Today is a Wednesday. The weather outside is fair except for the occasional gushes of wind. The lady who cooks lunch across the street made the bean soup differently; the taste was more pronounced than I would've usually liked.
I sat across a different group of medical students. Whereas yesterday's topic was heart muscles and metacarpals, today they talked about cars and parking lots.
Red faces everywhere. They've been drinking since 1 AM last night until lunchtime today. I found I'm starting to hate the smell of beer.
When emptiness stares at you in the face, you find that you can either fight it with words or silence. I try to make it go away with words, but writing demands solitude so I find myself retreating into silence. In either circumstance I am helpless before the void. I have decided to stop fighting it. Emptiness doesn't have to be antithetical to presence. On the contrary, it invites it. The emptier I feel, the more I desire to be filled. The more I desire Him. This desire sometimes makes me cry when I pray.
I want to go home. I don't want to be here on Valentines. I would rather be with my parents because they are the happiest people in the world, and their love makes me hope that I will have my share of that someday. And I miss my dog.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Ilang Nanay
I've never been the person who gets to travel a lot. Although I would have loved to go places, the best I’ve been to was Baguio City, and I wasn’t even there to have fun riding horses and eating strawberries; I was there for a semi-mandatory convention. I have gone to Bohol as well, but I can’t say I enjoyed it so much because my mom just tagged us along on her seminar and my stepdad wasn’t really the enjoyable type of companion for sightseeing trips. I have been to several beaches and resorts too, but I’m not really much of a beach bum and I don’t like what seawater does to my hair. What I’m really saying is that my list of Memorable Places I’ve Been To is not much of a list yet and frankly, it doesn't really bother me. My best memories have been at home, and no matter how sparkly travel brochures get, there is really only one place I can call my favorite: my great grandmother’s (Nanay’s) house.
It stands at the center of our town, a two-storey home built sometime during the 1930s. It is made of brick and has a brownish color that almost looks red in the sunlight. The first floor is where my great grandmother’s store is located. She used to sell clothes and crayons and guitars, but when my cousins and I were still little kids, the store had been our playground and the items our playthings. Needless to say, most of what she could have sold were either missing some vital parts or completely broken. They eventually stopped selling things that we could break and brought in the nails, the paint, the hinges, and strangely enough, the toilet bowls.
There is a screen door that separates the store from the living room, which is spacious enough for more than twenty people to laugh with each other during family dinners, or for the same number of people to shout at each other during family fights. I remember a time when there was a drought and the whole town lost its supply of water. Everybody was shouting, all twenty of my uncles and aunts, including my grandparents and great grandparents, probably because somebody used up all of the water in the house. There were fingers pointing, voices rising, doors slamming—I had never seen anything so chaotic in my life. But then, when they were not shouting, they usually laughed, talked about business and politics, and teased us children about our crushes. When nobody fought or laughed, everybody cried. That living room had seen four caskets and heard numerous prayers; its walls had echoed the sound of our tears. That living room is where we are a family.
Straight ahead is the kitchen, which has a high ceiling and always smells of paksiw and rice. There is a big and long table at the middle where the adults talk while drinking. Sometimes it is where we children sit, helping ourselves with a hearty meal and a hearty conversation with one another. We even cook there sometimes, although we don’t always come up with something edible. Then there is also that old broken piano inconspicuously sitting at the corner. None of us ever had the luxury of playing it because none of us ever learned how. Nanay and Tatay just bought it because their neighbor had a piano and they just had to have one for themselves.
The stairs that lead to the second floor has a shiny brown banister. As children, we always had fun sliding down on it when the steps looked too many to take. We would hurt our groins but we would just laugh it away. The second floor has a big window at the center of the first corner wall. It is always open, and its view overlooks the whole town plaza. We used to just squeeze ourselves together against its frames, look below, and make fun of the people who passed by. During New Year's Eve, it is where we watch fireworks. Most nights we would just play cards or Marco Polo until we tire each other out. When it got late and none of us wanted to leave, our parents let us stay, although only after some considerable whining. My grandparents would then take out all the banig, and my cousins and I would huddle together under the covers talking until every one of us fell asleep. In the morning, we would go down and have corned beef and hotdogs for breakfast. On rare occasions, there would be pancakes. It didn’t really matter though what our grandmother made us eat; we enjoyed it all just the same.
Of course, there is the good old backyard where we used to play hide and seek. Our grandfather would scare us from playing by telling us stories of the agta and the duwende. It scared us to bits that until now, none of us dare to stay there for more than five minutes. But then I remember pretty decent memories in that backyard, like when I used to help my grandfather fix his car or feed my uncle’s fighting cocks. Sometimes I got to brush their feathers.
Outside, the house looks exactly like my old great grandmother Nanay Toning who passed away in 2007: worn-out, wrinkly, and tired. Inside, also just like her, Nanay’s house is bursting with energetic laughter and memories. I don’t think I need to be in Paris or Tokyo or any other place to be able to write something wonderful and spectacular. I have a lot of wonderful memories and spectacular moments in that house. I know I will never tire of its familiarity and closeness. In fact, those are what make it so special to me. “Mangadto ta ilang Nanay” will forever be a phrase I will always delight in hearing.
It stands at the center of our town, a two-storey home built sometime during the 1930s. It is made of brick and has a brownish color that almost looks red in the sunlight. The first floor is where my great grandmother’s store is located. She used to sell clothes and crayons and guitars, but when my cousins and I were still little kids, the store had been our playground and the items our playthings. Needless to say, most of what she could have sold were either missing some vital parts or completely broken. They eventually stopped selling things that we could break and brought in the nails, the paint, the hinges, and strangely enough, the toilet bowls.
