I dream of writing non-fiction novels on Mindanao someday. I'll give one book the title “Warrior of the Dark.” It will contain the story of my uncle.
My uncle, nearing 60 now, is a farmer and a good family man. He has lived the life of an ordinary Mindanaoan. But there’s one part of his life that I’d like to document, for it is not only a part of our family’s history, but of this island’s history as well. This was when he went by the name “Kumander Dodoy.”
In the 1970s, my uncle joined Ilaga, a “Christian” paramilitary group that fought against the Moros. To call the members of Ilaga “vigilantes” is an understatement. The media have described them as “dreaded,” “notorious,” and even “barbaric”. The most famous of my uncle’s comrades, Norberto Manero, has caught the public’s attention (and revulsion) for killing a priest and then allegedly eating the victim’s brain.
I’m drawn to my uncle’s and his group’s exploits not because I consider them heroes. It’s quite the contrary. I believe racism and violence—two ills Ilaga perpetuated—have no place in this world. I consider myself a student of Gandhi. I’m fascinated with the members of Ilaga because I want to understand them. In knowing their story, I hope to understand better the conflict in Mindanao, my homeland.
“Ilaga” is a Visayan word for “rat.” Uncle told me a few years ago that like the noxious vermins, they crept in the ground, feared water, and attacked in the dark. (Some Maguindanaoans kept their families from harm’s way by staying in raft-huts at night.) Most of the members of the group were farming settlers whose families came from Antique.
My mother told me that when she was about 14, my uncle, who was 17 or 18 then, just disappeared one day. They lived in what is North Cotabato today. When Uncle came back after a long time, everyone noticed his battle scars, one of which was right in his jaw.
Uncle has told me what happened to the jaw—and why he believes it happened. He said that in one battle, his amulet failed to work. A bullet caught him in the mouth and tore through his cheek. The amulet of an Ilaga was usually a tiny bottle containing lana (coconut oil), bits of tree roots, and whatnot. The bottle would be tied with a string and worn as a necklace or wrapped around the waist. To keep the powers of the amulet effective, supposedly, an Ilaga would also rub his skin with lana, utter Latin prayers, and avoid certain kinds of food in certain days of the week. Taking a bath and having sex were forbidden on Fridays. One Friday, my uncle wasn’t able to resist the temptation. He slept with a woman.
I didn’t ask my uncle why he joined Ilaga. I didn’t have to. It doesn’t take a genius to know. Suffice it to say that despite his being a brave (or brutal) warrior, he was also a victim—an unwitting victim of poverty, ignorance, and the cold-bloodedness of the powers-that-be.
The Ilagas have become a legend, and should remain so. They should be nothing but a part of Mindanao’s past. They should be remembered not as martyred Crusaders but as soldiers with a good end but a misguided means. They wanted peace in Mindanao, but they thought the best and only way to attain it was by subduing, if not annihilating, the Muslims. They are a source of pride for young Christians like me, for in my veins flows the same blood—the blood of fearless fighters. But they are also our shame, for they turned into ruthless savages who every so often preyed upon innocent lives.
Ilaga has done its share of wreaking havoc on Mindanao. I want the chapter on them closed. Unfortunately, I couldn’t have things my way. Philippine Daily Inquirer reported yesterday that the group has resurfaced. They claim to be gathering force.
We’re back in the 70s—well, almost. I’m confident the “new” Ilaga could no longer sow as much terror as the original group had. Times have changed. The people of Mindanao now are more socially aware and educated. Our voice against human rights abuses has become stronger. Many of us Muslims and Christians have forged ties of friendship no senseless war could break.
I hope when I write my book someday, the Ilaga of this decade will only merit a passing mention in the afterword.
Showing posts with label Pieces. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pieces. Show all posts
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Pinguiaman
Pati ba naman diri may toll fee?
Stop Station. They found the boat ride daunting.I felt like we were in Central Africa or some exotic marshland. Water stretched as far as our eyes could see. The pump boat we were riding had to navigate around grasses and steer clear of tree limbs and shallow water. While we were passing through one particularly placid pool, I reached on instinct for the water below—only to yank my hand back. Far from the clear, turquoise water of Central Africa or some exotic marshland, the water around us was murky and germ-infested.
There were 15 of us in four boats: six faculty members, three officers from the Muslim Students Organization, two municipal social workers, two military men, one local guide, and one village chief. Our destination: Pinguiaman, the farthest among the flooded barangays of Lambayong, Sultan Kudarat. Our mission: To deliver 390 bags of food and 390 bags of used clothing to 370 Muslim families.
I was seated beside Jawali Mambao, Pinguiaman’s barangay chairman. In a heavily accented Tagalog, he told me his village had been flooded since February.
“Kap” pointed at a cluster of empty huts. He said it was part of Tinumigis, a barangay where Ilocanos and Maguindanaons lived together. Most of it half-buried in the flood, the barangay had turned into a ghost village. We passed by in quiet. The only noise we could hear was coming from our boat’s engine.
After an hour of traveling through the wet wasteland, we reached our destination, where we had no choice but wade through the ankle-deep flood. We took our delayed lunch as the residents started trooping to the barangay hall. Aware that I was eating in full view of hungry people, I gobbled my fried chicken and didn’t bother to use my ketchup.
While our three Muslim students distributed the goods, I took some pictures, since it's part of my work as the school's publication staff. The confidence and efficiency of the students amazed me. Norhashim, who told me “pinguiaman” means “prayer room”, stood on a chair, shouted instructions in Maguindanaon, and started calling the names in a list. Norodin and Javier, with the help of some local officials, handed out the plastic bags.
I noticed a yellow cartolina pasted in the bare, unpainted wall of the office. From it, I learned that Pinguiaman had a population of 2,429, half of whom—620 male and 585 female—were illiterate. It struck me that long before the heavy rains came, the village had been stuck in a swamp.
Taking pictures made me sick. I felt like it was a cruel act. I knew that the people of Pinguiaman had survived because they still had dreams to hold on to. They believed this suffering was just fleeting, that one of these days everything would turn to normal, or would even be better than what they had before. I was afraid that when they saw me taking a permanent evidence of their plight, I pulled them back to reality—the grim reality that their suffering could last as long as the image captured by my camera, which meant forever.
I went outside the barangay hall. By this time, the styrofoam packs of our lunch had turned into a girl’s prized possession. She had tied three packs together and was carrying them proudly in her side. The other kids were seated on a small pile of rocks, licking their thumbs in silence. They were licking the ketchup I discarded earlier. I averted my gaze.
I talked to the social workers who accompanied us. Ma’am Crisanta and Ma’am Cora said that in February, the flood affected three barangays only. When June came, the raging water invaded 10 more barangays. About 1,400 families had to evacuate to the town’s poblacion. More than 5,000 hectares of rice fields were damaged. The figures astounded me. All this time, I was thinking that what happened to Lambayong, the rice granary of Sultan Kudarat, was just some minor flashflood.
Throughout the ordeal, the people of Pinguiaman never left their village. I don’t want to think what they had been eating. They were left to fend for themselves. Ma’am Cris and Cora said relief goods and donations didn’t reach the barangay, for the supply wasn’t even enough for the people at the evacuation center.
Nothing was enough. And we could only do so much. Each of the 390 bags we distributed contained merely three kilos of rice, two cans of sardines and two packs of instant noodles. For a family of six, roughly the average size in Pinguiaman, it would be good for a day only—four days at most, if stretched. I don’t want to think what they ate after that.
I used to think handing out donations to victims of a calamity would make you happy. I wasn’t happy. The depression was simply overwhelming. I thought the beneficiaries would be happy, too. The people of Pinguiaman were probably thankful, but with the situation they were in, it was difficult to be happy.
And it looked like the people of Pinguiaman and other villages of Lambayong wouldn’t find happiness anytime soon. Ma’am Zenaida, our guide, said the water wasn’t only a passing flood. It was the body of Allah River, which for the past 16 years flowed through Sultan Sa Barongis, Maguindanao. The heavy downpour recently caused it to swell and change course. Some old Muslim seers forecasted that the river would stay in Lambayong for seven years, said Ma’am Zen. It was folklore, but not really far from what geologists would also estimate.
When we were riding the boats back home, the water had gone high by a few inches. Large, dark clouds were forming in the sky. We could see rain miles away. I thought of the gaunt men and women who lined up for free sardines and noodles that would last only for a day. I thought of their children who scavenged for ketchup. I thought of what they would do when another rain came.
It was July 28, 2008. At Batasan Pambansa that time, Pres. Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo was delivering her State of the Nation Address. They say she received so much applause from our congressmen.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Going green
From my personal archives. June 2, 2006
Earth day was coming. I was reminded about this when I came across a newspaper article about the work of Theresa Calo.
A dedicated advocate of environmental protection, Calo has helped hundreds of thousands of Filipinos reform, from being litterbugs to vanguards of Mother Earth. For the past three years, she has been to more than 1000 barangays around the country, teaching the people how to dispose of their garbage properly and prompting each local government to spearhead a zero-waste management program.
As an enthusiast of green living, I consider Calo a person in the ranks of national heroes and great social mavericks. I am a self-professed environmentalist—a garbage collector to be exact. I gather post-consumer odds and ends as a pastime.
Let me just call myself “a garbage collector.” I’ve been scanning books for the right name for people who collect garbage as a hobby, but I couldn’t find any. Terms like “conservationist,” “Earth saver” and “nature lover” would do, but they are not so specific. I thought of coining my own description, which I decided should sound like “philatelist” (someone who collects stamps) or “numismatist” (a coin collector). However, I find words like “garbagist,” and “thrashist” not only politically incorrect but contradictory as well, since what I really promote is cleanliness.
If you find yourself in a bedroom that looks like a material recovery facility, chances are, you have stepped into my territory. I keep at home for several years now boxes of different sizes, each one containing a particular kind of used paraphernalia: plastic wrappers, empty bottles or scratch papers.
I carry with me the habit anywhere I go. A cornucopia of junks occupies one-fourth of my closet in the dorm and half of my locker in the office of our student publication. The sight of my well-organized rubbish gives me a sense of accomplishment and de-stresses me, probably like the way shoes exhilarate Imelda Marcos and cars give pleasure to the Sultan of Brunei.
