Anthems of Our Youth, Now Rare

With the Internet, I could just randomly easily find the rare songs of my youth. 

Recently I found that Spotify has the album “Dreams” by Fra Lippo Lippi, which came out in 1992—thirty years ago.

 

FLL is that Norwegian new wave duo whose songs played on local FM stations were just easy to listen to. 

 

At the time, we, members of the graduating class of Ateneo de Naga High School, were all excited about graduating. 

 

Sometime in March of 1992, in spending the last days of our high school, having our clearances signed by our teachers and the offices where we spent four wonderful years of learning, waiting for awards announcements, or having our autographs signed by each other in our classic long manila folders, I remember how we also sang to “Stitches and Burns”.

 

The “Dreams” album provided such unforgettable anthems of our youth—“Stitches and Burns” and “Thief in Paradise”, among others. It was a hit in those days—enjoying ample airplay on the local FM stations, that we just found ourselves singing: 

 

“Now I don't want to see you anymore/ Don't wanna be the one to play your game/ Not even if you smile your sweetest smile/ Not even if you beg me, darling, please.”—as if we knew them for a long time. 

 

When my classmate Gerry Brizuela bought a copy and brought it to class, many of us wanted to borrow it. Eventually, I was lent the copy and listened to my heart’s content on my brother’s cassette player. 

 

While “Stitches and Burns” and “Thief and Paradise” were the easy favorites because they were the ones first played over the radio and shown on MTV, and probably because of their upbeat tunes, I got to like “One World”, and particularly “Dreams,” the titular single, which is one of the many tearful cuts in this rather dolorous album.

 

Some years earlier—beginning school in 1988, I grew up listening to FLL’s early hits like “Light and Shade” and “Angel” being played from our cousin Glen’s room next to ours.

 

I grew up listening to and eventually mouthing the lyrics of “Every time I See You”, “Shouldn’t Have to Be Like That,” or “Some People”, among others—while reviewing for the Algebra exam of Mr. Rey Joy Bajo or reading the Gospel Komiks for Miss Cedo’s Religion class or making the Social Studies project under Mrs. Luz Vibar.

 

But during my senior year in high school, the songs in Fra Lippo Lippi’s “Dreams” album sounded different but I liked them all so much. 

 

I wonder why I felt so good listening to these songs. I wonder why my heart seems to sing, too, when the songs of any singer all seem to be crying. Why have I, all this time, always taken delight in these lyrics: “How many rivers to cross—/ Tell me how many times must we count the loss/ Did you see the face of the broken man, head in his hands?”

 

Why have such sad songs thrilled me so much—that I cannot get enough of them; or that I would rather choose to listen to them than the others: “Open your eyes to the world/ Light the light for the ones who are left behind/ Love is in need of a helping hand/ Show us the way?”

 

“Once in a while, you feel like you’re on your own/ And nothing can keep you from taking a fall/ Like there’s no way out/ Hold on to your dream...”

 

“It’s all I’m thinking of/ It’s all that I dream about/ It’s right here with you and me/ and still it's so hard to see/ still finding my way... still finding my way…my way.”

#FraLippoLippi 

#HighSchool 

#HardToFind  

#NewWave  

#Rare

 

‘Hope for the Flowers’, Mr. Abonal and the Creative Influence

Sa Hope for the Flowers (1972) ni Trina Paulus na binasa mi kaito sa klase ni Mr. Abonal, dai ko nalilingawan itong “part” na si Stripe sagkod si Yellow nakaabot na sa ibabaw kan pigparasákat nindang “caterpillar pillar”—tapos sabi ninda ni Yellow, “mayò man baga digding nangyayari”.

“Ano man daa ‘ni?”

Hunà ko ngaya magayon digdi. Napayà si duwang ulod.

Si Yellow kayà sagkod si Stripe duwang ulod na nagkanagbuan sa kumpol-kumpol na mga ulod—sa pagkadrowing ni Trina Paulus garo nganì mga lipay, o alalásò—na nagpaparatiripon nagkakaramang nagsasarakat sa caterpillar pillar.

Hunà kaya ninda kun ano an pigpaparaurusyúso pigpaparákaramángan pigdúdurumanán kan mga kauulúdan pasákat sa halangkáwon na ito.

Kada sarò nakisùsùan sa kadakuldakul na arog ninda antes na magkanupáran an duwa sa hìbog kan kauulúdan na ito. Kan mahiling ninda mismong nagpapatirihulog sana man palan an mga ulod na nakaabot na sa ibabaw, nadisganár si duwa.

An nahiling ninda, pagkatapos kan pagparapakisùsùan ninda sa gatos-gatos na ulod na nag-iiridós nagkakaramáng nagkakaranáp pasiring sa tuktok, mayò man palan nin saysáy. Kayà piglukot na sana ninda an mga sadiri sa kada sarò. Dangan luminitong sinda ta nganing magpatihúlog marakdág makahalì sa tuktok na ito. Nakabalik giraráy sinda sa dagà.

Mayo palan daa duman an hinahanap ninda—kun anong dapat nindang gibohon mayo man duman.

