‘Sa Lahat Pong Nag-Great ng Happiest Birthday Ko Last Year sagkod sa Aga, Salamáton Po Talaga, Promise!’

Salamaton daa. 

Salamáton? Anong ‘salamaton’? Anong gustong sabihon?  

So, at least in Bikol (and Bicol), the plain word salamat has now become an adjective? Is that it?

Since when? May Executive Order na pinaluwàs? Kan suarin pa? Since the day you first used it? Since your last post?

“What is the meaning of this!?”

Garo palan magayon? Kaya magayonon. A, OK: beautifulon, bakong pangiton? 

Halangkaw po siya? Dai po.  Halangkawonon. Six -footéron po.

So if the plain word salamat is now an adjective,

then:

Salamat. Payak? Salamaton. Pahambing? Salamatonon. Pasukdol? Bakò nin Pa-Polangui? 

Iyo na palan ini ngonyan an lengwahe ta?

So garo “HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY TO YOU, BFF!” 

Why is it superlative?

Let me see. Happier than last year and next year? Every year but not this one? Why happiest? Since when and until when? Ever Since the World Began? Since time immemorial? Bowed by the waist of Century Tuna he's leaner than his horse who grazes on the ground?

Why is it in the superlative, really? Where is the point of comparison in that plain statement?  Is this not what you mean: May you have the happiest birthday of all your birthdays. Ever.

Amen. Alleluiah! 

Raise the rope! (Answer the question in complete sentence! Otherwise, give me two weeks! Drop!)

Or “HAPPY BIRTHDAY IN HEAVEN.”

Ano po? Come again?

“Happiest birthday in heaven” daa ngani!

Ah. So, people are now born in heaven? Since when? Since the day they died? O, dai man daw D-Day? Bako ni itong D-day the music died? So bye bye miss American KaPie-kapay (Mayo na baga sa White House si Ronald Trumf)?

Or CONDOLENCE PO SA NAMATAY.

Sinong namatay ate? Anong nangyari sa kanya? Kawawasaki naman. Condolence po to the dead. 

Makuliton talaga, ay. Kundol patola upo't kalabasa at saka mayroon pa:

And rest in peace “To the Beraved familiarity. You all, rest in pieces. Ay, piece palan.

Such travesties in the language being committed today.

It's just so Oak Ward, not the Molave Ward, near the Nurses Station where WiFi is great kaya salamaton po talaga. Sorryhon po talaga ta dai kaya me maka move-onon.

Salamaton--

Pa‘no daw kun ini na lang:

Salamat na marhay.

Salamat talaga. 

O magsublì sa iba:

Daghang salamat.

Maraming salamat.

Sawà na gayod sa “Thank you very much.” Cliche na gayod—ta autotext man na yan sa yahoo sagkod gmail?   

Thanks so much.

Many many thanks.

Cliche man giraray baga.

Úni:  

Arigato Go sa MayMalasakit Sa'yo kaya iboto mo sa 2022

23, 24, 25, 30, 35 50 65 70 75 100! Buhay ka pa daw ka'yan?

Bakad.

Baad! Hali sa tibaad!

Iyo pa man gayod.

Ay, SALAMATON kun buhay  pa ko ka'yan!

Salamaton talaga, promise! 

O, ayan. Magbabalik daw po si Ate Lugs, ang original na Eye to Eye de las Alas!

Kalurkeyest ka.

Our Generation Was Not Taught And Did Not Learn Spanish

CITY OF NAGA, FORMERLY NUEVA CACERES—Whoever had moved to abolish Spanish in our college curriculum had no foresight of its importance to really educating the Filipino.

When I stepped into college in 1992, our course syllabus at the Ateneo de Naga did not include Spanish anymore. I enrolled in a humanities course but didn’t have to take Spanish. Later I would learn that the subject was not being offered anymore.

I wonder what our lawmakers in those years had in mind when they abolished it. If at all, they certainly didn’t know that most of our past—our recorded history—had been written in Spanish. If at all, they were not thinking that the abundance of information about our past can be mined in the Spanish archives—for more than three centuries, they had been our colonizers, masters and oppressors.

As early as the primary grades, we had been taught about the widespread, far-reaching hundreds of years of Spanish colonization of the Philippines. Foremost, the country’s name itself—Filipinas—is nothing but a tribute to Felipe, then the king of Spain.

I find it odd that Spanish was not encouraged to be taught at the Ateneo, rather an institution begun some 400 years earlier by a Spaniard par excellence, St. Ignatius of Loyola. Surely there must have been protests, but what could the Jesuits have done?

I remember in 1993 how our history teacher—now the master historian Danilo Madrid Gerona—would share with our class about his trips to Sevilla and Madrid—to do historical research or archival work about Bicol, or anything that had to do with our history.

Five years before Gerona became my teacher, he published From Epic to History (Naga: AMS Press, 1988), a seminal book on Bicol history which became a required reading for every Atenean studying history.