There is a screen door that separates the store from the living room, which is spacious enough for more than twenty people to laugh with each other during family dinners, or for the same number of people to shout at each other during family fights. I remember a time when there was a drought and the whole town lost its supply of water. Everybody was shouting, all twenty of my uncles and aunts, including my grandparents and great grandparents, probably because somebody used up all of the water in the house. There were fingers pointing, voices rising, doors slamming—I had never seen anything so chaotic in my life. But then, when they were not shouting, they usually laughed, talked about business and politics, and teased us children about our crushes. When nobody fought or laughed, everybody cried. That living room had seen four caskets and heard numerous prayers; its walls had echoed the sound of our tears. That living room is where we are a family.
Straight ahead is the kitchen, which has a high ceiling and always smells of paksiw and rice. There is a big and long table at the middle where the adults talk while drinking. Sometimes it is where we children sit, helping ourselves with a hearty meal and a hearty conversation with one another. We even cook there sometimes, although we don’t always come up with something edible. Then there is also that old broken piano inconspicuously sitting at the corner. None of us ever had the luxury of playing it because none of us ever learned how. Nanay and Tatay just bought it because their neighbor had a piano and they just had to have one for themselves.
The stairs that lead to the second floor has a shiny brown banister. As children, we always had fun sliding down on it when the steps looked too many to take. We would hurt our groins but we would just laugh it away. The second floor has a big window at the center of the first corner wall. It is always open, and its view overlooks the whole town plaza. We used to just squeeze ourselves together against its frames, look below, and make fun of the people who passed by. During New Year's Eve, it is where we watch fireworks. Most nights we would just play cards or Marco Polo until we tire each other out. When it got late and none of us wanted to leave, our parents let us stay, although only after some considerable whining. My grandparents would then take out all the banig, and my cousins and I would huddle together under the covers talking until every one of us fell asleep. In the morning, we would go down and have corned beef and hotdogs for breakfast. On rare occasions, there would be pancakes. It didn’t really matter though what our grandmother made us eat; we enjoyed it all just the same.
Of course, there is the good old backyard where we used to play hide and seek. Our grandfather would scare us from playing by telling us stories of the agta and the duwende. It scared us to bits that until now, none of us dare to stay there for more than five minutes. But then I remember pretty decent memories in that backyard, like when I used to help my grandfather fix his car or feed my uncle’s fighting cocks. Sometimes I got to brush their feathers.
Outside, the house looks exactly like my old great grandmother Nanay Toning who passed away in 2007: worn-out, wrinkly, and tired. Inside, also just like her, Nanay’s house is bursting with energetic laughter and memories. I don’t think I need to be in Paris or Tokyo or any other place to be able to write something wonderful and spectacular. I have a lot of wonderful memories and spectacular moments in that house. I know I will never tire of its familiarity and closeness. In fact, those are what make it so special to me. “Mangadto ta ilang Nanay” will forever be a phrase I will always delight in hearing.
Saturday, February 08, 2014
Ocean
It takes an ocean not to break.
But where is it going?
Is it going to end?
Not soon.
Eventually.
But where is it going?
Is it going to end?
Not soon.
Eventually.
Friday, February 07, 2014
Why I Write
I write because I can.
I remember thinking about what I really wanted to do during my teenager-trying-to-find-who-I-am phase. I also remember thinking about the things I was good at, things that people praised me for, things that made me feel good. It wasn't long before I found that small yellowish notebook barely alive with pages. I recognized the scribbles and the doodles; the fat, violent scratches of pencil against fragile paper. I remember that dirty, size-confused penmanship that sometimes stretched to the right, to the left, this time up, then down the next. It was my notebook in kindergarten.
As I flipped through the frail pages of that notebook, I found Cinderella, re-told by my then five-year-old self. I remember not being able to suppress a smile. The grammar was horrible and the spelling was even worse, but it sort of sounded right when I read it. I had been a good writer back then. I'd like to think that I'm still a good writer now. I'd like to think that people aren't just saying I'm good just for the heck of it. I'd like to think that I can write.
I write because I want to.
Very few people are lucky to know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that one thing they’d love to do for the rest of their lives. Even fewer people are lucky to be allowed to do it. I want to be conceited and say that I am one of those people, lucky enough to know that I want to write and luckier still to be able to.
When I read books, I always want to be able to write like the people who write them. I always think about what adjectives (and how many of them) to put here or which is the right kind of verb. Sometimes I get frustrated about where the period should be, or if it should even be a period at all. Sometimes I think that I can’t write. Worse, sometimes I think that I don’t want to write.
But then I always find myself missing the magical birth of words in paper or in a Microsoft Word page. I miss how they sporadically come out and turn the emptiness of that paper, the blankness of that Word page into something full, something beautiful. I miss the happiness that comes from knowing that those words are mine.
I write because I have to.
Writing makes me aware that I occupy a space in the world. And it is with writing that I hope to make that space significant. I’ve heard one too many people calling me out for such an impractical passion, been asked one too many questions about where and how a currency sign might pop out, seen numerous eyebrows raised, countless foreheads creased, and a haunting number of mouths twisted into a contortion of ridicule and disdain.
I’d thought about it and at one point decided these people made some sense. If I really wanted to save lives, why didn’t I just become a doctor as everybody expected me to be instead of just sitting idly writing about it? But being a doctor isn't the only way to save lives. I’m saving a life when I listen to a friend or when I pray. I know that books and music and poetry save people because they save me every day. I know I save myself when I write. Writing keeps me sane and whole and from forgetting that no matter how bad things get, flowers still grow and there is still so much love to be had.
This is why I write.
I write because I can and I want to and I have to. I write because I know no other way to change the things I want to change. I write because my fingers are restless and because words are too precious to be left alone in an axis where they don’t mean anything and can’t touch lives. I write because I am in love, because I am sad, because I am angry, because I am happy. I write because people think I’m good at it and because I sometimes lead myself to believe I’m good at it. I write because I suck at everything else. I write because I am conceited and get jealous of other writers who are better than me. I write because it makes me feel good. I write because I want to tell the truth that I believe. I write because I’m a coward. I write because it gives me courage. I write because the world needs to wake up. I write because people need me to tell their stories and because I need people to hear my stories. I write because I have dreams. I write because I hope. I write because I’m alive. I write because I want to be alive.