Sa pag-agi kan mga aldaw, nakahiling sinda nin sarong arog man nindang nakabítay sa sangá, saka sana ninda naaraman na malúkot palan sinda kan sadiri. Mabitáy sa sanga. Máluom sa saindang sápot nin haloy. Duman mahilumlòm. Ta nganing magsanglì an saindang itsura. Magdakula, magtalúbo.

Dangan magin sarong magayon na alibangbang. Apod ninda sa Ingles butterfly.

‘Hope for the Flowers’ came alive to us because Mr. Abonal didn't just assign us but took effort to read the story with us—meeting after meeting after meeting.

Our English class then was a bedtime of sorts, with Mr. Abonal reading classic stories to us throughout the year.

He was feeding into our minds that we were Stripes who had to be taught when and how and why we will be meeting the Yellows of our lives even as we were dazed and confused about why we had to go join the other caterpillars who were going somewhere—yes, I remember—to the top of the caterpillar pillar where, well, there’s nothing.

Dai palan daa kaipuhan na magin ulod na sana. Kaipuhan magrisgo—kaipuhan magnegar kan sadiri tanganing magdakulà. Magtalubò. Magbàgo. Ta nganing makua an sinasabing “more of life”. 

Kayà palan. Swak sa “magis” philosophy kan mga Heswita. Now I know why it has been a required reading. 

So an siram kan buhay palan—segun sa buhay kan alibangbang—yaon sa burak. The caterpillar ought to become a butterfly to be able to feed on the flower’s nectar to pollinate it. And make it bear fruit. Tà nganing may saysay. Tà nganing may bunga. May kahulugan. An buhay. Bow.

Ano daw tà—siring kan Little Prince ni Antoine de-St. Exupery o The Prophet ni Kahlil Gibran—mga arog kaining libro an minatatak sa nagbabasa?

Haros gabos ming binaràsa sa klaseng ito ni Mr. Abonal daradara ko sagkod ngonyan. Yaon an dramang “Lilies of the Field” ni William Barrett na pinelikula kan Hollywood tapos binidahan ni Sidney Poitier, African-American, na saro sa mga enot na nagrumpag kan all-white Hollywood kan manggana siya nin mga honra sa pag-arte.

Sa “Lilies of the Field”, yaon an makangirit na pag-urulay-ulay kan tolong lengwahe—Espanyol, Aleman sagkod an colloquial American English. Sa mga madreng Aleman na binuligan niyang magtugdok nin chapel, nanùdan ni Homer Smith an balór kan teamwork, kan collective effort. Na “no one can really do it alone” na garó man sana “no man is an island” kan metaphysical poet na si John Donne na garo man lang ngani “together each achieves more,” o T.E.A.M. Balik-GMRC?

Binasa mi man an short storyng “Flowers for Algernon” ni Daniel Keyes, manongod sa deterioration kan sarong 32-anyos na lalaking may helang sa payó.

Kawasà epistolaryo an style kan obrang ini, nasúsog mi an istorya kan pasyenteng si Charlie Gordon sa mga daily log, o diary entry niya—puon kan siya momóng pa, o an IQ 68 sana, dai aram an isfelling kan mga pangaran ninda—astang maglumpat an saiyang IQ sa 185, nagin matalion siyang magsurat—kawasa sa gene surgery na piggibo saiya—tapos kan buminalik na siya sa dating IQ niya, sagkod na siya magadan bilang garo consequencia. Pesteng bakuna—tibaad man Dengvaxia!

Nahiling ko giraray an ining istorya ni Charlie kan madalan ko an pelikulang “Phenomenon” (1996) ni John Turtletaub na binidahan ni John Travolta. Talk of “selected readings” in the truest sense of the phrase. 

Ano daw ‘to? Nátaon sana daw na puro may flowers an gabos na idto? O bakò man daw itong Year of the Flower? Selectang-Selecta an flavor kan literaturang pinabarasa niya samo kan mga 15 o dies y seis años pa sana kami.

Antes nagin serbidor kan siyudad nin Naga, haloy na nagin maestro sa English si Mr. Abonal asin principal kan Ateneo de Naga High School.

Masuwerte kaming mga estudyante niya kaidto: kadakuldakul kaming giniribo sa English 4 ni Abonal. Pagkabasa mi kan “Julius Caesar” ni William Shakespeare, nagpublikar kami nin mga diyaryong petsadong 44 B.C. para i-Balalong, i-Aniningal i-Weekly Informer i-Vox Bikol mi (man daá) an pagkaasasinar ki Julius Caesar, an emperador kan Roma.

Then, in one quarter, we were required to dig deep into the life of one prominent person in history from A to Z. Assigned to the letter “F”, I short-listed Michael Faraday, Robert Frost and Sigmund Freud. Eventually I chose Freud. Whose episode, if you may, merits a separate essay. These were no days of Wikipedia ever—we had to source out the lives of these famous people from books and other hardbound materials  in Amelita’s Verroza’s Circulation and Periodicals Sections of the high school library then in the ground floor of the Burns Hall.

