I ignored them. Surely, I also had my i-forgot-i-was-old-and-no-longer-a-teen moments. So I let live for two effortless minutes. Then the giggling went from intriguing to annoying to infuriating. A high school girl to my right was deadpan. Sigh.
I looked at the women to show them they were not pretty acting pretty. Then I got it. They were flirting with this guy in a gray sedan following the jeepney. Then the giggles shot up to the sky. The sedan driver (whom I couldn't see from where I sat) wrote his mobile number on a cardboard and flashed it on his windshield to the giggling girls. The girls where like World Cup anchors giving blow by blow accounts of what the man was doing.
One of the girls registered the number on her cellphone under the name "Textmate Kotse." The gray sedan overtook the jeepney. The girls started texting.
And that's how the cookie crumbles.
I looked at the women to show them they were not pretty acting pretty. Then I got it. They were flirting with this guy in a gray sedan following the jeepney. Then the giggles shot up to the sky. The sedan driver (whom I couldn't see from where I sat) wrote his mobile number on a cardboard and flashed it on his windshield to the giggling girls. The girls where like World Cup anchors giving blow by blow accounts of what the man was doing.
One of the girls registered the number on her cellphone under the name "Textmate Kotse." The gray sedan overtook the jeepney. The girls started texting.
And that's how the cookie crumbles.
My First
Come to think of it, there are a million firsts that can happen to us as individuals. We can disregard the first kick in our mama's womb and our first wail when we came out of it.
Our mothers can count the first firsts for us, because we care only for the first love, the first kiss, the first time. (Not necessarily in that order.)
After that, the next series of firsts become secondary. The first job, the first pay, the first heartache, the first seething pain you never thought humanly possible.
Then we partake of the petty firsts. The first virgin, the first beer bottle, the first cigarette, the first car drive alone, the first plane ride to the moon.
For the (un)lucky ones, the first wedding, the first child, the first annulment.
Then we meet our first vehicular accident. Mine happened this morning at 6 AM with a jeepney. The old but pretty Civic suffered badly. I suffered numbness. Not of the body but of emotions. I felt nothing. It was nothing. I have waited all these months to shout vindictively at someone, to curse someone with the creative genius of a writer who curses in written color but curses auto-mute in person. But I let Mamang driver go unscathed in words and in deed.
The insignificance of this incident defies the word petty. There are bigger issues in my life that deserve this blog space for introspection. But here I am writing big about a non-issue too small for verbal assault.
Life has gone beyond meaningless I'm using chopsticks to eat cake. Literally now.
Our mothers can count the first firsts for us, because we care only for the first love, the first kiss, the first time. (Not necessarily in that order.)
After that, the next series of firsts become secondary. The first job, the first pay, the first heartache, the first seething pain you never thought humanly possible.
Then we partake of the petty firsts. The first virgin, the first beer bottle, the first cigarette, the first car drive alone, the first plane ride to the moon.
For the (un)lucky ones, the first wedding, the first child, the first annulment.
Then we meet our first vehicular accident. Mine happened this morning at 6 AM with a jeepney. The old but pretty Civic suffered badly. I suffered numbness. Not of the body but of emotions. I felt nothing. It was nothing. I have waited all these months to shout vindictively at someone, to curse someone with the creative genius of a writer who curses in written color but curses auto-mute in person. But I let Mamang driver go unscathed in words and in deed.
The insignificance of this incident defies the word petty. There are bigger issues in my life that deserve this blog space for introspection. But here I am writing big about a non-issue too small for verbal assault.
Life has gone beyond meaningless I'm using chopsticks to eat cake. Literally now.
Already A Man At Two
My barely two-year-old nephew is taught not to cry when hurt. Not when he falls and stumbles. Not when he skins his knee or elbow. Not when he gets himself burned on the arm while playing beside a fresh-from-the-road motorbike. Not when he gets slapped on the bottom for being mischievous. Very early in life, he is taught that boys don't cry. About small stuff.
Indeed what does not make one cry makes one stronger. He can push cases of softdrinks from our front door to the back. And these aren't empty bottles, of course. He can also carry two (2) pet bottles of 1.5 liters of Coke, a bottle in each of his tiny arms; this over a 10-feet distance. And this after pushing a case of Sparkle and carrying four 1.5 pet bottles of Sprite one at a time. He gets bored carrying only a bottle at a time; a 1.5 liter bottle of softdrinks that probably weighs a third of his weight.
No, we don't allow him to do that everyday lest we be sued for child abuse. Oh the things that he finds amusing!
But he weeps when there is thunder and his Didi and Mimi are not around, shouting at the top of his lungs their names, asking them to come home. He weeps when his Miming and Mama Miming are growled at by Kunot. He weeps when you tease him by taking away his Buhbob pillow or his Buhbob shirt or his Buhbob cap or his Buhbob slee.
Tomorrow, Sheesha (as he calls himself) turns two.
How many 30-year old men can top that?
Indeed what does not make one cry makes one stronger. He can push cases of softdrinks from our front door to the back. And these aren't empty bottles, of course. He can also carry two (2) pet bottles of 1.5 liters of Coke, a bottle in each of his tiny arms; this over a 10-feet distance. And this after pushing a case of Sparkle and carrying four 1.5 pet bottles of Sprite one at a time. He gets bored carrying only a bottle at a time; a 1.5 liter bottle of softdrinks that probably weighs a third of his weight.
No, we don't allow him to do that everyday lest we be sued for child abuse. Oh the things that he finds amusing!
But he weeps when there is thunder and his Didi and Mimi are not around, shouting at the top of his lungs their names, asking them to come home. He weeps when his Miming and Mama Miming are growled at by Kunot. He weeps when you tease him by taking away his Buhbob pillow or his Buhbob shirt or his Buhbob cap or his Buhbob slee.
Tomorrow, Sheesha (as he calls himself) turns two.
How many 30-year old men can top that?
Food Poisoning, Eclipse and Catharsis
I got food poisoned last week and went to Asian Hospital two days later. I wouldn't have gone to the hospital had my friend from the office not dragged me almost literally to it. I'm good now, although, still semi-dehydrated. I drink Gatorade instead of coffee in the morning. I also take Hydrite dissolved in water at meal time. I'm still weak and have muscle pain here and there; a little numbing of the hands during my waking hours. But I will live.
While waiting for the hundred lab test results (three vials of blood needled out of me in one go! No way I'd ever donate blood!) last Friday and for me to consult with the doctor again, I decided to go watch bloody Eclipse. Alone. What would have I done? Watch the KC-Gabby-Jericho movie instead? Of the dozen cinemas at Festival Mall, only 3 weren't showing Eclipse. I wouldn't want to watch Toy Story 3 alone. That would be way too sad. Besides, I plan to watch it with my nephews.
