My birthplace at night

Isulan, the capital of Sultan Kudarat, is where I was born and studied high school.

My family is spending Christmas at our home here. On the night of December 27, 2007, a cousin invited me for a (long) walk at the town center.

7: 41 p.m. I’m standing beside the road going to the public market.

The statue of Sultan Kudarat atop the arcs faces Tacurong City, 11 km away. Behind is the road to Cotabato City.

7: 52 p.m. It’s a dry night for a balut vendor

7:54 p.m. The public market has won awards for cleanliness

8:02 p.m. I watched Ekis, an R18 film, in this movie house when I was 13.
It has been closed for a few years

8:14 p.m. Inside this building, teenage boys addicted to on-line games burn the night

8:36 p.m. In front the town hall

8:59 p.m. Christmas lights at the plaza

9:14 p.m. The seat of local government

9:46 p.m. An amputee hails a tricycle home

9:47 p.m. Instead of projecting fun, beer shacks like this one make the highway look desolate

On our way back home

The statue agitates the obsessive-compulsive in me. It is too large in proportion to the size of the roundball.

The original sculpture was replaced because Sultan Kudarat was always mistaken for Lapu-Lapu.

Please call me stupid

Tacurong City, Sultan Kudarat
December 26, 2007

The short story: I have a brain the size of a tilapia’s! I fell on a fish pond.

The long story (Or what was going on in my mind): This pond is so small, the water so murky. Are there really fishes here?

Ah so, Uncle’s taking his eldest grandson fishing. But something seems to smell fishy. The kid keeps scratching his head, saying, “Wala man!”

Sweat is starting to form on grandpa’s forehead. He can’t spoil this grandpa-grandson day out! He is taking the line with a do-or-die mien.

At last, a tilapia is biting the bait. The size is disappointing—It’s not yet of cooking age. Nevermind. Just look how happy grandpa and grandson are.

Wait, Uncle’s moving the line toward me. Am I supposed to get the catch off the hook? Okay, my honor.

My, my, the fish is putting up such a fierce fight. It might fa—it fell on the ground! I must catch it. I can’t ruin their grandpa-grandson day out. Oops, the tiny scaly devil keeps on wriggling, toward the water! I have to lean some more—

Splaaaash!

Is this really happening to me? Look at grandpa and grandson. What a joy, what a joy they feel! They’ve caught one very big, very stupid tilapia.

Lake Sebu: Where calm and colors meet

LAKE SEBU, SOUTH COTABATO (December 23, 2007)—I keep telling myself I have to come back here and explore again every natural nook and countryside cranny.

I cannot get enough of this place. We’re staying at Punta Isla Lake resort for several hours only and that time is never enough to savor everything the getaway has to offer. Add to that the dizziness in my head, courtesy of our previous night’s videoke-and-booze session, after my cousin’s wedding.

It doesn’t matter that I have not taken a bath. (When my cousins and I woke up, half of the party has packed up, so we had to wash our faces in a jiffy and rush to the vehicles.) The temperature of Lake Sebu ranges from cool to cold to chilly. You’ll only sweat if you run the hills or paddle a kayak across the lake.

The entrance fee at Punta Isla is only five pesos per head, and the clan or gang can rent a hut for a hundred.

A group of young T’bolis goes from cottage to cottage to entertain the guests. The presentation, lasting for about six minutes, is a sampler of indigenous music and dances.

Kids gleefully scamper away during the monkey dance, as a midget, covered in a black hairy costume, leaps out and clings to the posts of the cottage.


GUSTATORY INDULGENCE


The Lake Sebu experience is not complete without filling your belly with tilapia, the kind of fish the place is most known for. It’s prepared and cooked in various ways: grilled, chicharon or paksiw.

Grilling brings out the natural milky taste and color of tilapia. Dip it in soy sauce with lots of onion and tomato slices and you have the perfect pair for rice. When cooked as chicharon (dried and fried), tilapia satiates the palate like no other meat can. It’s far tastier—and healthier—than pork or chicken skin.

Only the choicest flesh of tilapia, on its back portion, is used for chicharon. The rest of the body parts are cooked as biting-to-the-taste paksiw.

If the fish feast leaves you craving for more (as you would likely be), try earning one kilogram of tilapia for free by accepting Punta Isla’s challenge: cross back and forth an 8-m bamboo pole perched horizontally a few feet above the lake.