Some of us even had to ‘invade’ Ms. Esper Poloyapoy’s and Mrs. Aida Levasty’s cubicles across the hall inside the College Library where I, for instance, found the juicier Freud—in the definitive biography by his confidante, er, bosom buddy Ernest Jones. Encyclopedia Britannica, World Book, American, all encyclopedias and primary sources—these were the heyday of index cards filed in that brown box—title, author and yes, subject cards. I did not know why oh why but of all these cards, it’s the subject card that looked the most beautiful to me.

In that single class, some fifty personalities were featured enough to collect in a compendium of sorts. We were also asked to present these famous men and probably women in class (ambiguity intended). That project alone was legendary.

Sa parehong klase, pigparapatararam niya pa man kami—as in speeches, as in oratories—poon sa mga classic poems na yaraon sa libro mi kaidto sagkod sa mga popular song na nadadangog sa radyo, pati na an sadiri ming obrang sinurusog sa mga bersikulong binarása hale sa Biblia.

Ano man daw ‘to ta kada quarter, igwa kaming obra-maestra kumbaga—kun bako sa pagsurat o pagtaram, sa pagbasa?

We also produced an album of our recorded readings of the some verses we wrote or poetry we chose from anthologies. That was how busy we were in this class. Our English skills were really being put to use, exhausted and maximized in this class—listening, speaking, reading and writing. 

In this class, too, he made appealing to us a topic as uninviting as diagramming—or subject-verb agreement—like I never saw in any other teacher.

Cool and composed, he tackled tenses and conjugation as a doctor does with a scalpel. He made grammar literally clinical. We, his apprentices, looked to him with notes and keen eyes—and probably asked ourselves: “Really? Is this how it works—so it can be done!”

He discussed grammar and usage with such passion so that I, for one, would eventually see coordination (and, or,  and ; ) and subordination (but, while, despite, etc.)—and later transitional devices (meanwhile, however, furthermore, therefore, etc.)—not only as necessities but also styles in writing.

Coming in the classroom, he would cut a small figure—but carrying books which we knew contained enormous ideas he knew like the back of his hand.

Our principal—rather, this particular English teacher—discussed pieces of literature with finesse. Articulate and fluent, he read the text aloud in class, raising points for discussion and urging us to participate and speak back. In turn, we were rather always made speechless by his opinions on passages—and enjoined to make our own—whether aloud or later in our papers.

An English major from the same school himself, he was steeped in the text he was sharing to us. He graduated in the 1960s, deemed the Golden Days of English—well, beginning in the 1950s—of this Jesuit school, along with others in the city including University Nueva Caceres and Colegio de Santa Isabel.

It was a great time to be a student of English and literature. Saen ka pa ka’yan?

Pigtaram ko bilang oration piece an “People Are People” kan Depeche Mode; nagdrama man daa ako para ihiras sa iba an lyrics kan “Lift Up Your Hands” ni Nonoy Zuñiga na sarong gospel song.

Mantang an iba paborito kan mga klase ko si mga sikaton kadtong kanta ni Bette Midler na “From a Distance” kan mga early 1990s sagkod an “My Way” ni Sinatra. After reading and discussing Langston Hughes’ “Dreams” series in class, we were also made to recite poems that we ourselves chose.

I remember a classmate of mine picked Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade”. He delivered it in class much to our pleasure and admiration—how he internalized it so much that until now his voice, his enunciation and inflections still resonate. Some thirty years later.

While I chose Howard Nemerov’s “Trees”. What? What poem is that? Ini sarong dai-bantog na lyric poem—siempre manongod sa mga kahoy. But I remember I chose it because I thought it best to shy away from the staples or usual favorites Langston Hughes, Shakespeare, siisay pa? Ano pa ngani ‘to, “Desiderata?”

While Nemerov is not popular but also not obscure (he’s a poet in the Americas along with Wallace Stevens, Robert Penn Warren and W.S. Merwin), that seventeen-line verse didn’t even rhyme. I chose it because I felt I was going against the grain. 

Pinasururat niya pa kami nin sadiri ming short story dangan pig-urulayan mi si tolong pinakamagagayon sa klase.

Dahil man sana to ta sa kada meeting mi araaldaw—kaiba na kan Practical Arts—duwang sessions palan an igwa kami. Suba suba ka ka’yan. English Lit Combo overload man nanggad.

Sa gabos na giniribo ming ini sa klase ni Sir Greg, siisay man dai maoogma ta an marka sa kada quarter kun bakong 99 o 97, 100? Si iba nganì daa 103. An sábi.

As if these were not enough, the English teacher made us keep a journal every quarter where we could write random reflections—insights, now blogs, or v-logs, or what this social media site now calls “status updates”. Yes, he termed them journals, or albums, probably to do away with the dreaded, hackneyed “diary”— which might have otherwise scared us off.

Each week, we needed to turn in entries so that he would return them to us the next, with his responses, insights and pieces of advice, not as a principal—but like a parent ‘quite removed’, like a friend to his tropa, his barkada. Throughout the year, each of us must have produced four albums.

Through these journals, the avid language teacher must have patiently pored over our impressions on anything but also probably laughed at our impressionable, infantile incantations on crushes and first loves—and surely teenage angst.