I remember thinking about what I really wanted to do during my teenager-trying-to-find-who-I-am phase. I also remember thinking about the things I was good at, things that people praised me for, things that made me feel good. It wasn't long before I found that small yellowish notebook barely alive with pages. I recognized the scribbles and the doodles; the fat, violent scratches of pencil against fragile paper. I remember that dirty, size-confused penmanship that sometimes stretched to the right, to the left, this time up, then down the next. It was my notebook in kindergarten.
As I flipped through the frail pages of that notebook, I found Cinderella, re-told by my then five-year-old self. I remember not being able to suppress a smile. The grammar was horrible and the spelling was even worse, but it sort of sounded right when I read it. I had been a good writer back then. I'd like to think that I'm still a good writer now. I'd like to think that people aren't just saying I'm good just for the heck of it. I'd like to think that I can write.
I write because I want to.
Very few people are lucky to know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that one thing they’d love to do for the rest of their lives. Even fewer people are lucky to be allowed to do it. I want to be conceited and say that I am one of those people, lucky enough to know that I want to write and luckier still to be able to.
When I read books, I always want to be able to write like the people who write them. I always think about what adjectives (and how many of them) to put here or which is the right kind of verb. Sometimes I get frustrated about where the period should be, or if it should even be a period at all. Sometimes I think that I can’t write. Worse, sometimes I think that I don’t want to write.
But then I always find myself missing the magical birth of words in paper or in a Microsoft Word page. I miss how they sporadically come out and turn the emptiness of that paper, the blankness of that Word page into something full, something beautiful. I miss the happiness that comes from knowing that those words are mine.
I write because I have to.
Writing makes me aware that I occupy a space in the world. And it is with writing that I hope to make that space significant. I’ve heard one too many people calling me out for such an impractical passion, been asked one too many questions about where and how a currency sign might pop out, seen numerous eyebrows raised, countless foreheads creased, and a haunting number of mouths twisted into a contortion of ridicule and disdain.
I’d thought about it and at one point decided these people made some sense. If I really wanted to save lives, why didn’t I just become a doctor as everybody expected me to be instead of just sitting idly writing about it? But being a doctor isn't the only way to save lives. I’m saving a life when I listen to a friend or when I pray. I know that books and music and poetry save people because they save me every day. I know I save myself when I write. Writing keeps me sane and whole and from forgetting that no matter how bad things get, flowers still grow and there is still so much love to be had.
This is why I write.
I write because I can and I want to and I have to. I write because I know no other way to change the things I want to change. I write because my fingers are restless and because words are too precious to be left alone in an axis where they don’t mean anything and can’t touch lives. I write because I am in love, because I am sad, because I am angry, because I am happy. I write because people think I’m good at it and because I sometimes lead myself to believe I’m good at it. I write because I suck at everything else. I write because I am conceited and get jealous of other writers who are better than me. I write because it makes me feel good. I write because I want to tell the truth that I believe. I write because I’m a coward. I write because it gives me courage. I write because the world needs to wake up. I write because people need me to tell their stories and because I need people to hear my stories. I write because I have dreams. I write because I hope. I write because I’m alive. I write because I want to be alive.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
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!
Tuesday, June 04, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
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.
Saturday, March 09, 2013
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.
Saturday, March 02, 2013
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.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
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!!!
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
"You look like Christmas morning"
Merry Christmas, everyone!
This Christmas is perfect! I received so many things that I had to look inwardly and ask myself if I even deserve them. The people I've met, the friends I've made in them, the happiness that they help forge in me every day, the friends and family that have remained the most important people in my life---I just don't know what I did to deserve such blessings.
Thank you, Lord, for giving me the life I have now. Thank you for the struggles that you make me face every once in a while and the courage that I discover every time I conquer them. Thank you for the people who make me want to become a better person. Thank you for my parents who remind me that I have to do things that will make the people around me, especially myself, proud. Thank you for my cousins, aunts, uncles, grrandparents, people I'm lucky to call family.
Thank you Lord for giving me reasons to smile even though I haven't done a lot of things to deserve them. Thank you for not having the world end this 21st because then I wouldn't have this morning, this moment to feel so thankful for being alive and for this urge to live even more, to cherish the people that make me happy.
Happy birthday, Jesus! Thank you for giving us the most beautiful day to celebrate every year. We remember today as the start of our wonderful journey with you as our Savior and God. We love you.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Anniversaire de mon Sœur
Last night had been one for the books.
It was my sister's 21st birthday, and we all went to this French restaurant that just opened in August. The food on their website and on review blogs look great, and the price wasn't very overreaching. When we got there, we got awed by the overall ambience of the place. It was once an old Spanish house converted into a small but very cosy, very quaint restaurant.
The waiters weren't exactly friendly, but they were accommodating. (I was wondering if perhaps they were told to act exactly like the French.) They gave us free caviar for appetizers and handed us the menu (an iPad). There weren't a lot of food to choose from. Most of them, because they aren't really exposed to European cuisine a lot, ordered black pepper steak because it sounded familiar. I had quiche with salad and my sister had braised chicken with pasta. The food arrived after a while and then we dug in.
None of us really liked what we ordered. My sister's chicken was tasty, so was the fish, but everyone thought the siders left so much room for complaint. No one liked the rice and no one finished their meal completely. The desserts, however, were perfect.