ON THE WATER


People go to Lake Sebu to see the lake (what else), so taking the boat tour is a must. A T’boli man, complete with a baby monkey clutching at his T’nalak upper garment, acts as our tour guide. He points for us the spots of interest around the lake and the islands that are bulging out the placid water.

I’ve heard tall tales about the lake, so I’m glad to learn from the guide that the lake’s depth is not unfathomable and that the deepest part is just 40 or 60 feet. (I’m not sure. Blame the lack of sleep and a few gulps of cheap wine and brandy for my memory lapse.)

You must have belted out dozens of songs in videoke in beer gardens or at parties--but probably not yet in a floating restaurant. That’s another unique experience you can enjoy at Punta Isla. At five pesos for two songs and inside a slightly swaying structure, crooning never feels this cool (or at least, as what I see in my cousins, since I don’t and can’t sing).

CULTURAL EXPERIENCE

Of equal bounty to the lake is the culture of T’bolis. While the nature in Lake Sebu soothes the soul, the arts and crafts of the tribe give the place gaiety.

We slip away from Punta Isla for a while to visit the bling-bling shop and the museum nearby.

I expect most of the ethnic accessories to be in bawdy colors. Surprisingly, many are well-designed and subtly elegant. The shop, run by a women’s cooperative, has a wide selection of items—from tribal bracelets to bamboo flutes to throw pillows made of T’nalak weaving. The price of fashion accessories is as low as those peddled by some women locals in the streets.

In the museum, we bump into Mr. Dominador Ba-ay, my Community Development instructor at Notre Dame of Marbel University and former three-time vice mayor of Lake Sebu. His daughter owns the museum, which is designed like a typical T’boli hut, with the bamboo floor elevated a meter above the ground.

Mr. Ba-ay shows us the most interesting of the artifacts, including a 14th century china plate glazed with an image of a blue crab at the center and a kris thinly encrusted with dried blood. The double-edged, wavy-bladed sword, Mr. Ba-ay tells us, cannot be used for chopping wood, but it can chop six torsos in one swipe.

By this time, though, my phone’s battery has emptied. There are just so many I haven’t captured in the camera. And there’s just so much more to discover in Lake Sebu, the Tra-an Kini Falls for one.

When in a place where calm and colors meet, coming back is always an exciting idea.

Lemata's musical journey to the top

KORONADAL City, South Cotabato (December 20, 2007)—Everything evokes gloom and boredom. The stage backdrop is stark black. The lights change color repetitively that I can tell when it will turn red or green. The audience number less than two hundred.

Then Lemata, a five-member band, starts playing—and virtually turns the gymnasium of Notre Dame of Marbel University into a stadium jampacked with rockistas.

The group stands out in all aspects in this finals night of NDMU battle of the Bands. It bests four other finalists to earn the title “Band of the Year”.

Lemata has surely come a long way. Its members show much more confidence and verve compared to their performance last year, when they were proclaimed second runner-up.

They have the winning skills. But, for me, what makes the young musicians truly deserving of the top spot is their winning attitude.

When our organization, the Political Science Society, asked the fab five to play for a benefit concert last semester, they readily agreed (as did seven other bands). It was a proof of their humility and willingness to share their music.

Quick notes on the other contenders:

Martyr’s Brigade—young and a bit high-strung; remix of “My Heart will Go On” draws attention but band doesn’t display energy much

Wasting Moonshine—good compositions (all three they played are original); best line: “If I tell you that I love you would you really care?”

Know Your Mushrooms—good choice of songs but band falls a bit short in handiwork

Agoraphobia—crowd-pleaser (what else to expect when 4/5 are girls and they sing teenage songs); the band to watch out for; My dormmate Cheyserr is the vocalist. Way to go!

My Choice:

1. Lemata
2. Wasting Moonshine
3. Know Your Mushrooms
4. Agoraphobia
5. Martyr’s Brigade

The Judges’ Judgment:

1. Lemata
2. Wasting Moonshine
3. Agoraphobia
4. Know Your Mushrooms
5. Martyr’s Brigade

Note on the Contest: I prefer the format last year, when the bands had to perform two cover songs and an original composition. If we want our bands to be noticed in mainstream media, they must have their own trademarks.

(Pictured: Parakersrakers, 2006 Band of the Year. Some dormmates and I have gone out of the gym when the MC announces the group’s performing. So we rush back, listen from afar, and feel the night’s complete)

There's a mumo in my mirror!

(Published in the website of STI, my previous school. Edited. Warning: I was rather mean when I wrote this.)

How can you face the problem if the problem is your face?