One day, he gave each one of us a copy of “Roots”, an illustrated monograph of Latin root words, prefixes and suffixes and asked us to study it—so that we could score high in NCEE’s verbal aptitude section which tested vocabulary.

It details how most English words are derived from dozens of roots but are also created through affixations or adding prefixes and/or suffixes. More than anything, he advised us to learn the meanings of the entries there so that we could guess or recognize them, or make them out in any words that we encounter. I still have my copy. 

These were not all, indeed. Parts of our afternoon sessions were also devoted to reading lyric poems including those by Sara Teasdale, Edgar Allan Poe and some Frost. And of course, his favorite—or rather everyone’s favorite: Langston Hughes. 

You guessed it right. We, too, read Rudyard Kipling’s rather more famous lyric “If” and worked with our seatmates to read an assigned couplet asking ourselves if it related to our lives at all or plans whatsoever. And he didn't stop there. He also asked us to assert all these thoughts—or however we believed in the words we wrote—in speech. 

He designed our class as if they probably designed “Pistaym”, at the time Ateneo's academic and sports field day, or even the school’s intramurals itself—seamless, organized, efficient. Such attention to detail, such incisiveness, such efficiency.

All those days in English at the Ateneo—steeped in the wonders of the language and the beauty of literature—generously invited me to a life of words—and worlds—which I have relished and would always look forward to.

One which I have now, one which I wouldn’t trade for anything else.

Sa ining maestrong pirming busy kadakuldakul pinapa-activity, mayong lúgi an agít-agitán na estudyanti.

Protacio, 38

Garo man nanggad ribo-ribong dagom an duros ngonyan na banggi—siring sa ginhalâ niya saimo kaidto.

Tinuturusok kan kada panas an pusikit mong kublit; kinikiriblit ka; pinapasalingoy na paminsaron mo idtong mga aldaw na dai kamo nagpopondo kangingisi. Kawasa ika an saiyang pirming binabangít—sa kapikunan na naturalisa mo, ika man biyóng naiingít; minangiriil sa sinasabi tungod sa imo kan bâbâ niyang matabil.

An pagkamoot abaanang kapeligroso. Tibaad igwa kamong namate sa kada saro poon kadto—kung kaya an puso mo nawaran nin diskanso. Siya man nagparalagaw, nagparatrabaho; kadakuldakul inasikaso; garong an iniisip nindo pirmi kun pâno makapalagyo.

Mayo na siya ngonyan; sa mga kabukidan kan Kabikolan, igwang kung anong kapaladan an saiyang napadumanan; sarong aldaw sa Juban, kaiba kan saiyang mga kasama, siya tinambangan kan saiyang mga kalaban.

An parasuba sa buhay mo nagtaliwan na; mayo nang maolog-olog kan saimong ngaran; mayo nang malapaskan saimong mga kanigoan; mayo nang malangkaba kan saimong kamahalan. Bwelta ka na naman sa pangabuhi na tibaad igwang kamanungdanan.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon 
ginhalâ, sinabi
paminsaron, pag-iisip
naiingít, nababalde
bâbâ, nguso
makapalagyo, makadulag
nagtaliwan, nagadan

Purísaw

Uni na naman an banggi. Alas tres pa sana gayod nin maaga, pero ako giraray mata na. Pinukaw mo na naman ako kan saimong kahâditan— kadto ika an handal sa satong kaaabtan, ngonyan, ako solo na man.

Hilinga, Manuel, an anom tang kabuhán— tururog, tuninong, nakatarampad ngonyan. Si Emmanuel, an satuyang matua, kadto baga garong lapsag pa sana, ngonyan, halabaon na. Si Romano, satong panduwa, hararom an hukragong; iyo, ta grabeng higos sa eskwela sagkod sa harong.

Si Alex, kan sadit pa baga, nagpupurong- pusong; ngonyan, pirming daing girong, garo bagang nagpaparaisip nin hararom. Yaon si Mente, satong pang-apat, ngonyan an angog iyong gayo na si Lolo niya— si Papá—na arog ko, saimo pûngaw na.

An duwa tang saradit—si Nene bako nang daragián. Dai tulos naghihibî pag nadadapla, mawîwî sana an nguso dangan mapasurog na sako; Dai ko man tulos maatendiran ta si Nonoy naghihibî na man; kaya duwa-duwa an kulkol ko minsan.

Kinakarga ni Romano an saro nganing maumayan. Pinahálî ko na itong huring katabang; garo kaya mayo na akong masarigan. Antabayi man ko, Doy, ngonyan. Tabangi ako sa anom tang kabuhan. Sa ara-aldaw na ginibo nin Diyos, dai ko aram an gibohon kun pâno an kada saro sainda mahipnuan.

Suroga ako sa samong mga katikapuhan. Alalayi kami sa aga, sa otro aga, asin sa mga aldaw na masurunod pa. Ihadóy mo ako sa Kagurangnan— na an kada aldaw sakong malampasan. Ngonyan na mga ngonyan, Siya na sana an sakong kusog asin paalawan.

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.

