Merry Christmas!

I’m dreaming of home.

Perhaps my desire to be with my family today is a far cry from soldiers who repeated this wish to themselves over and over again while they battle with the cold and each other in muddy, desolate trenches almost a hundred years ago. I have never spent Christmas away from my family, and my hand still trembles from loneliness when the silence stretches itself too wide around the room. Now that it’s Christmas and I am all alone in the office, I found that it actually isn't too bad. I don’t feel lonely at all. Christ is with me—in the person of my parents and family whose voices lift my spirits so high, of my friends whose messages never fail to warm my heart, and of him for whom I have so much affection it sets my soul on fire.

It is a Merry Christmas.

Speaking of Merry Christmas (and the reason I made a war reference), yesterday I watched a French film titled Joyeux Noel. It is a true story of a truce between French, German, and Scottish troops on the eve of Christmas, at the height of the First World War. I should admit that I am not very fond of war movies; I would rather sit through an hour and a half of stark verbal battles between characters (or no words at all [e.g., Amour]) than have them brandishing guns, swords, even wands trying to kill each other. The wonderful thing about Joyeux Noel is that it exposes the pointlessness of war and ethnocentrism by making a simple statement about peace and friendship—we are all the same; we are brothers. And not just a statement, the film sings a song as well, quite beautifully at that, about music and its mysterious power to touch and heal the soul.

The film starts off with three boys (French, German, and English) reciting a poem praising their countries and denouncing their enemies. This is a striking and a most ingenious opening scene as it not only represents the film’s tri-racial focus, it also tells us, and more importantly, that hatred for another race is not intrinsic. If education does not propagate this they-are-different-from-us-so-they-must-be-evil mentality, boys will grow up into men who will shake hands and laugh with other men who speak a different language instead of putting bullets through their head.

The scene that follows is that of William and Jonathan, Scottish brothers who are called to fight with their priest Fr. Palmer. William is very excited because “at last, something is happening in our lives!” Jonathan doesn’t look too happy, but you can tell that he will follow his brother anywhere. Fr. Palmer looks deeply troubled and murmurs a prayer as the candles symbolically die out. I want to call this scene out because it says something about young men like William who willingly join the war because it somehow makes “something happen” in their lives. In other words, they welcome it as a deviation from the normalcy of everyday, rustic living—a source of rush, of excitement, of meaning. War provides you with the rush all right, but the presence of meaning in violence is something I highly doubt.

We are then introduced to Sprink and Anna, opera singers and lovers, who are in the middle of a performance when a German officer interrupts them with an announcement about a reserve call up. Meanwhile, French lieutenant Audebert stares longingly at a picture of his pregnant wife. This is the sacrifice that war forcefully demands from its victims: distance from something or someone that you love—art, family, friends, home—without offering any certainty of a reunion.

We are taken to the battlefield where the three groups rain bullets and explosives on each other. Several men die during this attack, including William whom Jonathan had to abandon in no man’s land. William’s death affects Jonathan so much it almost drives him mad. He continues to write letters to their mother telling her how coveted her cake was in their infantry and how he and William miss her so much. He doesn't mention that his brother is dead. This is the first time the film made me cry. It was ironic how William who faced war with the eyes of an adventurer instead met his death while those who cower and tremble behind their rifles remained alive.

Christmas Eve. Father Palmer plays his bagpipe, and the Scots sing a festive song about home. The Germans listen with their small makeshift Christmas trees, and the French wonder suspiciously. Sprink shows up with Anna after being sent away to perform for the prince of Prussia and starts singing “Silent Night.” Fr. Palmer in the Scot trenches hears him and accompanies him with his bagpipe. This move shocks the German soldiers, but encourages Sprink to sing even louder. He dares comes out of the trenches in full visibility and vulnerability, singing with soulful gusto. A French soldier prepares to shoot him but is stopped by his lieutenant. The Scots emerge from their trench in full view and gleefully applauds Sprink as he finishes the song. Fr. Palmer then plays the first few notes of “Adeste Fideles” as an invitation for Sprink to sing the song, which he enthusiastically does. Sprink walks toward the Scottish trench singing and holding one small Christmas tree, arms wide open, a festive smile on his face, an expression of trust, an invitation of peace. It just went on from there until the three lieutenants met and agreed on a Christmas ceasefire.