Some thirty years later, on the 500th year of the arrival of Spaniards in our soil, I see that he has been making waves across the campuses, on social media and online—sharing and broadcasting his latest discoveries in Philippine and Bicol history.

Of late, I came to know how—through his incisive archival work of firsthand Spanish sources—he has redefined and officially reconstructed the old concept of the robust, military-age man Lapulapu to one of an ageing warrior—a sage, as it were. I wonder why they had to scrap the subject—which was about studying a rather beautiful language. Spanish may be an old language, yes— but it's not dead.

 Today, all we can do is romanticize it. Every now and then, we would fondly refer to a Spanish teacher who spoke the language beautifully—and ultimately remember her person because of such flair.

Also, there were days when we were awed by Miss Venezuela, Miss Chile or Miss Argentina candidates flawlessly answering questions in beauty pageants in their own language. For years we also religiously patronized Thalia in Marimar and other countless Mexicanovelas. We likewise sing our hearts out to the songs of Trio Los Panchos, Jose Feliciano and Julio Iglesias—to us, they feel soulful and affecting. We have always been Spanish at heart—but our generation has been deprived to learn the language. Today, if we want to learn Spanish, we would need to rather enroll in Instituto Cervantes or other language schools or be tutored in it.

 Whatever they did, our lawmakers probably thought it best to scrap Spanish because it is the language of the oppressor. They must have thought that we would be better to do away with it—to forget the bitter past. They didn’t realize that if we do so, we would also be forgetting ourselves.

 These days, we gasp in awe at the latest discovery about ourselves mined through the Spanish resources. We are awed all the time because not so many of us know Spanish.

 I wonder how different it would have been if Spanish were not really foreign to us. What if it were like just another dialect, rather a variant—like Partido Bikol or another language from another region, say, Hiligaynon? Would we be a lot different?

 If we knew Spanish by heart, probably we would have more poets, musicians and artists who would use this beautiful language to romantic but also social and political ends.

 More often, we would probably be referring to our ancestors more familiarly because we knew them and their Spanish lineage or affinities. We can just recall our sense of Spanish in utter nostalgia. Most of us are named or carry Spanish names but never even know the history behind these names.

 We treat anything Spanish in different ways—true, some of us treat it as piece of the past, belonging to our ancestors long gone.

 When I go to the burial sites in the coming days, I will again marvel at the names of the dead—carrying Chinese but most especially Spanish names.

 In the 2000s, inside the Molo and Jaro churches in Iloilo, I was awed seeing and reading the names of the dead—couples, infants, etc. and their epitaphs in Spanish. I mouthed them quietly and found them beautiful but could hardly understand what they really meant.

 I wonder if most of us knew Spanish like the back of our hand. We wouldn’t really be drooling over our own past. Because we would be able to read about them in Spanish. We would have more translators. We would have more authors. Not only of our own history. We would probably have dozens of Agoncillos or Constantinos; or batches of Geronas and Ocampos; and maybe, a string of Zaides, too. These and other Filipino historians—some would say except the last one—worked their Spanish hard to read about our past and offer it back to us.

 The Spaniards know us more than we do ourselves. They had been in and out of our country for a long, long time—trading with us, exploiting our natural wealth, but also stealing our souls, as it were, like they did a number of Latin American countries.

One day, we may just be awed again when some author from around us writes his own Three Hundred Years of Solitude, inspired not only by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s magic realist novel but probably by some real magic he may have seen from the pages of our own history.

All these years I have been inspired by how Gerona and the rest of the Filipino historians have been traveling to and from the land of our master colonizers to retrieve the raw and rather more authentic parts of ourselves.

 

‘Tell Me Your Name, You’re Lovely, Please Tell Me Your Name’

Neil Romano. Donna Bella. John Paulo. Raphael Francis. Maita Cristina.

I wonder how my cousins and my own brother think—or feel—about their names. 

Each of them was given two beautiful names, but they would just be called   one name—either their first or their second name.

In fact, they have also been called other names. Neil Romano (born 1969) later became Neil. But affectionately, to us he has always been “Áno”, a diminutive of Románo.

 From Donna Bella (born 1973), they chose Donna. But then again, it has always been “Nang-nang”—with her younger siblings, too, being called Ding-ding, Kling-kling and Don-don, who have since called her “Manangnang”— most likely from “Manay Nang-nang”.

 Also, John Paulo (born 1978), named after the pope, became only Paulo—but fondly now, “Pau”.

 Raphael Francis (born 1980) became Francis. But fondly, too, he has always been “Pangkoy” to us.

 And Maita Cristina, born 1985, yes, on a Christmas Day, became simply Maita, cleverly drawn from that of our lola, Margarita.

Why is it that despite the two names given to people, there is always one active name that replaces them—most likely the one that their parents or their folks chose or still gave them?

 Of course, there’s a story behind each name—about how they were named but I’m sure there’s a juicier story of how they were also nicknamed—or how that single, active name came to be and has been used ever since.