Then & Now & Then

Back then, what you had was padalan or pasali, Bikol words for the more familiar Filipino term palabas. This referred to any film showing in the small barangay where you grew up.

This included the comedy flick Max & Jess featuring Panchito and Dolphy shown one summer afternoon in your grade school’s Industrial Arts building. It was probably led by your mother, who was then in charge of raising funds for the school’s non-formal education.

The movie was shown using a projector which flashed the film reel to a very big white mantel probably borrowed from your grandmother’s kitchen collection locked in the platera of the dakulang harong in the libod. The tickets were probably sold at P1.50 each for two features that provided some three hours of quality entertainment to your barrio folk.

There was also the health documentary sponsored by the Ministry of Health top-biled by then Minister Alfredo Bengzon, who gave out health advisories for the barangays. This was in the early 80s before Marcos stepped out of Malacañang. When it was shown in the Triangle, the open barangay hall, it rained heavily, much to the chagrin of some barangay folks who just went home disappointed. The others who did not leave the show made do with umbrellas and raincoats. But back then, the big telon was enough for them to get hooked: talk of being able to watch something on a big screen once in a blue moon. The documentary featured practices that can be adopted by the barangay folk to avoid diarrhea and dysentery, diseases that can be acquired from unsanitary and unhygienic toilet practices.

Then, there were the nightly treats of Betamax showing on black and white and later colored TV monitors in three key areas in the barangay.

There was one in the house of the Molata family which catered to the Baybay and Iraya residents. There, movies were shown inside the cramped sala of the Molatas, which was just inside their big retail store.

Bruce Lee

There was also the one owned by Tiyo Magno San Andres, a distant relative of your parents, who would clear his own bodega of grains and household supplies to make space for the nightly flicks of Bruce Lee, Dante Varona or Ramon Revilla, among many others. But you hardly had the chance to get in there, probably because you already enjoyed the free entry in your relatives’ “bigger movie house.”

This was your Auntie Felia’s bodega movie house where mostly new tapes were shown nightly for the entertainment of the barangay. Used as warehouse for copra transported in your Uncle Harben’s 10-wheeler truck from Tinambac to Naga, that place was in fact the biggest movie house because it could house 75 moviegoers or more at one time, particularly when it had no copra.

Yet, from time to time, moviegoers also sat on top of copra sacks even piled 10 times high while they revelled in Redford White’s antics or Cachupoy’s capers, or while they were kept alive and awake till midnight, enjoying the burugbugan or suruntukan in the movies of Fernando Poe, Jr., Rudy Fernandez, Rey Malonzo or George Estregan and a host of many other action stars. Talk of orchestra and balcony seating at the time.

Aside from the word-of-mouth shared by folks in the barangay, the nightly flicks were announced having their titles written  in chalk on your cousin’s green Alphabet Board displayed in front of their two-storey house just in front of Triangle, which for a long time served as the barangay market.

There was a time when the Acuñas’ bodega served as the official theater for the barangay, catering to the nightly entertainment of the folks—sometimes families (parents and children)—from Baybay to Pantalan and from Tigman and Banat, two bigger sitios situated at the two opposite ends from the Triangle.

When new tapes were brought in for the same movie house, you could expect a Standing Room Only; therefore, you could expect to be uncomfortable being seated or haggling for an inch of space with children your age, some of them even smelling rich of kasag (crabs).

Baad taga-Baybay ta parong-parong pang marhay an pinamanggihan. Linabunan na kasag tapos dai palan nagdamoy. (Probably from Sitio Baybay who had boiled crabs for supper and forgot to wash their hands afterwards.) Nom!

Among others, the Acuña movie house had the most strategic location, serving as the hub where most of the residents converged.

But that movie house would serve the barangay but only up to the time when your folks decided to settle and stay more permanently in the city. The kids, you and your cousins, were all growing up or had to grow up—so some things had to go. Besides, the place had only gotten smaller. (But certainly it was you who had grown bigger.) 

You had been initiated to the world of the movies at a very young age.

Growing up in that small barangay with all these movies you saw, you readily recall the pictures in your head: The loud and bright colors of the characters in Max & Jess, inspired from a komiks cartoon, only complemented the loud mouths of Dolphy and Panchito who raved and ranted against each other all throughout the movie.

There was also the sepia appearance of the Ministry of Health’s documentary flashed on the barangay telon, which only made it look like a news reel further back from the 1960s. You realize now that it was rather a mockumentary because at the time people were being taught on health practices under the rain, which had only ironically endangered their health.

And of course, the many varied colors in the smaller screen of your relatives where you probably saw—through the movies—all the worlds possible.

Now what readily comes to mind? You had the medieval heroine Hundra, which featured axing and butchering of warriors and amazons for most of the film; and the sharp colors of the characters in the animation Pete’s Dragon, which you must have watched with your cousins a hundred times only because unlike the rented copies used for the nightly showing, this was an original Betamax tape sent by the Acuña relatives from the United States.

There was also the flying dog in the Never-Ending Story; and the cyborgs in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator.

