Words and Worlds

There are moments when you recall some words you first heard when you were young; these words easily bring you back to the past. Whenever you get to encounter them again, you begin to picture people and places, faces and spaces; colors and presences. As if in a dream, these images pour onto your mind at random; sometimes from one face to another; from one place to another; from one scene to another.

You could do only this when you type away the keys: letter by letter, word by word, this daydreaming brings you to these spaces and faces; these times and places; these worlds. Through this daydreaming, which you do usually through the day, yourealize that they are worlds that you would want to rather be in again.

Jamboree. You have never been to an actual jamboree. Vaguely you recall one afternoon in grade school when your mother's Grade 6 pupils were being led by Mr. Domingo Olarve, the industrial arts teacher, to build tents and take part in varied group games, complete with teams and cheerleading. They even built a campfire toward the late night inside the grade school grounds. But you were hardly in school by then. Burubuglangan—that’s how they called you. You just tagged along your mother who was one of the teacher leaders then. It also refers to that kind of player in your games who was not considered an official opponent or competitor. Sort of like understudy—as you were barely 6 years old.

Some years later, when you stepped into the sixth grade yourself,you hardly had one. Probably because Mr. Olarve was now either un-motivated tolead the scouting activities for the school; or that you school principal Mr. Virgilio Abiada’s projects did not include the scouting for the students when October came. You never had jamboree even as you were constantly told that Ardo and Zarina, your cousins in Iriga, almost had it every year and even in their high school.

Timpalakan. You remember this word very well. Across the year, and even across your entire elementary school life, your teachers sought you to take part in an event in the district level—arts contest, essay writing contest and even quiz bees. In these activities, you never wondered why they would not get somebody else.

Bivouac. You first heard the term from your elder brothers Manoy, Ano and Alex, who went to the city trade school. In that school, your brothers had undergone bivouac, that you remember there was a time they could not shut their mouths about their own experiences. You thought it’s bibwak. Years later, youwould know the correct spelling and even encounter the same in one of the stories in the komiks which they asked you to rent from the Bago store downtown. It’s a French word,referring to a temporary camp or shelter. Ah, probably, their own version of summer camp. It must have been exciting.

Library. Back in college, whenever you were in the library, you searched for books dating back to the 1880s or earlier, those set in an old typeface,soft-bound and probably published before 1970s. 

You were excited if you happened to find one by an author whose love for nature was clear in his works. These kinds of books were very difficult for you to find; but you really allotted time to look for them. In a week, you would be able to borrow at least one which you would reserve to read for the weekend.Then come Monday, you would be refreshed, as if nothing bad happened on your Sunday morning’s ROTC drills in the school grounds.

Leo Tolstoy’s diaries, Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis, F. Sionil Jose, Nick Joaquin, or sometimes poetry in the Philippines Free Press magazine or Bikol poems in Kinaadman—you  loved to read them, copy them in your notebook, put some drawings along with the excerpts from a book.

Doing all these made your day—some of them you shared with your sister,your close friend, your teachers; and your significant other. At the time, you had felt fortunate because there were many, many good books in the library.

Among others, it always thrilled you to read short, powerful verses.Some of them answered your questions; others rid you of confusion. Some cleared your mind; and about a few spoke to you loud; spoke to you hard: “We are/Leaves on Life’s tree/And Death is the wind/that shakes the branches/Gently till its leaves/All fall” (“Death” by Herminio Beltran, pre-war Filipino poet).

Past Blessed the Child

It was great to be a child in those days.

On lazy afternoons, my brother Mente, my sister Nene and I made horses out of Mother’s pillows and played the Zimatar or Diego Bandido episodes which we heard over DZGE, the local radio station.

We played in the rooms upstairs, riding our pillow horses, facing our enemies and pursuing our adventures, until our Manoy Ano scolded and told us to bring the beddings—blankets, sheets and all—back to order or else Mother would call it a day when she returned. But we would play to our hearts’ content; after all, we thought Mother would be pleased because we were only playing inside the house. That way she would not really be bothered.

Some other days, in my grandparents house which we call Libod (literally, backyard), my cousins and I would play taraguan (hide and seek) and be thrilled by not easily finding all the playmates. After a while, one would give up not “seeking” the last one hidden; and find out he already left because his mother asked him to run an errand. And so we’d stop and think of other games which would thrill us.

We would then gather and tell stories we would just invent. Once, I wove a story about the pictures from a book I read until my cousins pestered me to finish it perhaps because it did not make sense perhaps because I only jumbled them.

