What's in a Name?

Names are simply wonderful. Take the case of these three that follow.

MILENYO
As far as we could remember, typhoons in the past were named after women or their nicknames. In 1970, we were submerged by the evil Sining; in the 80s, we were left homeless by the stronger-than-man Anding, and in the 90s, we suffered from the ravaging Rosing just before Christmas. Towards the new millennium, these destructive typhoons still bore these names, until the time the Philippine Atmospheric, Geophysical & Astronomical Services Administration (PAGASA) started a new nomenclature of these sinister weather disturbances, naming them Jolina, Manny, Isko, or that of any icon or symbol we Filipinos are familiar with.

Somehow, they became household names because they sounded so familiar—though previously, the entire irony is that these violent natural calamities are so named virtually after our very own mothers, aunts, or grand matriarchs—the ones who otherwise nurture us through our lives. Such move to change the system of naming typhoons is a nice gesture to the gender-sensitive and family-loving race that we are.

Meanwhile, Milenyo, the typhoon that recently ravaged the country, was aptly named because of the destruction of some provinces in our country. The name itself is a heavy one, [millennium means a thousand years]. In reality, a thousand years may entail a lot of things for us Filipinos. In this long span of time, many uneventful things can happen—from the lives and livelihood lost in the countryside to the worsened state of the urban poor in our major cities.

The hard rain and persistent winds which we must have ignored the past days was, in fact, destructive that it claimed lives of other people. This may have not mattered to us not because we are oblivious to the lives of other people but simply because “we are not affected”—it is okay even if it rains forever outside our homes, as long as the water does not flood our kitchen. But the headlines read, “Milenyo pounds Panay,” or “Wicked Weather,” so Milenyo indeed was not just another typhoon—it put some of our provinces in the state of calamity. What a sad country.

On a lighter side, those who named the PAGASA must be credited for the “hope” and optimism that the acronym provides [despite the bad news it always brings to the public]. While it constantly heralds the sad state of our weather, it also brings hope by telling us we can do much to prepare for such calamities. Like the other calamities that struck us, what should Milenyo teach us, then?

In any millennium perhaps, past or forthcoming, we can gradually teach ourselves that such works of Nature are not our creation; neither are they God’s imperfect creations. Some consider them one of his designs to make us seek him, occasionally. In the midst of all these misfortunes, the always best thing to hope for is the Divine Providence. As he himself said, he will be with us, for sure, in any millennium.

FRANKLIN
As in Franklin Drilon, the ex-Senate president. As in Benjamin Franklin, the great American. Aye, there goes the rub—the name bearer is quite obsessed with self-fulfilling prophecy, perhaps pressured by his name itself.

Drilon’s first name precedes him at least to him. His recent anxious political behavior must have been created by the pressure of the name “Franklin,” the American who was everyman—inventor, author, diplomat, everyone. I first heard this name in the late 80s, when Drilon was a member of the Cory cabinet or something. But through the years in public service, Drilon must have made bad and unfavorable choices in his career [sounds like the life of Rosanna Roces according to film critic Nestor Torre] that his name cannot just be plainly equated with his other namesakes [what other name could be more intimidating than the name of two American presidents]—Franklin Delano Roosevelt, or FDR, the great American president, and of course, Benjamin Franklin, the “lightning guy” in our Science class.

All his life, this former Senate president must have long thought of reaching the top, disposed to live the lives of these two American greats. But what has priced ambition? Or more aptly, what have priced ambition? Loyalty, sincerity, integrity, consistency [roughly, they all mean the same thing]—yes, these might be the costs of misconstrued militancy, of the very high idealism gone haywire. “Frank”ly, some people say the road to greatness is paved, and that it is the road less traveled because not everyone is fit to traverse it.

GLORIA
This is the first name of the president of the Republic of the Philippines. Despite the country’s economic ups and downs, everyone thinks that Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo is just commendable for having survived all odds—from the attacks of the opposition to the challenges posed to the Philippine economy by its rotting politics. True to her name, “Gloria” spells a person’s triumph or victory overcoming odds, or tritely enough, making the ends meet, for her countrymen.

For one, “glory” means magnificence, or splendor, or brilliance. Whichever way, GMA does some justice and truth with her name. Despite what her too cynical detractors think, this country is doing just fine. Despite what other people say that we have gone to the dogs, this country is doing just fine. Perhaps thanks to the people who do not matter much to Gloria—the nongovernmental organizations, the Church, and to the very least, the local government altogether help the country proceed to somewhere definite.

Despite what the media do to either inform or misinform us about the real stuff Gloria and her men [armed, most of them are] are made of, we can do just little to alter such reality because they are there to make things happen for us, unless we take our part.

So we can just be sorry if we do not bask in the glory of this present administration because we hardly see its benefits to us. If all else fails in our part of the world—from our backyard to the public school toilets—we cannot do much but bear the brunt—be more self-sacrificing, work in silence until the time everything is indeed tolerable in our country so much so that we could exclaim, “To God be the glory!”

Names are indeed wonderful. In some senses, they mean what they are—and as we have seen, they sometimes are what they mean. Three names, three senses, three insights—they make sense to us because we can make them mean a number of things, according to our experiences, according to our lives.

One Night in Smallville

In a way, the youth is simply wasted on the young.

I found this out last weekend when my wife Dulce Maria and I celebrated her birthday Saturday night at the Smallville, the famous gimik joint catering to overworked and beer-hungry young professionals in this city.

We were on our way out of the Pirates Disco when two young men started a ruckus at the comfort room area. Just in time, we were right there when the altercation started. The security guard mediating them was thrown off, so that he let them loose, and they scampered toward the narrow hall where they surprised people going to the CR.

After causing commotion from the comfort room [we found out that they belonged to two different groups at the Shipwreck restaurant], the group retreated out of the dining area towards MO2, the other establishment where they were chased by the guards. Later, when we managed to transfer to the Annex, as unruffled as we could be, we just heard two shots fired.

I did not know what else happened there. I, for one, chose not to get involved by seeming to ignore the ruckus, though almost everyone [it is human instinct to be curious of anything that is out of ordinary] seemed interested to find out what it was.

Whatever it was, I did not bother to find out anymore as Dulce became nervous about the whole thing. I just waited for her to go out of the Annex’s CR and calm down. Later, I asked the guard if it was okay to proceed to go out of the open street exiting to the Diversion Road.

I should say we were lucky that all these happened when we were already on our way out after enjoying a groovy hour-or-so routine of the D’Exposure Band who performed bubbly covers of Diana King, Shakira, Jennifer Lopez and other R&B queens. In fact, the ruckus occurred past midnight so that Dulce even conjured it did not happen on her birthday anymore.