So then my uncle who has a reputation for having a hard-to-please palate made a bet with us, quite jokingly, about having the bill waived. If he could get the manager to let us go without paying, we would have to do his laundry. We all thought he was joking, so we agreed, even though his laundry heap is about as heavy as a teenager. See, in America, restaurant personnel are afraid unsatisfied customers might sue them, so they bend easily to complaints. In the Philippines, however, you pay whether or not you had to forcefully choke down your food. But my uncle is a businessman and he doesn't believe that it's a cultural thing. So when it was time for us to pay the bill, my credit card ready for our waitress to take, he stands up and in a tone hovering between courteous and menacing, tells her how he thought of the food. The waitress turns pale and fidgets, obviously unfamiliar with this kind of situation. Before she could defend the food, my uncle drops the bomb on her and tells her that he wants our bill waived. I swear the waitress looked like she wanted to faint. She then calls the supervisor who tells my uncle that it wasn't possible to have the entire bill waived. The least they could do is give us another round of dessert for free or a discount.
I thought this would satisfy my uncle but he persists even more and demands that they call the manager or the owner. The supervisor and our waitress leave us to call the manager/owner and we had time to wallow in agonizing embarrassment. We all just sat there dumbfounded and just ashamed; hoping they wouldn't let Uncle have his way. Auntie Vawn kept hitting him with the napkin and telling him that what he was doing wasn't funny anymore.
Waitress and supervisor came back and told us they just got off the phone from the manager and that everything we ate was on the house! Come on! There were nine of us! We ordered a lot! I must say I've never felt so embarrassed and guilty in my entire life; it felt like we were robbing the restaurant. I look at my cousins' faces and I know they feel the same way. But perhaps, no one more than I do, because I was the one who picked that restaurant, it was my name in the reservation, I was the one who was supposed to pay everything.
Everyone, except my uncle who looked very triumphant, walked out La Maison Rose wearing faces of criminals who know they should be sent to the gallows but for some strange reason are set free. We took Uncle's laundry with heavy hands and went home knowing we would never ever, ever forget that night.
Monday, December 17, 2012
The Life Pursuit
I am in love with this whole record by Belle and Sebastian. It reminds me of a long bus ride and all you see outside the window are beautiful trees and flowers and people who are happy.
Here is the track list. My favorite song from the album is . . . ugh I can't choose!
Here is the track list. My favorite song from the album is . . . ugh I can't choose!
- "Act of the Apostle" – 2:55
- "Another Sunny Day" – 4:04
- "White Collar Boy" – 3:20
- "The Blues Are Still Blue" – 4:08
- "Dress Up in You" – 4:23
- "Sukie in the Graveyard" – 3:00
- "We Are the Sleepyheads" – 3:33
- "Song for Sunshine" – 4:06
- "Funny Little Frog" – 3:08
- "To Be Myself Completely" – 3:17
- "Act of the Apostle II" – 4:20
- "For the Price of a Cup of Tea" – 3:19
- "Mornington Crescent" – 5:40
Monday, October 08, 2012
Pasubali (A Short Story)
“Bayot! Bayot! Bayot!”
There was a particular rhythm that accompanied his teases that made me think of a badly rapped song. I was at the boys’ CR, taking a short leak before I went home. I would’ve just held it in but nature’s call was so urgent, I had to take it.
I was always afraid of going to the boys’ CR alone. Usually I had my girl friends with me waiting just outside the door to see if no one pushed me against a wall or planted a fist on my face. Boys wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me when girls, especially my girls who were among the prettiest in school, were around. Boys didn’t want to show the ugly side—usually the real one—that they had.
But now that no one was there waiting at the door for me, this boy, who had been shooting me glare daggers since I showed up at school during my first day with a butterfly clip on my hair, took the opportunity to substantiate all the threats that impregnated his glances. He was several inches taller than me and more handsome than I would’ve liked. You see, if he were less physically attractive, it would be much easier to hate him. But I didn’t hate him then, and I wasn’t attracted to his mestizo features either. He had a pretty face, sure, but it would have been nicer if he had an attitude and some manners to match those physical advantages. What I felt at that moment when he whacked my head with his 500-page chemistry book was—curiosity.
I had been gay since fifth grade. Well, okay, maybe I’d been gay long before that, but it was during fifth grade that I became honest with myself. I had lived with my grandmother since I was old enough to remember, so there had been no father to tie me up in a sack or beat me up with a broom, and no mother to pep talk me into being straight. My grandma told me my parents went outside the country to look for work, and that they’d come back for me once they saved enough money to raise me. I was a year old when they made that promise. Fourteen years later and they still, apparently, had not saved enough money. And even if they had and returned to get me, it was already too late. I was already raised—whether or not I turned out to be what they had in mind for a son was not grandma’s problem. Nor mine.
I was never ashamed of my sexuality and had always been open with it. Sure there were times when I cried before going to bed, asking God why I was trapped in a little boy’s body, but I got over this phase and had long since accepted that I was gay. And I would be for the rest of my life.
Not opting to hide in a closet (like several boys I knew) was not the ideal thing to do, but I thought I would rather be bullied than pretend to be somebody I wasn’t. And bullied I was. It started with teases in third grade (I liked to string Santan flowers into necklaces with girls) and progressed into shoving and pushing the year after. When I came out in fifth grade, I got my first taste of blood—after one of my teeth fell off when what’s-his-name punched me. I didn’t understand then why boys didn’t like me; I thought they were just jealous because the pretty girls always hang out with me instead of them. Later I came to realize that their hatred of me was purely because I was different—because I was someone their little minds were too restrictive to understand.
My grandma always knew I was effeminate. In fact, a significant part of the reason fell on her lot. Until I was four years old, she dressed me up in girl clothes, reasoning that she had always wanted a granddaughter. (She should have been careful with what she wished for.) I had always known I wasn’t a girl, of course, but a nagging desire to be one slowly grew in me. When my grandma and I went to church, I always looked longingly at all the girls’ dresses and wished I could grow my hair out and wear frilly Sunday dresses like them. After my grandma grew tired of playing doll with me (me being more of her plaything as opposed to me being merely a companion), she tried to give me the sex talk.