At the time, we made our toys out of materials just available to us. We made our own toys and games and we enjoyed them. Perhaps they were cruder but we and our imaginations, not our toys, not other things, were responsible for our own enjoyment.

Our parents—aunts and uncles—did not mind especially if we were all playing in Libod. Here, left to our own devices, we devised our own games, things and stuff and in the long run, made memories which we can only consider ours. In the open yard of our grandparents’ compound, my parents ancestral house—we were free to play. The space, the time, the freedom given to us by our ginikanan (parents) allowed our imagination to create things that pleased us. And when we played our games, we did not only kill our boredom; we also made some things worth remembering.

In those days, a child’s play was also his passion, if not his “profession.” If my nephews Yman and Yzaak play their Ragnarok or Pokemon cards today, I also collected my own set of tex cards and lastiko (goma or rubber bands). In those days, to have your own box of tex cards or a string of lastiko was like to have invested well in stock market. In our time and place, these were the child’s prized possessions.

The game of tex and lastiko went side by side. For each player’s turn, we flicked three cards—my own and those of two other opponents and added up the numbers of the cards facing up. He whose cards faced up with the highest sum won. For the bets, we piled tens or twenties or even hundreds of rubber bands of grouped colors. The winner took all these wagers.

We would do this routine until someone among us knew he’s collecting the cards of all the rest. Anyone who refused to continue playing after he’d won big was called saklit. Having gained such reputation, he would be avoided by others. In my case if I began to win big, I just felt lucky if my playmates parents summoned them to run an errand or already asked them to go home. That formally excused me from gaining the “ill repute.”

In our sixth grade, my classmate Michael Arimado from Triangulo was the “official” King of Tex and lastiko, having won over every other classmate from Baybay, Iraya and even Tigman. He was undisputed. Like a small-time Mafia, Michael would hang his long string of lastiko on his neck, while he swung his sinampalok (tamarind-shape bolo) during our hawan (weeding) sessions in Mr. Olarve’s Industrial Arts class.

At recess, he would invite Edgar Bayola or Sulpicio Purcia to challenge him at the back of the Marcos Type Building. Talk of the early days of UFC. In these Days of Pre-Physical matches, Michael would win big and reclaimed his “title” now and again.

It came to me that I could be like Michael. So gradually I went to start “collecting” my own set, by playing other classmates and betting my own sets of cards and lastiko. When I became fond of tex, it wouldn’t be long till I had won my own box and some 500 pieces of lastikong sinaralapid (braided rubber bands of various colors) which I now hung like the two snakes of Zuma’s, the Aztec-inspired character I read on Aliwan Komiks.

Like my classmate Michael, I had become a self-declared King of Tex in my own right, through my own tex, sweat and cheers. But this glory would be short-lived; I would soon declare “bankruptcy” of this investment after Mother discovered my necklace-length collection of lastiko. She must have thought I was already distracted in my studies so she asked Manoy Awel to burn this “investment” one evening when he was cooking our kinusidong abo for supper. No questions asked. Barely having arrived from an errand, I tried to save them from the stove but it was too late. That night I cried the hardest and the loudest.

In those days it was great to be a child.

My Christmas Rack

Songs They Sing for The Son 

“Sing a song of gladness and cheer!/for the time of Christmas is here!” sings Jose Mari Chan, in his all-time favorite anthology “Christmas in Our Hearts” (1990). Very well, these words spell my mood, inspired by listening to these heart warmers in my Christmas collection. 

Through the years of Christmas celebrations, holidays and December vacations, I acquired them. Every year, I have continually appreciated what they offer to the soul. They share grace and joy to whoever can listen to them. How these albums got into my rack or how I got these masterpieces I have yet to recall.

But regardless of their history and motivations, in all their original selections and covers of traditional songs—they offer one and the same message— ceremoniously and soulfully they pay tribute to Baby Jesus, the Lord of All.

Bonding with the Boy

98 Degrees, "This Christmas," MCA Universal, 1998

Boy band, boy bond—whatever term you use, Nick Lachey and his friends give us all the reasons to celebrate Christmas as they render cool covers to most traditional Christmas carols like “Silent Night,” “O Holy Night,” “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” and “Little Drummer Boy.” Here, they hardly resemble NKOTB, evading the boy band image by hitting notes that spell sweet things like “mistletoe” and “chestnuts roasting on an open fire.” The solos in some songs display vocalization and rhythmic intonations that remind us of more solemn choirs in churches. Surely, such style does not fail to send shivers from the spine to the soul.

