All the Sadness in the World

I first heard of the Irish singer Dolores O’Riordan as a college freshman when CJ, a classmate who adores all kinds of music, particularly female pop artists, made a mixtape for me of the alternative rock band The Cranberries. CJ recorded for me “Linger,” “Dreams” and some choice tracks from their “No Need to Argue” album, including “I Can’t Be with You,” “Empty” and “Ridiculous Thoughts.” The latter also featured young actor Elijah Wood on MTV. At the time, alternative music dominated both radio and TV, giving us more choices besides the clichéd popular tunes. It was a great time to be alive: alternative music straddling both pop and rock were in, both here and abroad. But more than anything, alternative music simply meant a different sound. Different meant new. Different meant fresh. I first heard “Linger” on DWEB-FM, the local rock station where I would find myself working as a DJ years later. It's a slow tune lamenting the infidelity of one’s beloved. I liked its unhurried rhythm; the song makes you take it easy and imagine lazy afternoons. But I think it is O’Riordan’s keening voice that makes the song last. Her background vocals sounds sadder than the deep, sad voice singing the lyrics, which makes it more appealing. It is her grieving voice that makes it worth listening to. Besides this, I suppose it’s the repetitive “Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to, do you have to let it linger?” that really makes the song “linger.” Listening to the radio, it was also hard for me to resist humming along with her singing “Dreams,” especially the last part, which stands out even with the African background vocals and instruments: Laaaaaa laaaaa la la la laaaa laaaaaa; laaaaaa laaaaa la la la laaaa laaaaaa; laaaaaa laaaaa la la la laaaa laaaaaa:” These are the parts that would last in your head. Through my equally fanatic cousin Jokoy, I learned more about the Cranberries: O’Riordan, the Hogan brothers and Fergal Lawler. The band projected restrained, generally discontented youth minus the sloppy outfits of the grunge artists. I found their packaging consistent with their music, particularly Dolores’s vocals, not only “linger”-ing but poignant and especially affecting. Two years later, I would publish a review of their “To the Faithful Departed” album for the short-lived Bikol Daily. Writing the review in 1996, I was drawn not to the more popular hits “When You’re Gone” or “Free to Decide” but rather to the more elegiac “Joe” and “Cordell,” tributes to the countless nameless victims of the much-publicized Bosnian war in Bosnia-Herzegovina (Sarajevo) in the mid-1990s. To understand the voice of O’Riordan and the band Cranberries is to understand where the group are coming from. They have lived in a war-worn Ireland which normally inspires artists to harp not anymore on the personal issues but also the more serious, bigger themes like war and death. Departing from the hackneyed themes of love, their songs advocate something bigger than the self. The lyrics of “Free to Decide” speak of a person's right to expression or freedom of choice, while “Zombie” immortalizes the tragedy of war, lamenting that: “It’s the same old theme, since 1916. In your head, in your head, they’re still fighting… in your head, in your head, they are dying…” Then, watching “Animal Instinct” in 2003, an upbeat piece featuring her beautiful, more mature voice which now sounded almost like Karen Carpenter’s, I was drawn to the music video depicting a mother’s separation from her children and the her innate nature to protect them. If at all, O’Riordan was one of the influences predating the "emo" generation; her voice is predominantly sad, what with all the songs she made popular with The Cranberries. If not about broken relationships or deaths in war-torn Europe, their music, , especially her voice, laments all the sadness in the world. I must have even typecast her and the band as “sad-sounding singers” especially when later, more positive pieces like “Analyse” or “Just My Imagination” came out in early 2000s. Not only that I could hardly relate to their happier expressions; I now found her cheerful voice hardly believable. Despite the happier tune it had, her voice was always sad to me. Nevertheless, it amazes me how Dolores O’Riordan’s voice has become iconic, probably cutting across social classes. I think “Zombie,” “Ode to My Family” and their early hits “Linger” and “Dreams” enjoyed much airplay over the local FM radio, so that they became anthems of probably most listeners. Consider the song “Zombie,” which, like “Ode to My Family” or “When You’re Gone,” is now a staple song in any videoke songs list or probably any local karaoke bar, with its signature yodelling, “eehh eehh eehh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh ooohh eeehh aahh aahh aahh.” With all these pieces, it would be hard to forget so much sadness in ourselves and in the world. O’Riordan’s voice sings our restrained, sad selves; her voice is primarily ours, not only belaboring all its maladies, but also grieving life’s tragedies. Even her first name, “Dolores,” comes to me now as consistent with her voice. It comes from the word “Dolor,” meaning “painful grief”; the word dolorous as an adjective also means “showing sorrow”. So there: her name and her voice are one and the same. However, what is appealing in Dolores O'Riordan and The Cranberries is how they have turned bitter personal and social experiences into beautiful anthems not only of death and loss but also of healing, of life and gain. Her beautiful voice is grieving but it also evokes hope and the capacity to move on. The news of her death doubtless surprised me, but it only rather made me think that the songs, which strike a chord in most of us who grew up in the 90s, will linger even after she’s gone. Her songs—I mean, her voice—will remind me of the sadness of life, but also of the necessity of grief, which I suppose can help me weather the tragedies of life. #ripdolores #doloresoriordan #cranberries

An Harong Mi

I remember our house. It was a two-floor house that stood tall in an open yard, by the side of the hill, perhaps some 20 meters away from the highway. Going there, one had to pass a rice field lined by trees of palo maria, madre de cacao, and green shrubs. There were days when the house—seen from the national road—was almost covered by lush green vegetation that all you could see was the second storey.