That was when I told her I wanted a Sunday dress for my birthday and not a toy gun. The creases on her forehead deepened, but instantly they relaxed and she shrugged as if she always knew.
She named me “Marion,” after “Mario” (my dad) and “Nita” (my mom). She sometimes called me “Mario,” but I preferred it when her tongue slipped and she’d call me “Maria.” “Maria” sounded too old-fashioned to me so when I came out, I had all my friends at school call me “Mary” instead. The teachers didn’t like hearing my friends and classmates call me that; they said I was making a blasphemy by carelessly using Mama Mary’s name. When I asked them how something like that could possibly be blasphemous—considering that I wasn’t the only one who had the same name—none of them could give me a real answer.
I felt my consciousness floating back, and I massaged the part of my head where the book violently landed. A not-so-small hump began to materialize under my kneading. I sat up and looked directly at the boy. “What did you do that for?”
Of course, I knew why. But I wanted to hear him say it, to keep all of my dignity from slipping through my hands.
“You should kill yourself,” he hissed, his eyes burning with fury. “Guys like you should all be dead!”
I didn’t know what response I was supposed to give him. Should I have cowered? Should I have stricken back? Should I have apologized for being gay? But I had to give it to him, though. Five years of being bullied and this was the first time someone ever said that to me. Did being gay warrant death now? For centuries, the world has innovatively created ways to torture gay people, to make them feel different, to remind them that they are abnormal, worthless, queer. But no one, no one, had ever told me I was better of dead that being who I was.
My dignity quickly rebuilt itself and its near destruction fueled my anger. How dare this boy, this nobody, talk to me this way? He didn’t know me! He had no right to tell me I should kill myself! Why would I anyway? Though not everybody was nice to me, I had friends who loved me just the way I was and who told off people who didn’t. I had a grandma who never judged me and allowed me freedom to express myself. Though not all, I had teachers who laughed at my jokes and who didn’t feel weird around my presence. I felt accepted and loved and normal. There was no reason I should mope around about how some people treat me bad and cut myself because of it. No amount of water can sink a ship without it getting in.
Slowly I got on my feet and picked up his chemistry book. He was still looking at me with those almost devilish eyes; his breathing was slow and hard as if I hit him with the book. I swallowed all the fear that I had felt before and handed him the book. His eyes shifted to confusion momentarily as he reluctantly but quickly snatched the book from my hands.
He looked at me, obviously dumfounded by my reaction—or lack thereof. I supposed he thought I would cry like a girl, run away, or hit-and-kiss him. As if! But instead, I straightened my shirt before the mirror, fixed my hair, and checked how bad my head bump was. It was huge.
“I’m sorry but you’ll just have to live with me being alive for now,” I said matter-of-factly. “Besides, we have that quiz in Algebra next week. I can’t die before that!”
I went home that day feeling strangely good about myself. I knew I should be feeling down-in-the-dumps, dejected, and yeah, probably suicidal, but I wasn’t. I felt even more proud of I was, and I knew that not hitting back was the right thing to do. It probably wouldn’t make that boy understand, but I’m sure he’d realize that it would be a herculean task to get to me. And the next time he tried something funny, I’d have my girls with me, armed with nail files, hair clips, and other girl what-nots potentially dangerous to rude, overbearing, barbaric high school boys.
My grandma cooked paksiw for dinner, which would probably be our breakfast tomorrow. I looked at her smiling contently that night, and I promised myself that no matter how other people ridiculed me now, I would give them no reason to ridicule me in the future. If I had to earn their respect, then I sure as hell would bust my guts working. I would be a somebody someday. That was my promise, my prayer. Despite those cruel words and my biggest head bump to date, I slept that night with a smile.
The next morning, school was more quiet than usual. In fact, the school was rarely quiet that I found the silence foreign to the point of eeriness. By this time, everybody should have been out and about shouting and wielding stick brooms at each other. But the hallway was empty. I checked my watch to see if I was late. I was just in time for advisory class. I walked with slow, calculated steps to my classroom where I found my girls, as were the rest of our classmates, staring slack-jawed at the teacher.
I had apparently missed a very shocking and sad announcement. Ms. Dahilog had a crumpled handkerchief in her hands; she had obviously just finished crying. She heard me come in and looked up, following me with her gaze as I quietly made my way to my seat. I heard her sniffle.
I looked at my friends in question, my curiosity unbearable now. Rita leaned close to me and said in an almost inaudible voice, “You know Roy, that handsome mestizo who looks at you weirdly?”
So that was his name—Roy. He was the boy who hit me with the book last night. I unconsciously swallowed as if I were getting a warning from my body that Rita was about to tell me something terrible. I nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“He hanged himself last night,” she said, decades hung between her words.
Something in my chest came to life and clawed at my lungs, suffocating me. I was sure I stopped breathing for a full minute. Rita’s sad eyes came alive with worry as she asked if I was okay. I couldn’t hear her. I was back at the boys’ CR with Roy, and he was telling me to go kill myself.
Outside, a tricycle with a loud radio passed by the classroom; a familiar tune blared from its speakers. It was a badly rapped song.
Wrote this July of last year. Found it sitting idly in my Drafts folder. Had to post it. :-)
There was a particular rhythm that accompanied his teases that made me think of a badly rapped song. I was at the boys’ CR, taking a short leak before I went home. I would’ve just held it in but nature’s call was so urgent, I had to take it.
I was always afraid of going to the boys’ CR alone. Usually I had my girl friends with me waiting just outside the door to see if no one pushed me against a wall or planted a fist on my face. Boys wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me when girls, especially my girls who were among the prettiest in school, were around. Boys didn’t want to show the ugly side—usually the real one—that they had.