 Did you notice that only in Mexican soap operas—and later Filipino telenovelas—can we hear two names being seamlessly, rather dutifully, used when they are addressed, as in: “Maria Mercedes”, or “Carlos Miguel” or “Julio Jose”?

“Mara Clara”. What did you say—“Maria Clara”?

 Of course, there are exceptions. Take the case of Von Carlo. Or Sarah Jane. Or Lyn Joy (Wow… I cannot think of a sweeter name than this.)

 But each of these two-name names is already too short to be cut further or even dropped. In fact—easily they can be turned into one: Jennylyn, Genalyn, Ednalyn. Julieanne. Maryanne. Carolyn. Carol Lyn?

 Or Larryboy. Or Dannyboy. Dinosaur (from Dino Sauro?).

 So is it for brevity, then? After all, I think that first names are tags (as in katawagan and therefore pagkakakilanlan) of persons, so does it really help that they are short, as in monosyllabic? The shorter or the faster the register, the better—is that it?

 Others are also given three first names or more, as in: Jose Francis Joshua.

 Allen Van Marie. Francis Allan Angelo.

 Maria Alessandra Margaret.

 Why? They are so named because their parents want to honor their folks—aunts, uncles, grandparents and great-grandparents by giving them a string of their names.

 In the case of some Jose Felicisimo Porfirio Diaz, a.k.a. Bobong, who was named from his uncle and great-grandfather, we could easily guess what happened here. The kilometric name just didn’t really sit well—probably pissed his other folks off, who then argued with his parents but luckily agreed and settled for a simpler one: Bobong!

 How about Jose Antonio Emilio Herminigildo? Sounds like two persons already. Takes a lot of effort.

 So why do parents name their children the way they do? How do they (come to) do it? Are they inspired by their personal heroes? Idols? The stars of their own lives?

 Personal heroes? I already said that. So, there.

 Parents name their children based on inspiration—to immortalize not only their origins, their parents but also their aspirations and ideals.

 Then again, some of them name their offspring to immortalize only themselves: Romeo Agor I, Romeo Agor II, Romeo Agor III, etc. Just like royalty.

 But seriously, I admire how people in the past were so beautifully named—by being given only one name:

 Emiliano. Why is this name so beautiful? It doesn’t evoke sadness. Neither does it invoke anything unattractive. It doesn’t mean a lot of things but itself.

 Margarita. Of course it means something based on its origin. But I choose to look past its etymology and just see it as it is.

 Why do these four-syllable names sound so beautiful? They’re not magical; they’re just beautiful to hear. They do not mean a lot of things but themselves.

 They’re just perfect.

Each of them has four syllables so that when you say them, they sound like two names already in modern parlance, each with two syllables.

 

So while some parents worry about giving their children two or three names or even more, I think that they overlook the beauty of giving their child one, single name. As in:

 

Ofelia.

Salvador. Edmundo.

Antonio.

Camilo. Alberto.

Rosita. Or Zenaida.

 Really here, simplicity is beauty.

 Hearing these names or reading them on the page, I seem to hear or feel the wish of the parents when they so name their child with just one name, as if to speak of their only wish for them in life.

 It’s like: one name, one wish—only goodness and nothing else:

 Flordeliza.

Dorotea.

Isabel.

Lydia.

Romana.

Teresita. Liduvina.

Imelda. Angelita.

Agaton.

Aurelia. Alma.

Gina. Amelita.

Belen. Delia.

Inocencio.

Mercedita. Zarina. Maida.

Carmelita. Belinda. Elisa.

 Emma.

 For me, giving them more than one name means something else altogether. “Maria Teresita” sounds overdone. “Luz Imelda” might work—sounds good—but not as plainly as just, “Imelda”. Then, honestly, “Roberto” or “Francisco” sounds better than “Francisco Roberto”. I don’t know why.

 I also wonder why a four- or five-syllable name sounds strong. Intact or solid. Strong-willed.

 Bersalina. Bienvenido. Aideliza. Plocerfina.

 And why do these names with three syllables sound so wonderful? Macário. Terésa.

 Wait, Tibúrcio. Dionísia. Glória.

 Ramón. Rosalía.

 Why does it sound like poetry? Soledád. Like beauty? Rafaél.

 How often, too, through names, have we looked to the heavens for inspiration—invoking not only blessing but guidance in our lives!

 Anunciacion, Visitacion, Encarnacion, Purificacion, Asuncion, Coronacion—all derived from the mysteries in the Holy Rosary of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

 A Catholic boy may be named Resurreccion, obviously to invoke the Saviour’s triumph over death. Among many others, parents would choose it. For one, it sounds very much like Victor. Or Victorino. But Victorioso?

 And while others were named Dolores or Circumcision, why are there no women or men named Crucificcion? Obviously, because we do not want to dwell in the bad side of things.

 We do not want any association with the undesirable things like suffering or misery. Or death.

 On the contrary, naming your child Maria or Jose or Jesus—a very common practice—is more than reassuring; for you literally consecrate them back to the Creator, fully acknowledging Him as the only Source of all life.