And of course there was the wave of melodramas favored by the women in your household probably because most of them were tearjerkers—from Dina Bonnevie’s Magdusa Ka to Maricel Soriano’s Pinulot Ka Lang sa Lupa to Jaypee de Guzman’s Mga Batang Yagit to Helen Gamboa’s Mundo Man Ay Magunaw, and a hundred other (melo)dramas.

These were the movies peopled by characters you would remember; characters whom you would, every now and then, find or seek in others; characters whom you would, in later years, see yourself become.

Back then, you got to enjoy a movie and even memorize the scenes in it only because it came once in a blue moon, as it were.

You always looked forward to one weekend when your parents would bring you all to watch the latest release in Bichara Theater in downtown Naga.

The whole week you looked forward to that Saturday or Sunday they promised because it surely would come with a date at the Naga Restaurant where you would be treated to bowls of steaming asado mami and toasted or steamed siopao—not to mention a probable new pair of shoes or a cool shirt from Zenco Footstep or Sampaguita Department Store.

But now, you have already brought home an audio-visual entertainment. You will watch a movie from your USB to your LCD TV, full HD, complete with the frills of the latest technology. Now the movie is only yours to play—and play back again and again and again, as many times as you like.

Back then, if you liked some scene in the film which you’d liked to watch again, you’d have to wait till the next feature so you would wait until you spend some three more hours inside the theater. But now, you won’t worry anymore. With your latest downloaded movie flashing on your 40” LCD screen, you can freeze that scene and relish the drama or action—complete with subtitles—to your heart’s content.

Back then, watching a movie was something to talk about with your siblings or cousins when you got back from the city. Now, watching a Torrentzed film from your USB drive is what you can only do because it would be so hard for you to talk to them who are thousands of cities away from where you are.

Songs of Ourselves

Words and Music through Love and Life

Part 4 of Series

Besides my other brothers, Mentz has influenced my penchant for music, even as he has wonderfully sung and danced his way through love and life. 

Though he was not much of a child performer himself, he later has taken to the family program stage like a natural, class act as he has done to presiding matters for (the rest of) our family.

Years ago, I called him to be the Speaker of the House—i.e. our household—because he has hosted and also literally presided our family (gatherings) since 1996. One with a quiet and unassuming disposition, Mentz has always taken to the microphone as if it’s public performance.

Through the years, Mentz has been trained to become a very good public performer. At the Ateneo high school, he led the Citizens Army Training (CAT) Unit’s Alpha Company, a well-respected group finely chosen to parade to give glory to Ina (Our Lady of Peñafrancia) in September in Naga City.

Then in college, Mentz did not only win a Rotary-sponsored oratorical contest; he also served as junior representative in the college student council. And before graduating in 1994, he won a graduate scholarship at the University of the Philippines where he would later obtain his graduate degree. And because he went to Manila all ahead of us, I always thought he has been exposed to the world way before his time.  

In the late 80s and early 90s when he was making the transition from being a high school achiever to a college heartthrob at the Ateneo, Mentz played Kenny Rogers and Tom Jones on Manoy’s cassette tape. Sweet sister Nene and I would always joke at how he covered a singer's song better than the singer himself.

In those days, he deftly worded the first lines of “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town” as he cleverly impersonated the speaker in “The Gambler”—sounding more Kenny Rogers than the bearded country singer himself: "on a warm summer's evenin, on a train bound for nowhere..." For us, his siblings, no one did it better than Mentz. Not even Kenny Rogers.

Perhaps because I listened to him passionately crooning away Tom Jones’ “Without Love” that I also heard the lyrics of that song after the overnight vigil of the Knights of the Altar inside Room 311 of Santos Hall. I thought I was dreaming but it was in fact Mentz’s tape playing on my classmate Alfredo Asence’s cassette player. Truth be told, I could not do away with the passionate singing that I had carted away Mentz’s tape for that one sleepover in the Ateneo campus.

In 1995, Mentz brought Enya’s “The Celts” and Nina Simone’s collection to our new household in Mayon Avenue. He bought these tapes to fill in the new Sony component secured from Mama’s retirement funds. Most songs of these women sounded morbid but I loved them. Because I so much liked the voice that came and went in Enya’s “Boadicea,” I played it the whole day on my Walkman (which Mentz kindly lent to me) while writing my thesis on F. Sionil Jose’s Rosales saga.  

In early January of 1996, Mother would pass away.

When I played Nina Simone’s “Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair” one night during mother’s wake, one of my brothers asked me to turn it off. Perhaps it was too much for him to take. That black woman’s voice was too much to bear. But away from people, listening to these women’s songs did not only help me finish my paper; it also helped me grieve. 

Among others, Mentz adored Paul Simon’s “Graceland.” Because this was the time before Google could give all the lyrics of all songs in the world, Mentz knew the words to the song by listening to cousin Maida’s tape many times through the day. While every piece in the collection is a gem, “Homeless” struck a chord in me that years later, I would use it to motivate my high school juniors to learn about African culture and literature. Talk of how the South African Joseph Shabalala's soulful voice struck a (spinal) chord in both of us.