But now that no one was there waiting at the door for me, this boy, who had been shooting me glare daggers since I showed up at school during my first day with a butterfly clip on my hair, took the opportunity to substantiate all the threats that impregnated his glances. He was several inches taller than me and more handsome than I would’ve liked. You see, if he were less physically attractive, it would be much easier to hate him. But I didn’t hate him then, and I wasn’t attracted to his mestizo features either. He had a pretty face, sure, but it would have been nicer if he had an attitude and some manners to match those physical advantages. What I felt at that moment when he whacked my head with his 500-page chemistry book was—curiosity.
I had been gay since fifth grade. Well, okay, maybe I’d been gay long before that, but it was during fifth grade that I became honest with myself. I had lived with my grandmother since I was old enough to remember, so there had been no father to tie me up in a sack or beat me up with a broom, and no mother to pep talk me into being straight. My grandma told me my parents went outside the country to look for work, and that they’d come back for me once they saved enough money to raise me. I was a year old when they made that promise. Fourteen years later and they still, apparently, had not saved enough money. And even if they had and returned to get me, it was already too late. I was already raised—whether or not I turned out to be what they had in mind for a son was not grandma’s problem. Nor mine.
I was never ashamed of my sexuality and had always been open with it. Sure there were times when I cried before going to bed, asking God why I was trapped in a little boy’s body, but I got over this phase and had long since accepted that I was gay. And I would be for the rest of my life.
Not opting to hide in a closet (like several boys I knew) was not the ideal thing to do, but I thought I would rather be bullied than pretend to be somebody I wasn’t. And bullied I was. It started with teases in third grade (I liked to string Santan flowers into necklaces with girls) and progressed into shoving and pushing the year after. When I came out in fifth grade, I got my first taste of blood—after one of my teeth fell off when what’s-his-name punched me. I didn’t understand then why boys didn’t like me; I thought they were just jealous because the pretty girls always hang out with me instead of them. Later I came to realize that their hatred of me was purely because I was different—because I was someone their little minds were too restrictive to understand.
My grandma always knew I was effeminate. In fact, a significant part of the reason fell on her lot. Until I was four years old, she dressed me up in girl clothes, reasoning that she had always wanted a granddaughter. (She should have been careful with what she wished for.) I had always known I wasn’t a girl, of course, but a nagging desire to be one slowly grew in me. When my grandma and I went to church, I always looked longingly at all the girls’ dresses and wished I could grow my hair out and wear frilly Sunday dresses like them. After my grandma grew tired of playing doll with me (me being more of her plaything as opposed to me being merely a companion), she tried to give me the sex talk.
That was when I told her I wanted a Sunday dress for my birthday and not a toy gun. The creases on her forehead deepened, but instantly they relaxed and she shrugged as if she always knew.
She named me “Marion,” after “Mario” (my dad) and “Nita” (my mom). She sometimes called me “Mario,” but I preferred it when her tongue slipped and she’d call me “Maria.” “Maria” sounded too old-fashioned to me so when I came out, I had all my friends at school call me “Mary” instead. The teachers didn’t like hearing my friends and classmates call me that; they said I was making a blasphemy by carelessly using Mama Mary’s name. When I asked them how something like that could possibly be blasphemous—considering that I wasn’t the only one who had the same name—none of them could give me a real answer.
I felt my consciousness floating back, and I massaged the part of my head where the book violently landed. A not-so-small hump began to materialize under my kneading. I sat up and looked directly at the boy. “What did you do that for?”
Of course, I knew why. But I wanted to hear him say it, to keep all of my dignity from slipping through my hands.
“You should kill yourself,” he hissed, his eyes burning with fury. “Guys like you should all be dead!”
I didn’t know what response I was supposed to give him. Should I have cowered? Should I have stricken back? Should I have apologized for being gay? But I had to give it to him, though. Five years of being bullied and this was the first time someone ever said that to me. Did being gay warrant death now? For centuries, the world has innovatively created ways to torture gay people, to make them feel different, to remind them that they are abnormal, worthless, queer. But no one, no one, had ever told me I was better of dead that being who I was.
My dignity quickly rebuilt itself and its near destruction fueled my anger. How dare this boy, this nobody, talk to me this way? He didn’t know me! He had no right to tell me I should kill myself! Why would I anyway? Though not everybody was nice to me, I had friends who loved me just the way I was and who told off people who didn’t. I had a grandma who never judged me and allowed me freedom to express myself. Though not all, I had teachers who laughed at my jokes and who didn’t feel weird around my presence. I felt accepted and loved and normal. There was no reason I should mope around about how some people treat me bad and cut myself because of it. No amount of water can sink a ship without it getting in.
Slowly I got on my feet and picked up his chemistry book. He was still looking at me with those almost devilish eyes; his breathing was slow and hard as if I hit him with the book. I swallowed all the fear that I had felt before and handed him the book. His eyes shifted to confusion momentarily as he reluctantly but quickly snatched the book from my hands.
He looked at me, obviously dumfounded by my reaction—or lack thereof. I supposed he thought I would cry like a girl, run away, or hit-and-kiss him. As if! But instead, I straightened my shirt before the mirror, fixed my hair, and checked how bad my head bump was. It was huge.
“I’m sorry but you’ll just have to live with me being alive for now,” I said matter-of-factly. “Besides, we have that quiz in Algebra next week. I can’t die before that!”
I went home that day feeling strangely good about myself. I knew I should be feeling down-in-the-dumps, dejected, and yeah, probably suicidal, but I wasn’t. I felt even more proud of I was, and I knew that not hitting back was the right thing to do. It probably wouldn’t make that boy understand, but I’m sure he’d realize that it would be a herculean task to get to me. And the next time he tried something funny, I’d have my girls with me, armed with nail files, hair clips, and other girl what-nots potentially dangerous to rude, overbearing, barbaric high school boys.
My grandma cooked paksiw for dinner, which would probably be our breakfast tomorrow. I looked at her smiling contently that night, and I promised myself that no matter how other people ridiculed me now, I would give them no reason to ridicule me in the future. If I had to earn their respect, then I sure as hell would bust my guts working. I would be a somebody someday. That was my promise, my prayer. Despite those cruel words and my biggest head bump to date, I slept that night with a smile.