“Merry Christmas.”

"Frohe Weihnachten."

 "Joyeux Noel"

This scene I believe is the turning point of the whole film, where everything came together and made sense, not just for these soldiers but for the audience. It didn't matter which language the greeting was said, what mattered was that its essence was experienced in its deepest, truest sense. Here were three different groups of people discovering for the first time that they weren't at all very different. They drank the same champagne, smoked the same cigarettes, missed the same children, loved the same wives. The only difference was the number of cartridges they fired in a day.

And allow me to mention the farmyard cat the French named Nestor and the Germans call Felix who effectively provides an element of comedy to the film (though in the end he was arrested for high treason). Also let me express my amazement at the ironic fact that the German lieutenant was in fact a Jew. 

The truce continues Christmas Day as the three lieutenants “bury their dead on the day Christ was born.” Although it makes you wish that it ends happily for everyone, it doesn't. The reality of the war catches up with the soldiers, and they were each made to face the repercussions of fraternizing with the enemy. Christmas or not, they were in the middle of a war. They were supposed to be killing each other, not playing football. But the friendship that they encountered between themselves, ignited by the miracle that is music, was so great and surprising that they just couldn't go back to what they once were before this encounter. They have become brothers, and no amount of dressing down from superiors can ever take away the song they have found together on that fateful Christmas Eve.

Music plays a pivotal part in this film, being the catalyst for peace. And indeed, this is what music does. It reveals to us our soul’s thirst for meaning and beauty. It crushes our hearts and brings tears to our eyes because this need is so great and overwhelming that we can’t even explain it and we realize that we don’t really have to because it’s a mystery! Music makes us face that mystery and encourages us to embrace it.

Music and friendship and peace. These were the words that fluttered warmly in my heart after I repeated the ending credits of the movie several times. Wonderfully enough, I realized that these words represent how Christmas should be celebrated: with song and laughter, with familiar faces, with the peace and light that Christ’s birth gives to the world.

Let me end my year-end blog post with a Bible passage that Pope Francis quoted in his homily for the Christmas:

Whoever hates his brother is in the darkness; he walks in the darkness and does not know the way to go, because the darkness has blinded his eyes —1 John 2:11

Jesus is the light who dispels the darkness. Whether or not they believed, the soldiers evidently encountered Christ's light (on the day of His birth no less!) and experienced peace and friendship through that encounter.

Merry Christmas! 

Never Forget

Spoiler alert. 

Can I just please say that I am truly, deeply, in all sense of the word, depressed over "Rains of Castamere"? I swear that episode damaged me. I already knew Robb was going to die, thanks to friends who spoiled me, but I had no idea it was going to be that brutal, that painful. When Ned Stark died, I don't remember being in pain because his death was quick---and because Joffrey is involved---expected. But this. Everything is so wrong. I don't understand (damn you, George R. R. Martin!) what warranted all those deaths. And what's worse is that Talisa just had to be pregnant with baby Ned and they just had to be so very happy before the wedding band mercilessly ambushed them with arrows and daggers.

And Robb Stark's face when Talisa told him she named the baby after his father. This is what broke my heart the most.

George Heartless R. R. Martin! Why couldn't you just let Robb die with a little dignity? Why did you have to let him see his wife and child get slaughtered? Why couldn't you just have let him say good-bye to his mother? Why?! WHY GEORGE RR MARTIN WHYYYYYYY

I remember being dumbfounded for ten whole minutes after the silent end credits. My heart was in pieces on my throat and I don't remember ever crying so violently over a TV show. Even now. Just remembering Catelyn screaming for Rob to get out, remembering Robb reaching out to Talisa and just holding her belly, it turns me into a complete wreck. Maybe I should've read the books, maybe I wouldn't be so affected. Because it's ridiculous to be this affected. No matter how many times I tell myself They're not real people, it's just TV fiction I still can't manage to get over the emotional stupor.

But the North remembers. And so will we, Robb, Catelyn, Greywind, Talisa, Baby Ned.

You have taken a piece of me with you. Again, fuck you, George R. R. Martin.