Of course, what was most important was that we were safe. But I think we were saved from trouble because we chose to be so. Despite that people there seemed bothered by the fuss, all I thought then was that it was all child’s play, knowing that it stemmed from a rather immature act.

I could say the ones involved were too young to be young professionals. They were, in fact, students having a nightout. I could surmise they were students, college or maybe even high-school dropouts [at least, based primarily on their behavior]—whatever the case, they are members of an academic community where they are supposed to be taught manners—at the very least, self-control—simply translated—“keeping one’s cool.”

Sadly, businesses such as discos cannot at all control and even contain their clientele. The offenders [or more plainly riot-makers] were kids. They’re yet on their way to grow up. And because they “can’t hardly wait,” so to speak, they are there to make trouble because that is how they know they will matter, at least to their peers.

There is some truth when we pause to value the importance of respecting the elders [and what they say]. It is they who usually tell us to keep away from trouble [literally and figuratively]; they are also the ones who insist that we be obedient and kind—all these, in brief, kind of translates into—we have to “keep our cool.”

It's funny that we young people perhaps find such pieces of advice too folksy—baduy, makaluma, or even obsolete. In fact, though, they are rather conventional. By this we mean, they stick to conventions, or they are done according to the way things are usually done.

Doing something conventional means doing the proper way things are done because they make sense and because they simply save us from trouble. Indeed, the youth is wasted on the young; and the old, luckily, are old enough to know better.

Doyong

When I was younger, I would go to my uncle’s house to read old copies of Balalong and Bikol Banner, two city publications where my uncle worked as a serious journalist in the 1980s. Of course, these two papers folded up even before I could grow up—most probably because the politician financiers were ousted from “public service.”

Many times I would sneak into their house to read them, or simply look at my uncle’s article and photograph on the paper. The sight was interesting to me—someone was saying something and his face was there for the reader to see.

I would always want to see and [read] my uncle’s weekly columns. Some of them were prized possessions in their cabinet—piles of newspaper issues perhaps stored for posterity, until typhoons came and went and soaked them all to oblivion. I also heard [of] him as a news broadcaster hosting commentary programs on the local radio station. Later I just learned he stopped being a radio man.

Being the eldest son, Doyong, (the corrupted form of "Junior," or the more pejorative "Dayunyor"), my uncle would now and then publicly brandish his worth as a media person to us—his nephews and nieces—even his children—that principles are what he stood for, thus his work.

In my mother's family, he was the one who worked for the media. While my grandparents took pride in that, some folks—it seemed to me—just could not agree or were at all satisfied by the whole idea. Media work has always appealed to him that until now, I was told, he is still working for a political clan in Camarines Sur in most of their media or publication projects.

His love of words has been pervasive that in one of our clan reunions—sometime in 1985—her children [my cousins] staged a strike, hoisting placards protesting against “measures” enforced by Lolo Meling and Lola Eta [themselves the status quo owning the poultry and livestock that provided the grand family's livelihood]—perfectly mimicking the turbulent scenes apparent during the Marcos regime.

Just like any writer, my uncle has sincerely professed the love of words. He loves words, and fortunately he profits from it, not like other journalists and media persons who may have just been enslaved by it. My uncle has been a PR man most of his life—serving people in government positions. And as a journalist, he had many political connections. For a time, he even worked as vice-mayor in our town.

Just like a popular mediaman, he can easily ask projects from the governor or congressman of this clan—having been friends with them for so long now. And in one-time projects involving a large amount of money, his family is largely to benefit, his media practice is occasionally profitable that their lives suddenly change in an instant.

But like most journalists serving the interests of politicians, my uncle and his family would sometimes wallow in poverty—simply, that gross lack of means to sustain themselves. Many times he and his family went hungry because of such choice of profession.

But these were all before. Now, things have changed for him and his family as he has had his first set of grandchildren. His eldest daughter is making her own name in the provincial capitol; while all their children are three of their children are all settled. Things are simply looking up for my uncle and his family.

In the past, his love of words had long started a family and earned for it their means of sustenance—and truly, deprived them of better opportunities. Yet, until now perhaps—such love of words has not given him up. Or shall I say—he has not given up on what he has chosen to do all his life. 

How I Lived, and What I Lived For

In college I was approached by our neighbors to write letters to their foster parents under the PLAN International. Free of charge, I would write the letter for an American or German benefactor. After I had written the letter, the neighbor’s mother would send to our household food or anything that could pay for what I did. I hardly knew then that good writing skill could already mean business.

I myself was a recipient of a scholarship which required me to write regularly a Japanese benefactor on how I fared in school, how my grades were, and what activities I involved myself in. So I would write letters in English as I should, prolifically. I also remember the best thing to look forward to in a week was to get a reply from my pen friends. And I would gladly write them back. I even wrote to more than three of them at one time. I enjoyed exchanging ideas and sharing stories with them. They simply made my day.

All these nurtured in me the habit of writing letters, and more letters. Initially I was interested in it; but eventually I was hooked in it that it became part of my system.

Normally for a young student like me who preferred writing letters to dunking shots in a basketball court, I was being groomed to becoming a student writer. Having good English skills, in fact, is a prized possession in school, in college and in the world.

In high school, I began writing for the school paper. I wrote letters to friends constantly or whenever I had the time. Sometimes I really had to find time. I also kept a journal on which I recorded a lot of my ideas, observations, and privations and many experimental works. I was studying for free so I thought I better maximize the opportunity. I borrowed books from the library, and read a lot. English was one subject that I could not trade for any computer game—a leisurely activity which I could hardly afford.

There was no stopping me from reading books, or from making things out of what I read—poems, puzzles, imitations of sayings, and stories. But I was not really a recluse. More often than not, I was also playing ball with my cousins. I was also active in school clubs—these included writing cliques, collectors’ groups and similar stuff.

In 1996, I found myself working for a newspaper in Bicol. Then, I also wrote articles for Teodoro Locsin’s Today, a Makati-based national broadsheet which has now merged with the former Manila Standard.

Both working and writing, I did not stop writing and learning in English—also Filipino and Bikol. I wrote and sent articles and poems to national periodicals. My submissions were rejected and others were published. I even got paid for the ones published in magazines; but the newspapers hardly paid. The newspaper work did not promise compensation, but I held on to writing news and feature articles because I knew I was making sense.

I just kept writing, and with it, I easily found work in publication desks where I managed the newsletter and more importantly, “got to know some real people” [apologies to Sunday Inquirer Magazine]. For the past years I have been writing, I have been enjoying each moment of it. 

Hitler

Meet Hitler, Uncle Badong’s black dog.

Was he a cousin? brother? son-in-law? Of Gandhi.