The next morning, school was more quiet than usual. In fact, the school was rarely quiet that I found the silence foreign to the point of eeriness. By this time, everybody should have been out and about shouting and wielding stick brooms at each other. But the hallway was empty. I checked my watch to see if I was late. I was just in time for advisory class. I walked with slow, calculated steps to my classroom where I found my girls, as were the rest of our classmates, staring slack-jawed at the teacher.
I had apparently missed a very shocking and sad announcement. Ms. Dahilog had a crumpled handkerchief in her hands; she had obviously just finished crying. She heard me come in and looked up, following me with her gaze as I quietly made my way to my seat. I heard her sniffle.
I looked at my friends in question, my curiosity unbearable now. Rita leaned close to me and said in an almost inaudible voice, “You know Roy, that handsome mestizo who looks at you weirdly?”
So that was his name—Roy. He was the boy who hit me with the book last night. I unconsciously swallowed as if I were getting a warning from my body that Rita was about to tell me something terrible. I nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“He hanged himself last night,” she said, decades hung between her words.
Something in my chest came to life and clawed at my lungs, suffocating me. I was sure I stopped breathing for a full minute. Rita’s sad eyes came alive with worry as she asked if I was okay. I couldn’t hear her. I was back at the boys’ CR with Roy, and he was telling me to go kill myself.
Outside, a tricycle with a loud radio passed by the classroom; a familiar tune blared from its speakers. It was a badly rapped song.
Wrote this July of last year. Found it sitting idly in my Drafts folder. Had to post it. :-)
Thursday, October 04, 2012
Unhappy Birthday
It's 8:57 PM. The air outside smells of incoming rain, and there are no stars. Exactly 157 people have wished me happy birthday as of now—some family, some friends, some strangers. Though I appreciate their greetings, I can't help but see the phoniness of it all, to use the words of J. D. Salinger. Because at the end of the day, I ate dinner by myself and walked around for an hour like a wandering idiot. I know if I had asked, my closest friends would come, but I don't want to ask them. I want them to be there for me at their own will, not because I'm buying them dinner or because I pressured them. I hate myself for expecting so much, for maybe a slice of cheap cake with a cheap candle or cheap flowers. I don't care as long as it's from them.
Two of the people I consider very important to me haven't even remembered. This is what breaks my heart the most.
Two of the people I consider very important to me haven't even remembered. This is what breaks my heart the most.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Why try to change me now?
This song hits me hard, right where my heart is.
I'm sentimental, so I walk in the rain
I've got some habits even I can't explain
I go to the corner and end up in Spain
Why try to change me now?
I sit in daydream, I got daydreams galore
Cigarette ashes, there they go on the floor
Go away, weekend, leave my keys on the door
Why try to change me now?
Why can't I be more conventional?
People talk, and they stare so I try
But that can't be 'cause I can't see
Mys strange little world just go passing me by
Let people wonder, let them laugh, let them frown
You know I love you 'till the moon's upside down
Don't you remember I was always your clown?
Why try to change me now?
Why can't I be more conventional?
People talk, and they stare, so I try
But that can't be because I can't see
Mys strange little world just go passing me by
So let people wonder, let them laugh, let them frown
You know I love you 'till the moon's upside down
Don't you remember I was always your clown?
Why try to change me ?
Why would you want to change me?
Why try to change me now?
I'm sentimental, so I walk in the rain
I've got some habits even I can't explain
I go to the corner and end up in Spain
Why try to change me now?
I sit in daydream, I got daydreams galore
Cigarette ashes, there they go on the floor
Go away, weekend, leave my keys on the door
Why try to change me now?
Why can't I be more conventional?
People talk, and they stare so I try
But that can't be 'cause I can't see
Mys strange little world just go passing me by
Let people wonder, let them laugh, let them frown
You know I love you 'till the moon's upside down
Don't you remember I was always your clown?
Why try to change me now?
Why can't I be more conventional?
People talk, and they stare, so I try
But that can't be because I can't see
Mys strange little world just go passing me by
So let people wonder, let them laugh, let them frown
You know I love you 'till the moon's upside down
Don't you remember I was always your clown?
Why try to change me ?
Why would you want to change me?
Why try to change me now?
Friday, September 21, 2012
I bet you didn't know . . .
I bet you didn't know
that I like flowers
and the noise of markets
or that I like to eat fish
with my hands
I bet you didn't know either
that I like to listen
to Icelandic music
and pretend I'm a mermaid
or that my favorite day
is Thursday
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Possessed by Consumerism
I try not to subscribe to current technological trends because 1) it's a waste of good money, 2) I don't really need it, and 3) I don't want to be any other bloke ostentatiously wielding their branded smartphones around as if they're above everyone else.
Sometimes, however, my self-resolve crumbles against the pressure of technologically keeping up with the rest of the world. I see my friends with their latest touch-screen phones while mine is still stuck in the era of slides and flips. Two years ago when this touch-screen fad started, I didn't really mind having an old-school phone. I mean, a phone only has to be able to call and send text messages, right? So maybe a camera and 3G capability can be useful sometimes, but these are all just vestigial accessories. A phone is still a phone without them.
Fast forward (and I mean fast fucking forward) to the present and the definition of a phone five years ago no longer holds weight. A phone that is not WIFI-capable, has no camera, cannot play mp3 music, and does not support faddy applications is no longer a phone---it's a piece of old shit that people use sometimes as decoys when they think they're in a place swarmed with potential thieves. A phone---no, a smartphone, is what a phone should really be today: able to call and text plus3G, camera with some-fancy-name lens, WIFI, a hundred-and-I've-lost-count applications, at least 1 GHz of speed, a fancy-named OS, at least 512 of RAM and 2G of internal storage . . . the list goes on and on of the much-coveted specifications that hippies and gadget nerds go gaga over.