A lot of digitally enhanced and beautified people who can't act. "You know, I'm hotter than you," said a male character to another male. WTF? Did I just miss that line in the book? The tent scene reeked of Brokeback. Now I get what a review meant by it. Two males with a frozen female in the middle. And the men discussing "hotness" - to each other.
And the vampires who died where marble-like when their body parts were severed in battle. If the Cullens are anything like them, from where do their body fluids come - Rosalie's tears, Edward's kiss juices and that other liquid when he finally succumbs to the call of the flesh? Answer: Suspend your disbelief. Just enjoy the eye candies. Ugh!
This is the movie that broke all-time midnight showing box office records! Whatever that means.
But if there's any consolation, the movie is pure cathartic. Imagine a tragedy that befalls vampires despite beauty, strength, power and wealth. Our little every day crisis seems childish and teenish in comparison. OK, my litt crit prof has just shot me.
While waiting for the hundred lab test results (three vials of blood needled out of me in one go! No way I'd ever donate blood!) last Friday and for me to consult with the doctor again, I decided to go watch bloody Eclipse. Alone. What would have I done? Watch the KC-Gabby-Jericho movie instead? Of the dozen cinemas at Festival Mall, only 3 weren't showing Eclipse. I wouldn't want to watch Toy Story 3 alone. That would be way too sad. Besides, I plan to watch it with my nephews.
A lot of digitally enhanced and beautified people who can't act. "You know, I'm hotter than you," said a male character to another male. WTF? Did I just miss that line in the book? The tent scene reeked of Brokeback. Now I get what a review meant by it. Two males with a frozen female in the middle. And the men discussing "hotness" - to each other.
And the vampires who died where marble-like when their body parts were severed in battle. If the Cullens are anything like them, from where do their body fluids come - Rosalie's tears, Edward's kiss juices and that other liquid when he finally succumbs to the call of the flesh? Answer: Suspend your disbelief. Just enjoy the eye candies. Ugh!
This is the movie that broke all-time midnight showing box office records! Whatever that means.
But if there's any consolation, the movie is pure cathartic. Imagine a tragedy that befalls vampires despite beauty, strength, power and wealth. Our little every day crisis seems childish and teenish in comparison. OK, my litt crit prof has just shot me.
Crabs and Turncoats
July 3, 2010
it's day 4 and i'm still not disappointed. never mind the wangwang. people are awed by it. if you are to believe interviews, commuters and drivers with whom he shares the road feel great about it. why rain on other people's parade? i'd give away 10 grande cups of latte decaf to share EDSA with him. (kaso kadalasan hanggang alabang lang ako at kung luluwas man sa C5 ang daan.) if he dies in EDSA (which I doubt), then we can rename it to PNOY. our premier international airport is named after his father who died at the tarmac. we may as well name after him the country's most popular and historical highway if he does die there being too chivalrous and all. but this is morbid. people ought to stop being pessimistic. people die even in their sleep, haven't you heard?
a lot of intelligent people say noynoy shouldn't have appointed this person to this post. and that he should have named this person to this department instead. guess, what. why not try to win a landslide election first then you do what you think is right. you can even tell the people you're my chief, instead of saying you're my boss.
a lot of turncoats in the government? i'm telling you, there are more crabs in this country than there are turncoats in the cabinet.
it's day 4 and i'm still not disappointed. never mind the wangwang. people are awed by it. if you are to believe interviews, commuters and drivers with whom he shares the road feel great about it. why rain on other people's parade? i'd give away 10 grande cups of latte decaf to share EDSA with him. (kaso kadalasan hanggang alabang lang ako at kung luluwas man sa C5 ang daan.) if he dies in EDSA (which I doubt), then we can rename it to PNOY. our premier international airport is named after his father who died at the tarmac. we may as well name after him the country's most popular and historical highway if he does die there being too chivalrous and all. but this is morbid. people ought to stop being pessimistic. people die even in their sleep, haven't you heard?
a lot of intelligent people say noynoy shouldn't have appointed this person to this post. and that he should have named this person to this department instead. guess, what. why not try to win a landslide election first then you do what you think is right. you can even tell the people you're my chief, instead of saying you're my boss.
a lot of turncoats in the government? i'm telling you, there are more crabs in this country than there are turncoats in the cabinet.
Palengke People
I, being a promdi, have known and seen the innards of a public market at a very young age. My mother used to take us three kids to palengke where she sold paper bags to her "suking" rice dealers. We used to make them out of empty cement bags that father used to take home from work. Mother would religiously clean the uncut cement bags and cut out patterns and fold and mold the bags. We kids helped in pasting the cutouts together using glue that mother made from gawgaw. That was our pre-school education.
Today, I have no qualms having goto and lumpiang prito in a karinderya inside a palengke. I've never minded sharing the long bench with kargadors and tricycle drivers. That alone is an experience I carry like a badge of honor. Yesterday, a skinny boy bought spaghetti "yung walang hotdog" and dared someone to gawk at him. A granny bought guinatan and ate only saba and kamote and left everything else in the bowl.
Oh, the market place is heaven on earth where people call me "Nene" or "Ineng" where I am usually mistaken for a 17-year old. And when I'm lucky, Manang Tindera would call me "Ganda" without the prefix "Vice," of course.
Palengke is a place where brands don't matter. You walk the wet and slightly muddy floor where your Ipanema usually gets stepped on by either Sunbeach or God forbid, real bakya ni Manang! You may wear a tattered souvenir shirt from Boy and Zeny hardware store without people staring at you drilling into your head: "What the hell you thinking looking like a rug?"
Of course, I get extra finger chilis, tomato, onion, some shrimp and everything I bought with extra something with it. I'm not one shameless "tawad" queen, but I wear a crown being "dagdag" queen. In my opinion, asking for dagdag is more practical than asking "tawad." Well, do the Math. And by the way, this is from someone who had made a living in palengke at age 4.
At Astrovision in Festival Mall last Friday. A very local looking father and his two little sons were having very strong American English twang-y conversations:
Son 1: What are these, Dad?
Father: Those are VCDs.
Sons 1 and 2: What are VCDs?
Father: DVDs are better.
Sons 1 and 2: (Stared at Dad, stumped.)
Father: (To the sales clerk) Miss, meron ba kayong DVD nito? (Pointing to a VCD.)
Sons 1 and 2: (Start playing "touch me, i pinch you" and run around the store. Grrr!)
And we want to trust sex education to today's parents? They can't even explain what VCDs are to their kids! "DVD's are better"? Pray, tell them what VCDs are first and then what makes DVDs better! And the kids were asking what VCDs are, not what DVDs are, deymit!