I am not sure now. [What I am just sure of is that my uncles in the libod have been an educated lot when it comes to the affairs of the world that they named the best friends of their households after the icons of their lives.]

Hitler seemed notorious to anyone who would have to go to Uncle Badong’s house for any instance—her daughter Donna’s birthday bash, Sandra’s first communion, or Zaldo’s baptism. While relishing an exceptional maja blanca prepared by Auntie Dothy, any visitor would be gripped by this subconscious fear that he might be bitten by an otherwise indifferent and apathetic Hitler, that would from time to time be leashed and unleashed by his masters because of the dog’s unpredictable fierceness. Or maybe it was just the fierceness perceived because of his name but which has not at all been proven.

Hitler’s blackness was one of elegance. His hair shimmered in the dark, much like the dog in Madonna’s Frozen video. But his notoriety is forgivable. He was the buddy of the maternal Gandhi, and among us cousins it was knowledge that some of the later offspring came from this couple. While Gandhi was famed as one that would sneak in Auntie Dotie’s toilet to eat the fragrant Safeguard soap, Hitler was the one that roamed baybay [shoreline] by himself. I think he must have fathered some generations of dogs in that other sitio along the San Miguel Bay.

But the dog proved to be kinder than his German namesake. Maybe it was all his master’s rage that he named him after the German madman.

In the Chapel

In the chapel, you were never prepared to act out your faith, perhaps in the grandest manner, along with the worshiping crowd. There was always this force that kept you from being calm or still while you knelt in one of the pews. You just hoped you could hear a voice, One that you have always badly wanted to hear, but has never spoken a word.

Chinese Proverbs

Write a book.

Plant a tree.

Sire a son.

--An Aki

Write a tree.

Sire a book.

Plant a son.

--Ama Nia

Plant a book.

Sire a tree.

Write a son.

--Lolo Hun Nia

Special Non-Working Holiday

Gusto mong mag-uli sa San Nicolas.

Pero harayo an lugar na natubragan mo.

Nuarin ka daw makaduman giraray

sa kamposanto? Makabisita saimong

parte daryo? Makahigda sa may kamalig

sa libod kan dakulang harong?

Sa nagima'tan mong duyan sa Ilawod?

Ano na daw an hitsura kan harong?

Kumusta na man daw sa Joel duman?

Darakula na siguro si mga tinubong mo.

Ano daw, napagaran si moroso sa daga?

Napapaihi ka. Napapaudo. Atyan

makarigos ka na lang, tibaad mawara

sana ining mga guniguni. Siguro init kan

lawas sana. Ngapit sa aga mayo na 'ni.

Boarding House

Dai ka nagluluwas sa kwarto. Pa'no ka maka'laba kan uniporme mo? Mabaraha sa lababo dyan ka mabulnaw kan pantalon mo. Duman kuta sa may banyo sa luwas para mahiwas. Pero baad dakul an nag'aralaba. Yaon siguro si Bornok, 'sugoton ka. Pag nag-abot an kasera, 'singilon ka. Si A'ma mo mayo man pinadara. Ano, bilog na aldaw, digdi ka na lang mabula'tay? Pangudtuhan mo tada na pansit, malutong bahaw. Matara-ta'naw ka na lang sa bintana. Hihirilingon mo na lang an mga tawong nagáaragi sa tinampo. Dai ka na mababa. Maano ka na sana? Malusi-lusi. Bilog na aldaw kang matunganga. Nag'asarakat na si mga kaklase kan ka-boardmate mo sa balyong kwarto. Garo masirine daa sinda; ano ngonyan, Domingo? Maghapon, anong 'gibohon mo? Ma'bayaan ka kan aldaw. Kuta na saimo.

Cause and Effect

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Ma-Congressman Ako

Nakapagdesisyon na 'ko.

Madalagan ako sa pagka-Congressman. Kaipuhan kan satuyang distrito sarong diputadong may paninindugan, sarong tawong dai tulos matitibag-tibag sa tahaw kan anuman na kalamidad, itong dai tulos malumya sa anuman na baha na mag-agi sa satong mga banwa. Sarong kandidatong makapal an apog. Na iyo an magiya sa gabos tang kasimanwa sa pagsabat kan BAGONG UMAGANG PARATING.

Hahanapan ako nin sala kan gabos kong kalaban, kaya maray lang na mag-entra ako sa pirilian na ini na bistado kan tawo kun siisay man nanggad ako. Ma’wot kong mamidbidan ninda ako bilang sarong honestong tawo, sinsero.

Mayo nin tinatago.

Maski kan ako sadit pa, paraikit na ako. Sarong aldaw igwang ba’gong kawatan na nagluwas kadto sa tindahan, aba anang gayon na ara-awto. A-piso. Mayo ako nin pambakal. May nahiling ako sa pitaka kan Ina ko. Paghali niya sarong odto, pinuslit ko si sarong Rizal dangan binakal ko si ara-awto. Wikwik na kaidto sa eskwela nagpaparakarawat pa kami kan kaklase ko sa libod kan eskwelahan. Aba anang siram magpasawa sa bagay na dai mo pinagalan.

Nagtutubod akong an tawo tubod sa sarong tawong honesto sa sadiri niyang kaakuhan, sa sadiri niyang kakundian. Kun magiging honesto lang ako, masarig sinda sa sarong diputadong mayong tinatago manongod sa sadiri niya. Kun gusto niya man nanggad, mag-LINGKOD sa iba.

An saibong na kampo mahanap ta mahanap sako nin labot—kumbaga, sarong lugad na saindang kakalkagon nganing magnarana’ pa. Mahadit logod sinda ta bubuligan ko pa sindang hanapan nin labot an sakong pagkatawo. Tubod akong sa ngaran nin pagpapakumbaba, mas pipilion kan tawo idtong kandidatong dai nagpuputik.

Mayong balu’bagi’.

Totoo, nabareta kaidto sa radio, nagparapanlamuda daa ako nin mga tindera sa may Divisoria sa Naga. Mayo man na iyan maipahiling sa samo na Permit to Operate tapos maski price tag kan saindang mga paninda mayo sindang pakiaram. Kan sinita ko na sinda, siniri-simbag pa ako kan swapang na tindera (ano baya an magiging reaksyon mo?) Lintian. Saro akong advocate kan consumer’s rights. Sisiguraduhon kong an diretso kan parabakal harayo sa peligro. Gabos na tawo kadamay nanggad ako. Nom! Nagparahibi baga itong tindera, nakikimaherak na dai ko pag-embargohon an tinda niya. Pero an dai niya aram napapakiulayan man lang ako. If the price is right, talagang isusulong ko an consumer’s rights!