Years later, when we were all working in Manila, I heard him singing Annie Lennox’s “Why” and miming Jaya singing “Laging Naroon Ka.” At the time, I could only surmise that he was humming away his true love and affection which he found with his beloved Amelia, a barangay captain’s daughter whom he married in 2001.

With my sister Nene, the household of Mentz and Amy in Barangay San Vicente in Diliman would become our refuge in the big city. Though Nene and I worked and lived separately from them, it was where we gathered in the evening as a family. Even as Mentz and Amy gradually built their own family, their growing household has become our own family. Through years, it has not only become the fulcrum of our solidarity; it has also become the core of our own sensibility.

Many times, I would be told how Amy and Mentz would go gaga over live musical performances by their favourite local and foreign singers. Once they told me how they enjoyed the concert of Michael Bolton, whom the couple both loved. I would later learn that Amy had a very good collection of Bolton’s albums from “Soul Provider” to the greatest hits collection. I wouldn’t wonder about it even as I have always liked the white man’s soulful rendition of Roy Orbison’s “A Love So Beautiful” since the first time I heard it. (But I think I wouldn’t trade off the Roy Orbison original.)

Years have gone by fast, and three children have come as blessings to Mentz and Amy. Once I heard him singing with his firstborn Ymanuel Clemence singing Creed’s “With Arms Wide Open,” indeed their anthem to themselves. Yman, now a graduating high school senior, has likewise taken to performing arts as a guitarist and an avid singer of alternative rock and pop. Mentz’s firstborn is one soul conceived by his father’s love for lyrics and heartfelt melodies and his mother’s love for Michael Bolton and a host of many other soulful sensibilities.

With Yman, and now Yzaak and Yzabelle, their vivo grade-schoolers (like the rest of today’s youth who can hardly wait to grow up) singing the words of Daft Punk and Pharell Williams from the viral downloads on YouTube, this tradition of song and sense and soul is subtly being passed on, with each of us now and then singing our own ways through joy, through love and through life.

Songs of Ourselves

Words and Music through Love and Life

Part 2 of Series

Manoy Awel, our eldest brother, has had the biggest influence in each of us, his younger siblings. 

While brothers Ano and Alex strutted their way to get us equally break-dancing to Michael Jackson and his local copycats in the 1980s, Manoy’s influence in the rest of us, his siblings, is indispensable. Being the eldest, Manoy held the “official” possession of Mother’s pono (turntable) like the two Stone Tablets, where the songs being played later became the anthems among the siblings. 

On this portable vinyl record player, every one of us came to love the acoustic Trio Los Panchos, Mother’s favorite whose pieces did not sound different from her aunt, Lola Charing’s La Tumba number which she would sing during family reunions. 

In those days, Manoy would play Yoyoy Villame’s rpms alternately with (Tarzan at) Baby Jane’s orange-labeled “Ang Mabait Na Bata.” But it was the chorus from Neoton Familia’s “Santa Maria” which registered in my memory, one which chased me up to my high school years. 

Manoy’s pono music would last for a while until the time when there would be no way to fix it anymore. A story has been repeatedly told of how Manoy dropped the whole box when he was returning (or maybe retrieving) it from the tall cabinet where it was kept out of our reach. Here it is best to say that I remember these things only vaguely, having been too young to even know how to operate the turntable. 

Since then, we had forgotten already about the pono, as each of us, through the years, has gone one by one to Naga City to pursue high school and college studies.  

One day in November of 1987, Supertyphoon Sisang came and swept over Bicol. At the time, I was still in Grade 6 staying with Mother and brother Ano in our house in Banat; while my brothers and my sister were all studying in Naga.

The whole night, Sisang swooped over our house like a slavering monster, and in the words of our grandmother Lola Eta, garo kalag na dai namisahan (one condemned soul). The day before, we secured our house by closing our doors and windows. But the following morning, the jalousies were almost pulverized; the walls made of hardwood were split open; and the roofs taken out. But our house still stood among the felled kaimito, sampalok and santol trees across the yard.

Among other things, I remember brother Ano retrieving our thick collection of LP vinyl records. Most if not all of them were scratched, chipped and cracked. In a matter of one day, our vinyl records had been soaked and were rendered unusable. Ano, who knew art well ever since I could remember, cleaned them up one by one, salvaged whatever was left intact, and placed those on walls as decors. 

The 45 rpms and the LP circles looked classic like elements fresh out of a 1950s art deco. On the walls of our living room now were memories skillfully mounted for everyone’s recollection. And there they remained for a long time.

By this time, Mother had already bought a Sanyo radio cassette player which later became everyone’s favorite pastime.

Soon, Manoy would be glued to cassette tapes that he would regularly bring in the records of the 1980s for the rest of us. The eighties was a prolific era—it almost had everything for everyone. Perhaps because we did not have much diversion then, we listened to whatever Manoy listened to. On his boombox, Manoy played Pink Floyd, Depeche Mode, Heart, Sade, America and Tears for Fears, among a million others. Of course, this “million others” would attest to how prolific the 80s was.

In those days, Manoy recorded songs while they were played on FM radio stations. It was his way of securing new records; or producing his own music. Then he would play it for the rest of us. Music was Manoy’s way of cheering the household up—he played music when he would cook food—his perennial assignment at home was to cook the dishes for the family. 