Several things awakened the environmentalist in me. I must have been enlightened when I came across the quotation, “We did not inherit the Earth from our ancestors. We borrowed it from our children.” (Ironically, it was printed in a calendar given for free by a store that sells agricultural products, including soil-degrading fertilizers and ozone-depleting pesticides.) I also learned from science magazines the harmful effects to nature of human activities and what could happen in the future if those acts remain unabated. Filled with facts and figures, the predictions of the scientists that I read seemed so grim and imminent that they scared me more than the Book of Revelations did.
But the incident that really motivated me to save the Earth in my own little way was when I became an unwitting witness to a crime one night. A crime against nature, that is. My companions and I were then traveling back home in Isulan, Sultan Kudarat from a schools press conference in Tacloban City. We were aboard a ferry across Surigao Strait, the body of water dividing Visayas and Mindanao, when I saw someone dump the contents of a large trashcan into the dark, open sea. The can was filled with empty styrofoam bowls of instant mami, one of which was mine.
I could not believe what the shipman did. I had trouble looking for that particular can because all the other cans had been overflowing with garbage, and he just emptied it into the sea without batting an eyelash! The next morning, I fully realized the gravity of what he did when my schoolmate and I went up the top deck for fresh air.
We saw a small school of whales wading through the sea. Only their backs and streaked dorsal fins were jutting out the water. After the whales went out of our sight, two playful bottle-nosed dolphins leapt out of the water. I watched the pair with childlike amazement as they raced against each other in somersaults, only to be disheartened upon remembering what I witnessed the previous night.
Since after the trip, I decided to just store my trash inside my room. Though I do not practice recycling because I do not have the patience, creativity and any more time for that, I prefer not to give my personal scrap to the (official) garbage collectors for they just dump the town’s garbage in a landfill without using any segregation or recovery methods.
The editorial cartoon in the same issue of the newspaper shows the present condition of the Mother Earth. She is half-buried in the muck and mire of environmental problems, but there is hope that she will be saved. The artist drew a large hand extended to the Mother Earth and labeled it “environmentalists” and “Responsible citizens.” I believe, however that “Local government officials” should be included there. Only through joint efforts of ordinary people and the leaders can the environment be best taken care of. Even the success of Calo would be impossible had it not been for the support of the local officials.
I never considered Earth Day of great significance. I didn’t see the point of celebrating when we still ravage the natural resources much faster than we can replenish them. But knowing about the success of Theresa Calo made me realize that there is something to celebrate. The cause is getting more popular as concerned citizens contribute in small ways. The progress of environmentalists may be painfully slow, but the fight is never hopeless.
***
(Excerpt from my pathetic letter to PDI: I passed this article before and I later realized that the way I wrote it was awful so I made a lot of changes and kept in mind some writing basics that I forgot to apply in the first one. I hope you give this article another chance and read it and consider publishing it.
PDI wasn't moved, but with more modifications, this was eventually published in a newsletter of a mining company where I work as a part-time writer)
Earth day was coming. I was reminded about this when I came across a newspaper article about the work of Theresa Calo.
A dedicated advocate of environmental protection, Calo has helped hundreds of thousands of Filipinos reform, from being litterbugs to vanguards of Mother Earth. For the past three years, she has been to more than 1000 barangays around the country, teaching the people how to dispose of their garbage properly and prompting each local government to spearhead a zero-waste management program.
As an enthusiast of green living, I consider Calo a person in the ranks of national heroes and great social mavericks. I am a self-professed environmentalist—a garbage collector to be exact. I gather post-consumer odds and ends as a pastime.
Let me just call myself “a garbage collector.” I’ve been scanning books for the right name for people who collect garbage as a hobby, but I couldn’t find any. Terms like “conservationist,” “Earth saver” and “nature lover” would do, but they are not so specific. I thought of coining my own description, which I decided should sound like “philatelist” (someone who collects stamps) or “numismatist” (a coin collector). However, I find words like “garbagist,” and “thrashist” not only politically incorrect but contradictory as well, since what I really promote is cleanliness.
If you find yourself in a bedroom that looks like a material recovery facility, chances are, you have stepped into my territory. I keep at home for several years now boxes of different sizes, each one containing a particular kind of used paraphernalia: plastic wrappers, empty bottles or scratch papers.
I carry with me the habit anywhere I go. A cornucopia of junks occupies one-fourth of my closet in the dorm and half of my locker in the office of our student publication. The sight of my well-organized rubbish gives me a sense of accomplishment and de-stresses me, probably like the way shoes exhilarate Imelda Marcos and cars give pleasure to the Sultan of Brunei.
Several things awakened the environmentalist in me. I must have been enlightened when I came across the quotation, “We did not inherit the Earth from our ancestors. We borrowed it from our children.” (Ironically, it was printed in a calendar given for free by a store that sells agricultural products, including soil-degrading fertilizers and ozone-depleting pesticides.) I also learned from science magazines the harmful effects to nature of human activities and what could happen in the future if those acts remain unabated. Filled with facts and figures, the predictions of the scientists that I read seemed so grim and imminent that they scared me more than the Book of Revelations did.
But the incident that really motivated me to save the Earth in my own little way was when I became an unwitting witness to a crime one night. A crime against nature, that is. My companions and I were then traveling back home in Isulan, Sultan Kudarat from a schools press conference in Tacloban City. We were aboard a ferry across Surigao Strait, the body of water dividing Visayas and Mindanao, when I saw someone dump the contents of a large trashcan into the dark, open sea. The can was filled with empty styrofoam bowls of instant mami, one of which was mine.
I could not believe what the shipman did. I had trouble looking for that particular can because all the other cans had been overflowing with garbage, and he just emptied it into the sea without batting an eyelash! The next morning, I fully realized the gravity of what he did when my schoolmate and I went up the top deck for fresh air.
We saw a small school of whales wading through the sea. Only their backs and streaked dorsal fins were jutting out the water. After the whales went out of our sight, two playful bottle-nosed dolphins leapt out of the water. I watched the pair with childlike amazement as they raced against each other in somersaults, only to be disheartened upon remembering what I witnessed the previous night.
Since after the trip, I decided to just store my trash inside my room. Though I do not practice recycling because I do not have the patience, creativity and any more time for that, I prefer not to give my personal scrap to the (official) garbage collectors for they just dump the town’s garbage in a landfill without using any segregation or recovery methods.
The editorial cartoon in the same issue of the newspaper shows the present condition of the Mother Earth. She is half-buried in the muck and mire of environmental problems, but there is hope that she will be saved. The artist drew a large hand extended to the Mother Earth and labeled it “environmentalists” and “Responsible citizens.” I believe, however that “Local government officials” should be included there. Only through joint efforts of ordinary people and the leaders can the environment be best taken care of. Even the success of Calo would be impossible had it not been for the support of the local officials.
I never considered Earth Day of great significance. I didn’t see the point of celebrating when we still ravage the natural resources much faster than we can replenish them. But knowing about the success of Theresa Calo made me realize that there is something to celebrate. The cause is getting more popular as concerned citizens contribute in small ways. The progress of environmentalists may be painfully slow, but the fight is never hopeless.
***
(Excerpt from my pathetic letter to PDI: I passed this article before and I later realized that the way I wrote it was awful so I made a lot of changes and kept in mind some writing basics that I forgot to apply in the first one. I hope you give this article another chance and read it and consider publishing it.
PDI wasn't moved, but with more modifications, this was eventually published in a newsletter of a mining company where I work as a part-time writer)
Don’t get sick
From my personal archives. March 21, 2006
From television and the papers, I have long learned that the Philippine health system is on the verge of collapse, but I was only able to see how close it is to the edge when I was hospitalized a few weeks ago.
I suffered from a terrible headache and spent a whole afternoon in bed, writhing and grunting in agony until I threw up everything I ate for lunch. I decided to see a doctor. When my dorm’s landlord saw me very pale and barely able to walk, he offered to go with me and brought me to the nearest hospital—the provincial hospital.
I haven’t been confined in a government hospital before. I got worried about poor facilities and services. But I told myself all I need anyway was just a bottle of IV to rehydrate me, and I could go back to school the next day.
The hospital did not turn out to be as bad as I expected, or at least as compared to the hospital of my home province. But, still, it was not the kind of place that our public officials, especially the legislators, would bring themselves to if they have a health problem. I surmise even the doctors who work in that hospital would not have their sick children treated there. It was a hospital for those who do not have much choice—the penniless and oppressed.
The nurses were either too busy or simply too few. The ones who entertained us were second year nursing students having their hospital exposure.
Being injected with an IV is unpleasant. Being injected by a trembling, first-timer student nurse is dreadful. When the nursing students surrounded me as I sat ready for the needle, I thought they were just going to observe their class instructor inject me. To my horror, the one holding the syringe was a student. Fortunately, she was able to finish her task without any untoward incident, but I was close to crying, “I’m not a guinea pig. Stop it!”
I was made to stay in a room. A note in a small cartolina pasted on the wall read, “Blue Room: Patients need surgery but can wait.” It was crowded by a dozen patients or so, some of them in a catheter and surgical gown. Sickness, poverty and despair abide the place.
When the night came, all the other patients in the Blue Room were transferred to the charity ward. I was told that all the rooms have been occupied and there was no more space in the ward so I have to sleep in the alley. That was when I asked to be transferred to another hospital.
As expected, the private hospital was much better than the provincial hospital. There are a few patients only, and the student nurses did nothing more than check my vital signs and help me change my shirt.
The ultrasound showed I have a liver disease with a tongue-twisting name. I was confined for four days. The bill was bigger than what I pay for a semester at school.
I have to convalesce this summer, and always keep in mind an old lesson that I’ve re-learned: Don’t get sick.
From television and the papers, I have long learned that the Philippine health system is on the verge of collapse, but I was only able to see how close it is to the edge when I was hospitalized a few weeks ago.