Arog ako kayan ka honesto. Ano man na panahon, sa nag-agi kong termino sa banwa, maging kan nagi na kong Kagawad sa siyudad, mayo man nanggad tinaago. Gabos na namamatean, dai napupugulan. Gabos na magustuhan, pirming may paagi para mataparan.

Sa kadakaln na tawo digdi sa realidad, ako an hinahanap na sinceridad, saro sa mga kalidad kan lider na kaipuhan kan distrito ta.

Iyo, inaako ko, mga amigo ko kadaklan mayayaman. Ano baya an magiginibo mo kun ika an pinakamatali sa klase nindo sa College of Law? Kinua akong sekretaryo kadto sa Rotary, makasayuma ka daw? Maurag, pa’no. Haloy ko nang ma’wot makatabang sa mga programa para sa tawo. Sa Rotary dakul akong proposal na naisurat. Maray-rahay baga an kinaluwasan.

Dakul na proyekto an natapos ni Philip bilang district chair, dawa ngani pirang beses na pig-paparasupla siya ni Joey, an mayor kan siyudad na sadiring tawo niya man sana. Pero, dai ka, ta daradakula si commission ko duman kaya pirang semana bara-banggi kami sa Bistro kan mga amigo ko. Sa SIPAG AT TIYAGA, nanood akong manipa sagkod nungka nang mag-kakan nin gina'ga'. Digdi man mahihiling na ako an utak kan progreso kan tawo, dai manenegaran na an progreso mayo lang sa puso, kundi yaon sa GALING AT TALINO.

Itong bareta na dai ko pinadrinohan an parte daryo ko kan siya kinasal kan 2004 sa Tigaon, totoo 'to. Nungka ako masuporta sa tawong mayong utang na boot sa publiko. Inagom niya an aki kan jueteng lord, pa’no? Dai ko matios na madamay sa mga gibo-gibo kan tawong an mga kuwartang ginagastos sa saindang luho hali sa payola.

Sa pulis sana ako masarig ta sinda an mapuksa sa mga tawong kung umasta garo mayo nin pinagkakautangan. Kompiansa ako sa kapulisan ta, sinda an marumpag kan mga kaharungan kun saen an jueteng binobola ara-aldaw. Arog ninda, ako sarong pusikit na paradaya sagkod bentausong linalang. Dai ako mabakli kan sakong ugali. Haslo man nanggad ko, maski kaidto, sagkod ngonyan.

Huli ta ako honesto, mayo na 'kong mababa'go sa sadiri ko mientras na ako nabubuhay.

Surat Halin sa Iloilo Pagkatapos kan Bagyo

Totoo, Manay, an nabaretaan nindo.
Sarong aldaw lang nagparauran sa Iloilo,
Inatong na an kabuhayan kan rinibo katawo—

Sarong aga, Sabadong garo tuninong,
puon nang magparauran nin makusogon.
Dai mi aram maparaduros na maghapon.

Pakapangudto mi pa sana, luminaog na
an tubig sa samong sala; duminagos sa
may platera, sa kakanan, sa may kusina.

Nahiling ko an agom ko entiro nang ha’dit;
naglilimas na siya kan naglalaog na tubig,
Pigparasarakat ko na an samong mga gamit.

Napadari’nas siya sa may banggerahan;
Sahot niya, napilay siya. Dai ako nagtaram.
Tibaad magrugi an samong pag-ibahan.

Siya lang nag-alsa kan magagabat na gamit.
Ginuruyod niya an iba; dangan nagkairipit.
Dai ko daa siya tinabangan; kaya bangit-bangit.

Naglilimas an agom kong garo na mautsan;
Uminabot na an tubig sa samong hagyanan.
Pirang dupa lang an rayo sa samong turugan.

Nagbagunas an uran; garong inuuragan;
Kaya kaming duwa dai nagkadarangugan.
Mga pirang beses niya akong sinilyakan.

Sa itaas kan harong nagparapansaray ako;
Mga gamit na mababasaon pinaratos ko.
Pati bado ming plinantsa ko para sa Domingo.

Pirang oras an nag-agi, an uran huminupa;
Haloy dai huminugpa an duros sa daga.
Napalsok an ilaw. Nagkua ‘ko nin kandila.

Kadtong mabanggi na, an duros sagkod uran
‘puon nang maggumulan; nagpapauragan.
An agom ko nagparapantabuga na man.

Binabasol niya ‘ko kan samong iniistaran;
Hababa daa an daga na kinatutugdukan.
Ano pa lugod ‘baka daa kami malantupan.

Dai ko nanggad siya ngonyan tutumuyan;
An mga pinamanggihan kaipuhan hugasan.
Isasa’ngat ko kaldero, kawali, mga lutuan.

Binabasol niya ako kan saiyang trabaho;
Pirmi daa siyang pagal sa pagmamaestro.
Dain’ data an gibo; hababaon an suweldo.

Dai man nanggad ako mapoon magtaram;
An mga bintana sa katre sakong tatangilan.
Barasa an mga bado. Ay, an iba natapuyasan.

Sinisingil niya ako kan samong kapalaran;
Dai niya daa muyang kami magkadagusan.
Napirit ko lang daa siya na ako pakasalan.

Sa luwas kan bintana, an duros nagisinggit;
Nadadangog ko an mga kahoy pinipiriripit.
Pero sa boot ko, an uran garo nag-aawit.

Sa palibot mi, nag-lilitaniya na an bagyo;
Pero mas malaba an pangamuyo ko sa Ginoo.
Lamuda kan agom ko siguradong mapondo.

Ngonyan na lang ako mapoon magtaram;
Kukuanon ko an rosaryuhan sa may sarayan.
Mapangadiye kami; ako an manganganam.

Sa entirong banggi, aawitan kan uran
an duros na an kurahaw mapapaas na man.
Magdamlag sindang maugayong asta mautsan.

Pagkaaga, dakul man an tubig na nasalod
hali sa may sagurong. Magagamit mi nanggad
pambagunas sa laboy saka dalnak na natipon.

Tuod, Manay, an gabos na nadangog nindo
Sa Iloilo linantop kan baha an ribo-ribo katawo.
Hirak nin Diyos, dai naatong an among ispirito.

Climate Change

Nag-uuran, nag-iinit;
nag-iinit, nag-uuran.
Sabi kan mga gurang
may kinakasal na gurang.
Nag-uuran, nag-iinit.
Nag-iinit, nag-uuran.
Gurang dai na mahalat
magsulnop sainda an saldang.

Encanto

An pagkaaki sarong lumang agihan pakadto sa may dating molinohan kun sain ka nagtago para dai mahiling ni Ruping, si kakawat mo kaidto. Dai ka niya nakua pagka-kamang mo sa may baliti kun sain, sabi ni Lolo Kanor mo, nag-iistar an engkantong si Primitibo.