Manoy loved to play music loud anytime and every time so that Mother would always tell him to turn the volume down. Most of the time, Manoy played it loud—so that we, his siblings, his captured audience in the household, could clearly hear the words and the melodies, cool and crisp.

While Mother and Manoy would always have to discuss about what to do about his loud records playing, we, the younger ones, would learn new sensibilities from the new sounds which we heard from the sound-box. We did not only sing along with the songs being played; we also paraded nuances from them which we made for and among ourselves. Out of the tunes being played and heard, we made a lot of fun; and even cherished some of them.

When we were very young, I remember hearing a cricket when Manoy played America’s “Inspector Mills” every night, which lulled my sister Nene and me to sleep. Nene and I asked him to play it all over again because we would like to hear the cricket again and again in the said song. (Later, I would be aware that it’s not only a cricket but also a police officer reporting over the radio.)

During those nights, Mama was expected to arrive late because she worked overtime at her father’s house that hosted Cursillo de Cristianidad classes, a three-day retreat seminar which the family committed to sponsor for the barangay Bagacay through the years.

Sometimes, it was just fine even if Mother was not there when we slept. At times, we knew she wouldn’t be able to return home for that weekend, so we were lulled to sleep in Manoy’s bed listening to America and his other easy-listening music. Because he played these songs for us, the lonely nights without Mother in our house were made bearable by Manoy Awel. 

When Manoy was not around or when I was left alone in the house, I would go to his room and play his records to my heart’s content. Because he would leave his other records at home, I equally devoured them without his knowledge. None of his mixed tapes escaped my scrutiny.

Through the years, Manoy would later be collecting boxes of recorded songs and later even sorting them according to artists and genres. 

 One day, I saw these recorded tapes labeled “Emmanuel” on one side and “Mary Ann” on the other. It wouldn’t be long when I learned that Manoy had found his better half, his own B side—in the person of Manay Meann, his future wife. 

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).

Identity Thieves

Ben Affleck’s Argo, which won Best Picture this year at the Oscars, is worth talking about. 

While Oscar winner director Ang Lee’s Life of Pi is a cinematic achievement in itself taking on a surreal approach to a real adventure story, it is the role playing of the characters in Argo that deserves a second look. Argo won Best Picture probably because the Academy members saw how it looked for a better way to tell a story.

Directed by Ben Affleck, Argo recreates the Iranian hostage crisis in 1979 after radical Moslem students stormed the U.S. Embassy in Tehran, seized some 66 Americans and vowed to stay there until the deposed Shah of Iran was sent back from New York to face trial. Opposed to Western influences, the Iranian militants released 13 hostages, but held the remaining 53 Americans, now demanding the return of billions of dollars they believed the shah had hoarded abroad.

The hostage crisis lasted for almost 444 days, marring the administration of then United States President Jimmy Carter, who was unable to negotiate their release. From November 1979 to January 1981, the Carter administration suffered a setback when it failed in an attempt to rescue the hostages. Negotiations were reported to have finally succeeded where war tactics failed.  

Argo zooms in on the plight of one Tony Mendez, CIA technical operations officer, who negotiated to save the six American statesmen who escaped from the embassy and sought shelter in the Canadian ambassador’s residence at the height of the crisis.

When Ben Affleck’s Tony Mendez tells John Goodman’s John Chambers, a Hollywood make-up artist who has previously crafted disguises for the CIA: “I need you to help me make a fake movie,” it is made clear how art, particularly filmmaking, is used to serve a higher end—and that is to save the lives of the diplomats caught in the social unrest.

And when John Chambers says, “So you’re going to come to Hollywood, act like a big shot, and not actually do anything,” the movie’s premise was now hinged on how falsehood can rather redirect everyone to seek the truth. 

Interesting in the film is the way the six American statesmen read into their roles given by Tony Mendez. There is much drama in how they assumed to be somebody else, i.e. as members of the filmmakers’ team producing a fake sci-fi, Star Wars-inspired Argo. 

Argo is a fake movie—a foil which Tony Mendez needed to convince Iranian authorities that the consulate staff who escaped are part of the production for a sci-fi movie. An action thriller itself, Argo was concerned more on the action of rescuing the hiding statesmen and escort them back to the States.

In the movie’s climax, the Iranian airport police, despite their vigilance and stone-faced authority, still fell prey to the foil that Mendez invented—Argo’s  Star Wars charisma did not fail to lure authorities away from identifying the diplomats, thus serving Mendes’ best intentions, as originally planned.

Although the Iranians were duped by the pop culture prevalent everywhere in the world, it is admirable how the world of movies served a purpose which should serve man—who himself created the movies.

Of course, Argo the movie within the movie is able to save the diplomats, even as Argo the bigger movie has established thrills in the cat-mouse chase which heightened the tension in the film.

Though the film is said to have made alterations from the real turn of events— especially for minimizing the role that the Canadian embassy played in the rescue, among others—Argo succeeds in bringing the audience to a heightened sense of thrill, which deserves a round of applause.

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.