And the kids? Aren't kids supposed to ask follow up questions? I remember my siblings when they were kids. They would ask a hundred questions until they were satisfied with the answer.
I pity the sons of this DVD man. Children who don't ask tons of follow up questions are raised poorly. Methinks.
I therefore conclude, palengke people are better.
Today, I have no qualms having goto and lumpiang prito in a karinderya inside a palengke. I've never minded sharing the long bench with kargadors and tricycle drivers. That alone is an experience I carry like a badge of honor. Yesterday, a skinny boy bought spaghetti "yung walang hotdog" and dared someone to gawk at him. A granny bought guinatan and ate only saba and kamote and left everything else in the bowl.
Oh, the market place is heaven on earth where people call me "Nene" or "Ineng" where I am usually mistaken for a 17-year old. And when I'm lucky, Manang Tindera would call me "Ganda" without the prefix "Vice," of course.
Palengke is a place where brands don't matter. You walk the wet and slightly muddy floor where your Ipanema usually gets stepped on by either Sunbeach or God forbid, real bakya ni Manang! You may wear a tattered souvenir shirt from Boy and Zeny hardware store without people staring at you drilling into your head: "What the hell you thinking looking like a rug?"
Of course, I get extra finger chilis, tomato, onion, some shrimp and everything I bought with extra something with it. I'm not one shameless "tawad" queen, but I wear a crown being "dagdag" queen. In my opinion, asking for dagdag is more practical than asking "tawad." Well, do the Math. And by the way, this is from someone who had made a living in palengke at age 4.
At Astrovision in Festival Mall last Friday. A very local looking father and his two little sons were having very strong American English twang-y conversations:
Son 1: What are these, Dad?
Father: Those are VCDs.
Sons 1 and 2: What are VCDs?
Father: DVDs are better.
Sons 1 and 2: (Stared at Dad, stumped.)
Father: (To the sales clerk) Miss, meron ba kayong DVD nito? (Pointing to a VCD.)
Sons 1 and 2: (Start playing "touch me, i pinch you" and run around the store. Grrr!)
And we want to trust sex education to today's parents? They can't even explain what VCDs are to their kids! "DVD's are better"? Pray, tell them what VCDs are first and then what makes DVDs better! And the kids were asking what VCDs are, not what DVDs are, deymit!
And the kids? Aren't kids supposed to ask follow up questions? I remember my siblings when they were kids. They would ask a hundred questions until they were satisfied with the answer.
I pity the sons of this DVD man. Children who don't ask tons of follow up questions are raised poorly. Methinks.
I therefore conclude, palengke people are better.
Beautiful Sunday
Done with my weekly laundry. Just had breakfast. Having a mug of hot weekend taho. Sunshine as far as the mountaintop. Light breeze on leaves of mango trees. Beautiful Sunday.
My dog sleeping at the foot of the bed. Nephews running, giggling bringing shame to musical instruments. Neighbors engaging in friendly banter at the store. Beautiful Sunday.
Now I wonder why I had days worrying about money. And love life. And work. And the world.
It will do me good to remember days that don't need fancy occasions nor posh environs to be beautiful. Days that don't need to be red-lettered to humble the holidays.
Well, all Sundays are red-lettered. It will do a lot of good to the world, if everyone celebrates this weekly holiday. Simply as if it were the first weekend of the creation!
My dog sleeping at the foot of the bed. Nephews running, giggling bringing shame to musical instruments. Neighbors engaging in friendly banter at the store. Beautiful Sunday.
Now I wonder why I had days worrying about money. And love life. And work. And the world.
It will do me good to remember days that don't need fancy occasions nor posh environs to be beautiful. Days that don't need to be red-lettered to humble the holidays.
Well, all Sundays are red-lettered. It will do a lot of good to the world, if everyone celebrates this weekly holiday. Simply as if it were the first weekend of the creation!
Poetic Justice
Jesse and Bunso are dead.
Jesse was a gunman in the Ampatuan Massacre and would-be star witness against the main culprits; Bunso, a robbery and homicide suspect. Now, both are dead.
Jesse was gunned down in Maguindanao by an unidentified gunman whose motives "were still unclear" to the police. He died June 14 and the blotter said it was just another case of killing, like a case of neighbors fighting over a branch of a tree trespassing to another fence. That's how killing in Maguindanao has become, petty and mundane.
Bunso got himself identified via a closed circuit television (CCTV). He was one of the riding-in-tandem suspects in the robbery and killing of a marine engineer on June 17. He was arrested last Tuesday. I even saw him on the evening news denying the allegations. Two days later he underwent inquest proceedings. On his way back to the police station and he, handcuffed and escorted by three armed policemen, allegedly tried to grab the gun of one of them. Yes, he in handcuffs. For that, he received three gun shots in the head. And died.
Are these two cases a matter of poetic justice? Later, when I'm stripped of my humanity, I will decide.
But what I'm sure of is that both Jesse and Bunso were once children. They had mothers. They fell in love. They once dreamed of somethihng big. They once prayed. They were once told not to steal candies or to be quiet for someone was asleep.
No, none of the two killings is poetically just. And I don't need to lose my humanity to know that.
Jesse was a gunman in the Ampatuan Massacre and would-be star witness against the main culprits; Bunso, a robbery and homicide suspect. Now, both are dead.
Jesse was gunned down in Maguindanao by an unidentified gunman whose motives "were still unclear" to the police. He died June 14 and the blotter said it was just another case of killing, like a case of neighbors fighting over a branch of a tree trespassing to another fence. That's how killing in Maguindanao has become, petty and mundane.
Bunso got himself identified via a closed circuit television (CCTV). He was one of the riding-in-tandem suspects in the robbery and killing of a marine engineer on June 17. He was arrested last Tuesday. I even saw him on the evening news denying the allegations. Two days later he underwent inquest proceedings. On his way back to the police station and he, handcuffed and escorted by three armed policemen, allegedly tried to grab the gun of one of them. Yes, he in handcuffs. For that, he received three gun shots in the head. And died.
Are these two cases a matter of poetic justice? Later, when I'm stripped of my humanity, I will decide.
But what I'm sure of is that both Jesse and Bunso were once children. They had mothers. They fell in love. They once dreamed of somethihng big. They once prayed. They were once told not to steal candies or to be quiet for someone was asleep.
No, none of the two killings is poetically just. And I don't need to lose my humanity to know that.
The First Sex
No, it isn't the loss of innocense. It is the men. The Second Sex being us, women. "The Second Sex" as a term for women was introduced in a book of the same title by Simone de Beauvoir, a leading French feminist, who was also the lover of Jean Paul Sartre, the great existentialist. Sigh. Their conversations must have been oh so much better than sex.