If it pleases you, simply picture a typical Philippine postcard: green farm on the foreground, a two-storey house in the middleground, and a hill of trees and vegetation on the background, where the sun rises.

If one enters the main door in the first floor, there was our living room, where we had a wooden sala set: a sofa good for three average-size visitors, four arm chairs and a rectangle center-table—all draped in red and orange florals. (Let it be added that the sala set was made of a very hard wood—I was too small to ask my mother where she bought it, or what kind of wood it was made of. But certainly, not one of the furniture was broken until all of us could really grow up.)

The living room then lead the visitor to our dining space where a long wooden rectangle table was flanked by two long benches for the diners. Each of the benches could seat three children. There was only one chair or silya which served as the kabisera—yes, indeed, for Mama, the head of our family.

Going further, one was greeted by the kitchen, where cooking was done on stove and later, dapog, and also the lavabo. Further to the left going to the back, the visitor could relieve himself in either of the two comfort rooms—one was the toilet and the other was the shower room.

Our house was cool. It did not have much stuff inside. It was airy inside the house. We had few but very functional fixtures. We had jalousie windows in all corners of the house. In the first floor, there were windows in front by the sala and in the dining area; and a very big window by the kitchen.

To reach the second floor, one ascended the wooden stairs, going to the second living room, where a former platera now stored old books from the school library. There, in the second floor, we had glass jalousie windows fronting the road. At the back, or inside the two bedrooms, we also had wooden jalousie windows. Air from the farm and the mountain entered all corners and sides of the house.

Not just that. From the living room in the second floor, one could see the open view of the highway where the barangay folks passed from the Triangle or visita to Banat, a sitio near the barangay elementary school where our parents served and yes, indeed, made their own marks as teachers and leaders.

But through all those years, I wonder why we had a house in a place that was almost idyllic like the one in Wuthering Heights. It was far from other people or even our own folks in libod (meaning backyard), the compound where the rest of our uncles and cousins lived.

Did our parents see the need to raise six kids even before all of us were born so they sought to establish their own family in  a bigger, wider space, away from the neighborhood of the growing clan—which we call libod, where our grandparents began their own?

Around the house, we made our own toys, we planned our own games, and relished our place in the sun, especially during summer vacations, when we played in the hay in the morning and toward sundown. The house was one of solitude where we children were rather drawn to fend for themselves, or find leisure and life for ourselves.

Tendernesses

Where you grew up, hugging was not reserved between people with certain closeness and affinities. In some instances, hugging and similar acts of tenderness was also common outside the circles of family and friends.

Back in your small town then, you witnessed hugging between Cursillistas, the members of a religious renewal group called Cursillos de Cristianidad that had their heyday in the 1980s in your parents’ ancestral house in Bagacay.

Probably a precursor of the Couples for Christ, or those of the Parish Renewal Experience (PREX), the Cursillistas, among others, displayed physical manifestation of affection during Sampaguita, the third day morning’s fellowship when the new members were surprised and greeted by their family and friends, the old Cursillistas and sometimes even the barangay community.

Sampaguita was always sentimental and emotional even as the new members were literally showered love and care in the forms of, leis, embraces and words of comfort by their fellow Cursillistas. After having been made to realize that God loves them “despite” themselves, the new members were hugged by the old members to make them feel the love of Jesus Christ the Saviour.

But in your clan, you had also seen from people how to be showy about their feelings for others. Among your uncles, it was the youngest Uncle Tony who literally showed his affection to his sisters, your mother Emma and your aunt Ofelia. He did the same to his mother, Margarita and his father, Emiliano. The youngest of six, your Uncle Tony joked his ways around his folks with ease, his naughty antics soliciting laughter or extremely otherwise annoyance from those who did not patronize them.

Your uncle even earned the bansag (moniker) lâya, perhaps corrupted from lâyab, which hardly translates to an English equivalent. Roughly, lâyab refers to someone’s inclination to be soft or weak in order to earn the sympathy comfort or even affection of somebody else, who is usually older—sort of lambing in Tagalog, but not exactly.

Your grade school had also taught you something on acts of tenderness. Whenever two pupils were caught fighting or quarrelling, they would be brought to the principal’s office for interrogation. After they were asked to air their respective sides, they would be asked to shake hands and put their arms around each other’s shoulders to indicate that they have reconciled.

Then, they would be asked to remain locked as they were asked to go out of the office for all the students to see. This practice had become legendary in your small town—something which had drawn innocent laughter but also admiration from the parents and the community.