 Manuel. Emmanuel.

 Manuelito. Manolito. Manolo. Variants of the same wish. Same aspiration. 

 Jose. Josue. Joselito. Joselino. Jocelyn. Joseline. Josephine. Josefa. Josette. It’s quite a different name, but the aim is the same.

 Mario. Marianne. Mary Ann. Mariano. Mariana. Marianita. Marion. Same invocation. Same prayer.

 Maria Emmanuelle.

Jose Maria Emmanuelle. Like Jejomar (Jesus, Jose, Maria or if you want, Jesus Joseph Mary.)

 Naming your child in this fashion is giving more than paying tribute to the Highest One. It is the noblest gesture you can make, the highest kind of praise you can give to God, as it were.

 And then—Rosario. Probably the holiest of all.

 Were Spanish names once highly favored because they are highly allegorical, connoting the good things life? As in—Paz (peace), Constancia (constancy), Esperanza (hope), Remedios (remedy) and Consuelo (consolation)?

 While boys were named Serafin or girls Serafina—after the archangels Miguel, Rafael and Gabriel became too common—I think no parent would name their child Querubin, probably fearing that he or she would be as childish as impressionable if not as vulnerable or as unfortunate. Probably there is—but that’s too uncommon.

 And if you name your children in your clan Dorcas, Jona, Joshua, Abner, Abel or Nathaniel—obviously you know your Bible well. It means you don’t just let it sit on the altar for ages. Clearly, you must have been inspired not just by the Good News, but the Old Testament. It’s just hard not to associate these names with people who lived in the past. Picking all these names simply reflects a religious sensibility.

 Well, naming your child Primitivo or Primitiva lacks knowledge on your part. The Spanish name must have been assigned by the colonizers to the natives out of disgust—without the latter knowing what it meant. How the given name had survived through the generations is simply puzzling.

 Well, the same fate will befall you if you choose Moderna, but why does Nova—also meaning “new”—sound more acceptable? Hmm. Is it because it’s now Italian?

 Why can’t we name our girls Jane Karen, or Joan Jennifer—five syllables. Obviously because each of these names is already solid or full by itself. But why does it work with Sheryl Lyn or Sarah Jane? Frank Daniel or Billy Joe? Or Kyla Marie? Lyn Joy (really, it’s just beautiful). I explained this already.

 While a co-worker back in Iloilo has well thought of naming their children Payapa, Sigasig and Biyaya, some literary sensibilities name their children really as a poet would title their poem, or as a novelist would call their magnum opus: Marilag. Makisig. Maningning.

 Lakambini. Awit. Diwa.

 Angela. Kerima. Priscilla. Mirava. Anya.

 Dulce Maria.

 But no writer in his “write” mind would name their beloved child Luksa or Dusa. Or Daluyong or Kutya or Dagsa.

 “Sofia” is a favorite—nobody would turn away or turn away from wisdom.

 Shakespeare. Ophelia. Cordelia. Miranda. Tibaldo. Mercusio. Very rare.

 Misteriosa? Well, some women are named Gloriosa. I know a Glorioso. But why not Misteriosa? Misterioso. Is it not stating the obvious?

 And unless she has gone crazy, no mother would pick Thanatos, Persephone or Hades from her memory of Greco-Roman history.

 Persephone has come to be Proserfina, or Plocerfina with a variant Plocerfida, still uncommon. Orfeo is a beautiful name for a boy—as it is sad. And Eurydice? You must be very morbid. Try Eunice—although later on, she will be called “Yunise” by the folks in your barangay.

 Naming her Venus or Aphrodite is fair enough. Just do not pair them for one person—or else.

 I know of a well-known family from the highlands whose children’s names are Athena, Socrates, and Archimedes. They hail from the upland Buyo, a sitio adjacent to our barangay Bagacay, where they must have not only witnessed but also created their own Mount Olympus. Amazing!

 I wonder why Nestor has even become very popular here locally, sounding even more Filipino when it is originally Greek. Homer is not, or Homar. But Omar? Omar is very common. Omar Shariff? Or Omar Khayyam?

 And why does Hermes sound so high-brow? Hermes Diaz. Hermes Rodriguez. Hermes Sto. Domingo. But why not Mercurio? The latter is an actual family name, not a given name.

 And why, too, are there more Socrates I know than Aristotle or Aristoteles? Certainly, I know nothing of Plato or Platon, except for an apellido.

 I know of some Teofilo. Or Diogenes. Theophanes (poetic one, here!).  But everybody must have not seen Aristophanes as a name in a list. Or Euripides or Anaxagoras. Or Pythagoras.

 One must be so careful with naming their child Hippocrates, the so-called father of medicine or Heraclitus, traced to be the father of history. These were two great names in worlds of the past, but here and now, a mistake in one syllable might create some quandary if not furor.