I suffered from a terrible headache and spent a whole afternoon in bed, writhing and grunting in agony until I threw up everything I ate for lunch. I decided to see a doctor. When my dorm’s landlord saw me very pale and barely able to walk, he offered to go with me and brought me to the nearest hospital—the provincial hospital.
I haven’t been confined in a government hospital before. I got worried about poor facilities and services. But I told myself all I need anyway was just a bottle of IV to rehydrate me, and I could go back to school the next day.
The hospital did not turn out to be as bad as I expected, or at least as compared to the hospital of my home province. But, still, it was not the kind of place that our public officials, especially the legislators, would bring themselves to if they have a health problem. I surmise even the doctors who work in that hospital would not have their sick children treated there. It was a hospital for those who do not have much choice—the penniless and oppressed.
The nurses were either too busy or simply too few. The ones who entertained us were second year nursing students having their hospital exposure.
Being injected with an IV is unpleasant. Being injected by a trembling, first-timer student nurse is dreadful. When the nursing students surrounded me as I sat ready for the needle, I thought they were just going to observe their class instructor inject me. To my horror, the one holding the syringe was a student. Fortunately, she was able to finish her task without any untoward incident, but I was close to crying, “I’m not a guinea pig. Stop it!”
I was made to stay in a room. A note in a small cartolina pasted on the wall read, “Blue Room: Patients need surgery but can wait.” It was crowded by a dozen patients or so, some of them in a catheter and surgical gown. Sickness, poverty and despair abide the place.
When the night came, all the other patients in the Blue Room were transferred to the charity ward. I was told that all the rooms have been occupied and there was no more space in the ward so I have to sleep in the alley. That was when I asked to be transferred to another hospital.
As expected, the private hospital was much better than the provincial hospital. There are a few patients only, and the student nurses did nothing more than check my vital signs and help me change my shirt.
The ultrasound showed I have a liver disease with a tongue-twisting name. I was confined for four days. The bill was bigger than what I pay for a semester at school.
I have to convalesce this summer, and always keep in mind an old lesson that I’ve re-learned: Don’t get sick.
Stop the violence
From my personal archives. February 2007
No one can stop a determined bomber.
When you live in Mindanao, where bomb threats never fully disappear, you have to keep these words in mind.
I first heard this warning two years ago, uttered by the police chief of Koronadal City, when I had an interview with him for an article I was writing for the student publication. Ever since, I have made it a point to stay away from the public market and other crowded places where the perpetrators usually leave their deadly devices.
Judging by the number of victims, the recent explosions were less violent than the attacks years ago, perhaps an indication that the government’s anti-terrorism campaign is paying off or the enmity in the island is subsiding. But the bombings have been constantly recurring that one is reminded not to be so assured just yet.
Every time military offensive against the rebels intensifies, not a week would pass before another bomb would blow up. The terrorists would retaliate in the worst possible way they could mock the government—by preying upon innocent lives. One example is the bombings in the eve of the Asean summit, several weeks ago. The blasts in the cities of General Santos, Cotabato and Kidapawan left seven dead and more than 40 wounded. A day before that, President Macapagal-Arroyo had declared victory over the Abu Sayyaf in Sulu.
Indeed, no one can stop a determined bomber. Be wary of your safety, even if it’s the President who announces that “the terrorist elements have nowhere to hide and are in fact doomed to annihilation.” Or—taking it from the last tragedy—be wary of your safety, especially when the President assures the public that everything is under control.
This is not to put all the blame to the administration. Mindanao has been troubled for decades, since the vast island started to become too small for the Muslim natives and Christian settlers. The conflict even stems from the age-old war against adherents of Christianity and Islam who have been trying to prove to each other whose god is mightier (never mind that the gods they claim to worship and wage war for are the one and the same God). Everything will not fall in place overnight.
The road towards peace in Mindanao is long and painful. Progress has been made possible through concerted efforts of many people—from government officials to educators to individuals who got the better of their prejudice. And each time a bombing occurs, the peacemakers have to move back and retrace the agonizing steps, as old pains, fears and biases rankle again in the hearts of Mindanaons.
Even before the Moro insurgencies surfaced, Christians and Muslims in Mindanao have long had nasty strifes. In the province of Cotabato, populated mostly by Antiqueños and Maguindanaons, anyone was fair game. The father of Manang Lucy, my cousin, was among those who suffered a senseless death. While drinking with his friends in the town market of Carmen one Sunday, he was fatally stabbed on the back. It turned out that some Muslim men mistook him for someone—a Christian—whom they had a fight with. (The true meanings of the words “Christian” and Muslim” do not fit some people I am referring to, but for lack of other words to call the two groups of warring people, I use the terms liberally.)
The killers got away with the crime, and the injustice seared the memory of Manang Lucy and her siblings’. Worse, they have passed on the bitterness and resentment to their children. Now that their children have children too, the kids will likely grow up harboring the same ill-feeing against Muslims.
For my friend Kareem (not his real name), the latest bombing is another reason to hide his Muslim lineage. When the topic of a conversation comes into his religion or ethnicity, I notice he would cringe and be quiet, until I or someone else would change the subject. When I first met him, he introduced himself with a Western name. Two weeks or so later, probably after realizing that not all Christians are bigots, he insisted on being called by his real name, which incidentally sounds very Arabic. Until now, however, he avoids as much as possible being identified a Muslim. It does not help that other guys sometimes tell him in jest that he must be carrying a bomb or he’s a close associate of Bin Laden.
I want to tell Manang Lucy that the crime of one or two person is not the crime of the entire family or community or race. But then, I’m not the one who lost a father. It’s not difficult for me to rationalize because there’s no pain that cloudens my mind. I want to tell Kareem to take pride of what he is and to stop trying to please people who can’t respect his faith. But it’s he, not I, who grew up in a polarized town where Christians discriminate Muslims. I have not experienced being the butt of racist jokes or the topic of spiteful whispers. It would be easier to make Manang Lucy and Kareem listen, or they themselves would change their views, if they see a reason to let go of the past—if there are no more division, no war, no bombings.
It’s not only my cousin’s hatred and my friend’s fears that a bombing rouses. There are countless Manang Lucys and Kareems out there. Stop the bombings. Put an end to the violence. Then we can talk about healing.
No one can stop a determined bomber.
When you live in Mindanao, where bomb threats never fully disappear, you have to keep these words in mind.
I first heard this warning two years ago, uttered by the police chief of Koronadal City, when I had an interview with him for an article I was writing for the student publication. Ever since, I have made it a point to stay away from the public market and other crowded places where the perpetrators usually leave their deadly devices.
Judging by the number of victims, the recent explosions were less violent than the attacks years ago, perhaps an indication that the government’s anti-terrorism campaign is paying off or the enmity in the island is subsiding. But the bombings have been constantly recurring that one is reminded not to be so assured just yet.
Every time military offensive against the rebels intensifies, not a week would pass before another bomb would blow up. The terrorists would retaliate in the worst possible way they could mock the government—by preying upon innocent lives. One example is the bombings in the eve of the Asean summit, several weeks ago. The blasts in the cities of General Santos, Cotabato and Kidapawan left seven dead and more than 40 wounded. A day before that, President Macapagal-Arroyo had declared victory over the Abu Sayyaf in Sulu.
Indeed, no one can stop a determined bomber. Be wary of your safety, even if it’s the President who announces that “the terrorist elements have nowhere to hide and are in fact doomed to annihilation.” Or—taking it from the last tragedy—be wary of your safety, especially when the President assures the public that everything is under control.
This is not to put all the blame to the administration. Mindanao has been troubled for decades, since the vast island started to become too small for the Muslim natives and Christian settlers. The conflict even stems from the age-old war against adherents of Christianity and Islam who have been trying to prove to each other whose god is mightier (never mind that the gods they claim to worship and wage war for are the one and the same God). Everything will not fall in place overnight.
The road towards peace in Mindanao is long and painful. Progress has been made possible through concerted efforts of many people—from government officials to educators to individuals who got the better of their prejudice. And each time a bombing occurs, the peacemakers have to move back and retrace the agonizing steps, as old pains, fears and biases rankle again in the hearts of Mindanaons.
Even before the Moro insurgencies surfaced, Christians and Muslims in Mindanao have long had nasty strifes. In the province of Cotabato, populated mostly by Antiqueños and Maguindanaons, anyone was fair game. The father of Manang Lucy, my cousin, was among those who suffered a senseless death. While drinking with his friends in the town market of Carmen one Sunday, he was fatally stabbed on the back. It turned out that some Muslim men mistook him for someone—a Christian—whom they had a fight with. (The true meanings of the words “Christian” and Muslim” do not fit some people I am referring to, but for lack of other words to call the two groups of warring people, I use the terms liberally.)
The killers got away with the crime, and the injustice seared the memory of Manang Lucy and her siblings’. Worse, they have passed on the bitterness and resentment to their children. Now that their children have children too, the kids will likely grow up harboring the same ill-feeing against Muslims.
For my friend Kareem (not his real name), the latest bombing is another reason to hide his Muslim lineage. When the topic of a conversation comes into his religion or ethnicity, I notice he would cringe and be quiet, until I or someone else would change the subject. When I first met him, he introduced himself with a Western name. Two weeks or so later, probably after realizing that not all Christians are bigots, he insisted on being called by his real name, which incidentally sounds very Arabic. Until now, however, he avoids as much as possible being identified a Muslim. It does not help that other guys sometimes tell him in jest that he must be carrying a bomb or he’s a close associate of Bin Laden.
I want to tell Manang Lucy that the crime of one or two person is not the crime of the entire family or community or race. But then, I’m not the one who lost a father. It’s not difficult for me to rationalize because there’s no pain that cloudens my mind. I want to tell Kareem to take pride of what he is and to stop trying to please people who can’t respect his faith. But it’s he, not I, who grew up in a polarized town where Christians discriminate Muslims. I have not experienced being the butt of racist jokes or the topic of spiteful whispers. It would be easier to make Manang Lucy and Kareem listen, or they themselves would change their views, if they see a reason to let go of the past—if there are no more division, no war, no bombings.
It’s not only my cousin’s hatred and my friend’s fears that a bombing rouses. There are countless Manang Lucys and Kareems out there. Stop the bombings. Put an end to the violence. Then we can talk about healing.