No, de Beauvoir and Sartre were never married to each other. Sartre, though, was legally bound to another. But Simone thinks of marriage as "The curse which lies upon marriage is that too often the individuals are joined in their weakness rather than in their strength, each asking from the other instead of finding pleasure in giving. It is even more deceptive to dream of gaining through the child a plenitude, a warmth, a value, which one is unable to create for oneself; the child brings joy only to the woman who is capable of disinterestedly desiring the happiness of another, to one who without being wrapped up in self seeks to transcend her own existence.”
And that "one is not born a woman, one becomes one," de Beauvoir said. So what was I after my mother had successfully delivered me into this world? A bag of bones, a pound of flesh and a bottle of blood collectively known as an un-gendered "baby"? Come on, Simone! What the hell are you talking about? Do you mean "woman" is a title that one earns like CEO or General or Bitch or Jerk? Can't it be inherited like that of a King or Queen or Prince or Princess? Or by virtue of our make, our differences more than similarities, can't we, by default, call ourselves either a man or a woman? Or do we call all people with vagina "girls" until they earn a doctorate degree in womanhood? I hate feminism. Come on, Simone, why don't I introduce you to Shakespeare. What's in a name?
Now, let's talk about the first sex.
No, de Beauvoir and Sartre were never married to each other. Sartre, though, was legally bound to another. But Simone thinks of marriage as "The curse which lies upon marriage is that too often the individuals are joined in their weakness rather than in their strength, each asking from the other instead of finding pleasure in giving. It is even more deceptive to dream of gaining through the child a plenitude, a warmth, a value, which one is unable to create for oneself; the child brings joy only to the woman who is capable of disinterestedly desiring the happiness of another, to one who without being wrapped up in self seeks to transcend her own existence.”
And that "one is not born a woman, one becomes one," de Beauvoir said. So what was I after my mother had successfully delivered me into this world? A bag of bones, a pound of flesh and a bottle of blood collectively known as an un-gendered "baby"? Come on, Simone! What the hell are you talking about? Do you mean "woman" is a title that one earns like CEO or General or Bitch or Jerk? Can't it be inherited like that of a King or Queen or Prince or Princess? Or by virtue of our make, our differences more than similarities, can't we, by default, call ourselves either a man or a woman? Or do we call all people with vagina "girls" until they earn a doctorate degree in womanhood? I hate feminism. Come on, Simone, why don't I introduce you to Shakespeare. What's in a name?
Now, let's talk about the first sex.
The Sanctuary Of Padre Pio
It is a place tucked away from the long C5 Road in Libis, a block before one turns right to Eastwood City.
It is one of those places you discover in the midst of corporate chaos and gutter politics. An oasis, if one risks the cliche.
There are no plastic flowers in the main chapel, neither in the smaller ones joined like fingers in one hand. Red roses only, please.
A tiny room allows one to write down prayers. It is where I found myself last Tuesday. 'Twas the first time I put in written words what I would usually speak through my mind. A darkened room, it allows one the power to use one's skill of the hand to write blindly in the dark. And I wrote, blinded by darkness, and lo! through unstoppable torrent of tears. The miracle was in the act. The miracle that atheists and agnostics miss.
Even if there indeed is no God and all was pure concoction of the manipulators of wealth and of human minds, I still count myself sanctified for the seed of faith in something not concretely seen. The faith that allows grace to flow - beauty, kindness, mercy and benevolence all at once.
In a world where every other person tries to save the world from unprecedented "inconvenient truths", from the programmed promiscuity of the youth, from utter lack of propriety and respectability among adults, from the shameless stockpiling of wealth, one is indeed blessed for finding little packages of truth like streaks of sunbeam seeping through thick clouds of a brewing storm.
There simply cannot be no God.
It is one of those places you discover in the midst of corporate chaos and gutter politics. An oasis, if one risks the cliche.
There are no plastic flowers in the main chapel, neither in the smaller ones joined like fingers in one hand. Red roses only, please.
A tiny room allows one to write down prayers. It is where I found myself last Tuesday. 'Twas the first time I put in written words what I would usually speak through my mind. A darkened room, it allows one the power to use one's skill of the hand to write blindly in the dark. And I wrote, blinded by darkness, and lo! through unstoppable torrent of tears. The miracle was in the act. The miracle that atheists and agnostics miss.
Even if there indeed is no God and all was pure concoction of the manipulators of wealth and of human minds, I still count myself sanctified for the seed of faith in something not concretely seen. The faith that allows grace to flow - beauty, kindness, mercy and benevolence all at once.
In a world where every other person tries to save the world from unprecedented "inconvenient truths", from the programmed promiscuity of the youth, from utter lack of propriety and respectability among adults, from the shameless stockpiling of wealth, one is indeed blessed for finding little packages of truth like streaks of sunbeam seeping through thick clouds of a brewing storm.
There simply cannot be no God.
The Second Sex
My colleague has no compunction telling the world that his wife has just been officially named as the President of the Bank she works for. And what bank!
How many men could be as open-minded?
This generation has seen the surge of women doing better than men in the workplace. And we thank the likes of Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath and Simone de Beauvoir for having put forward the cause of women so the second sex could be heard.
We do not compete with the other gender. We just thank heavens that competition is no longer about physical strength.
I've read the Book of Genesis a month ago and finally I have forgiven the men of old for not knowing any better.
How many men could be as open-minded?
This generation has seen the surge of women doing better than men in the workplace. And we thank the likes of Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath and Simone de Beauvoir for having put forward the cause of women so the second sex could be heard.
We do not compete with the other gender. We just thank heavens that competition is no longer about physical strength.
I've read the Book of Genesis a month ago and finally I have forgiven the men of old for not knowing any better.
The Day That Separates The Men From The Boys
It is Father's Day.
An essay in college earned me a perfect score. The essay was about my father.
I know I still have that essay tucked away somewhere for the little mice to discover. But what I remember having written is that I may always talk about my mother but I always write about my father.
Talking about someone is spontaneous, but writing about someone takes more from you.
I never told him he is the best Dad in the world because hard as I rake memories back I can't recall anything spectacular he's done, apart from paving the way for my being born. Perhaps?
My father isn't the best Dad in the world because he isn't perfect. He's got loopholes the way side streets have potholes, manholes and assholes.
His imperfection is classic. A patent for all fathers. He used to womanize, to drink and to go home the next day reeking of alcohol. He used to fight with my mother, albeit in hushed voices. No, he never physically abused her, I'd give him that. No, he never fathered a child other than those he manufactured with my Mom, and we never doubted it.
Father was also a fan of corporal punishments when we were kids. Rubber slippers, buckled belt, dos por dos, and anything than can be had at the time he needed it.