 I had a pen friend Minerva Cercado back in the 1990s. Hers is a beautiful name but I am afraid it does not sound good with all Filipino surnames. How about Minerva Diaz? Minerva Deserva? Minerva Seva? Minerva Raquitico? Minerva Ragrario. Hmm? Twists the tongue.

 There’s a guy named Delfin Delfin. And I am sure there must be Delfin Delfino. Based on the oracle of Delphi. (But why is Delfina pretentious?)

 If one were so steeped in Greek mythology, I wonder if she names her triplets or multiple births after The Furies, The Muses or the Fates.

 There’s one name I remember: Indira Daphne? Nicely paired. Wonderful. How snugly it puts together the Eastern and the Western sensibility. At least, it’s not Indira Gandhi—if she was so named by her parents (plus their surname), I wonder how she would measure up to that big name.

 Would you admire a father who’d name his child Psyche? Or would you say he’s out of his mind? Is he still sane if he adds Delia to it? As in Psyche Delia Magbanua?

 Maura. Chona. Lota. Why couldn’t I easily associate these names with anything pleasant—only something pleasurable? Ah, biases! Stereotypes.

 After all, names are just labels.

 That’s why some names are being picked so carefully—so as to reflect their parents’ sensibility. If it’s John Joshua, they are highly religious. Joshua Aaron, equally so.

 But nobody names their little girl Ruth Sara; it sounds redundant—both women were biblical and blessed. But put together, why does it not sound good?

 Peter Gerard? Acceptable. John Kevin? Pretentious.

 Kanye James Ywade? Are you out of your mind?

 Should we cry foul—how do we express concern about the names of children born through this pandemic? First name, Covid Bryant; surname, Santiago. Quarantina Fae Marie, surname de la Cruz. Shara Mae Plantita Diaz De Dios. Dios mio!

 The list goes on.

 Well, I know of a biology teacher who named his kids Xylem or Phloem, or something—and added to them a more common name. I think they’re still sane because at least, they didn’t go all the way naming them Stamen or Pistil or Chlorophyll. Or Stalk. Or Leaves or Photosynthesis. But obviously their Science teacher way, way back must have really made an impact on them.

 While Paraluman, Ligaya and Lualhati are popular native names for Filipinas, why don’t we have Filipino males named Lapulapu or Lakandula or Humabon? Clearly these are strong names! Is it the same as naming your boys Ares or Mars? What’s wrong with that?

 If it’s okay to be named Magtanggol, or Tagumpay or if you may, Galak—all positive names—why can’t we have Hamis, Sarap, or Siram or Lami when they sound just as appetizing as Candy, Sugar Mae or Dulcesima?

 Other parents are so enamored by popular girl names from television like Kendra, Kylie, Khloe—and all the Kardashians, but why aren’t they easily drawn to Georgia, Atalanta or Europa?

 Europa sounds so good for a girl’s name. Don’t you think? Asia? Wow! But why not Alemania or Venezuela? Or Antarctica? Or Australia?

 Africa.

 How about Filipinas? Why not Filipinas?

 Interestingly, a beautiful tall woman I met was named Luvizminda—and she is from Iloilo, yes, Western Visayas. Her parents clearly wanted to articulate the middle syllable “Visayas”, probably being Visayan themselves. It’s just original.

 I knew someone named Filipinas. Her parents were probably not content with Luzviminda as in Luzon, Visayas, Mindanao—counting each of the islands of our country.

 When they named her, were they rallying against regionalism, or lamenting the pointlessness of ethnicity? Were they protesting the divisiveness of their own people so they settled for the single, collective name of the archipelago?

 Did they really consecrate her to the country, the only Catholic nation in Asia—because it really means something to them? When she was born, did they wish for her to make it big, really succeed in life and lead the country more than Corazon Aquino—topple the patriarchy oligarchy tyranny (yes, in that order) and cure the ills of society?

 Maria Filipinas, is that you?

 Inang Bayan, let’s go!

Obra et labora

Aga sa opisina nakatukaw ka sa imo nga lamesa, garo binubutingting an mga files sa saimong vertical folders. Garo igwa kang pigpaparahanap. Makiling ka sa wala, bubuksan an sulong-sulong kan lamesa. Maka’lot kan buhok ta garong naggagatol. Sa orasan mo, alas nwebe y media pa sana. Magagayon palan an pagkahilera mo kan mga folder. Matindog ka, magayon gayod magtahar kan mga lapis na ini. Haralaba pa pero pudpod na an mga puro. Taharan mo an duwa.

Sige, maglista ka kan mga tatapuson mo ngonyan. Ano na ngani to? Ano na ngani si huri mong project? Garo si folder sa puro an eenoton mo, bakong iyo? Garo baga dai pa natapos si sa sarong project. Dai pa palan tapos an ginigibo mo sa file na ito. Taposon mo muna to. Mag-apod ka muna. Apodan mo si kaopisina sa balyong department. Ano na ngani si tuyo mo saiya?