Dai ka na nagtungá kaya huminabo na sana  an kakawat mo. Pag-sinarom, nakua ka ni Manoy mo harani sa kamalig. Pagal-pagal ka, haros dai naghahangos, mu’singon. Dai ka naggigirong,  bara’ba an kalson.

Mayo nin naghapot kun nagparasain ka. Mayo nin naghapot kun napa’no ka. Pagkabanggi, hinanap mo sainda si Lolo mo—pag-abot niya, mga sanggatos na beses kang huminadok saiya. Sabi lugod kan kabuhan mo, na-ingkanto ka daa.

Tapos na an taraguan nindo, pero poon kadto bisan sain ka magduman, gusto mo na lang magparatago, garong pirming takot kang may makahiling o makakua saimo—sa libod kansa may baylihan; eskwelahan pag-urulian; sa bakanteng lote

Sa laog kan mapa’raton na sinehan sa siyudad; minsan nahiling nagrarabay-rabay sa Naga—hali sa Calle Ojeda asta sa Abella. Sabi ninda, hinahanap mo daa si Primitibo, an tawong lipod na nakaanayo saimo.

    

Flores de Mayo

Susog sa Obra Ni Clemente S. Manaog,
Mio Hermano Intimo
Agosto 2007


Bagacay, 1942

Kan si Rafael San Andres mga pitong taon pa sana, dahil naman gayod sa kahisdulan, igwang nakalaog na crayola sa saiyang dungo. Mga pirang aldaw an nag-agi, mala ta maski ano an gibohon kan ina niyang si Visitacion, dai nanggad mahali-hali an crayola sa dungo kan aki.

Kan bulan na iyan, Mayo, igwa nin pa-Flores si Visitacion sa saindang harong sa Iraya. Dawa na ngani gayod makulugon ang dungo, nin huli ta igwa baya nin tandan na sopas na tanggo saka galleta an mga  aki, nagbale sa Flores si Rafael.

Sa saday na harong ni Visitacion, an mga aki minadarara nin mga sampaguita, gumamela, dahlia, dahon nin cypres na ginurunting na saradit. Maparangadie muna an mga gurang mantang an mga aki nakaturukaw sa salog. Dangan maabot sa cantada an pagpangadie ninda sa Espaniol. Dangan maabot sa parte na an mga aki masarabwag kan mga dara nindang burak sa altar ni Inang Maria. Magkapirang beses masabwag an mga aki nin mga burak segun sa cantada.

Sa mga pagsabwag ni Rafael kan saiyang mga burak sa altar, basang na sanang tuminubrag hali sa dungo niya an crayola. Nagparaomaw si Visitacion asin daing untok na nagpasalamat sa nangyari. Nin huli man sa nangyari, nangayo-ngayo si Visitacion na gigibohon kan pamilya an Flores de Mayo sa masurunod pang taon bilang pasasalamat sa pagkahali kan crayola sa dungo ni Rafael.

Poon kaidto sagkod ngonyan, pinapadagos kan pamilya ni Visitacion San Andres an saiyang panata na dae mababakli ni isay man. Hasta ngonyan, tinutungkusan kan pamilya San Andres an pasasalamat kan saindang mga apoon, patunay na binibisto kan tawo an karahayan kan Mas Nakakaorog.

Naga Nostalgia

Mapa-Naga daa ngonyan si Mama, iibahon si Nene. Kaya ogmahon siya.

Malunad sinda sa halabaon na jeep na Tio Magno. Sasakuluhon siya ni Mama. Maagi sinda sa Manguiring, duman sa dinalanan mi nin tunton kaidto. Pag may nagbaba sa Calabanga, makakatukaw si Nene sa tukawan. Mahihiling niya an nag-aaraging mga harong, karaskason. Nagdadaralagan an mga kahoy sagkod mga poste. Maduroson. Mapirirong siya ta maduroson sa may bintana kan jeep. Sasabihan siya ni Mama na dai iluwas an kamot sa bintana. Magagayonan siya ta maduroson tapos karaskason tapos nag-aarandar an inaaragihan ninda.

Madalhog sinda sa may ka Tiyang Didang sa atubangan kan Supermarket. Magkakahiriling ni Nene kadakulon tawong nag-aaragi. Mabalyo sinda sa tinampo, malaog sa bangko. Mahalat siya ki Mama sa malumuyon na kutson na tukawan sa laog kan Bicol Savings. Malipoton sa laog kan hinahalatan niya. Ogmahon si Nene. Pag inapod na si Mama kan magayon na babaying nakamake-up, kakabiton na siya ni Mama, tatawanan kan babaye si Mama nin kuwarta. Pirang minuto na lang maluwas na sinda.

Makakan sinda sa New China. Masakat sinda sa second floor ta magayonon saka malipoton. Makakan sinda nin pansit sagkod siopao sagkod Royal. Tapos malaog sinda sa Shoppers Mall. Mahihiling ni Nene bagohon an bado kan aki sa display-han kan Shoppers Mall. Babakalan siya ni Mama nin bagong bado sagkod medyas. Dakul nang bado si Nene pagluwas. Ogmahon si Nene.

Tapos babakalan pa siya ni Mama nin sapatos sa Zenco Footstep. Papasukulon si Nene kan saleslady nin pirang padis nin sapatos. Hinuhurulog sa labot hali sa itaas an mga sapatos. Hahapoton siya nin Mama kun piot o haluag. Pag may nagustuhan na siya, babayadan na ini ni Mama. Pagluwas ninda, igwa na siyang bagong sapatos.

Mapangudto sinda sa Supermarket. Ma-order si Mama nin kandingga sa Deniega. Mapapaso si Nene ta mainiton an maluto. Mahuhulog niya an tinidor kan kinapotan niya na tulos an bote nin Royal. Aanggotan siya ni Mama ta nabasa an bado niya. Pupunasan ni Mama an bado ni Nene ta nabasa.

Pagkapangudto malakaw sinda pa-Bichara. Mahiling sinda sa kartel kan bagong pasine. Mahamot an parong sa Bichara. Parong popcorn sagkod malipotlipot sa may sinehan. Mabayad si Mama nin tiket. Makabit si Nene ki Mama tapos mabakal sinda nin Growers sagkod softdrink sa tindahan kan sinehan. Madiklomon sa laog kan sinehan kaya dai mabutas si Nene ki Mama.

Pagluwas ninda sa Bichara, mabalik sinda sa Supermarket. Masakat sinda sa third floor. Mabakal sinda nin gulay, bawang, sibulyas, kamatis, lana, sagkod tinapa. Bago magbaba, baad mapilipili pa sa Mama nin segunda-mano sa second floor.