Little Redeemer Boy

Glenn Medeiros, "The Glenn Medeiros Christmas Album: Recorded in Hawaii," Amherst Records, 1993

This 90s Leif Garrett is more than a heartthrob when he croons way, way beyond his pretty-boy image. When he reaches high notes, he is surely pop. He sounds like a lad who has seen the Baby Jesus so he doesn’t need to act silly—he just sings holy. His “Feliz Navidad” and “Ave Maria” are choice cuts, baring innocence and jolliness in varying degrees. He does away with his shrill voice when he allows the instruments to do it for him—he focuses on hitting the emotional rises of the lyrics to render a slightly pop finish. In all, Hawaii-born Medeiros’ almost girlish voice makes recalling the Nativity a simply light moment—just like the playful child Who shall redeem us from our lack, or utter loss of innocence.

Persons are Gifts are Instruments

Ken Navarro, "Christmas Cheer," Galaxy Records, 1996

This virtuoso acoustic guitar player offers an alternative way to remember our salvation. It sets your Christmas mood through an instrumental overload—with some traditional songs like “Angels We Have Heard on High” and “Silent Night” as choice pieces. Listening to Navarro’s one-of-a-kind string renditions may tell us that salvation—by the Holy Child—need not be brought about by pain and suffering [like rock or harsh or hard sentiment]. Rather Christmas is all about cheer, strummed away by the heart. With Navarro’s work, Christmas has never been so jazz, light and easy. For sure, you would want to play this bunch before you go to that Christmas party in which you’d render a surprise lousy fox trot number for all of them to see!

Cowboy Christmas

Randy Travis, "An Old Time Christmas," Warner, 1993

You would easily know how an ordinary Christmas carol sounds—but add to it some cowboy or any colloquial twang, then you get Randy Travis. But you do—not just for nothing. Here is one cowboy—whose stereotyped licentious lifestyle may tell you otherwise, whose pieces might ring a bell because they match with those of other CMT favorites—Travis Tritt, Allison Krauss or Garth Brooks. With this album, Travis proves that something more can be done beyond saddles and stall. He lets loose his soul when he chants both holy and hallowed. While his “Winter Wonderland” may perfectly fit the Marlboro ad in Time’s December issue, his reconstructed “Oh What A Silent Night” allows the guitar to sway the thoughts of the soul lulled to slumber. This cowboy’s treatment of traditional songs affords us easy cool and listening that can make us even remark oddly, as “Cowboys have Christmas too!"

Rebels We’ve Heard On High

Various Artists, "Christmas on the Rocks," Viva Records, 1994

This album hit the stands during the grunge and rock era—a time when anxiety and discord were the heyday. It gathered mostly artists and rockers who were perhaps angry at how Christmas was usually celebrated. Featuring covers of songs composed by National Artist Levi Celerio and other traditional Filipino compositions, it portrays and documents the consciousness of a more realistic Christmas, at least as defined by Filipino experience. For one, Sandugo’s “Pasko ng Mahirap, Pasko ng Mayaman” sings away a social realist stance—perhaps a self-talk on the part of the oppressed class who claims it’s also Christmas in their part of the world, despite their poverty and forlorn state [or even state of mind]. 

While DJ Alvaro’s “Gabing Tahimik” is a more soulful rendition of ”Silent Night,” which hit playlists and charts in 1990s, Ang Grupong Pendong’s “Ang Pasko Ay Sumapit” completes this collection to compose a sort of a Lino Brocka’s counterpart opus—it collectively makes a statement on the dismal social realities brought on to Filipinos at Christmas. You may not necessarily be one of those donning a cheap Che Guevarra T-shirt to appreciate its message; but one’s own salvation, according to the album, is simply working for social justice—and all it entails.

True, my collection is not the one you may have to die for—it is neither hard-to-find, for these artists are not as popular as, say, Ray Conniff and his singers, Chipmunks, Destiny’s Child, Frank Sinatra or even Nat King Cole. Yet, in this season of cheer and giving, their music all the same strikes chords in my heart and mind; when I play them,  I do not fail to realize all of mankind intensely desires to share the innocence, the joy, and the promised redemption by the Holy Child.

Good news from heaven the angels bring,

glad tidings to the earth they sing:

to us this day a child is given,

to crown us with the joy of heaven.

                                                      ~Martin Luther