I bet you laughed really hard when you first heard these words. But if you care to spend a few seconds pondering on this, you will realize that behind the joke is a serious message. As they say, jokes are half-truths.

So how, indeed, are you going to face the problem if it happens to be that cursed, six-square-inches area above your neck? Look at the mirror, some might suggest with a big grin. But how can you face the mirror if you get exasperated (or scared) every time you do it? You’re falling in a bottomless pit…

A not-so-nice appearance can cause trouble. What if when you look at the mirror, you always see Bakekang? Or your pimples just disappeared because there’s no more space for them to grow? You might end up robbing a bank to hire Vicky Belo's services.

Hey dudes, take it easy. So what if you’re not the Crush ng Bayan? So what if they stared at you from head to toe when you volunteered to be a candidate for Mr. University? So what if you don’t look like me, er, Brad Pitt?

Don’t you know that you are an Adonis incarnate? That is, if you consider yourself so. You are as good-looking as you think. Others won’t perceive you as handsome unless you feel handsome.

I’m not advising you of course to fool yourself. Some people just happened to be blessed with head-turning looks. So all right, they deserve to get Ms. Universe (while you settle for Ms. Halloween).

What I want to say is that we should accept reality. When it comes to physical beauty, men are not created equal. But God is not unfair, ok?! Each of us has his own crosses to carry. Life would be pretty boring without the pains and worries. Life is a game--if you’re thinking right now that you are ugly, you lose!

So go on. Look at the mirror and tell yourself, I am the most handsome monster—oops, human being—in the world!

Goose

(This was featured in 2005 in Nostrils, the lampoon published by OMNIANA, the official student publication of Notre Dame of Marbel University.

This tale is homophobic and a parody of my story "Ghosts". It betrays my bigotry and megalomania. Taking aside those two mistakes, though, I hope readers find this fun to read.)

BY the time you read this, I must be dead. But still handsome. If I’m not yet dead, I’m still alive (of course). Maybe I’m in a mental asylum, visiting you. Maybe I’m in the beer kiosks at Pantua, drinking Red Horse.

I’m not sure. I don’t know. I don’t know where this life could still go. I don’t also know what is seven times eight.

All I know is that I must tell you this right now—while there’s still enough sanity left in me, while I have not yet succumbed to the claws of doom…

***

THE Wednesday night's colder than usual. Though I had draped my blanket around my shoulders, the November wind still seeps through my skin. I snuggle to a pillow for warmth—for something to soothe my weary muscles and soul.

Yes, only a few months to go before this struggle ends. After 11 years in college, I will finally graduate from engineering! At last, I can drive a tricycle.

The transcript of records i claimed from the registrar that afternoon comes into my mind. I have to check if I have taken and passed all the required subjects.

I can't believe in what I'm seeing. My hands are shaking, my body trembling. This can't be true! This is so horrible!

And then I realize that what I'm holding isn't my transcript. It's my picture for the yearbook.

Finally, I'm able to find my transcript inside my bag. I'm pleased with what I'm looking at. I passed all my subjects—after take two. Every time I take a subject for the first time, my grade would be F, INC, NC, GMA, and ABS-CBN.

As I turn to the last page, I find out that my grade in SocSoc 145 is 80!

“Impossible,” I utter in disbelief.

SocSoc 145 isArt Depreciation. I took it last semester and once only. Just like in my other classes, I always got zero in quizzes and Mr. Maravilla, my teacher, caught me cheating 145 times. Most of all, I wasn’t able to take the final exam.

This must be a joke! No. Mr. Maravilla must have committed an error—a very serious error.

I was terrified. I have to go to the faculty room. I will complain. His class record will show that I should have NOT passed that subject!

***

“I’M Sorry. You really passed my subject.”

It takes me a few seconds before the words of Mr. Maravilla sink in. You’re mistaken!

“Sir, can you check it again? You should change my grade. If you’re not going to make it INC or F, I will report you to the dean.”

The teacher becomes so afraid of my threats that he urinates in his pants. He looks again at his class record. “Anton, I gave you 100 for your painting of a smiling goose with a big, black mole in its left cheek And though you failed in midterm, you got perfect in the final exam.”

Before another protest comes out of my mouth, Mr. Maravilla says, “The only student who failed in my class because she did not take the exam was Laura Macapal-Arrovo.”