Keep on rockin'
From my personal archives. December 2006.
Dear 6Cyclemind,
I was in the crowd when you had your gig here in the bursting-forth city of Koronadal. I’m sure you did not notice me, for even if I was a stark anachronism there, the parking lot of the mall where you performed teemed with people.
Why am I writing this? I want to tell you that you are good and that you deserve the popularity you’ve been getting. I had to write because during your concert, I wasn’t able to express my appreciation. The best—and perhaps the one and only fitting—way of giving respect to the band on stage is to go with the music’s flow. But as you sang and drove the crowd wild that evening, I just stood on my spot, pliant as a brick wall.
There was nothing wrong with you guys. In fact, I wanted to shout, sing with you and do some headbang, as did the uninhibited teen-agers in front of me. The problem was me. I was simply not rockista enough.
In any rock concert, I would naturally be a square peg in a hole. You see, I’m the kind whose regular and ultimate social activity is having fun with books and other reading materials in the library. Until now, I still don't know what got into me when I decided to come with my dormmates to your concert.
My semi-stoic personality (if it’s not “monastic,” as some people label it) kept me from responding to your performance the way I ought to. But it’s also the same personality that would not allow me to shrug it all off. When I read an insightful and well-written book, I recommend it to my friends. When I hear an eloquent speech, I’m all-ears to the speaker and I try as well to apply the message to my life. The night you played, I found myself in the middle of a cool rock party. Too bad, sitting on a library chair for three hours every day had stiffened my muscled.
My scrupulous conscience is telling me that you might be wondering why a number in the audience did not seem to have any reaction. Don’t be bothered. Most of those phlegmatic people were middle-aged mothers grappling with grocery bags. The rest, who were younger, might just had something that held them back, like how my being introvert repressed my, ahem, rocker alter ego. No one booed you anyway, and even if some drunken nuts did, it would still not be proof that you weren’t good enough. You just had to look at the sweaty young things huddled near the stage, jumping mad while bellowing with you your song, “Sige lang sandal ka na / At wag mong pipigilan / Iiyak mo na ang lahat sa langit / Iiyak mo lang ang lahat sa akin…”
Okay, I’m being paranoid a bit. With chart-topping album sales and hectic tours, you may be too busy and not worried about anything at all. But in case doubt creeps in, you could take heed of these words from me. After all, you could every now and then lose self-esteem in the fickle entertainment industry, and in this crazy world, for that matter.
I am also writing this letter for myself. Like you, I feel fulfilled when I get to express myself. Like all dreamers, I wish to accomplish great things like, you know, touching other people’s lives and making a difference. I do it through writing. (I can’t carry a tune.)
I used to find it disheartening when my write-up seems to have no effect whatsoever to the readers. But now that I’ve been in the shoes of passive observers, I understand that it is not always my fault if the response to my essay or story is lukewarm. Yes, being seemingly ignored does not necessarily mean that my effort is futile or useless. Readers may not be raving about what I’ve written, but I could bank on the fact that since I write the truth and always for a good purpose, they get something from me. Hence, I will keep on writing—my own way of rocking the world.
In putting down these realizations, I hope to recall them if I’d feel rotten again when my articles receive poor attention.
I hope your bond grow stronger as you scale greater heights. Keep on rockin’. The next time I’m in your concert, I might already be a true-blue rockista.
Dear 6Cyclemind,
I was in the crowd when you had your gig here in the bursting-forth city of Koronadal. I’m sure you did not notice me, for even if I was a stark anachronism there, the parking lot of the mall where you performed teemed with people.
Why am I writing this? I want to tell you that you are good and that you deserve the popularity you’ve been getting. I had to write because during your concert, I wasn’t able to express my appreciation. The best—and perhaps the one and only fitting—way of giving respect to the band on stage is to go with the music’s flow. But as you sang and drove the crowd wild that evening, I just stood on my spot, pliant as a brick wall.
There was nothing wrong with you guys. In fact, I wanted to shout, sing with you and do some headbang, as did the uninhibited teen-agers in front of me. The problem was me. I was simply not rockista enough.
In any rock concert, I would naturally be a square peg in a hole. You see, I’m the kind whose regular and ultimate social activity is having fun with books and other reading materials in the library. Until now, I still don't know what got into me when I decided to come with my dormmates to your concert.
My semi-stoic personality (if it’s not “monastic,” as some people label it) kept me from responding to your performance the way I ought to. But it’s also the same personality that would not allow me to shrug it all off. When I read an insightful and well-written book, I recommend it to my friends. When I hear an eloquent speech, I’m all-ears to the speaker and I try as well to apply the message to my life. The night you played, I found myself in the middle of a cool rock party. Too bad, sitting on a library chair for three hours every day had stiffened my muscled.
My scrupulous conscience is telling me that you might be wondering why a number in the audience did not seem to have any reaction. Don’t be bothered. Most of those phlegmatic people were middle-aged mothers grappling with grocery bags. The rest, who were younger, might just had something that held them back, like how my being introvert repressed my, ahem, rocker alter ego. No one booed you anyway, and even if some drunken nuts did, it would still not be proof that you weren’t good enough. You just had to look at the sweaty young things huddled near the stage, jumping mad while bellowing with you your song, “Sige lang sandal ka na / At wag mong pipigilan / Iiyak mo na ang lahat sa langit / Iiyak mo lang ang lahat sa akin…”
Okay, I’m being paranoid a bit. With chart-topping album sales and hectic tours, you may be too busy and not worried about anything at all. But in case doubt creeps in, you could take heed of these words from me. After all, you could every now and then lose self-esteem in the fickle entertainment industry, and in this crazy world, for that matter.
I am also writing this letter for myself. Like you, I feel fulfilled when I get to express myself. Like all dreamers, I wish to accomplish great things like, you know, touching other people’s lives and making a difference. I do it through writing. (I can’t carry a tune.)
I used to find it disheartening when my write-up seems to have no effect whatsoever to the readers. But now that I’ve been in the shoes of passive observers, I understand that it is not always my fault if the response to my essay or story is lukewarm. Yes, being seemingly ignored does not necessarily mean that my effort is futile or useless. Readers may not be raving about what I’ve written, but I could bank on the fact that since I write the truth and always for a good purpose, they get something from me. Hence, I will keep on writing—my own way of rocking the world.
In putting down these realizations, I hope to recall them if I’d feel rotten again when my articles receive poor attention.
I hope your bond grow stronger as you scale greater heights. Keep on rockin’. The next time I’m in your concert, I might already be a true-blue rockista.
The cry
From my personal archives. March 15, 2006
A sound told me it was already six p.m. I set aside the book I was reading and prepared myself for what I should do.
What I heard was the voice of the muezzin (crier) from a small mosque 50 meters away from our home. Inside the Muslim house of worship, he chants the call to salat (prayer) five times a day: at dawn, at noon , in the afternoon, in the evening, and at nightfall. He speaks with a microphone connected to a squawker so all Muslims in the neighborhood are well reminded of one of their chief duties.
The duty I had to fulfill that time, however, was not to pray but to cook rice. My family is Ilonggo and Catholic. We take the muezzin’s evening call as a cue to prepare supper.
We live in Sultan Kudarat, a province in Mindanao where Christians and Muslims are almost the same in number. The two groups of people usually live in separate towns or villages. But in our simple, gated community, Muslims and Christians live together—and rather peacefully.
The mosque near our home interests me. I always pass by it so I get to observe its features. It is about 15 square meters only and looks like a big shoebox, with two air conditioners jutting out the light-blue walls. The mihrab (niche), which contains the pulpit for the preacher, is at the west side of the mosque, facing Mecca . Extending from the mihrab about eight meters upward is a minaret with the symbol of Islam (a crescent and a star) at the tip.
A Maguindanaoan neighbor had the structure built inside his lot last year. It came to use just before Ramadan started. Since then, hearing the melodious but unintelligible sound has become a daily experience for my family.
To other people, the Arabic chant will surely evoke fear, especially if they associate Islam with the Abu Sayyaf and the Jemaah Islamiyah. I’m sorry to disappoint the bigots, but my neighbors are anything but terrorists.
Of course, the people in our place do not live in perfect harmony. But since our houses were built almost a decade ago, neighbors have not been seriously at odds with each other. The residents must have learned to respect each other’s beliefs and practices. Or each may just be too busy minding his own business.
As for me, I have long realized that nothing is more foolish than judging a person based on his faith or ethnicity. Growing up in a culturally diverse land made me realize that goodness and evil transcend religion or tribe.
I can’t blame the Christians and Muslims afflicted by the war if they hate each other. It’s not easy for them to just forgive and forget after losing their loved ones. The problem is how to stop the pain and hatred from being passed on to the next generation.
Putting an end to the enmity in Mindanao may be a Herculean task—but not impossible at all.
In From Arms to Farms, a documentary I’ve watched in an ABS-CBN regional station, a Muslim woman said that the people in her village joined the war because it was the only thing left for them to do. Their homes and farms had been destroyed in the crossfire. After the war, government and foreign aids came in and gave them livelihood. With a good income, they were able to send their children back to school and are now turning all their efforts to having a good life.
People of different ways of life learn to adjust with each other only when they enjoy economic opportunities and had proper education, just like in our community. Being involved in a savage war is the last thing in the minds of my family and my neighbors. Our parents know that guns and bombs will not help ensure a bright future for the children.
The road towards a peaceful Mindanao is long and tortuous. But I’m filled with hope whenever I’m home. The cry of the muezzin reminds me that Christians and Muslims can live together in one place without killing each other.
A sound told me it was already six p.m. I set aside the book I was reading and prepared myself for what I should do.
What I heard was the voice of the muezzin (crier) from a small mosque 50 meters away from our home. Inside the Muslim house of worship, he chants the call to salat (prayer) five times a day: at dawn, at noon , in the afternoon, in the evening, and at nightfall. He speaks with a microphone connected to a squawker so all Muslims in the neighborhood are well reminded of one of their chief duties.
The duty I had to fulfill that time, however, was not to pray but to cook rice. My family is Ilonggo and Catholic. We take the muezzin’s evening call as a cue to prepare supper.