Rise

Ever since I was a child, Batman had been my favorite superhero. And even now that I'm old enough to think better of the world and how truly unfair it is and that heroes in capes don't exist, he remains to hold the dearest part of my heart. And I have loved him because there is a tangible gravity to his being. For me, Batman is the most human of all superheroes.

My Pre-Graduation Speech Circa 2010

I was reading this speech delivered by a La Sallian engineer in UP and remembered this. When I was disqualified from the honor roll in high school, I promised my parents I'd stand on a stage in college and make a valedictory speech. This speech is the fulfillment of that promise; I delivered this during one of the recognition ceremonies in USC. I don't remember being very poised when I carried this out (I laughed in between the sentences I forgot), but this was the proudest moment of my life and I deserve to share this.

Yes, this medal is mine.

When I was still a kid, people always told me I was going to be a doctor like my mother someday. There are countless of good reasons why I should have been one: the practicality, the power attached to the name, the pride that comes with people calling you doc, and most importantly, the ability to save other people’s lives. A lot of people show disappointed faces when I tell them I didn’t study medicine and took up English instead. To tell you the truth, I’ve never really been affected with what people say. The only people I don’t want to disappoint are my parents, and them being here means they aren’t. 

So the true reason that I’m not on my way to med school right now is because I know my path leads to somewhere else. I fell in love with the arts, and I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that right here is where I belong. And at this point, I just don’t see myself anywhere else.

This brings me to think about passion, that powerful desire to put yourself out there and do the things you know you do best. I know for a fact that passion doesn’t really appeal anymore to parents and children alike these days. Most kids today go to college to get a good job when they graduate—not necessarily a job that they’re passionate about. Sure they get their work done, but I always wonder if they’re happy at the end of the day. I wonder if they can honestly tell themselves that “this is what I love to do. This is what I’ll be doing for the rest of my life.”

I believe that being in the university shouldn’t just be about studying to get hired and get rich as soon as possible. Although this is not bad thing, what with the economic state of things here in the Philippines, I think there should also be an element of passion and dream in everything that we teach and learn. Students shouldn’t listen to teachers and teachers shouldn’t teach students just “to get things over with.” Students should be able to say “I want to learn this” at the beginning of the lesson and say “I want to learn more” at the end of it. The learning experience, if there is at the very least an interest involved and the willingness to learn, becomes a more significant and concrete part of being a student.

To all the beloved parents, the fact that you are here today means that you have done an amazing job, and for that, you deserve a round of applause. Everything we do is to make you guys proud and assure you that all the times you slumped from working too hard, all the back pains and migraines you got from thinking and taking care of some of the crazy things we get ourselves into, all the dinners and breaks you’ve been wanting to take but missed—we want to assure you that those are not in vain. So thank you to all the parents for putting up with us for so long, especially my mom and dad who have been very supportive and who have always believed in my capacity to make choices for myself.

To all my fellow students and friends, congratulations! I want to tell you about what this crazy but brilliant essayist named Robert Benchley said about college. He said that college isn’t all about books and conferences and papers. It’s about making mistakes and constantly discovering ways how to correct them. I’m not saying you should go out there and make as many mistakes as possible. I assure you that there is such a thing as a smart mistake. These are the mistakes that we make because we want to take risks but still end up shortchanged anyway. These are the mistakes from which we learn the most valuable lessons. These are the mistakes that are so much fun and educational to correct. These are the mistakes that when made, make us a true college student. So, my friends—take risks, make mistakes, correct them, study hard, laugh in between, and whatever you do, make sure it’s something that the people who care about you will be proud of.

Where am I

Today one of my friends asked me the very two questions I don't know the answer to:

1. How are you?

2. What is your plan?

Right now, honestly, I am not okay. I feel exhausted. Waking up in the morning isn't anymore joyous and takes effort when it shouldn't. I read and find myself only half-tied to the words. They mean something I'm sure of it, and yet I can't convince myself anymore that they do. The fact that I have to convince myself in the first place is already telling in itself.

This kind of fatigue is ironic because I haven't really been doing anything for the past couple of weeks. Going home to my parents was nice, but I can't burden them with my life anymore. They're happy now; they deserve not to worry about me.