Nevertheless, father isn't so bad. He cooks well and loves to grow plants in the backyard. When I was but five years old he would take me to movies, just us on a date. We would also go shopping with the family every other weekend.
Father never voiced out his regrets about having a daughter for a firstborn. I made sure to make him proud every which way possible. And he never complained.
At 64, he is in the pink of health. Save for seasonal complaints of aching joints, he is as strong as he was in his 30s. He can still climb trees and cut them. He can bend his back the whole morning tending to his little garden. This morning he sharpened knives and axes and saws and cut wood for outdoor cooking. He also fixes the roof when it leaks and hammers and repairs what needs repairing.
Father is no longer the fascistic Dad he once was. My nephews call him Tati and he at their beck and call. And he works his way to being the Best Lolo in the World.
On the 24th of the month, Father turns 65.
Going 65, he is starting to be the perfect Dad in the world.
Happy Father's Day, Tatay!
An essay in college earned me a perfect score. The essay was about my father.
I know I still have that essay tucked away somewhere for the little mice to discover. But what I remember having written is that I may always talk about my mother but I always write about my father.
Talking about someone is spontaneous, but writing about someone takes more from you.
I never told him he is the best Dad in the world because hard as I rake memories back I can't recall anything spectacular he's done, apart from paving the way for my being born. Perhaps?
My father isn't the best Dad in the world because he isn't perfect. He's got loopholes the way side streets have potholes, manholes and assholes.
His imperfection is classic. A patent for all fathers. He used to womanize, to drink and to go home the next day reeking of alcohol. He used to fight with my mother, albeit in hushed voices. No, he never physically abused her, I'd give him that. No, he never fathered a child other than those he manufactured with my Mom, and we never doubted it.
Father was also a fan of corporal punishments when we were kids. Rubber slippers, buckled belt, dos por dos, and anything than can be had at the time he needed it.
Nevertheless, father isn't so bad. He cooks well and loves to grow plants in the backyard. When I was but five years old he would take me to movies, just us on a date. We would also go shopping with the family every other weekend.
Father never voiced out his regrets about having a daughter for a firstborn. I made sure to make him proud every which way possible. And he never complained.
At 64, he is in the pink of health. Save for seasonal complaints of aching joints, he is as strong as he was in his 30s. He can still climb trees and cut them. He can bend his back the whole morning tending to his little garden. This morning he sharpened knives and axes and saws and cut wood for outdoor cooking. He also fixes the roof when it leaks and hammers and repairs what needs repairing.
Father is no longer the fascistic Dad he once was. My nephews call him Tati and he at their beck and call. And he works his way to being the Best Lolo in the World.
On the 24th of the month, Father turns 65.
Going 65, he is starting to be the perfect Dad in the world.
Happy Father's Day, Tatay!
Buhay Baryo Versus Buhay Condo
magandang umaga! ginising ako ng huni ng mga kuliglig na sinabayan ng pagtahol ng aso ng kapitbahay. pero ngayon mas umiibabaw ang huni ng mga ibon. at paminsan-minsan, binabasag ang local color experience ng pagharurot ng motorsiklo. ines!
mabuti na lang umulan ng mga nakalipas na araw. lahat ng puno sa likod bahay ay kulay matingkad na berde na naman! pati ang bundok na tanaw ko berde rin. ito ang dahilan kung bakit hindi ko maipagpalit ang buhay baryo sa buhay condo. hindi ko siguro kasasanayan na gumising na ang nakikita ay puro dingding, tuktok ng building, kalsada at pinilit na lush green environment ng condo developer.
pero mas maganda ang umaga noong bata pa kami. sa umaga, bukod sa huni ng ibon, higanteng puno ng mangga, mga pula at dilaw na gumamela, nagigising kami sa bango at halimuyak ng sampaguita! 'yong tipong galing pa sa puno ng namumukadkad pa lang na sampaguita. kapag panahon naman ng anihan, ibang klase din, amoy dayami at pinipig ang paligid. san ka pa?
kamakailan lang pumunta si al gore at nagpaliwanag sa isang convention on the environment tungkol sa sinasabi niyang inconvenient truth. mula sa kinauupuan ko hindi ko maramdaman ang kanyang doomsday scenario. pero naniniwala ako na bawat isa sa atin may pakialam sa nangyayari sa kalikasan. basta ang nanay ko, hindi nakakalimutang magwalis at magdilig sa bakuran. ang tatay ko naman walang tigil sa kakukutingting sa mga puno at halaman.
natatawa lang ako sa ibang senior citizen sa paligid na imbes mag-ayos at mag-imis ng bakuran, hayun, nagdya-jogging sa may southwoods. sabagay may mga kasambahay naman silang tagalinis ng bahay. walang pakialamanan!
pero sandali lang, wala na nga pala silang likod bahay dahil nagpa-extend sila ng bahay kaya wala ng natirang lupang pagtatamnan. ang mga tao talaga, iba't iba ang priorities.
basta kami, kahit maliit ang bahay, marami naman kaming puno sa paligid. at eto pa, pwede kang magkabit ng duyan sa hapon sa likod bahay. doon ako natutulog o nagbabasa 'pag weekend. panalo! promding-promdi!
may bunga na naman ang langka at saging. sana lang, mabuhay na uli ang malunggay. lagi na lang kaming nanghihingi ng dahon kay aling tinay!
linggo pala ngayon. saan kaya ako magsisimba?
mabuti na lang umulan ng mga nakalipas na araw. lahat ng puno sa likod bahay ay kulay matingkad na berde na naman! pati ang bundok na tanaw ko berde rin. ito ang dahilan kung bakit hindi ko maipagpalit ang buhay baryo sa buhay condo. hindi ko siguro kasasanayan na gumising na ang nakikita ay puro dingding, tuktok ng building, kalsada at pinilit na lush green environment ng condo developer.
pero mas maganda ang umaga noong bata pa kami. sa umaga, bukod sa huni ng ibon, higanteng puno ng mangga, mga pula at dilaw na gumamela, nagigising kami sa bango at halimuyak ng sampaguita! 'yong tipong galing pa sa puno ng namumukadkad pa lang na sampaguita. kapag panahon naman ng anihan, ibang klase din, amoy dayami at pinipig ang paligid. san ka pa?
kamakailan lang pumunta si al gore at nagpaliwanag sa isang convention on the environment tungkol sa sinasabi niyang inconvenient truth. mula sa kinauupuan ko hindi ko maramdaman ang kanyang doomsday scenario. pero naniniwala ako na bawat isa sa atin may pakialam sa nangyayari sa kalikasan. basta ang nanay ko, hindi nakakalimutang magwalis at magdilig sa bakuran. ang tatay ko naman walang tigil sa kakukutingting sa mga puno at halaman.
natatawa lang ako sa ibang senior citizen sa paligid na imbes mag-ayos at mag-imis ng bakuran, hayun, nagdya-jogging sa may southwoods. sabagay may mga kasambahay naman silang tagalinis ng bahay. walang pakialamanan!
pero sandali lang, wala na nga pala silang likod bahay dahil nagpa-extend sila ng bahay kaya wala ng natirang lupang pagtatamnan. ang mga tao talaga, iba't iba ang priorities.
basta kami, kahit maliit ang bahay, marami naman kaming puno sa paligid. at eto pa, pwede kang magkabit ng duyan sa hapon sa likod bahay. doon ako natutulog o nagbabasa 'pag weekend. panalo! promding-promdi!
may bunga na naman ang langka at saging. sana lang, mabuhay na uli ang malunggay. lagi na lang kaming nanghihingi ng dahon kay aling tinay!
linggo pala ngayon. saan kaya ako magsisimba?