We live in Sultan Kudarat, a province in Mindanao where Christians and Muslims are almost the same in number. The two groups of people usually live in separate towns or villages. But in our simple, gated community, Muslims and Christians live together—and rather peacefully.
The mosque near our home interests me. I always pass by it so I get to observe its features. It is about 15 square meters only and looks like a big shoebox, with two air conditioners jutting out the light-blue walls. The mihrab (niche), which contains the pulpit for the preacher, is at the west side of the mosque, facing Mecca . Extending from the mihrab about eight meters upward is a minaret with the symbol of Islam (a crescent and a star) at the tip.
A Maguindanaoan neighbor had the structure built inside his lot last year. It came to use just before Ramadan started. Since then, hearing the melodious but unintelligible sound has become a daily experience for my family.
To other people, the Arabic chant will surely evoke fear, especially if they associate Islam with the Abu Sayyaf and the Jemaah Islamiyah. I’m sorry to disappoint the bigots, but my neighbors are anything but terrorists.
Of course, the people in our place do not live in perfect harmony. But since our houses were built almost a decade ago, neighbors have not been seriously at odds with each other. The residents must have learned to respect each other’s beliefs and practices. Or each may just be too busy minding his own business.
As for me, I have long realized that nothing is more foolish than judging a person based on his faith or ethnicity. Growing up in a culturally diverse land made me realize that goodness and evil transcend religion or tribe.
I can’t blame the Christians and Muslims afflicted by the war if they hate each other. It’s not easy for them to just forgive and forget after losing their loved ones. The problem is how to stop the pain and hatred from being passed on to the next generation.
Putting an end to the enmity in Mindanao may be a Herculean task—but not impossible at all.
In From Arms to Farms, a documentary I’ve watched in an ABS-CBN regional station, a Muslim woman said that the people in her village joined the war because it was the only thing left for them to do. Their homes and farms had been destroyed in the crossfire. After the war, government and foreign aids came in and gave them livelihood. With a good income, they were able to send their children back to school and are now turning all their efforts to having a good life.
People of different ways of life learn to adjust with each other only when they enjoy economic opportunities and had proper education, just like in our community. Being involved in a savage war is the last thing in the minds of my family and my neighbors. Our parents know that guns and bombs will not help ensure a bright future for the children.
The road towards a peaceful Mindanao is long and tortuous. But I’m filled with hope whenever I’m home. The cry of the muezzin reminds me that Christians and Muslims can live together in one place without killing each other.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Death of a boxer
From my personal archives. April 7, 2007
All Angelito Sisnorio Jr. wanted was to fulfill his dreams—earn money, help his family have a better life, bring honor to the country. The boxer did not probably expect that by reaching for the stars with gloved hands, he would die at the young age of 24.
I do not know him personally. Perhaps the only link I have with him is the city of Koronadal, where he grew and where I'm studying now. But we don't have to share more than one common denominator for me to understand why he made boxing his profession. He is no different from thousands of young men who pin their hopes in prizefighting. His struggles in life are much like that of millions of Filipinos.
On March 30, he fought in Thailand without proper authorization from our country’s Games and Amusement Board (GAB). The bout was a mismatch, which is said to be a common practice in Bangkok to improve the records of Thai boxers. Lito was knocked out in the fourth round after receiving a series of right hooks from Chatchai Sasakul, a former world champion who has won his last six fights, four by knockout or technical knockout. Lito's records, meanwhie, consist losses in his last three three fights, one of which was by TKO. He won just five of his 11 fights since turning professional in 2003.
Several hours after the fight with Sasakul, Lito began to vomit violently in his dressing room and was rushed to the hospital, where doctors immediately began brain surgery. He never regained consciousness. He came back home in a coffin. As compensation for Lito's fate, his family received about P300,000 from GAB, Manny Pacquiao and the insurance company that covered the fight.
The death of the super-flyweight fighter prompted authorities to take stringent measures to protect the life and ensure the safety of our boxers. Malacañang and GAB has ordered the immediate ban on the sending of Filipino boxers to Thailand. The World Boxing Council in Bangkok vowed to check every fight in Thailand to prevent mismatches and make sure every boxer has complied with the requirements before engaging in a match.
Let’s not kid ourselves. The authorities can only do so much with such precautions. The way boxing is played is in itself life-threatening. Every severe blow in the head causes permanent damage to the boxer’s brain, and repeated pounding may result to brain hemorrhage. If we really want to prevent the loss of another life inside the ring, the solution is simple: ban boxing.
Of course, our government will not dare totally forbid the violent sport. Not when our best hope for an Olympic gold medal lies in our boxers’ fists. Not when the only time the country becomes united is during the fights of Manny Pacquiao. Not when the government cannot provide a decent alternative means through which boxers can have a good life.
When some friends and I went to a town fiesta two months ago, we chanced upon a boxing competition for kids in the town plaza. Before the first match started, the mayor addressed the crowd of not less than 250, saying that the activity that afternoon was organized “for the enjoyment of the people” and “in the hope of discovering another Manny Pacquiao.”
The townspeople indeed had a great time, especially when kids aged about 9 or 10 slugged it out. The kids themselves seemed to be just having fun. They sheepishly smiled when hit, and they hopped in joy when they won.
When it was the older boys' turn to fight, the laughters faded, signifying that this wasn't just a game anymore. And it would be anything but a game. I found myself blurting out, “Daw patyanay na gid ni ya” (They seem to be killing each other).
Watching boxers fight on TV, even with blood oozing out of their noses or brows, has the same effect to me as watching an ordinary action movie. But watching boxers fight in flesh, even without the blood, made me feel as if I was transported to ancient times, when hapless slaves were made to fight in the colosseum until one would be killed, all for the Romans’ viewing pleasure.
It does not take a genius to see why many young men are drawn into boxing or are supported into it by their families. Prizefighting may not be an easy way to have a better life, but it is surely a much faster way. Ordinary employees have to work their fingers to the bone for several lifetimes to earn the amount Manny Pacquiao rakes in from a single bout. And with the kind of public education we have and the scarcity of jobs in our country, it’s no wonder many Filipinos see boxing as the only way to get out of desperation and poverty. For them, it’s not just a sport; it’s a means to survive.
I am not anti-boxing. Boxers and non-boxers alike may die while doing their job. Manny Pacquiao will forever be one of my idols (notwithstanding his dabbling in politics). I could never forget how proud he makes me feel every time I watch him fight.
Boxers learn lessons in life that I might never learn in my pampered existence. I will forever be in awe of young Filipinos who brave the ring to reach for their dreams. But I believe boxing should not be the best option for them.
All Angelito Sisnorio Jr. wanted was to fulfill his dreams—earn money, help his family have a better life, bring honor to the country. The boxer did not probably expect that by reaching for the stars with gloved hands, he would die at the young age of 24.
I do not know him personally. Perhaps the only link I have with him is the city of Koronadal, where he grew and where I'm studying now. But we don't have to share more than one common denominator for me to understand why he made boxing his profession. He is no different from thousands of young men who pin their hopes in prizefighting. His struggles in life are much like that of millions of Filipinos.
On March 30, he fought in Thailand without proper authorization from our country’s Games and Amusement Board (GAB). The bout was a mismatch, which is said to be a common practice in Bangkok to improve the records of Thai boxers. Lito was knocked out in the fourth round after receiving a series of right hooks from Chatchai Sasakul, a former world champion who has won his last six fights, four by knockout or technical knockout. Lito's records, meanwhie, consist losses in his last three three fights, one of which was by TKO. He won just five of his 11 fights since turning professional in 2003.
Several hours after the fight with Sasakul, Lito began to vomit violently in his dressing room and was rushed to the hospital, where doctors immediately began brain surgery. He never regained consciousness. He came back home in a coffin. As compensation for Lito's fate, his family received about P300,000 from GAB, Manny Pacquiao and the insurance company that covered the fight.
The death of the super-flyweight fighter prompted authorities to take stringent measures to protect the life and ensure the safety of our boxers. Malacañang and GAB has ordered the immediate ban on the sending of Filipino boxers to Thailand. The World Boxing Council in Bangkok vowed to check every fight in Thailand to prevent mismatches and make sure every boxer has complied with the requirements before engaging in a match.
Let’s not kid ourselves. The authorities can only do so much with such precautions. The way boxing is played is in itself life-threatening. Every severe blow in the head causes permanent damage to the boxer’s brain, and repeated pounding may result to brain hemorrhage. If we really want to prevent the loss of another life inside the ring, the solution is simple: ban boxing.
Of course, our government will not dare totally forbid the violent sport. Not when our best hope for an Olympic gold medal lies in our boxers’ fists. Not when the only time the country becomes united is during the fights of Manny Pacquiao. Not when the government cannot provide a decent alternative means through which boxers can have a good life.
When some friends and I went to a town fiesta two months ago, we chanced upon a boxing competition for kids in the town plaza. Before the first match started, the mayor addressed the crowd of not less than 250, saying that the activity that afternoon was organized “for the enjoyment of the people” and “in the hope of discovering another Manny Pacquiao.”
The townspeople indeed had a great time, especially when kids aged about 9 or 10 slugged it out. The kids themselves seemed to be just having fun. They sheepishly smiled when hit, and they hopped in joy when they won.
When it was the older boys' turn to fight, the laughters faded, signifying that this wasn't just a game anymore. And it would be anything but a game. I found myself blurting out, “Daw patyanay na gid ni ya” (They seem to be killing each other).
Watching boxers fight on TV, even with blood oozing out of their noses or brows, has the same effect to me as watching an ordinary action movie. But watching boxers fight in flesh, even without the blood, made me feel as if I was transported to ancient times, when hapless slaves were made to fight in the colosseum until one would be killed, all for the Romans’ viewing pleasure.
It does not take a genius to see why many young men are drawn into boxing or are supported into it by their families. Prizefighting may not be an easy way to have a better life, but it is surely a much faster way. Ordinary employees have to work their fingers to the bone for several lifetimes to earn the amount Manny Pacquiao rakes in from a single bout. And with the kind of public education we have and the scarcity of jobs in our country, it’s no wonder many Filipinos see boxing as the only way to get out of desperation and poverty. For them, it’s not just a sport; it’s a means to survive.