Bago sinda magbalyo pasiring sa paradahan kan jeep, mahapit muna sinda sa Romero's. Mabakal si Mama nin sa diez pesos na pan Legaspi, an tinapay mainit pa. May kakakanon pa sinda sa jeep bago maglarga.

Maiba man daw 'ko.

Grace after Meals

Nagdamoy si Rudy.
Mu'riton siya pagkatapos
magkakan nin manggang
binakalan niya pa hali sa Leon.
Hinog na daa pero masakrot pa.

Pinandulsi ninda an prutas
kan agom niyang si Maria
na nag-alsom nin balanak
na pinangudtuhan ninda.
Inon-on daa pero mayo nin la'ya.

Huminigda na siya sa papag
nagpapahiran-hiran; hinu-
hugasan kan agom niya
an saindang kinakanan.

Mini-Hydro, Sabado

Amay nag-uli si Kristina.
Nagpaaram siya ka Shiela
sagkod ki Glenn, na nagpapara-
hulnakan na sana poon pa kan aga
pag-abot mi digdi. Siguro nalipot
siya sa paglangoy kansubago.
Pa'no man ko makakalangoy,
amay pa lang baragol na tulos
si bitis ko. Amay pa man talaga
ta dai mi pa nauubos ni Paulo
si panduwang Gilbey's. Maenot
na siya; habo pating magpahatod.

Facebook Poetry

May 6 Friend Requests ka pero saro sana
man an bisto mo sainda: si Noel Blancaflor.
Saiirisay man 'ni? May Sally Diaz, may Stanley Po.
Saiirisay man 'ni? Add mo daa as Friend?
Mayo ning Add as Non-Friend? As Acquaintance?
Dai man daw na an ngaran mo kapangaran mo?

Nag sign-up ka kaidto ta sabi kan amiga mo
ma-Reply siya saimo. Pero perang bulan ka nang
member since April 2009 pa, mayo man siya baga.

Naka-Thumbnail an mga Friends mo Recently Added
pero dai man nagi-reply sa comment mo. Dai mo aram
kong nababasa an pira nang pangungumusta mo. Inutil!

You like this. You sagkod si Polana sagkod si Polano like this.
Ano ta "Comment. Like. Delete." sana? Mayo nin Dislike?

Ay, uni ho, mga quiz-quiz na maski ano na sana.
Anong kanta ka ni Britney Spears? Who cares?
What time will you die? Paligsok man ni ýo.
Igwang Which Sexual Position Are You? Buray ni Ina niya!
Kulang na lang Anong Gamit ni Barack Obama
sa White House an Garo Ika? Stapler.

Kadakul-dakul Causes an inaagdang ayunan mo--
ta'no mayo kang mauyunan? May Plant A Tree,
Donate a Book, Adopt a Child. Ta'no mayo nin
Sire a book, plant a child, write a tree?
Hadaw mayo nin Sue a Government Official
o baad mas magayon: Meet God in Person?

Pirming Mafia Wars an pinsan mong si Ardo--
si Saddam Hussein an nahihiling mo sa logo.
Haros gabos sa Friends List mo nagkakawat
nin harong-harong, kagrugaring nin mga baka,
manok, tuka-rig, gadya, kurasmag na marayo man.
Farmville na pahingurag na lintian.

Bedtime Stories

Dai ka nakakaturog kawasa
ngonyan may nanu'dan kang
bago ki tataramon, agom

Mapaturog ka pa man daw
kun bara-banggi sa ulunan mo
may minahinghing, siram

Dai ka na makakaturog naman
kun kadurog mo atyan
na banggi magkiblit, saro pa

All Souls' Day

Kun yaon si Mama, sasabihan ka ka’to,
sinarablayan ka na naman nin mabata,
dai ka nagduman sa kamposanto.

Nagdara ka nin trabaho sa harong.
Nag-agi na an Sabado, an sobre
kan pa-responso yaon pa saimo.

Mag-andam ka atyan pagsinarom
igwang malayog-layog na kulagbaw
sa kakanan, aram mo kun siisay
an pirming nagtutukaw sa kabisera.

May mapaparong kang napalsok
na kandila; pagsakat mo sa hagyan,
maga’ragot an dating katre ni Lola Dula.

Sa taas an mga ritrato ni Lolo Amon
sagkod ni Lola Iding marayo sa altar.
May nagkua siguro. Baad nagharali?
Nagpakaramposanto ta dakul gayod
an bisitang maarabot sa nitso ninda.

Pag madiklom na, may magkakahurulog
sa atop, ralagabong, bungang santol
parasuba baga pati ‘to si Lolo Peping,
dai ka na mapapaturog, hala ka.

Pistang Gadan

Kun yaon si Mama, sasabihan ka ka’to,
sinarablayan ka na naman nin mabata,
dai ka nagduman sa kamposanto.

Nagdara ka nin trabaho sa harong.
Nag-agi na an Sabado, su sobre
kan pa-responso yaon pa saimo.

Mag-andam ka atyan pagsinarom
igwang malayog-layog na kulagbaw
sa kakanan, tanda mo kun siisay
an dating nakatukaw sa kabisera.

May mapaparong kang napalsok
na kandila; pagsakat mo sa hagyan,
mag'aragot an katre ni Lola Dula.

Sa 'taas an mga ritrato ni Lolo Amon
sagkod ni Lola Iding marayo sa altar.
May nagkua siguro. Baad nagharali.
Nagpakaramposanto gayod ta dakul
an bisitang maarabot sa nitso ninda.

Pag madiklom na, may magkakahurulog
sa atop, maralagabong mga bungang santol;
parasuba baga ‘to si Lolo Peping, dai ko
aram kung mapapaturog ka pa, hala ka.

Bedtime Stories

Dai ka nakakaturog kawasa
ngonyan may nanu'dan kang
bago ki tataramon, agom

Mapaturog ka pa man daw
kun bara-banggi sa ulunan mo
may minahinghing, siram

Dai ka na makakaturog naman
kun kadurog mo atyan
na banggi magkiblit, saro pa

Beautiful boxers

DURING the Pacquiao–Barrera match some years ago, from out of the blue, my junior student Carlo Timbol texted me exclaiming that Manny won over the Mexican. Perhaps he could not contain his elation that he must have texted more people including me.

I was touched by my student’s gesture—especially when I realized that Carlo, a minute character in his small stature and physique—who fairly looks like Manny Pacquiao—comes to identify and relate with his modern hero.

Indeed, after knocking out three Mexican boxers, and virtually every other boxer pitted against him, southpaw Pacman has come to symbolize the Filipino fighting spirit. Pacquiao’s successful feat does not only give hope to us but also clouds our real plight.