My world is shaken on the mention of that name. I'm so bewildered and confused that I don't notice Mr. Maravilla leave. With my mouth widely open, I stay standing in the same spot for eight hours. I only come back to my senses when the guard tells me that I'm the only one left in school and he's closing the gate.

WHEN I reach home, I see my mother slumped on the sofa, empty bottles of Red Horse rolling on the floor.

“Mang, I’m home,” I call out. She doesn't budge. She’s not breathing!

I rush to her side and feels her cold, lifeless body.“Maaaang, Why? Whhhhhhhhhhy?”

My loud wail awakens the neighborhood. “Whhhy? Why didn’t you left even just a drop of Red Horse for me?!”

Pak! The slap dislodges my brain for several seconds.

“Gago! I’m still alive,” my mother scolds me. “Don’t disturb my sleep again!”

Wincing in pain, I clean up her mess. My serious problem about my grade comes again to mind when I pick up an empty bottle of Red Horse.

I never miss the checking of attendance in the beer kiosks at the back of the school every afternoon. The schedule of my Art Depreciation class was 7:00-8:30 TTH at Rm. 329. So by the time I would come inside that class, I would have already downed six family-sized bottles of Red Horse with my barkada.

The only student who failed in my class was Laura, Mr. Maravilla’s words reverberate in my ears.

Laura…How could I forget her? Laura is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She has the most kissable lips and the sweetest smile. She has a big black mole in her left cheek. And she's dead.

I'm the only person who knows Laura's dead. She fell in a deep ravine in our trip home from our exposure trip in Lake Babu.

Laura and I were the only people on top of the jeepney that our class was riding. We were kissing and fondling each other. When the vehicle sped up, Laura was thrown away.

I miss her lips and her smile. I miss the big, black mole on her left cheek. The only thing Laura left to me was her portrait that I painted.

***

“WHERE could it be?”

I'm so bothered. It's Thursday evening and I have spent the whole day looking for the portrait of Laura.

It was displayed in our gate so that everyone could marvel at its beauty. I found out that it was missing and I'm not sure since when. I have searched the whole house. I have already asked the help of the CIA, the KGB and the PCSO. Still I couldn’t find it.

“Hey, Anton,” my mother comes inside my room. “Are you looking for that picture of a smiling goose with a big, black mole on its left cheek?”

I'm infuriated. “Mang, It's a portrait of a lady!”

“A lady goose?” asks the drunkard woman.

Her question confirms my worst fear. Yes, my “painting of a smiling goose with a big, black mole in its left cheek” that I passed to Mr. Maravilla is no other than my portrait of Laura.

When we went to Lake Babu, Laura was wearing a long, white dress and her long, black, hair was tucked under a white hat. She posed, smiling very sweetly, in the deepest part of the lake as I painted her. I was on a boat and she was submerged in the water from the neck down. It took me the whole day to paint her because she kept on waggling in the water.

By the time I have finished, all the tilapias in Lake Babu were trapped inside Laura’s dress. Our classmates were so thankful to us because they had tons and tons of fish to bring home.When I proudly showed my painting to them, all our classmates exclaimed in unison, “Wow, what a beautiful goose! It is smiling and it has a big, black mole on its left cheek.”

But I didn’t believe them. Laura told me that our classmates just didn’t know how to appreciate the artwork of a genius.

“You’ll no longer find that picture,” the voice of my drunkard mother pulls me back to the present. “I saw a young man stole it last night.”

“What?! What did he look like?”

“It was dark. All I remember is that he has this big, black mole in the face.”

“Now, who’s going to help me?” I lay down on my bed as my drunken mother leaves.

My Shangshang D500 phone rings. I pick and answer it. “Hello.”

“Hello, Garci,” came a presidential voice from the other line. “Don’t come out just yet.”

I'm taken a back. “Ma’am, my name is not Garci. This is Anton.”

“Oooops, no?” My youngest son wants to talk to you, no?” the voice said. “And yes, no? Your name is Anton. Your voice sounds like Garci’s. I had a lapse of judgment. I. Am. Sorry.”

Another voice comes in the line. “Why do you still want to keep that portrait, Anton? Do you still want to remember Laura—and your deep, dark secret?”

I'm taken by surprise. Who is this person? His voice sounds too familiar. How did he know that Laura’s portrait’s gone and I’m looking for it?

But I decide to deny. “What are you talking about?”

“You killed her!”

I'm stunned. I'm supposed to be the only person who knows Laura is dead.

"But I didn’t kill her!" I shouted back at the caller. “That’s not true. It was an accident!”