I am not anti-boxing. Boxers and non-boxers alike may die while doing their job. Manny Pacquiao will forever be one of my idols (notwithstanding his dabbling in politics). I could never forget how proud he makes me feel every time I watch him fight.
Boxers learn lessons in life that I might never learn in my pampered existence. I will forever be in awe of young Filipinos who brave the ring to reach for their dreams. But I believe boxing should not be the best option for them.
A mugful of coffee
From my personal archives. February 2006
“If anything can go wrong, it will.” These words, known as Murphy’s Law, took effect on me one Wednesday night. Before the night ended, however, I was able to formulate my own law: “If everything goes wrong, something will make you feel all right.”
My roommate and I were supposed to watch “Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros” because my teacher in Art Appreciation required the class to write a movie analysis about it, but we ended up watching “Jarhead” instead. “Maximo” had been shown the previous week and we missed it, so since we were already in the cinema, we decided we might as well watch a movie and chose the US marine’s memoir of the first Gulf War, though I had an ugly premonition upon reading in its poster the teaser, “Welcome to the Suck.”
The movie was wickedly funny and made me forget that I had not yet taken my supper. When the soldiers arrived in Saudi Arabia, the lead actor (Jake Gyllenhaal) narrated how they killed the time while waiting for battle. The candidness of it was part of the reason the movie earned an R18 rating. I was dumbfounded in a moment when he said that, with other masculine activities, the soldiers fought boredom by “looking at Filipina mail-order bride catalogues.”
I heard gasps and “Whaat?!” from the few other people in the audience. Someone near me muttered, “My, Is that what they think of Filipinas?” I turned my attention back to the screen. I was just surprised to hear something about Filipinos in a big-budget American movie, and I didn’t consider what the actor mentioned as degrading or anything.
Halfway through the movie, the soldiers suddenly talked in whispers, as if they fear we will hear their top-secret plan and turn them in to the Iraqis. At first, I thought it was part of the sound effects, but after twenty minutes or so the soldiers still kept everything to themselves. I marched out the cinema thinking about the Consumer Act of the Philippines and complained to the guard. I went back inside, and soon a small group of the mall’s employees stormed the operator in his booth.
The operator had obviously fallen asleep. In a couple of minutes, the whole theater was blaring again with hip music and the soldiers’ profanities. I had lost track of the movie’s story. Worst, my bad eating and reading habits for the past few days took their toll, and my temples started to hurt like hell. I endured the pain just so my roommate could watch the ending.
I had misfortunes that night to last me a lifetime—or maybe just a week. I failed to catch “Maximo,” barely understood “Jarhead” and left the movie house with a terrible headache. I asked my companion that we try a newly opened coffee shop. A cup of coffee takes away my headaches, whether after I had too much drink or when my migraine attacks.
We were served a mugful each in the coffee shop. While I was sipping my coffee, a man in the next table suddenly talked a little too loud, and his topic was the cities of the United States he’d been to. He was blabbering in English, nasal and all, but his looks and accent betrayed his native ancestry. He was talking not to a foreigner but to two fellow natives who did nothing but grunt and occasionally chuckled while listening. I felt like I was watching a play titled “New Yorker in Koronadal.”
We emptied our mugs and rode a tricycle back to the dorm. My roommate couldn’t help himself in praising the coffee and seemed to have forgotten the mishaps I led him to. He must also have gotten too weary that for the first time, he wasn’t attacked by his insomnia and fell asleep ahead of me, making me wonder if his coffee had trytophan instead of caffeine.
I stayed awake until everyone in the dorm was tucked in bed, including the guard. I plopped down the chair and massaged my head, trying to remember the advice a hilot aunt once gave me: find the throbbing vein and massage it gently until “the air trapped inside flows out.” I kept repeating the procedure until every single engorged vein in my forehead and nape was reduced to its original size and the pain stopped.
My thoughts drifted to the reaction of the moviegoers when Filipina mail order-brides were mentioned in “Jarhead.” I could understand their indignation. They accuse mail-order brides (or, today, e-brides) of cheapening the image of Filipinas. For me, however, I can’t blame many of our women if they marry foreigners they barely know in their search for a better life or desperate struggle to escape from poverty.
Besides, many Filipinos who condemn those women do so not to fight for a moral cause or uphold women’s dignity. It’s just that the care they give to the opinion of Americans is far greater than the understanding and help they are willing to offer to their fellow Filipinos.
I thought of the man who was bragging his trips in the US and his fake twang. The patriotic blood in me boiled when I saw him acting more American than Americans in the coffee shop, but during that solitary moment in the room, I could only be sorry for him and other people who still couldn’t shake off their colonial mentality. It is enough for now that I’m willing to accept everything—good or bad, from praiseworthy to shameful—about this country and do something I can about them. And when we are invaded by another country, I will also put my hands on a rifle and let myself be welcomed to the suck. (I'm no longer sure if I'm still ready to do this hehe.)
It had been long since the last chance I had to feel the peace and quietness of the night and think about love for country. Had it not been for the mugful of coffee, I would have spent the night sleepless with headache and disappointment.
I lay down on my bed as the effect of caffeine wore off. I remembered that I still didn’t know how to accomplish my movie review and I would surely suffer from hyperacidity the next morning. Still, I slept fitfully. I need not worry too much about trivial matters, even serious ones, for at the end of the day—or of the night—there’s always a mugful of coffee to give me the much-needed bliss. And the mugful of coffee need not come in the form of a hot, dark liquid with caffeine. It may be encouraging words from a friend, a sweet, shy smile from that classmate named Meriel, or the invisible yet deeply felt hug from God.
“If anything can go wrong, it will.” These words, known as Murphy’s Law, took effect on me one Wednesday night. Before the night ended, however, I was able to formulate my own law: “If everything goes wrong, something will make you feel all right.”
My roommate and I were supposed to watch “Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros” because my teacher in Art Appreciation required the class to write a movie analysis about it, but we ended up watching “Jarhead” instead. “Maximo” had been shown the previous week and we missed it, so since we were already in the cinema, we decided we might as well watch a movie and chose the US marine’s memoir of the first Gulf War, though I had an ugly premonition upon reading in its poster the teaser, “Welcome to the Suck.”
The movie was wickedly funny and made me forget that I had not yet taken my supper. When the soldiers arrived in Saudi Arabia, the lead actor (Jake Gyllenhaal) narrated how they killed the time while waiting for battle. The candidness of it was part of the reason the movie earned an R18 rating. I was dumbfounded in a moment when he said that, with other masculine activities, the soldiers fought boredom by “looking at Filipina mail-order bride catalogues.”
I heard gasps and “Whaat?!” from the few other people in the audience. Someone near me muttered, “My, Is that what they think of Filipinas?” I turned my attention back to the screen. I was just surprised to hear something about Filipinos in a big-budget American movie, and I didn’t consider what the actor mentioned as degrading or anything.
Halfway through the movie, the soldiers suddenly talked in whispers, as if they fear we will hear their top-secret plan and turn them in to the Iraqis. At first, I thought it was part of the sound effects, but after twenty minutes or so the soldiers still kept everything to themselves. I marched out the cinema thinking about the Consumer Act of the Philippines and complained to the guard. I went back inside, and soon a small group of the mall’s employees stormed the operator in his booth.
The operator had obviously fallen asleep. In a couple of minutes, the whole theater was blaring again with hip music and the soldiers’ profanities. I had lost track of the movie’s story. Worst, my bad eating and reading habits for the past few days took their toll, and my temples started to hurt like hell. I endured the pain just so my roommate could watch the ending.
I had misfortunes that night to last me a lifetime—or maybe just a week. I failed to catch “Maximo,” barely understood “Jarhead” and left the movie house with a terrible headache. I asked my companion that we try a newly opened coffee shop. A cup of coffee takes away my headaches, whether after I had too much drink or when my migraine attacks.
We were served a mugful each in the coffee shop. While I was sipping my coffee, a man in the next table suddenly talked a little too loud, and his topic was the cities of the United States he’d been to. He was blabbering in English, nasal and all, but his looks and accent betrayed his native ancestry. He was talking not to a foreigner but to two fellow natives who did nothing but grunt and occasionally chuckled while listening. I felt like I was watching a play titled “New Yorker in Koronadal.”
We emptied our mugs and rode a tricycle back to the dorm. My roommate couldn’t help himself in praising the coffee and seemed to have forgotten the mishaps I led him to. He must also have gotten too weary that for the first time, he wasn’t attacked by his insomnia and fell asleep ahead of me, making me wonder if his coffee had trytophan instead of caffeine.
I stayed awake until everyone in the dorm was tucked in bed, including the guard. I plopped down the chair and massaged my head, trying to remember the advice a hilot aunt once gave me: find the throbbing vein and massage it gently until “the air trapped inside flows out.” I kept repeating the procedure until every single engorged vein in my forehead and nape was reduced to its original size and the pain stopped.
My thoughts drifted to the reaction of the moviegoers when Filipina mail order-brides were mentioned in “Jarhead.” I could understand their indignation. They accuse mail-order brides (or, today, e-brides) of cheapening the image of Filipinas. For me, however, I can’t blame many of our women if they marry foreigners they barely know in their search for a better life or desperate struggle to escape from poverty.
Besides, many Filipinos who condemn those women do so not to fight for a moral cause or uphold women’s dignity. It’s just that the care they give to the opinion of Americans is far greater than the understanding and help they are willing to offer to their fellow Filipinos.
I thought of the man who was bragging his trips in the US and his fake twang. The patriotic blood in me boiled when I saw him acting more American than Americans in the coffee shop, but during that solitary moment in the room, I could only be sorry for him and other people who still couldn’t shake off their colonial mentality. It is enough for now that I’m willing to accept everything—good or bad, from praiseworthy to shameful—about this country and do something I can about them. And when we are invaded by another country, I will also put my hands on a rifle and let myself be welcomed to the suck. (I'm no longer sure if I'm still ready to do this hehe.)