Sa poon, pormal man daa an pataratara nindo sa kada saro. Ito man daang obra sa opisina man nanggad. Ara atyan, mauunambitan mo saiya na nagtaas na naman an gasolina kaya garo naisipan mong mag-commute na sana pasiring sa opisina. Ay iyo? Maistorya na man si nasa balyo na pig-iingatan niyang dai magparakakan nin mahahamis kawasa at risk siya na magka-diabetes, sabi kan doktor niya. Hambal mo na logod saiya na updan ka niyang magparegister sa Mayor’s Fun Run sa Domingo ta nganing makaexercise man kamo, bako sanang anas trabaho. Sige na logod, atyan na lang. Tibaad magkadungan kamo sa lunch sa canteen, sabi. 

Haen ka na ngani kansubago? A, gigibuhon mo na palan itong surat para sa LGU, pero garo break time na. Magkape ka muna. Mantang nagkakape, habo mong pagparairisipon si mga ginigibo mo. Mapapanlingaw ka. Pagkatapos mabuwelta ka na sa lamesa mo, yaon an gibong dai mo matapostapos. Sige, poon ka na.

Nawalat mong bukas an door, ta garo mainit sa laog kansubago. May malaog na kabisto. Siya ni idtong saro man na parapalimanliman. Mabâbâ. Siya ni idtong kadakul aram na paiplî—tsismis sa opisina, mga manlaen-laen na kamanungdanan sa pamilya, mga kung anong uso sa Shangri-la o Divisoria; mga katuyawan sa mga nag-aasensong pag-iriba, sagkod kung ano-anong klase nin paghagad sang simpatiya.

Ika man pigpaparadangog mo nanggad siya, pareho kamong mga parapalimanliman. Sibot-sibot man daa kamo sa saindong ginigibo; dai man talaga kamo nagtatrabaho. Mga kabangang oras an masasayang sa urulay nindo. Mahali na an amigo mo kawasa nag-ring na an telepono. Sisimbagon mo. Nakangirit ka ta sibot ka na naman kuno.

Makukulbaan ka ta an nag-apod kinnukulibat ano na an nangyari sa project sa enot na folder kansubago. Masimbag ka saiyang kadakulon ka pa kayang pigtatapos. Sákô gid, silíng mo. Sige logod, sabi niya. Maghilingan na sana daa kamo sa amo ning oras sa amo ning lugar, para i-discuss idtong project. Iyo. Sa scratch paper mo sa desk, bibilugan mo idtong project na pinagiromdom saimo. Ini an eenoton mo.

Lunch na palan. Sige, pangudto ka na muna lugod. Sa cafeteria makakan ka. Igwang sarong kaopisinang maagi sa saimong lamesa. Namarapara? Kinukumusta ka sa saimong obra. Kadakuldakul kong gibo, masimbag ka.

Susog sa “Natural and Unnatural Time” na yaon sa Time and the Art of Living ni Robert Grudin. Nalagda sa New York: Harper and Row, 1982, p. 163.

Mother Tongue

The best times in your home were those days filled with laughter, because your mother would say words or speak a language that was so powerful that even now you still know what they meant—long after you’ve gone from there, long after she’s gone.

Your mother’s words we so full of images that she needed not say more to put her message across. She used a language to you, her children, which spoke more than it sounded.

Hers was the kind of language that you now consider very figurative—in its foremost sense, metaphorical—i.e. “expressing something in terms that normally mean another.”

Your mother’s language was graphic that it simply seeped into your consciousness with little effort, or sometimes none at all. You recall these words and phrases and surmise their sense and sensibilities one by one.

At times when your Mother would get angry at you or any of your siblings, upset by what you had done, she would say, "Mga ‘págsusulít kamo! or ‘págsusulít ka!" if she is just addressing one of you. She would say this to you, not so much as a curse but as an expression of resignation—but only when you gravely upset her.

She scolded you using a language that would not necessarily piss you off in turn but rather only make you think. Whether you received her scolding lightly or seriously, her words would still make you think—how could you even manage to ask what they meant if she was fuming mad?

From such words you now create your own meaning. Perhaps it came from the more complete ipágsusulít ka (kamo), extending it to mean, ipagsusulit kamo sa tulak kan ina nindo, which is very much like, “I wish you’ve never been born,” or to that effect.

With those words, she seemed to say that she regretted having given birth to you—this is so sad because she might as well be cursing herself—that perhaps you are one of her wrong decisions.

So you or any of your siblings would try to appease her, but sometimes to no avail. It would take the efforts of your Lolo Miling, her dear father, to make you say sorry to her, or to patch things up—only because she had already fainted and lost consciousness, something that would surely call your grandfather’s attention.

You would regret this because it entitled you to a “date” with the grand patriarch himself, who would “grace” you with his “sermon” once you were summoned to the Libod, your mother’s ancestral house, your grandparents’ domain.

Your grandfather was both a teacher and a military man—which made clear that any of you could not simply break your mother’s heart, or else you face him squarely. And if you’d done so, you’d now brace yourself for a harsher military rhetoric, both well expressed and eloquent. You might as well call it some “repentance regimen,” a bitter pill you deserved for hurting your mother.