Live More, Live With Less
Having eaten pink salmon two days in a row, I realized pink salmon is best eaten raw.
Yesterday lunch, we had shake sashimi (that melts in one's mouth better than M&M's) at Teriyaki Boy. This morning for breakfast, I had smoked salmon sandwich I picked up from The Bellevue. And I wonder why people bother with greasy horrors!
(Of course, when you talk about breakfast, McDonald's brewed is my bestfriend.)
Back in the days when I was still working in Makati (there at C.Palanca), breakfast and lunch meant a trip down the building to the "original" Jollijeep parked at the backstreets. There all pretenses of the corporate world were stripped down. And boy was it good!
Comparing the days when I was receiving a minimum wage and now, my eating habits haven't really changed much. What changed only is where I eat. Does inflation bother me? No, I rise above it.
People always complain about not having enough, not fully realizing that the key to prosperity is one's conscious effort to limit their desires. The truly rich people are not those who can buy everything they want. The truly rich people are those who can live happily with a lot, lot less.
Some of my friends go around with LV bags, Nine West shoes, Lacoste shirts, and i-pads. Surely they can afford them and will always want the best of those. We don't blame them for having the money to spend. It is their business. I get irked only when they complain about the huge Meralco bills and their kids' tuition fees.
I can live without the tags and the brands. But when it comes to food, I don't ask about the price.
Yesterday lunch, we had shake sashimi (that melts in one's mouth better than M&M's) at Teriyaki Boy. This morning for breakfast, I had smoked salmon sandwich I picked up from The Bellevue. And I wonder why people bother with greasy horrors!
(Of course, when you talk about breakfast, McDonald's brewed is my bestfriend.)
Back in the days when I was still working in Makati (there at C.Palanca), breakfast and lunch meant a trip down the building to the "original" Jollijeep parked at the backstreets. There all pretenses of the corporate world were stripped down. And boy was it good!
Comparing the days when I was receiving a minimum wage and now, my eating habits haven't really changed much. What changed only is where I eat. Does inflation bother me? No, I rise above it.
People always complain about not having enough, not fully realizing that the key to prosperity is one's conscious effort to limit their desires. The truly rich people are not those who can buy everything they want. The truly rich people are those who can live happily with a lot, lot less.
Some of my friends go around with LV bags, Nine West shoes, Lacoste shirts, and i-pads. Surely they can afford them and will always want the best of those. We don't blame them for having the money to spend. It is their business. I get irked only when they complain about the huge Meralco bills and their kids' tuition fees.
I can live without the tags and the brands. But when it comes to food, I don't ask about the price.
Rainbow
When I'm down in the gutter, I am lucky to have serious moments of awakening in the past. The joy of resurrection. Countless were the times when I was at the end of the rope, at the end of the road, facing an empty wall, at the point of breaking, at rock bottom.
For the last two weeks, I had nothing but troubles (which I fondly call opportunities to lessen the impact). One unresolved crisis after another. Drawbacks and setbacks piling on top of each other. Sleep has become an elusive friend; appetite an unfaithful lover.
As usual, when everything has been exhausted, when every friend who matters has been consulted, when all the courage to face the boss has been summoned and there is no one else to go to and nothing else humanly possible can be done, you bend your knees and pray finally. Swallowing your executive pride, you ask God for help. You let go and yes, you let God.
A few hours later, you find yourself an audience to a movie of things falling into place. Suddenly every thing takes form and makes sense.
And you become free. And yes, happy. And thankful.
This is life lived. This is life with a little help from above.
For the last two weeks, I had nothing but troubles (which I fondly call opportunities to lessen the impact). One unresolved crisis after another. Drawbacks and setbacks piling on top of each other. Sleep has become an elusive friend; appetite an unfaithful lover.
As usual, when everything has been exhausted, when every friend who matters has been consulted, when all the courage to face the boss has been summoned and there is no one else to go to and nothing else humanly possible can be done, you bend your knees and pray finally. Swallowing your executive pride, you ask God for help. You let go and yes, you let God.
A few hours later, you find yourself an audience to a movie of things falling into place. Suddenly every thing takes form and makes sense.
And you become free. And yes, happy. And thankful.
This is life lived. This is life with a little help from above.
Decision Making Is An Art
decision making is an art. suffice it to say there is absolutely nothing scientific to it. decision making starts with it being an expression of oneself. there is nothing right or wrong in one's decision at the time it is made. however, the moment it is out and resulting consequences reveal themselves, we judge. then we hear - wrong move; bad choice; foolhardy; could have been better; i-told-you-so.
good or bad results, we find in our midst new insights and additional learnings and experiences.
we fear decisions that can either make or break us. the devil or the deep blue sea.
this morning a decision rests on my shoulders. on my shoulders rest some 20 or so individuals' future.
i don't feel the burden. i know what i'm doing. i've done it before. will gladly do it again.
good or bad results, we find in our midst new insights and additional learnings and experiences.
we fear decisions that can either make or break us. the devil or the deep blue sea.
this morning a decision rests on my shoulders. on my shoulders rest some 20 or so individuals' future.
i don't feel the burden. i know what i'm doing. i've done it before. will gladly do it again.