It had been long since the last chance I had to feel the peace and quietness of the night and think about love for country. Had it not been for the mugful of coffee, I would have spent the night sleepless with headache and disappointment.
I lay down on my bed as the effect of caffeine wore off. I remembered that I still didn’t know how to accomplish my movie review and I would surely suffer from hyperacidity the next morning. Still, I slept fitfully. I need not worry too much about trivial matters, even serious ones, for at the end of the day—or of the night—there’s always a mugful of coffee to give me the much-needed bliss. And the mugful of coffee need not come in the form of a hot, dark liquid with caffeine. It may be encouraging words from a friend, a sweet, shy smile from that classmate named Meriel, or the invisible yet deeply felt hug from God.
Judge them by what is IN their heads--and what is ON their heads
From my personal archives. September 14, 2006
(This is about the Vertex boarders last school year. Most of them are no longer here.)
"Trust the uni~verse and respekt your hair."
-Bob Marley
"Forget not that the earth likes to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair."
-Kahlil Gibran
Most of my dormmates are newcomers, and they are all first year students. For months now, I’ve been wondering if they and I have a generation gap. When it comes to vanity, hair grooming in particular, I seem to have been born an Age earlier than they were.
Of the ten of us occupying the ground floor (the girls are in the second floor), I’m the only one whose hair remains black and who does not use gel. The hairs of the other guys have “highlights” or stiffened by half a bottle of gel, or both. Last year, my old dormmates did not seem to be so particular with their mane.
This barrio boy is experiencing some culture shock. It’s one thing to read about metrosexuals. It’s another to share roof, hallway and mirror with them.
It feels weird to hear the other guys talk about whitening creams with as much enthusiasm as when they share about motorcycles and “chicks.” They advise each other in which tight-fitting, signature shirt they look best. They borrow each other’s fanciful sneakers. (So far, no one has dared borrow my cheap loafers.) The other day, they tried to bleach one guy's hair. I could not suppress a grin looking at his head wrapped in a plastic bag from a department store.
Though my dormmates seem superficial, I noticed one good thing that comes along with their liking for things that, decades ago, were considered “for women only.” By being not so concerned about projecting a macho image, they do not stereotype the sexes. They have respect for women. They collect porn videos in their phones, all right, but they never talked about women as mere sex objects. They treat the girls in the second floor of the dorm as friends, if not family members. Theirs is masculinity anchored not on egotism but on sheer confidence of their sexuality.
The guys with gel and highlights tolerate, if not respect, anyone’s gender preference. We have a transvestite dormmate who prefers being called Luningning. They occasionally make harsh jokes to him, of course, but he's not talked about behind his back and labeled a sinner or any other prejudiced term. The others sometimes borrow his wig to set up a “White Lady” inside the room of whomever they want to scare during brownouts. They asked him to be their make-up artist when we had the search for the Mr. and Ms. of our dorm during acquaintance party. And, yes, they promptly call him Luningning. In another time or another place, the gay boy would be treated as the poor clown, or be mauled.
I’m beginning to think that “vanity” and “vaingloriousness” are not the proper words to describe the way my dormmates care and adorn their hairs. It’s just the norm of “their time”—the time, which I would like to think as the prelude to the age of a more open-minded and egalitarian society.
Meanwhile, the fashionista guys must have influenced me. I now have my share of vanity. I’ve grown my hair. It used to be one-inch long and uncombed for almost six years, but now it’s pricking my eyes.
I’ve been grooming my it with the aid of a small, brown comb, which would be borrowed by two or three guys every morning. The comb has raked through practically all kinds of hair: dry hair and hair sticky with gel; straight hair and parlor-straightened hair; black hair and fake blond hair; hair of an Ilonggo, and hair of an Ilocano; hair of a Christian and hair of a Muslim.
The worst antidote to the hair fever, however, is about to come. Next week, our conservative school will no longer allow male students to wear our hair long. I suspect the primary purpose of the hair policy is to keep gays from wearing their hair at shoulder-length. Talk about open-minded and egalitarian society.
What bothers my dormmates and I is that the rule says our hair must not reach the collar of our shirts. We’re planning to skirt the rule by removing the collar of our shirts. But I guess I need not do that for, thank God, I’ve got a long neck. For the mean time, what I should do is wash my comb regularly, before we share lice and have bad hair days.
(This is about the Vertex boarders last school year. Most of them are no longer here.)
"Trust the uni~verse and respekt your hair."
-Bob Marley
"Forget not that the earth likes to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair."
-Kahlil Gibran
Most of my dormmates are newcomers, and they are all first year students. For months now, I’ve been wondering if they and I have a generation gap. When it comes to vanity, hair grooming in particular, I seem to have been born an Age earlier than they were.
Of the ten of us occupying the ground floor (the girls are in the second floor), I’m the only one whose hair remains black and who does not use gel. The hairs of the other guys have “highlights” or stiffened by half a bottle of gel, or both. Last year, my old dormmates did not seem to be so particular with their mane.
This barrio boy is experiencing some culture shock. It’s one thing to read about metrosexuals. It’s another to share roof, hallway and mirror with them.
It feels weird to hear the other guys talk about whitening creams with as much enthusiasm as when they share about motorcycles and “chicks.” They advise each other in which tight-fitting, signature shirt they look best. They borrow each other’s fanciful sneakers. (So far, no one has dared borrow my cheap loafers.) The other day, they tried to bleach one guy's hair. I could not suppress a grin looking at his head wrapped in a plastic bag from a department store.
Though my dormmates seem superficial, I noticed one good thing that comes along with their liking for things that, decades ago, were considered “for women only.” By being not so concerned about projecting a macho image, they do not stereotype the sexes. They have respect for women. They collect porn videos in their phones, all right, but they never talked about women as mere sex objects. They treat the girls in the second floor of the dorm as friends, if not family members. Theirs is masculinity anchored not on egotism but on sheer confidence of their sexuality.
The guys with gel and highlights tolerate, if not respect, anyone’s gender preference. We have a transvestite dormmate who prefers being called Luningning. They occasionally make harsh jokes to him, of course, but he's not talked about behind his back and labeled a sinner or any other prejudiced term. The others sometimes borrow his wig to set up a “White Lady” inside the room of whomever they want to scare during brownouts. They asked him to be their make-up artist when we had the search for the Mr. and Ms. of our dorm during acquaintance party. And, yes, they promptly call him Luningning. In another time or another place, the gay boy would be treated as the poor clown, or be mauled.
I’m beginning to think that “vanity” and “vaingloriousness” are not the proper words to describe the way my dormmates care and adorn their hairs. It’s just the norm of “their time”—the time, which I would like to think as the prelude to the age of a more open-minded and egalitarian society.
Meanwhile, the fashionista guys must have influenced me. I now have my share of vanity. I’ve grown my hair. It used to be one-inch long and uncombed for almost six years, but now it’s pricking my eyes.
I’ve been grooming my it with the aid of a small, brown comb, which would be borrowed by two or three guys every morning. The comb has raked through practically all kinds of hair: dry hair and hair sticky with gel; straight hair and parlor-straightened hair; black hair and fake blond hair; hair of an Ilonggo, and hair of an Ilocano; hair of a Christian and hair of a Muslim.
The worst antidote to the hair fever, however, is about to come. Next week, our conservative school will no longer allow male students to wear our hair long. I suspect the primary purpose of the hair policy is to keep gays from wearing their hair at shoulder-length. Talk about open-minded and egalitarian society.
What bothers my dormmates and I is that the rule says our hair must not reach the collar of our shirts. We’re planning to skirt the rule by removing the collar of our shirts. But I guess I need not do that for, thank God, I’ve got a long neck. For the mean time, what I should do is wash my comb regularly, before we share lice and have bad hair days.
No love lost
From my personal archives. September 28, 2006
A few days ago, I watched The Lost City in a mall.
The movie received lukewarm reviews, but I decided to see it after finding out from the internet that it is set in 1958-59 Cuba, where Fidel Castro and Che Guevara overthrew President Batista. I figured the film may not be a superb artwork but watching it is at least not a boring way to learn history.
I expected the scenes to look as if they happened in a place and time I could not relate to. But City might as well be set in modern-day Philippines. Like Cuba in 1950s, our country’s democracy today is in peril, though our situation is not as bloody.
Any Filipino could understand the uncertainty felt by the protagonist, a Havana nightclub owner named Fico Fellove. Some of our fellowmen even share Fico’s tragic experiences—he lost to the revolution the woman he loves, his two militant brothers, and his flourishing career.
One of Fico’s brothers served the army of the de facto government, believing that the bloodshed would pave the way for a true democracy. But his leaders, Castro and Guevara, were staunch adherents of Marxism, a complete opposite of democracy.
Aside from that, democracy could only be achieved by ways of democracy, not by spewing bullets to the guts of the enemy.
I have nothing against military leadership or communism. Those systems work for other countries. What I am wary of is the repression that usually goes with them. I do not want to live in a country where I would be told to think in a certain way and be shot if I speak the opposite.
The problem with democracy is not its weaknesses, but the leaders who take advantage of those weaknesses. The problem is not democracy’s tendency for instability and revolution, as Plato so dreaded. The problem is the people like Fulgencio Batista and Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo.
Why GMA? It’s because she’s a Marcos-in-the-making. Last month, our class watched Batas Militar, a documentary about the Martial Law regime in the Philippines. I was struck with the uncanny similarity of the tactics Marcos used in clinging to power and the actions of GMA today: rigging of election results, covert manipulation to change the constitution, unjustifiable offensive to communist insurgents, among others.
I wonder why so many people who belong to the generation before mine do not seem to recognize the signs. Perhaps they see, but they do not care anymore. They may have become too tired of the seemingly never-ending political crisis in the country, as Filipinos seem to be just putting in power one corrupt leader after another.
Some people insist that we have no one to blame but ourselves for our misery since, as Abraham Lincoln said, democracy is “of the people, for the people and by the people.” They say we get only what we deserve and real change is possible only if we tend to our own backyards first. I agree. But this is no excuse to let our leaders off the hook.