A plan. Yes, there had been a plan. The plan had been ambitious and wonderful. I was supposed to be on my way to graduate school by this time, with a loving boyfriend, with a job that doesn't pay much but pays enough. Instead my life is turning out the complete opposite.

Body

I hate my body.Not just because it's heavy or stout, but more particularly because it's weak.

Today, like most of my Saturdays now, I went for a run. My mind was burning with passion; I was dead set on covering as many laps as my body can take. Apparently, my body can't take very much. I was only on my third lap when my appendix started screaming for a reprieve. My brain was throbbing with a dull ache that I can't shake off with any kind of happy music. My sweat glands were blocked, my skin burning with a nagging heat rash. So I stopped running and became angry.

I was angry at the aerobics instructor because he was moving a beat off from the music. He was his usual hyperactive self but I didn't see any passion in his movements. I felt like he was doing it to get it over with. And his music wasn't particularly good either. I didn't even break a fucking sweat after thirty minutes of that halfhearted workout.

I was angry at my friends because they're so insensitive and shallow sometimes. And they never really ask me if I'm okay. Sometimes, all I want from them is the initiative to ask me that question. But they never do. They never do.

I was angry at the world for being so worldly. Because as I walked in the middle of the track I realized that everything is so superficial. The people, the music, everything. Nothing felt real, and once again I felt that emptiness that surreptitiously creeps behind you and swallows you whole when you're in a room full of people and you feel so horribly alone. 

My body is weak just like the rest of this physical world. It will die and rot and be forgotten. It is said that the mind controls the body and can push it beyond its limits. But what hasn't been often mentioned is that the weakness of the body is infectious to the mind. I tried to push myself beyond the pain. I tried to go through that door of physical limits with my will, but my body dragged me to a standstill. I couldn't move a muscle and suddenly I didn't even want to anymore. My motivation was gone and I got even more angry because I let myself be drained. So I cried---like I always do when I am disappointed, frustrated, and discouraged all at once. It's a heavy feeling to carry, but I find that not even my half excuse of words can lighten them.

Happy Anniversary!

No, I'm not talking about a boy. 

It's my first anniversary at work. It's probably not a big deal to most people, but to me---the me who can't quite come to terms with constancy and can't stand seeing the same things every day---it is a big deal, especially because it's office work. Office. The one place I swore I won't have to be when I graduated. But that was when I was conceited, when the world still seemed perfect even though there were things that made me want to cry in the news. 

Now things have changed. No matter how optimistic you try to be, how much faith you have in yourself, there is always something that pulls you down and makes you curse. When I resigned from my first job, I was at my lowest point, depressed and hateful. I was a bottle away from being suicidal, and I don't remember ever feeling so alone and inconsolable. I lost my trust in offices because it was exactly what I feared it would be---cutthroat and hopelessly routine. So when I got hired in my company now, I was indifferent. I didn't have expectations because I was so sure I would be disappointed, that after three months I would have thoughts of resigning, that I shouldn't get close to the people I would meet because I would leave them soon enough anyway.

But I was wrong, so wrong that everything just seems right. Though I still have to wake up feeling like I still need to sleep, I don't have to drag myself out of bed and look forward to the end of the day. In fact, I consider the nine hours I spend in the office precious. I know I get sidetracked by Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube once in a while, okay, often, I want to work hard and keep my bosses happy. I want them to feel proud of me, to think that they did the right thing when they hired me, that I was and still am a good investment. Honestly, I have so much respect for my bosses because they make us all feel at ease. Seriously, I don't feel like I'm in an office. I feel like I'm in a room doing the people whom I look up to a favor with colleagues that I have so much respect for. I feel at home. I feel like I'm a part of a family. I'm happy. I'm contented.

There are but a few people who, when asked how they are with their jobs, can say that they're happy. The usual response to this question is an indifferent shrug, a disdainful grunt, or a flat-out "It's torture." One year ago today, I was a pessimistic pseudo-intellectual who is willing to take any job so she doesn't have to depend on her parents anymore.  Now I can proudly say that I'm not as pessimistic though  I still consider myself as a pseudo-intellectual. I am still at this job because I still don't want to depend on my parents, because what I have here gives me purpose, and because I love the person that I am when I'm with these people. 

So, happy anniversary!!!