Three Black Shoes
charles and keith, aerosoles and vnc. classic pumps, t-strap peep-toe wedges, strappy gladiator high-heeled sandals. all three black. the first bought a month ago. the last two, a week ago - tuesday and wednesday, respectively.
i should be guilty. but is jinkee pacquiao guilty? don't hate me if i have the money to burn for fancy shoes. i don't smoke. i don't drink. i don't travel. much.
it is true what they say about the best things in life being free. and for everything else, there's money. no, i don't use plastics.
why all black? they come in three gorgeous unique styles. why not? i buy clothes of similar design in various colors (four colors my max). some people won't understand, that i can understand.
it's a girl thing as they say. and yes, it is crazy. and we are allowed to be crazy once in a while. like right now.
i should be guilty. but is jinkee pacquiao guilty? don't hate me if i have the money to burn for fancy shoes. i don't smoke. i don't drink. i don't travel. much.
it is true what they say about the best things in life being free. and for everything else, there's money. no, i don't use plastics.
why all black? they come in three gorgeous unique styles. why not? i buy clothes of similar design in various colors (four colors my max). some people won't understand, that i can understand.
it's a girl thing as they say. and yes, it is crazy. and we are allowed to be crazy once in a while. like right now.
I Swear Not To Fall For A Poet
“Attract your kind!”
And the screen turned black.
Then the custom text slithered to a spin, mocking:
smile! smile! smile! smile!
It’s been ten minutes of staring at the line:
Attract your kind! Attract your kind! Attract your kind!
willing the letters to re-arrange themselves,
if not to disappear;
ten minutes of shit-cursing myself for clicking on the e-mail
I vowed not to read in a thousand fiscal years.
Once, I swore not to fall for a poet:
the engineer of imaginary spacecrafts that take you,
wearing only an old shirt, to the moon;
the god who creates clichés so hated by snooty
second language English speakers; and the chefs
who fatten Mr. Webster and his friend Mr. Oxford.
As lovers, poets leave you awed and later dying wondering
what of their words that poisoned you,
and except for your life, what else it was that you lost,
except for everything, what else did you miss.
At best, poets leave you with something figurative
when all is over: you sleep with their synecdoches;
you salad on miseries French-dressed in vinaigrettes;
you turn into stress balls their odes and make bookmarks their villanelles.
You get insulted that even their break-up letters
seriously warrant a publication and centuries later will be found
in library archives as biographical citations while you,
the addressee, must submit to the devil if only to make it
to the footnotes.
The poets I have dated wrote their best in anger
assuming, perhaps, the outburst would not see print.
And if you’re one of those who believe
that Shakespeare did not write Romeo and Juliet,
but some duke or else, then you must believe, too,
that authors are at their best
when they don’t write as themselves.
“That’s what you get for not seizing the moment. Stale leftovers.
“…and it stops right here. Attract your kind!” he said.
(What non-poet-man would e-mail “seizing the moment”?)
You get counted ten on the first blow,
still you forgive them for their metaphors.
And the screen turned black.
Then the custom text slithered to a spin, mocking:
smile! smile! smile! smile!
It’s been ten minutes of staring at the line:
Attract your kind! Attract your kind! Attract your kind!
willing the letters to re-arrange themselves,
if not to disappear;
ten minutes of shit-cursing myself for clicking on the e-mail
I vowed not to read in a thousand fiscal years.
Once, I swore not to fall for a poet:
the engineer of imaginary spacecrafts that take you,
wearing only an old shirt, to the moon;
the god who creates clichés so hated by snooty
second language English speakers; and the chefs
who fatten Mr. Webster and his friend Mr. Oxford.
As lovers, poets leave you awed and later dying wondering
what of their words that poisoned you,
and except for your life, what else it was that you lost,
except for everything, what else did you miss.
At best, poets leave you with something figurative
when all is over: you sleep with their synecdoches;
you salad on miseries French-dressed in vinaigrettes;
you turn into stress balls their odes and make bookmarks their villanelles.
You get insulted that even their break-up letters
seriously warrant a publication and centuries later will be found
in library archives as biographical citations while you,
the addressee, must submit to the devil if only to make it
to the footnotes.
The poets I have dated wrote their best in anger
assuming, perhaps, the outburst would not see print.
And if you’re one of those who believe
that Shakespeare did not write Romeo and Juliet,
but some duke or else, then you must believe, too,
that authors are at their best
when they don’t write as themselves.
“That’s what you get for not seizing the moment. Stale leftovers.
“…and it stops right here. Attract your kind!” he said.
(What non-poet-man would e-mail “seizing the moment”?)
You get counted ten on the first blow,
still you forgive them for their metaphors.
October 19, 2007
At half past six in the morning, a Makati Business Club officer,
in an interview over the radio, warned us on coup d’état, terrorism
and all types of destabilization. Like a sage – solemn, serious, unequivocal.
The man on the radio apologized for having to break
the news to us. But it is their responsibilityto tell us what we need to know. He said – self-righteously, patronizing, advertising.
And I rolled my eyes. Seven hours later, at one-thirty, at Eastwood, we received
a series of SMS: an LPG tank exploded in a mall.
in a restaurant. in Makati. where four died. instantly.
An hour later –No, it’s not an LPG tank, but a real bomb,
a high explosive one.
(Along EDSA, traffic was not so bad as it should,
given the situation.
Buildings line up the longest, busiest avenue.
Malls lord it over.
In a country where there are more malls being erected
than churches being built,
are you sinning if you ask:
Why are bombs get planted at malls,not in churches, bridges or schools?)
On the news the next day –
Nine deaths. A few critical. More than a hundred injured.
One missing.
Soon to be statistics. Archived news.
But first to be a subject of US, UK, Canadian, and Australian advisories.
Is this poetry?
in an interview over the radio, warned us on coup d’état, terrorism
and all types of destabilization. Like a sage – solemn, serious, unequivocal.
The man on the radio apologized for having to break
the news to us. But it is their responsibilityto tell us what we need to know. He said – self-righteously, patronizing, advertising.
And I rolled my eyes. Seven hours later, at one-thirty, at Eastwood, we received
a series of SMS: an LPG tank exploded in a mall.
in a restaurant. in Makati. where four died. instantly.
An hour later –No, it’s not an LPG tank, but a real bomb,
a high explosive one.
(Along EDSA, traffic was not so bad as it should,
given the situation.
Buildings line up the longest, busiest avenue.
Malls lord it over.
In a country where there are more malls being erected
than churches being built,
are you sinning if you ask:
Why are bombs get planted at malls,not in churches, bridges or schools?)
On the news the next day –
Nine deaths. A few critical. More than a hundred injured.
One missing.
Soon to be statistics. Archived news.
But first to be a subject of US, UK, Canadian, and Australian advisories.
Is this poetry?
Mate Shopping
In a world where high technology communication can go cheaper than a grain of salt, single individuals still find meeting people for true companionship the most difficult. When the best things in life are almost free, we find ourselves facing an empty wall.
Have we all contracted a disease that makes us all numb, bereft of any feeling the exact time we meet our match? What happened to Shakespeare's "love is blind and lovers cannot see" outbreak? Hundreds of years have left us simply looking, scrutinizing, checking sizes, color and fit. And most of us end up late for our years still looking and going through a series of failed matches.