For me, there’s only one simple process how we can protect democracy: (1) We’ll elect our leader. (2) If he screws the nation, we’ll ask him to resign. (3) If he does not make the “ultimate sacrifice,” we’ll oust him through a non-violent people power and we’ll accept his constitutional successor or elect another one. (4) If the successor also screws the nation, we’ll again ask him to resign. We’ll keep on repeating the cycle until, to paraphrase a line from another movie, the people will no longer be afraid of the government and the government will be afraid of the people.
“The Lost City” was not partial to anyone or any ideology. It showed the capriciousness of the Batista dictatorship as much as the unforgiving ways of the Castro government.
Fico had a crucial decision to make. He could stay and lose his life. Or leave and lose his country. We Filipinos are in better circumstances. There’s only one thing we need not lose—hope.
A few days ago, I watched The Lost City in a mall.
The movie received lukewarm reviews, but I decided to see it after finding out from the internet that it is set in 1958-59 Cuba, where Fidel Castro and Che Guevara overthrew President Batista. I figured the film may not be a superb artwork but watching it is at least not a boring way to learn history.
I expected the scenes to look as if they happened in a place and time I could not relate to. But City might as well be set in modern-day Philippines. Like Cuba in 1950s, our country’s democracy today is in peril, though our situation is not as bloody.
Any Filipino could understand the uncertainty felt by the protagonist, a Havana nightclub owner named Fico Fellove. Some of our fellowmen even share Fico’s tragic experiences—he lost to the revolution the woman he loves, his two militant brothers, and his flourishing career.
One of Fico’s brothers served the army of the de facto government, believing that the bloodshed would pave the way for a true democracy. But his leaders, Castro and Guevara, were staunch adherents of Marxism, a complete opposite of democracy.
Aside from that, democracy could only be achieved by ways of democracy, not by spewing bullets to the guts of the enemy.
I have nothing against military leadership or communism. Those systems work for other countries. What I am wary of is the repression that usually goes with them. I do not want to live in a country where I would be told to think in a certain way and be shot if I speak the opposite.
The problem with democracy is not its weaknesses, but the leaders who take advantage of those weaknesses. The problem is not democracy’s tendency for instability and revolution, as Plato so dreaded. The problem is the people like Fulgencio Batista and Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo.
Why GMA? It’s because she’s a Marcos-in-the-making. Last month, our class watched Batas Militar, a documentary about the Martial Law regime in the Philippines. I was struck with the uncanny similarity of the tactics Marcos used in clinging to power and the actions of GMA today: rigging of election results, covert manipulation to change the constitution, unjustifiable offensive to communist insurgents, among others.
I wonder why so many people who belong to the generation before mine do not seem to recognize the signs. Perhaps they see, but they do not care anymore. They may have become too tired of the seemingly never-ending political crisis in the country, as Filipinos seem to be just putting in power one corrupt leader after another.
Some people insist that we have no one to blame but ourselves for our misery since, as Abraham Lincoln said, democracy is “of the people, for the people and by the people.” They say we get only what we deserve and real change is possible only if we tend to our own backyards first. I agree. But this is no excuse to let our leaders off the hook.
For me, there’s only one simple process how we can protect democracy: (1) We’ll elect our leader. (2) If he screws the nation, we’ll ask him to resign. (3) If he does not make the “ultimate sacrifice,” we’ll oust him through a non-violent people power and we’ll accept his constitutional successor or elect another one. (4) If the successor also screws the nation, we’ll again ask him to resign. We’ll keep on repeating the cycle until, to paraphrase a line from another movie, the people will no longer be afraid of the government and the government will be afraid of the people.
“The Lost City” was not partial to anyone or any ideology. It showed the capriciousness of the Batista dictatorship as much as the unforgiving ways of the Castro government.
Fico had a crucial decision to make. He could stay and lose his life. Or leave and lose his country. We Filipinos are in better circumstances. There’s only one thing we need not lose—hope.
A god named Manny
From my personal archives. November 2006
Hero. Superstar. Future Philippine President.
Ask any ordinary Filipino today who he thinks fits that description and the name Manny Pacquiao would come out his mouth.
By demolishing Erik Morales last Sunday, Manny did not only earn another win for himself. He proved once again that a Filipino could be the number one in the world. He once more lifted the spirit of our dejected nation.
For several minutes on Nov. 9, 2006, the whole country freezed--glued to television sets. I joined the millions of Filipinos in that “nation moment.” With some housemates, I sat in the sala of my dorm and watched in awe as Pacman reduced El Terible to a punching bag.
My companions grunted loudly, laughed, and clapped their hands as they cheered Manny Pacquiao on--while I was dumbfounded. I was not seeing a boxer knocking down his opponent. I was seeing a determined warrior sealing his name in history. I was afraid saying something or stirring from my seat would violate the holiness of it all.
When I heard Morales gentlemanly accepting his defeat, I could almost imagine what was going on in the other side of the world—in the county more famous to us as Marimar’s home. Mexicans may not openly admit it, out of grief for their champion, but deep inside they have come to respect Manny and Manny's country.
Manny finished the match in three swift rounds. In the second round, his infamous left made a staggering blow on Morales' jaw. In the third round, a flurry of punches nailed the Mexican on the floor for the third and final time.
Years from now, I might no longer clearly remember how it happened. But there is no way I would forget how being a witness to it made me feel--I was reminded that we can dream and reach for that dream.
So I may not scale the heights Manny did--and boxing could never be my means--but reach for the stars I will.
The Pacquiao-Morales III, the finale of one of boxing's great trilogies, ended rather abruptly. It left me and my dormmates craving for more. We turned to a delayed telecast in another channel.
As I savor Pacquiao's every winning moment again, I was thinking through the fact that the greatest pound-for-pound boxer today hails not from hegemonic America but from poor Philippines. And he's not from far-away Manila but from General Santos City, P40-ride away from where I go to school.
Indeed, greatness knows no bounds. The panadero now has the President, governors and mayors dying to have their photographs taken with him.
For the next few days after the fight, everyone talked about it as if it was their fists that landed on El Terible’s face. Our Ecology teacher was somehow able to relate Manny's victory to the lesson. I myself discussed the fight with friends for several times, while hoping they would not notice I just quoted the commentators on TV.
For the people of Mindanao, Manny is a demigod, if tall tales about him are any indication. Many barrio folks suspect he takes his incredible strength from an anting-anting. Rumor has it also that with his millions, Manny now owns half of the island. The last I heard, he bought all the passenger ferries traveling between Pagadian and Cotabato and turned them into fishing vessels.
Now I am just so particular with--and proud of—anything I have in common with Pacquiao: I am a Filipino. I drink both San Miguel Beer and Nestle Fresh Milk. I hit a playmate in the jaw when I was in grade two. I sheepishly smile when I run out of something to say, especially in English.
All I want to do when I meet him is kneel down, raise my hands up in the air and bend down the ground.
***
P.S. About two months ago, I finally saw Manny in person, when his basketball team played here in Koronadal. I did not kneel down in front him, but I yelled every time the ball touched his hand.
Hero. Superstar. Future Philippine President.
Ask any ordinary Filipino today who he thinks fits that description and the name Manny Pacquiao would come out his mouth.
By demolishing Erik Morales last Sunday, Manny did not only earn another win for himself. He proved once again that a Filipino could be the number one in the world. He once more lifted the spirit of our dejected nation.
For several minutes on Nov. 9, 2006, the whole country freezed--glued to television sets. I joined the millions of Filipinos in that “nation moment.” With some housemates, I sat in the sala of my dorm and watched in awe as Pacman reduced El Terible to a punching bag.
My companions grunted loudly, laughed, and clapped their hands as they cheered Manny Pacquiao on--while I was dumbfounded. I was not seeing a boxer knocking down his opponent. I was seeing a determined warrior sealing his name in history. I was afraid saying something or stirring from my seat would violate the holiness of it all.
When I heard Morales gentlemanly accepting his defeat, I could almost imagine what was going on in the other side of the world—in the county more famous to us as Marimar’s home. Mexicans may not openly admit it, out of grief for their champion, but deep inside they have come to respect Manny and Manny's country.
Manny finished the match in three swift rounds. In the second round, his infamous left made a staggering blow on Morales' jaw. In the third round, a flurry of punches nailed the Mexican on the floor for the third and final time.
Years from now, I might no longer clearly remember how it happened. But there is no way I would forget how being a witness to it made me feel--I was reminded that we can dream and reach for that dream.
So I may not scale the heights Manny did--and boxing could never be my means--but reach for the stars I will.
The Pacquiao-Morales III, the finale of one of boxing's great trilogies, ended rather abruptly. It left me and my dormmates craving for more. We turned to a delayed telecast in another channel.
As I savor Pacquiao's every winning moment again, I was thinking through the fact that the greatest pound-for-pound boxer today hails not from hegemonic America but from poor Philippines. And he's not from far-away Manila but from General Santos City, P40-ride away from where I go to school.
Indeed, greatness knows no bounds. The panadero now has the President, governors and mayors dying to have their photographs taken with him.
For the next few days after the fight, everyone talked about it as if it was their fists that landed on El Terible’s face. Our Ecology teacher was somehow able to relate Manny's victory to the lesson. I myself discussed the fight with friends for several times, while hoping they would not notice I just quoted the commentators on TV.
For the people of Mindanao, Manny is a demigod, if tall tales about him are any indication. Many barrio folks suspect he takes his incredible strength from an anting-anting. Rumor has it also that with his millions, Manny now owns half of the island. The last I heard, he bought all the passenger ferries traveling between Pagadian and Cotabato and turned them into fishing vessels.
Now I am just so particular with--and proud of—anything I have in common with Pacquiao: I am a Filipino. I drink both San Miguel Beer and Nestle Fresh Milk. I hit a playmate in the jaw when I was in grade two. I sheepishly smile when I run out of something to say, especially in English.
All I want to do when I meet him is kneel down, raise my hands up in the air and bend down the ground.
***
P.S. About two months ago, I finally saw Manny in person, when his basketball team played here in Koronadal. I did not kneel down in front him, but I yelled every time the ball touched his hand.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
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!
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.
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.
Friday, December 14, 2007
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)
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