Through his impressive wins, we are swayed from the real plight of our lives, we become heroes with him—we forget that we live in [or belong to—whichever you choose] a sad republic, we tend to just go on further on.

In his consistently unfazed countenance in every bout, the Destroyer has gradually become everyman. His heroic deed is more than worth telling, for it has unified a divided nation; for many times, he has inspired the Filipino people to go on.

Even now, through the words “Manny Pacquiao,” I can relate to you as a fellow Filipino—despite our social differences engendered by so many isms around.

The General Santos southpaw who has come a long way from poor humble beginnings makes us turn the same way—and make sense of the words courage, determination, and heroism.

And whether or not Manny Pacquiao becomes a stale memory years from now—by then he has already become a household icon, someone whose life is worth emulating by anyone because it was fully lived—for it has had a purpose.

THOUGH Muhammad Ali is worthy of another article, at least here, we should say no other life of a superman could be more dramatic than his. Whenever he appears on television these days, we perennially realize how fates can be twisted, and how bluntly it hurts. His powerful punches against his contenders in the past are indeed nothing compared to the daily struggles he has now—having Parkinson’s disease.

Cassius Clay’s life story rather spells out that life is not a bed of roses—rather a path strewn with thorns—let it be added that we are to walk this path with nothing but our own feet. Nevertheless, whenever we see him shaking and trembling, we would be compelled to value our own strengths while [we are] in our prime. We would see how destiny could play with those who have lived their lives to the fullest. Or we would also realize how—if at all—you could not really waste your life by simply living it to the “fool”est. Just like Christopher Reeve whose life, Ali’s life is plainly irony.

MEANWHILE, talking of boxing as an achievement and later a jumping board for a career, we have the case of Mansueto “Onyok” Velasco. Velasco had his fifteen-minute fame when he clinched a silver medal in the 1996 Atlanta Olympics.

Onyok nearly clinched the country's first Olympic gold medal in the 1996 Atlanta Olympics when he slugged it out with Bulgarian Daniel Bojilov in the light-flyweight finals. Before this, Velasco was one of the three Filipino boxers who clinched gold medals in the 1994 Asian Games held in Hiroshima, Japan.

Even before his career eclipsed into becoming a comedian in some film flicks that feed the movie industry, the honor he won for the country had embedded his person in the sensibility of most Filipinos.

LUISITO Espinosa and Gerry Peñalosa are names I would hear when I was a student through the 90s. In times in the past, Espinosa “the Golden Boy” and Peñalosa dominated the national pages for their amazing fights, impressive boxing records, and perhaps wonderful careers. But now we can only wonder what exactly happened to them.

Lately, we must have heard some famous boxer who got into brawls and fistfights and similar troubles—had murky married life, or unsuccessful occupations and eventual pursuits. Whatever happened to them—famous or infamous—does not at all matter to them. For once in their lives, they became the people’s heroes. People feasted on their strength and claimed it their own.

Sad life, indeed, is the boxer’s life. Yet now, what matters is that for once in their lives, they must have fought and gained honor for every one of us. In each upper cut of left hook they landed on the opponent’s face, we were fighting with them, for they always carried our country’s name. Their valor is that of a soldier, and their wounds and bruises their virtual red badge of courage—the proofs of their resilience, their heroism.

Interestingly, though, in fiction, most boxers are made [and yet, because they are born].

Perhaps the “Rocky” movies that starred Sylvester Stallone also moved more hearts than any other human preoccupation. The biopic of Rocky Balboa—produced in installments—were another favorite in our clan—probably because the folks loved to see how the actor’s face is transformed from a dashing, debonair man into someone in a vegetative state.

Rocky’s famous blabbering dialogue would not fail to amaze anyone who has seen him in other movies like “Rambo,” “Cobra,” etc. Simply at the time if you did not know Sylvester Stallone in the eighties—you were definitely not in. The Rocky craze became a household philosophy. His dialogues became everybody’s line—his movies’ soundtracks became everyman’s anthems. What made Rocky famous? It must have been his charm and strength and the emotional weakness that he tried to counter. In the movies the boxer is depicted as vulnerable as well as resilient. The usual underdog rising to topple down the crowd’s favorite has never been fresh than in Rocky movies.

As a young boy in the eighties, I must have watched Jon Voight’s “The Champ” [1979] million times. Later on, I would know it is Franco Zeferelli’s masterpiece which is a remake of a 1931 classic.

The film zooms in on how an ex-boxer Bill Flynn redeems himself with his son whom he inspires despite the challenges he faced. The movie asks the viewer to sympathize with the boxer whose failed marriage with his wife renders some payoffs when the boy realizes that his father is his champion and no one else. The film experiments and presents the father-son chemistry as something desirable—since the bonding cannot at all be common, but something that is attainable through determination.

Our relatives must have owned their personal copy—that the movie had become a staple when there were no new tapes to show.

More interestingly, I must have watched it more than usual because it featured how the boxer was able to raise his son properly despite the tumultuous marriage. Talk of gender identification at a young age and family crisis.

Nevertheless, the people in our clan—from the aunties to uncles to brothers to siblings and cousins—must have seen the film more times than we could think of. As young children, my cousins and I even memorized the lines uttered by the son of who encouraged the boxer to keep up the fight despite that he was cheated both in the ring and in the ring of life.

The Oscar-winning character of Hillary Swank in Clint Eastwood’s “Million Dollar Baby” [2004] gives us a skewed picture of the boxer whose life turns around—because her own courage and determination allowed things to happen against her.

Maggie Fitzgerald’s eagerness to engage in the sports articulates the passion she sees in it [that is—sadly—predominated by males].

At first, Clint Eastwood’s Frankie Dunn, her trainer, is reluctant to take her on until he realizes they can jive together and realize for her the dream of becoming the boxer.

Later on, both realize that they share a commonality that will change their lives forever. Together they will bond and find each other the sense of family which they lost along the way. Eastwood’s opus clinched the Best Picture for Oscar in 2005.

It’s funny how the movie industry has—through the years—created wonderful works in the characters of boxers.

Boxing films are not a new genre. In fact, Marlon Brando’s Oscar-winning character in “On the Waterfront” [1954] in the 1950s and Robert de Niro’s boxer in “Raging Bull” in the 1970s further illustrate how the world of boxing—through its characters and their life stories—literally converts the boxing ring into the ring of life—the arena where people virtually are either scarred physically, or marred spiritually. Of course, the latter casualty is more irreparable—deadlier than the physical trauma suffered.

In the lives of all these pugilists—actual or contrived—nothing is more enlightening than the lessons they teach us—they whose lives afford us the chances to become aware of our own struggles and fights in this ring of life.