When you reasoned out with him, or even started mumbling your own juvenile piece, your regime would now include kneeling on salt or mongo seeds taken from your Lola Eta’s farm. Your dear grandmother never even had a clue how her farm produce would end up helping her husband’s effort to ferret out justice (or you now retort, the lack of it).

All these were done if only to make you realize perhaps how and why you hurt your mother. Such was the extent of the love of one’s father to his daughter—that now you could only deeply desire to write something to immortalize it.

Two Words in Our Time

Recently, I have observed two words that have entered our modern lexicon, both of which merit some discussion and perhaps, appreciation.

Consider the first one: selfie. Announced by Time Magazine as one of the top 10 buzzwords for 2012, “selfie” refers to any self-portrait photograph—taken by the subject himself or herself with the use of a modern technology gadget like a cellular phone, tablet, or just about any portable camera; and later uploaded on Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, or any other social networking site.

Writing for the BBC news magazine online, Charissa Coulthard says that, owing to the fact that this type of photos has been flooding social media sites in recent months, “selfie” has become commonplace enough to be monitored for inclusion in the online version of the Oxford English Dictionary. Coulthard reports that a search on Instagram retrieves over 23 million photos uploaded with the hashtag #selfie, and a whopping 51 million with the hashtag #me.”

Further, one selfie alone posted by one of my FB friends as her Profile Picture elicited some 90 Like!s from all her friends from across the world. What can be more amazing than that?

But among others, selfie serves some purpose. Upon the very act of posting one’s own picture online, the subject flings himself or herself open to public examination. Because the self becomes the subject of public scrutiny, judging from the likes and comments that the post elicits or draws out from other Internet users, he or she can be made aware of their own charm, or the lack of it.

And if one selfie elicits many reactions, with some of them even citing certain aspects of the photo or features of the subject, the whole exercise can guide the person which of their characteristics can be considered desirable—and which cannot.

The concept of selfie then rises beyond vanity, or some penchant to take pride in and parade one’s own beauty. In a sense, the selfie is able to relay back to the subjects not only how they look good to others but how else they can look better.

The entire online exercise—from choosing which picture to post to enhancing them using software applications to actually posting it to eliciting reactions from others—allows for self-examination and even introspection.

Then, there is the other word—“Bombo” or “bombo,” functioning both as noun and verb—which I suppose has already been a household name long time ago.

In the provinces and cities across the country, the Bombo Radyo by the Florete Group of Companies from Iloilo has permeated the public consciousness owing to the presence of their radio stations across some 20 major provinces in the archipelago.

Through the years, Bombo Radyo has staged commentators and announcers for their news and public affairs department who have criticized on air practically almost everyone whom they consider misbehaving, errant or corrupt both in private and public spheres.

Virtually, the Bombo programs have gained notoriety even as its literal drum noise barrages on air—indeed, in order to parade its subject’s misdemeanors for everyone to hear. While it has gained the ire of its subjects, through time, the commentary culture it has fostered has also helped create a Filipino audience critical of social issues.

So commonly nowadays you would hear how one public figure or even an entirely anonymous person literally “figured in public” because “na-Bombo siya,” meaning—his or her name was mentioned in the Bombo Radyo commentary program), which also means he or she figured in some scam, scandal or anomaly.

During Bombo Hanay or similar commentary  programs, the commentator host raises a particular issue that primarily concerns the public, presents the allegedly errant personalities or officials and then, basing on reports of malfeasance, strips them bare to the bone.

Their accuracy or observance of media ethics notwithstanding, these and the counterpart commentaries in other radio networks keep the public officials and other social leaders in check even as they do not only examine the issue but also more than scrutinize the behavior of the personalities involved.

It is always best to attack the issue as the case in point. At times, however, the verbal criticisms on the radio become vitriol, cannot help but do so “below the belt,” because the host can hardly separate the issue from the personality involved.

As such, the word Bombo performs a function similar to the one delivered by selfie. Through this, Bombo keeps its subjects in check and makes them aware of themselves. And by doing so, the media involved is virtually holding up the mirror of the community to its own constituents to make them see the ills of their own society. Such has always been the mandate of the fourth estate.

In this sense, both “selfie” and “Bombo” subject the personalities or persons to be judged per se; and both forms of criticism create avenues to critique the self, and how it can do better or be better.

While this parallelism may appear new, the thing about self-criticism is not new all. Not surprisingly, such concepts elicited by both words had already been pondered ages and eons ago, particularly by the Greek Socrates,  who said: “The unexamined life is not worth living,” or something to that effect. Trite but true; so trite but so true.

I Dialogues

Enunciating Louis Althusser’s Theses on Ideology

I.
Ideology represents the imaginary relationship of individuals to their real conditions of existence. (Lenin 109)

Whereas the old Marxist view showed how ideologies are false by pointing to the real world hidden by ideology, Althusser says, by contrast, ideology does not reflect the real world but represents the imaginary relationships of individuals to the real world. The thing ideology [mis] represents is itself already at one remove from the real.