But aren't we just being the intellectuals our generation has produced? Learning from history books of failed relationships after our mothers burned all the fairy tale books.
I am guilty of this, too. And when I meet a nice guy, I may just have to ask him if he believes in fairy tales. And it will not matter what his answer is going to be. Because starting today, I will abandon the ideas of matches made in heaven, of opposites attract, of must- have/must-be lists.
Life is too short to be simply short-listed. Or rejected as a mis-match.
Have we all contracted a disease that makes us all numb, bereft of any feeling the exact time we meet our match? What happened to Shakespeare's "love is blind and lovers cannot see" outbreak? Hundreds of years have left us simply looking, scrutinizing, checking sizes, color and fit. And most of us end up late for our years still looking and going through a series of failed matches.
But aren't we just being the intellectuals our generation has produced? Learning from history books of failed relationships after our mothers burned all the fairy tale books.
I am guilty of this, too. And when I meet a nice guy, I may just have to ask him if he believes in fairy tales. And it will not matter what his answer is going to be. Because starting today, I will abandon the ideas of matches made in heaven, of opposites attract, of must- have/must-be lists.
Life is too short to be simply short-listed. Or rejected as a mis-match.
Can't Sleep
From 2008
How redundant can one get - writing about not being able to sleep in one's sleeplessness?
Oh, let's be redundant, baby.
Every toss and turn ought to have been with you between my sheets. My wakefulness ought to have been caused by those hands that would not keep to themselves, by the comfortable disarray of togetherness.
But I can't sleep for the wrong, uncomfortable reasons. Sleeping alone at the age of reason ought not to be allowed. Sleeping alone ought to be by choice, not by consequence.
How redundant can one get - writing about not being able to sleep in one's sleeplessness?
Oh, let's be redundant, baby.
Every toss and turn ought to have been with you between my sheets. My wakefulness ought to have been caused by those hands that would not keep to themselves, by the comfortable disarray of togetherness.
But I can't sleep for the wrong, uncomfortable reasons. Sleeping alone at the age of reason ought not to be allowed. Sleeping alone ought to be by choice, not by consequence.
Something To Believe In
May 29, 2010
I know how you struggle with the things most difficult. You take comfort from the fact that God understands, God forgives. Over and over.
Most times, I pray for something selfish. And God asks me, "why dare second-guess what i deem selfish?" And i recoil. And I feel most unworthy, most undeserving. I sigh the big sigh. For all eternity, God knows what I can never start to comprehend in my very short while on earth. I am ambitious to try to know what I need only feel and believe.
Yesterday was the Immaculate Concepcion day. Her birthday. I went to the Padre Pio Sanctuary in Libis. She was there in all her glory, manifested in stone. I walked to where her image stood. I held her with both hands, one in each of her own. I prayed the prayer of the old, of women represented by my age. In that instant, I saw and felt for the nth time that there is something greater than the universe, than our sins, than worldly love.
And i cried the longest time, the freshest tears of the one blessed, of the one loved, of the one cared for, of the one being looked after. And I wondered again, why do we ever doubt, why do we ever feel afraid, why do we think we are alone.
I know how you struggle with the things most difficult. You take comfort from the fact that God understands, God forgives. Over and over.
Most times, I pray for something selfish. And God asks me, "why dare second-guess what i deem selfish?" And i recoil. And I feel most unworthy, most undeserving. I sigh the big sigh. For all eternity, God knows what I can never start to comprehend in my very short while on earth. I am ambitious to try to know what I need only feel and believe.
Yesterday was the Immaculate Concepcion day. Her birthday. I went to the Padre Pio Sanctuary in Libis. She was there in all her glory, manifested in stone. I walked to where her image stood. I held her with both hands, one in each of her own. I prayed the prayer of the old, of women represented by my age. In that instant, I saw and felt for the nth time that there is something greater than the universe, than our sins, than worldly love.
And i cried the longest time, the freshest tears of the one blessed, of the one loved, of the one cared for, of the one being looked after. And I wondered again, why do we ever doubt, why do we ever feel afraid, why do we think we are alone.
Noynoy, Have You Ever Been In Love?
June 16, 2010
This supersedes the last Dear Noynoy letter I wrote you.
I admit the first letter spoke of fear and of doubt on my decision of voting for you. That if you screw up, I may not be able to believe in this democratic exercise again.
I guess many of those who supported you are as apprehensive. But it is true what Kiko Pangilinan said that GMA leaving Malacanang is having half of the problem solved.
I read a very good article recently about love of country. That advanced economies in the eastern world have this as foundation of all things in their respective country. I guess that's what you get being in a continent intoxicated with religion (India, to have been the first to be described as such). The Philippines is also intoxicated with religion, but unfortunately here, love of God doesn't always extend to love of countrymen.
Noynoy, have you ever been in love? As in so in love you can walk on air or water? Celine Dione hits the bull’s eye singing: "Some place that you aint leaving. Somewhere you're gonna stay. When you finally found the meaning. Have you ever felt this way?" That is the kind of love this country needs. The kind of love that will make you stay despite.
No, we cannot pay our debts with love. No, love alone cannot keep our people fed. No, we cannot move the economy with high stocks on love. No, love alone cannot educate the youth as they deserve.
But love makes us compassionate. Love moves us to do good, not just to do right. No, I do not expect you to do the right things every time. I only expect you to do what is good for the majority all the time.
And lastly, you don't screw the one you love. You...
This supersedes the last Dear Noynoy letter I wrote you.
I admit the first letter spoke of fear and of doubt on my decision of voting for you. That if you screw up, I may not be able to believe in this democratic exercise again.
I guess many of those who supported you are as apprehensive. But it is true what Kiko Pangilinan said that GMA leaving Malacanang is having half of the problem solved.
I read a very good article recently about love of country. That advanced economies in the eastern world have this as foundation of all things in their respective country. I guess that's what you get being in a continent intoxicated with religion (India, to have been the first to be described as such). The Philippines is also intoxicated with religion, but unfortunately here, love of God doesn't always extend to love of countrymen.
Noynoy, have you ever been in love? As in so in love you can walk on air or water? Celine Dione hits the bull’s eye singing: "Some place that you aint leaving. Somewhere you're gonna stay. When you finally found the meaning. Have you ever felt this way?" That is the kind of love this country needs. The kind of love that will make you stay despite.
No, we cannot pay our debts with love. No, love alone cannot keep our people fed. No, we cannot move the economy with high stocks on love. No, love alone cannot educate the youth as they deserve.
But love makes us compassionate. Love moves us to do good, not just to do right. No, I do not expect you to do the right things every time. I only expect you to do what is good for the majority all the time.
And lastly, you don't screw the one you love. You...
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