The voice lets out a maniacal laugh. “You pushed her from the top of the jeepney! Because you found out her secret!”

“Noo.”

I don't want to remember that incident but it's coming back to my mind.

When we were going home from the trip, the jeepney was already full of tilapia so Laura and I had no choice but sit on top of the vehicle. As the jeepney was running in the winding road amid lush scenery, I wasn’t able to control the urge to kiss Laura’s pouting lips.

Soon after, we were sucking each other’s esophagus. I was carried away. My hands found their way inside her wet, white dress.

My right hand cupped something soft below her shoulders. It was too soft that it made me wonder what it was.

I grabbed it and found out that it was a piece of foam!

I was about to ask her about that piece of foam when I began to realize that something, no, many things are wrong with her.

I looked closely under her neck. She had an Adam’s apple! I looked at her legs and saw that her hair there is longer and curlier than mine.

And then everything became clear to me. I only noticed it that time because the effects of alcohol in my eyes had faded. I was so busy painting her and I forgot to have a shot of Red Horse.So that explained why our classmates looked as if they wanted to vomit whenever they see us holding each other’s hands, hugging, and…kissing.

Laura was a man!Laura was gay!

“You fooled me,” I shouted at Laura.

She began to cry. His/her/its tears suddenly flowed like a fountain that all the tilapias inside the vehicle became bulad.

By that time, the fishermen in Lake Babu had found out that we took all the tilapias in the lake with us. They were madly running after us.The driver stepped hard on the accelerator.

Because Laura was so busy wiping his/her/its tears, she fell from the jeepney and flew away.

Nobody knew except me what happened to Laura. It was already dark when we reached the city and our classmates were so busy quarrelling over the salted tilapias so no one noticed Laura’s absence.

“It was not my fault,” I defend myself to the caller. “You seem to know everything. Do you know who stole Laura’s portrait?”

The line went dead. After a minute, I received a text message: I tuk d portrt. If u want 2 knw hu I am, mit me at Rm. 329. Tek ker. Tsup3x.

***

"TWENTY. Twenty more steps and I will know the truth,” I whisper to myself while standing in the second floor of SL-CR Building.

“A few minutes from now—7:45 pm, Thursday, Rm. 329—I will meet the person who stole the portrait of Laura a.k.a. the portrait of a smiling goose with a big, black mole on its left cheek.

So many questions are running inside my head. Did Laura really fall in a 1000m-high ravine as I thought? Could Laura be still alive? Could she be the one who took the final exam in SocSoc 145 for me? Did he decide to act and dress like a real man once and for all? Could she be the one who called me? 7 x 8 = 78? Did Garci hide inside Imang's back?

Would these things happen to me if I wasn’t addicted to Red Horse?

I start climbing the left stairs to the third floor. Eighteen…nineteen…seventeen…twenty. I was surprised that there are indeed twenty steps. But I'm more surprised as I look at the old, familiar hallway. Hanging at the closed door of Rm. 329 is the portrait of Laura a.k.a. the portrait of a smiling goose with a big, black mole on its left cheek.

Slowly, I turn the knob and push the door open. I stop, look and listen. And then my eyes widen in horror.

My Arabic name

Jomar

JOMAR, my Maguindanaoan dormmate, lent me a few books on Islam. While I was leafing through them, I came across the 99 names of Allah.

As I was also on the hunt for a good pen name, I asked Jomar to read to me the Arabic translations. We then invented English spellings for the names that I liked.

One of these could be my nom de plume someday:

• Raouf - "Compassionate"
• Quddus- "Pure" (Don't react!)
• Shakur- "Appreciative"
• Khalil- "Majestic"

How does Raouf Ortega sound?

NDEA 2007 in Cotabato City

The bote-bakal-plastik buyer has just arrived.
For our items, she offerred P2 per kilo.

LAST Dec. 4, 2007, Leni, a Chemical Engineering student, and I represented our school in the NDEA (Notre Dame Educational Association) Academic Contest.

We emerged the champion, defending our trophy last year. It was also Leni and I NDMU sent to the 2006 meet.

Eight (8) Notre Dame tertiary schools took part. ND Kidapawan College was the 1st runner-up and ND Midsayap College, the 2nd runner-up.

Socio-cultural competitions were also conducted. ND Dadiangas University got the golds in Talumpati and Vocal Solo. ND University (Cotabato) was hailed the champion in Impromptu Speaking, and ND Kidapawan bested all the other schools in Pop Dance.