Borrowing Jacques Lacan’s Imaginary, Althusser says we are always within ideology because of our reliance on language to establish our reality. This means—that different ideologies are but different representations of our social and imaginary ‘reality,’ not a representation of the real itself.

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II.
Ideology has a material existence. (Lenin 112)

It is so because an ideology always exists in an apparatus, and its practice, or practices. Ideology always manifests itself through actions which are inserted into practices—e.g. rituals, conventional behavior, and so on.

Citing Blaise Pascal’s formule for belief—“Kneel down, move your lips in prayer and you will believe, (Lenin 114)”

Althusser contends it is our performance of our relation to others and to social institutions that constantly instantiates us as subjects. (Refer to critic Judith Butler’s preoccupation with performance/ performativity is inspired and/or informed by this thought on ideology.)

What thus seems to take place outside ideology (in the street, to be precise) in reality takes place in ideology. Those who are in ideology believe themselves by definition outside ideology (Lenin 118)

III.
All ideology hails or interpellates concrete individuals as concrete subjects. (Lenin 115)

Ideology’s purpose is in constituting concrete individuals as subjects (Lenin 116). So pervasive is ideology in its constitution of subjects that it forms our very reality and thus appears to us as true and obvious.

The rituals of ideological recognition guarantee for us that we are indeed concrete, individual, distinguishable and naturally irreplaceable subjects. (Lenin 117)

Through interpellation, individuals are turned into subjects (which are always ideological):

Police Officer: Hey, you there!

Assuming that the scene takes place in the street, the hailed individual will turn round. By this mere 180° physical conversion, he becomes a subject. (Lenin 118)

The very fact that we do not recognize this interaction as ideological speaks to the power of ideology.

IV
Individuals are always-already subjects. (Ideology has no history.)

Although his example of interpellation suggests temporality—I am interpellated and thus I become a subject, I enter ideology—Althusser says that the becoming-subject happens even before we are born. Not a paradox at all, even before the child is born—it is certain in advance that it will bear its father’s name, and will therefore have an identity and be irreplaceable.

 Before its birth, the child is therefore always-already a subject, appointed as a subject in and by the specific familial ideological configuration in which it is ‘expected’ once it has been conceived. (Lenin 119)

Most subjects accept their ideological self-constitution as reality or nature and thus rarely come into conflict with the repressive state apparatus, designed to punish anyone who rejects the dominant ideology.

It can be said therefore that hegemony is thus reliant less on such repressive state apparatuses (RSAs) as the police than it is on those ideological state apparatuses (ISAs) by which ideology is inculcated in all subjects.

Althusser says it best, thus:

“the individual is interpellated as a (free) subject in order that he shall submit freely to the commandments of the subjects, i.e. in order that he shall make the gestures and actions of his subjection ‘all by himself.’” (Lenin 123)

Understanding Louis Althusser’s “Ideological StateApparatuses”
By adding the concept of ideological state apparatuses, Althusser complicates the Marxist notion of the relation between base and superstructure.

For Marx, various levels in society are the infrastructure or economic base and the superstructure or political and legal institutions (law, government, and the police) and ideology (religious, moral, political, etc.) In Marxist thought, superstructure is relatively autonomous from base—it relies on economic base but can sometimes persist for a long period despite major changes in the base.

Exploring the ways in which ideology is more pervasive, and more material than previously acknowledged, Althusser distinguishes between Ideological State Apparatuses (ISAs) and the Repressive State Apparatuses (RSAs).

ISAs include the religious (schools), family, legal, political (systems, parties), trade union, communications (press), and the cultural (arts, sports, literature). Less centralized and more heterogeneous, ISAs access the private, not the public realm. They work predominantly by ideology, including punishment or repression.

Schools and churches use suitable methods of punishment, expulsion, selection, etc. to discipline not only their shepherds but also their flocks. (Lenin 98)

State apparatuses (SAs), or Repressive State Apparatuses (RSAs) are agencies that function by violence, imposing punishment and privation in order to enforce power. Working predominantly by violence and secondarily by ideology, SAs include the government and administration, army and the police, courts and prisons, etc.

Though they are quite disparate, ISAs are virtually unified subscribing to a common ideology in the service of the ruling class. Indeed the ruling class must maintain a degree of control over ISAs to ensure stability of the SAs.

No class can hold state power over a long period without at the same time exercising its hegemony over and in the ISAs.

It is much harder for the ruling class to maintain control over the multiple, heterogeneous, and relatively autonomous ISA (alternative perspectives can be voiced in each ISA)—which is why there is continual struggle for hegemony/domination in this realm.

In what may seem to me as the repute of schools being [re] defined, Althusser says, “what the bourgeoisie has installed as its dominant ISA is the educational apparatus, which has replaced in its functions the Church.”