I think I have lost track of the exact moment when owning gadgets are no longer a question of practicality or portability, when it has become a statement of economic status. When you own the latest iPhone or Xperia, or Lumia or the latest come-what-not, you are rich. Of course you are rich. How the hell can you afford all these things if you weren't? It doesn't matter how you were able to come up with this money or how you could have used that money for more important things--say, food or education---the important thing is you can show-and-tell your friends that you are richer than them (unless of course they have the more expensive brand or model.)
Having said those, you cannot imagine what I felt when I suddenly had a dying urge to buy myself a smartphone. Yes, that was correct. The cynic has relented, which makes me a sad hypocrite. I know, I know---I have chastised myself over and over with the things I wrote above. The thing though is, and it stinks to have to acknowledge it, I'm still human. It's natural for a sane human being to want what others have that he doesn't. It's natural to covet.While I'm not a hardcore gadget/phone enthusiast, I don't want that feeling of being left behind.
See I was waiting for my friends to come at Ayala, and I had been walking aimless for three hours, so I decided to stop and sit on a bench for a while. This lady sits beside me, takes out her smartphone and starts tinkering it. I look at the other person beside me and he was doing the same thing. And I look at my phone and for some reason, I felt really small. There they were playing the latest games, using the latest apps, while I was pathetically browsing through my old messages and restraining myself from looking over at theirs.
At that moment, I realized that I don't want to feel like that ever again. It's one of the worst feelings in the world. So I have decided to get a smartphone while keeping some of my cynic-pride behind. I'm going to get an old smartphone that although doesn't have the latest specs, can still perform side-by-side the latest models. I am getting this:
Isn't it a beauty? This was released last year July, so the specs are a little outdated, but I think it's perfect! I can afford it anyway, so what the hell. I also just realized that I haven't really bought anything long-lasting with my salary. I've spent it all on food, gimmicks, and groceries. This time I can brag to my friends that I bought this with my own money. Nevermind that I've become a little less strong in my resolve never to join the bandwagon. I'm not itching to get the latest iPhone or the popular brands anyway. I'm going for something that not everyone has. That alone consoles me.
Sometimes, however, my self-resolve crumbles against the pressure of technologically keeping up with the rest of the world. I see my friends with their latest touch-screen phones while mine is still stuck in the era of slides and flips. Two years ago when this touch-screen fad started, I didn't really mind having an old-school phone. I mean, a phone only has to be able to call and send text messages, right? So maybe a camera and 3G capability can be useful sometimes, but these are all just vestigial accessories. A phone is still a phone without them.
 | |
| Samsung G600. My two-year-old phone. |
I think I have lost track of the exact moment when owning gadgets are no longer a question of practicality or portability, when it has become a statement of economic status. When you own the latest iPhone or Xperia, or Lumia or the latest come-what-not, you are rich. Of course you are rich. How the hell can you afford all these things if you weren't? It doesn't matter how you were able to come up with this money or how you could have used that money for more important things--say, food or education---the important thing is you can show-and-tell your friends that you are richer than them (unless of course they have the more expensive brand or model.)
Having said those, you cannot imagine what I felt when I suddenly had a dying urge to buy myself a smartphone. Yes, that was correct. The cynic has relented, which makes me a sad hypocrite. I know, I know---I have chastised myself over and over with the things I wrote above. The thing though is, and it stinks to have to acknowledge it, I'm still human. It's natural for a sane human being to want what others have that he doesn't. It's natural to covet.While I'm not a hardcore gadget/phone enthusiast, I don't want that feeling of being left behind.
See I was waiting for my friends to come at Ayala, and I had been walking aimless for three hours, so I decided to stop and sit on a bench for a while. This lady sits beside me, takes out her smartphone and starts tinkering it. I look at the other person beside me and he was doing the same thing. And I look at my phone and for some reason, I felt really small. There they were playing the latest games, using the latest apps, while I was pathetically browsing through my old messages and restraining myself from looking over at theirs.
At that moment, I realized that I don't want to feel like that ever again. It's one of the worst feelings in the world. So I have decided to get a smartphone while keeping some of my cynic-pride behind. I'm going to get an old smartphone that although doesn't have the latest specs, can still perform side-by-side the latest models. I am getting this:
 |
| NTT Docomo P-07c |
Isn't it a beauty? This was released last year July, so the specs are a little outdated, but I think it's perfect! I can afford it anyway, so what the hell. I also just realized that I haven't really bought anything long-lasting with my salary. I've spent it all on food, gimmicks, and groceries. This time I can brag to my friends that I bought this with my own money. Nevermind that I've become a little less strong in my resolve never to join the bandwagon. I'm not itching to get the latest iPhone or the popular brands anyway. I'm going for something that not everyone has. That alone consoles me.
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
Mad Hatter
For the past few days, I feel like the Mad Hatter. Cheerful and wise one second and angry and irrational the next.
Last night was probably the longest night I've ever had. It was raining very hard when I got out of the office yesterday. All the jeeps were full, so I had to walk half a kilometer to try and get on at that point. I already spent an hour waiting, so I decided to take a jeep to another route. That was a big mistake.
I spent another two hours sitting cold, stuck in the long stretch of traffic. It took ten whole minutes for the congestion to move an inch. I was at my limit, so when the driver said he wasn't going to dare the rain any longer and was going home, I jumped out of the vehicle and brisk-walked all the way to the city.
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You come to me, running with tears in your eyes and your arms longing to embrace me my hands, shaking drenched in blood, touch you for the f...
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This song hits me hard, right where my heart is. I'm sentimental, so I walk in the rain I've got some habits even I can't ...
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I must have smoked more cigarettes today than I had in two months. The Hail Marys have come and gone from my lips, but still my heart feels ...
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I just finished the first season and the Live-Action movie of Kimi ni Todoke (Reaching you). The story is a little pedestrian but the plot ...