Nowadays, you realize that more and more people are learning to hug more openly. In some communities these days, you are now beginning to see that hugging and other similar physical forms of affection are becoming the norm.

Mga Pinaghalían Gayód kan Hálas

1. Cagsawá. Pangáran: kag + sawá, 
siring sa kagharóng, ukón housemaster. 

Kagrugáring kan sawá; snake master.

Mga tawo sa sarong banwa sa Albay—
Tibáad nagsambá sa baláan na halás
bisán layás; kaya naanggót an Bulkan:
mga táwo, haláman, propiedád
tinalbóng, binagúnas, winaswás.

2. Uryól. 

Pangáran: Iyo idtong parapasalúib
sa epiko kan Ibalóng. Tibáad háli sa urí,
o pagkaárâ—minsan táwo, minsan, hálas.

Mapagpasalúib na tinúga; mayong 

kabaing sa gandá, dáwa sa iya nga 

mga miga, minahira kan saiyang gúya.

3. Bikol. Pangáran: Hali daa sa bikô, ukón crooked 

sa Ingles; after the region’s geography.

Kadagaán na nalilibodan kan Ticao Pass sa mapa, 

tibáad dáting Tico Pass; an kadagaan tikô kun 

idadalágan minakamáng; minsan sain minasúpang.

4. Iba Pa. Kun anggót an minatarám, an sabi, lasólas—

halín sa háli + layás; ukón halnás + ulyás,
buót sabihon, slippery, siring sa kikig, ukón eel.
Apod sa Hiligáynon, ulaló o man-óg. Tibáad Manáog.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon

ukón,o
baláan, banal, sagrado
bisán, dawâ

guya, lalawgon

saiya nga, sa saiyang mga
halín, háli

 

A Man Apart

I like him—not necessarily because he Like!s everything I post on this media site (well, he doesn’t) but because since he has not liked everything I have posted here, therefore we don’t necessarily agree on everything—and that feels good.

I like him—not necessarily because he covered me from the bullies in high school when I first came to the Ateneo as a wide-eyed freshman; but because he rather allowed me to explore the same halls of learning myself, two years after he himself experienced its culture of privilege and excellence.

I like him—not because one time he cried foul—(he did not even scold me)—when he saw me using his Mendrez shoes in the same NatSci class we were in—but because he just kept his cool about it, and did not really mind.

I like him—not necessarily because he once told me to pursue my passion to write but because he constantly articulately shares with me the portrait of some beautiful past, some house of memory to where I constantly return—through writing.

I like him—not necessarily because he helped me find some place to stay when I finally quit working in the province to seek the busy life in the bigger city; but because he regretted it when I constantly consciously let opportunities pass me perhaps only because at that time, I thought I had thousands of them.

I like him—not necessarily because he gave me words of advice when I almost gave up the city life but because he shared silence even when he saw I was missing greater opportunities when I was about to quit.

I like him—not necessarily because he gave me money when I was broke but because he constantly reminded me that there are no rich people who cannot be in need and there are no poor people who cannot afford to give. (These words—or their sense which he must have first heard and understood in the chapel where we attended Sunday Masses—now spoke to me more than they sounded.)

I like him—not necessarily because he hosted me unfailingly in the house which he helped establish with his wife in the city but because he shared with me his blessing of children and family in an otherwise unfriendly city.

I like him—not necessarily because every Sunday he sends me a personalized text message about the priest’s homily, but because with it he reminds me of God’s unfailing love and my mortality.

I like him—not necessarily because since he has discovered running, he has encouraged practically everyone he knows to take to it seriously; but because his effort to convince them about its benefits helped everyone to have the necessary diversion from the daily grind.

I like him—not necessarily because in the past, for countless times, he shared material comfort in that one household of modest means, one almost in constant need at the time—but because his generosity and sense of always sharing what he had been given put a smile on the face of each of us in the family.

Indeed, the man I am talking about sounds familiar. And all this time, I have always admired him. Perhaps after all my heroes die and my idols fall, on my list he will sure be the last to inspire. I am privileged to have known this man. And I respect him. My dear brother, Mentz. 

Feeling Good

Birds flying high; you know how I feel

Sun in the sky;  you know how I feel

Breeze drifting on by; 

you know how I feel

It’s a new dawn; 

it’s a new day,

It’s a new life for me

and I’m feeling good

Fish in the sea;

you know how I feel

River running free;

you know how I feel

Blossom on the tree;

you know how I feel

 

Dragonfly out in the sun;

you know what I mean, 

don’t you know

Butterflies all having fun;

you know what I mean

Sleep in peace 
when day is done;

that’s what I mean

And this old world is a new world;

and a bold world for me

Stars when you shine

you know how I feel

Scent of the pine

you know how I feel

Oh freedom is mine;

and I know how I feel 

It’s a new dawn; 

it’s a new day,

It’s a new life for me

and I’m feeling good

Words and Music 

by Anthony Newley and Leslie Bricusse

1965