The morning after the contest, at Lourdes Grotto, Cotabato City. From right to left: The Rolly, jovial Sir Mark, Pretty Rulli, Two-Time NDEA Singing Champ Sheryl, an Iguana that broke free from its cage. Oops, sorry, the last one is named Wilter.

ACADEMIC CONTEST QUESTIONS & ANSWERS

(This is the best my memory and answer sheet can serve me.)

EASY ROUND (10 seconds to answer; 5 points each)

1. Spelling: “curvaceous”; We got it.
2. Vocabulary: “pecuniary; Anwer: (a) pertaining to money; We’re the only team that got it.
3. Math: Mary walked 3/7 of the distance jade traveled. Jade walked 21 km. How many kilometers did Mary travel?
a. 9 km
b. 24 km
c. 42 km
d. 49 km
Correct Answer: A
Our Answer: A
4. Science: What virus causes hemorrhagic fever?
a. paravirus (according to Leni. It sounded like “pyrovirus” to me.)
b. ebola virus
c. hanka virus (or something sounding like that)
d. papilloma virus
Our Answer: A
Correct Answer: B
5. Religion: Who replaced Judas as apostle?
a. Esther (not sure about this)
b. Matthias
c. Barnabas
d. Demas
Correct Answer: B
Our Answer: B
6. General Information: What country has the smallest population?
a. San Marino
b. Tuvanic
c. Vatican City
d. Monaco
Correct Answer: C
Our Answer: C

Perfect Score: 30 points
Our Score: 25 points

AVERAGE ROUND
We got a perfect score in this round!
(10 seconds to answer, 10 points each)

1. Spelling: “encomium”
2. Vocabulary: “mollify”
a. mechanism for inhibited action
b. prototype or primitive pattern
c. unoriginal
d. soothe
Answer: D
3. Math: One of the complementary angles is twice the size of another. What is the smaller angle?
a. 25 degrees
b. 30 degrees
c. 902x degrees
d. cannot be determined
Answer: B
4. Science: The surgical cutting of [some unintelligible word, whith “chr”, “ium” and all] is performed in which body part?
a. salivary gland
b. esophagus
c. nasal cavity
d. tongue
Answer: D
5. Religion: What emperor made Christianity the official religion of the Holy Roman Empire?
a. Nero
b. Herod
c. pilate
d. Constantine
Answer: D
6. General Information: What Philippine president transferred the date of the Philippine Independence from July 4 to June 12
a. Ferdinand Marcos
b. Diosdado Macapagal
c. Manuel L. Quezon
d. Carlos P. Garcia
Answer: B

The earliest surviving daguerreotype, a photographic process.
It pays to read the World Book Encyclopedia

DIFFICULT ROUND
(20 second to answer, 15 points each)

1. Spelling: “daguerreotype”; We’re the only team that got it!
2. Vocabulary: “askance”
a. requite (pronounced rekweet by the emcee, instead of rekwyt)
b. indirect look
c. prototype
d. indemnify
Our answer: A
Correct Answer: B
3. Math: Three times a number diminished by sixteen equals five. What is the number?
a. 21
b. 8
c. 7
d. 9
Correct Answer: C
Our answer: C
4. Science: (I'm not sure if I got this question right.) A woman's father bears an x recessive gene that causes color blindness. what is the probability of her son being color blind?
a. 100%
b. 75%
c. 50%
d. 25%
Correct answer: C
Our answer: B
5. Religion: Who succeeded St. Peter as pope?
a. Alexander I
b. Linus
c. Sixtus I
d. Pius I
Correct answer: B
Our answer: B
6. General Information: What is the largest encyclopedia in recent news, with 200 volumes and weighing 420 kg?
a. Encyclopedia Britannica
b. Encyclopedia of Human Knowledge
c. Encyclopedia Americana
d. Arabic Legislative Encyclopedia
Correct answer: D
Our answer: D

Perfect score: 90 points
Our score: 60 points

Perfect Total Score: 180 points
Our Total Score: 145 points
1st Runner-up's Score: 115 points

Cheap great books from Fit Mart Mall

I’m starting to rebuild my private library!

The choicest books are wrapped in plastic and bearing my book plate (it’s just actually a pale-yellow post-it note with my name on it).

The most precious of my finds by far:

• American Pastoral by Philip Roth


• A Man in Full by Tom Wolfe


• The Case for Christ by Lee Strobel (Borrowed and in danger of not being returned)


• Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt


• The Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe


• My American Journey by Colin Powell (Current reading project. Stuck at page 131.)

I bought all of them at less than P100 each at Fit Mart Mall.

Sorry, you may only borrow them at very rare circumstances. But I have several other good books that I’m willing to lend anytime.

How to have cheerier chows

Day in day out, the carinderias near the dorm serve the same food. I can’t, however, let that ruin my appetite.

If what I eat is not new, the way I eat can be new. Last sem break, I bought myself a plastic bowl (P47.50 at KCC) and bamboo chop sticks (P46.50 for 10 pairs at Ace Centerpoint)

Now I eat a la-Jet Li, minus the kung-fu.

Ghosts

BY the time you read this, I might be inside a mental asylum. If not, I must be dead. I must have taken my life with my own hands, have finally realized that plunging to death is easier than facing this predicament. Or maybe I’m still alive, but hiding in the dark, running away from ghosts.

I’m not sure. I don’t know. I don’t know where this life could still go.

All I know is that I must tell you this right now—while there’s still enough sanity left in me, while I have not yet succumbed to the claws of doom…

***

THE Wednesday night is colder than usual. I had draped my blanket around my shoulders, but the November wind still seeps through my skin. I snuggle to a pillow for warmth, for something to soothe my weary muscles and soul.

Yes, only two months to go before this struggle ends. Mamang can stop selling insurance. I don’t have to work part time anymore. After graduation and the board, I’d be an engineer.

I remember the transcript of records I claimed from the records section just before I went home. I have to check it with the prospectus to make sure I had taken and passed all the required subjects.

I get up, turn the bedside lamp on, and search my bag.

I’m confident that my grades are good because I study hard. I’ve learned to work for everything since I was a toddler—since my father left us for another woman.

I’m pleased with what I’m looking at. I turn to the last page of the transcript, and I get completely surprised. Opposite the subject “SocSci 145” are three letters: DRP.

Dropped? I was dropped from one of my subjects?!

This means I can’t graduate!

Every sleepy inch of my mind is awakened. “Impossible,” I utter in disbelief.

SocSci 145 is Art Appreciation. I didn’t drop or couldn’t have dropped that subject. I love that subject. I can very well remember that class: the compassionate Mr. Maravilla, the enhancement activity in Lake Sebu with my friendly classmates, Impressionism…

I took it just last semester and I even had a perfect attendance!

This must be a joke!

No. The registrar must have committed an error—a very serious error.

I am terrified. I have to go to the registrar tomorrow! The records will show that an error was made. Or those computers only went pfft.

I utter a prayer and lie down back on the bed.

Art Appreciation. How could I forget that class?

I love learning about arts because I’m an artist at heart. Art is the world where I feel I truly belong, where my mother prohibits me to enter into.

And Art Appreciation was the class where I met Laura.

Laura was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She had skin and hair—both exquisite. And she had the sweetest smile. When her eyes would meet mine—which were always on her—she would smile. I feel like her smile was for me alone, though she seemed to have a ready smile for everyone.

I miss her smile. I miss everything about her. After the final exam last semester, I've never seen her again. The only thing Laura left to me was her portrait that I painted in Lake Sebu.

***

“I’M Sorry. You were really dropped from that subject.”

It takes a few seconds before the words of the registrar sink in. You’re mistaken!

“Ma’am, can you check it again? My teacher was Mr. Maravilla.”

“Maravilla? I don’t know anyone named Maravilla teaching here. And let me see…” She turns again to the computer and punches some keys. “You were under Mr. Guzman, 7:00-8:30, TTH Rm. 227.”

F*ck you! That grading system has a bug.

I sigh. “Ma’am, I was under Mr. Maravilla, same schedule, at Rm. 329.”

The registrar is losing her patience. She throws me a “Boy-I’m-busy” look. And then she seems to remember something. “Who’s your teacher again?”

My heart leaps with hope. “Mr. Jovito Maravilla, ma’am.”

But much to my consternation, her bulging eyes is only bulging more. “Are you playing a joke on me? Boy, Mr. Maravilla is not teaching here anymore. You could not be under his class last sem. Nor could you be under him last year or five years ago! You see, he was dead since 1993.”

I gawk at the flustered woman for what seems like an eternity. Before I can open my mouth to protest, she says, “He died with his students in a trip to Lake Sebu. The jeep that they were riding fell in a ravine and no one survived.”

***

I DON’T know how I arrived home. I open the door and find my mother slumped on the worn-out couch.

“Mang, I’m home,” I call out, but she doesn’t budge, not even a bit.

She’s not breathing! I rush to her side and feel relief upon seeing a bottle of Tanduay rolling on the floor. She had only fallen asleep from drunkenness.

The incident in the registrar’s office has left me confused—and paranoid.

I sigh at the sight of the gaunt figure in front me. She has taken refuge in alcohol again, which she seldom does. Her problem today must really be serious.

I remember that the last time I saw her drunk was when her marriage with my father was finally annulled. It was last June, the first day of classes.

I, too, was shattered with the news. I had been hoping all those years that my father (though I couldn’t even remember his face) would still one day come back to us and we would become one happy family.

Starting that day everything has been gloomier, life more miserable.

And in my deranged state, I lost the copy of my study load somewhere. All I can remember is that my class was SocSci 145 at SLR. It could have been in the second floor indeed but I climbed the stairs up to the last step, saw Rm. 329—the only lighted room—and went inside it.

Everything and everyone in the class, however, seemed normal. Or were they? I had a class before that so I was always the last one to arrive. I was also the first to go out because Mamang would wait for me at home every supper.

And since I wait tables at the cafeteria for four hours a day, I was too tired to notice anything unusual.

The only weird thing in the class was that no one was ever late or absent—God, I shiver. So that was it! No one could be absent...

The people in the Art Appreciation class I was with last semester already died more than ten years ago. My classmates were dead—ghosts! For some reason, they would still go back to their old classroom at their old schedule to attend class—as if nothing happened, as if everything was still the same.

***

“NOW, who’s going to believe me? I can’t tell the world that I can’t go up on stage this March because of this weird incident.”

I’m sitting on my bed and on my hands is the portrait of Laura, her smile immortalized in strokes of pigment mixed with water. It’s six o’clock of Thursday. The wind’s hot but my body’s cold. “Who’s going to believe me?”

“Of course, no one’s going to believe you, Anton,” I suddenly hear a deep, coarse voice say.

I look around, but see no one. I look up and the whirling Shangshang fan in the ceiling greets me. The cheap, plastic fan is possessed by a demonic entity and it knows my name and it’s talking to me!

Then the voice laughs—a laugh that seems to say, “I know who you are, Anton.”

“When the registrar told you that Mr. Maravilla is dead, you weren’t surprised at all, Anton. You know that he’s dead. You have read about the accident in a local paper.”

No.

“And he and his students did not come back to life. You resurrected them—in your imagination! You made up that story and you made yourself believe in it—to escape from reality, to escape from your life!”

No.

“That class was your world, wasn’t it? Your perfect world.”

No!

“You created classmates who are friendly, who like you because in real life, you’re an outcast.”

“You created a teacher like Mr. Maravilla and you dreamed to be his son. The father you always dreamed to come home one day was like him, right?”

“Of course not!”

“And you created Laura! You created a beautiful girl who will show interest in you.”

Noo!

“You’ve mixed up reality and imagination, Anton.”

“That’s not true.”

“Look at the picture. You think your portrait of Laura is a Mona Lisa? Poor thing. Your mother discourages you to put your hand on a brush not because you can’t afford those painting materials. Neither is it because she only wants you to concentrate on your studies so that you can prove to your father that you, too, can be an engineer without his help. The real reason is that she knows you don’t have the talent. She doesn’t want you to become a laughingstock!”

“Nooooooooo!”

“And you cannot graduate not just because you failed in SocSci 145. You also failed in three EC subjects.”

***

“TWENTY. Twenty more steps and I will be vindicated,” I whisper to myself while standing on the second floor of SLR. “I will prove to everyone that I’m telling the truth, that I’m not making up stories. The ghosts are real! At this very moment—7:45, Thursday, Rm. 329—they are having their classes.”

Suddenly, almost involuntarily, my lips form the name of the saint whom the building was named after. Pray for me!

I start climbing the left stairs to the last floor, my feet dragging invisible bags of cement.
Eighteen…nineteen…twenty. I’m surprised that there are indeed twenty steps. But I am more surprised when I look at the old, familiar hallway. Everything’s just like what I expect. The whole floor’s deserted and dark—except for a room about forty feet from where I’m standing. No doubt, it’s Rm. 329.

Fear’s killing me. I muster all the courage left in me, inhale deeply and rush to the open door of the room.

I stop. I look inside. And then my eyes widen in horror.


(Note: Published in Tendrils, the literary folio of OMNIANA, the official student publication of Notre Dame of Marbel University)