Anxieties of Influence

Being Atenean, Being Human

As a student in Ateneo de Naga some ten years ago, I understood quite well the Atenean spirit. For me, it meant wonderful things. For one, it meant resoluteness and humility. While we were taught to excel in academics and sports, we were also taught to “just keep it cool,” i.e. offer our failures and successes to the Lord for, above all, everything we do is Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam—“first the kingdom of God.”

It stood for personal ingenuity, a strong sense of belonging, and service. From reading the world’s much-appreciated masterworks in literature and useful inventions in sciences to developing camaraderie and teamwork in most class endeavors, our young lives were exposed to the real world, while being taught to live simply and conscientiously.

Nothing was more worthwhile than the time we would spend with the eternally vibrant Fr. Johnny Sanz and the very warm Fr. Bel[ardo] taking part in outreach activities where we would share quality time with the orphan, the sick, the imprisoned and even the mentally ill.

I think nothing more substantiates any young man’s [or woman’s] education than these simple acts of kindness taught to us in our youth. Here we were taught the ability and the generosity to counter acts of cruelty we would meet anywhere in the world; here we were virtually apprenticed to the real world before our time.

If one were so engrossed in school activities, he would be familiar with these things. Some of us just took “Ateneo” and “being Atenean” seriously; while others must have taken it rhetorically, others just did not take it at all. Somehow, the Atenean spirit has become a unique personal term for each and every, single, one, individual (my apologies to Fr. Rolly Bonoan—the last six words in the previous sentence are his favorite expression when addressing the Ateneo de Naga community).

This “Atenista” spirit would extend to our devotion [read: love] to the Lady of Peñafrancia, the patroness of the Bicol region. In various activities throughout the school year, we would dearly pay homage to Ina, our efforts no less than those of the great medieval knights in quest of the Holy Grail—our blood, sweat, and tears, so to speak, like those of Ignatius in his conversion.

During my college days, Father Jack Phelan to me was a towering figure in the Ateneo community [both literally and figuratively]. More than six inches tall, Father Jack stood as high as the school’s fifth pillar so that everyone would look up to him—not just admiring his magnanimity but perhaps looking for hints of serenity, diligence and above all, simplicity. Like other Jesuits who served God selflessly, the soldier in Phelan had courageously directed his energies serving the Ateneo till the end of his life.

Being Atenean also carried the privilege of learning lifelong lessons. The virtue of temperance was best clarified to me one morning when Fr. Frank Dolan celebrated the Holy Mass before the ROTC battalion. According to the Jesuit priest, a young man’s urge to do something with his sexual faculties before his proper time can be redirected to doing other productive chores like turning to writing or playing sports. This is truth to me because from that sleepy morning when I have heard them, they have never left my sensibility. Through time, I have come to realize, one by one by one—like a domino effect—that temperance is sacrifice is honor is self-effacement is love. Despite the tedium and exhaustion that day, my will power to stay my post in the Delta platoon must have taught me [all I need to know about] patience that even my married life now requires.

In one way or another, we Ateneans as we were called, were made to excel in anything we would do. In those days, it was less a spirit of genuine excellence than it was the excellence of a genuine spirit.

For people who believe in the Ignatian spirituality and who follow it with much ardor, this is the spirit of Ignatius; among other learning, this is what makes life worth living.

But now, you see, I may esteem “being an Atenean” for various reasons. It is a pity when I seem to value the Atenean spirit because of the glory [pride] it entails, the favorable opportunities it carries, or the “greener pasture” that comes with it. Unfortunately, the entire spirit may be lost if the spirit—or that being an Atenista becomes a mere household jargon for excellence—which can mean my inability to accept defeat or failure in all endeavors, or my insensitivity to the needs [for success] of others. The worst of all is for me to reduce it to a mere status symbol, my source of clout or influence.

I who desire anything that has to do with being Atenean ought to know deeply what it entails; I must also be geared up to face anything it brings, for it would entirely be self-contradictory having the Atenean spirit simply because I want to share the pride [and just the payoffs] it connotes.

Why do I like to be associated with the words “Atenista” or “Ateneo”? What does being Atenean really mean? Do I really understand what it means? Aside from excellence—which I might just construe for that never-ending desire to be recognized or to be great—what else is there in my being Atenean? I wonder why, if at all, I esteem the word or its connotation. I just know that I put the name as my car sticker, cheer for the Blue Eagles for the sake of toppling the Green Archers—or simply am obsessed by the blue thing for no apparent reason at all.

The words “Ateneo” or “Atenean” which sound like “Ignatian,” connote many wonderful things. I esteem this spirit always with deference, because the Jesuits, the company of men founded by Ignatius of Loyola, aside from having achieved for the world many wonderful things, have also been a formidable group of intellectuals and social workers whose lives have been directed to help make some things better in the world.

Ignatius of Loyola was a Basque soldier whose life turned around after a cannonball injury made him reflect on directing all his efforts to God. As is perfectly summed in a text message forwarded to me by a fellow Atenean, “Ignatius never really thought of forming a group of priests and brothers. He had worldly dreams: be famous and powerful. But in battle, his leg was shattered, along with his dreams. The painful fall led him to look into his life. [But] God had other plans for him.”

This dramatic story of conversion—of self-effacement, of rededication of one’s energy and efforts to God—is the genuine spirit that must inspire me who is continually enamored by Ignatius’s example. Through the existence of the Jesuits, spanning almost five hundred years so far, Ignatius’s example has been immortalized because his is a legacy that reads beyond the words “Ateneo” or “Atenean.” His is a legacy that stemmed from man’s deep understanding and sincere appreciation of God’s generosity and love and that blossomed into his humble, selfless share of God’s wonderful plan.

Wonderful.

Of Rifts and Distances

Home Life’s 2005 Poetry Third-Prize Winners

By coincidence, both winners in home life’s poetry competition in 2005 have one thing in common. Ulysses Aparece’s Spirit Guides” (Third Prize Winner, English, published in the November 2005 issue) and Jane Patao’s “Tayong Dalawa” (Third Prize Winner, Filipino, published in the February 2005 issue) define individual alienations caused by or brought about by deaths and distances, rifts and ruptures in human relationships.

Spirit Guides
(In keeping with the memory of Clovis and Anthony)
Ulysses Aparece

You were fluent about limits and distances:
Water from its skin, breath of wind
And its own beginning, origin and leap of fires,

But, Anthony, when you fell from a bus in transit—
Briefly suspending in air before kissing the pavement—
And when you, Clovis, yielded to your valued burning liquid,
There you both have defined the farthest distance.

What now: these rivers in search of the resident merman
And the sigbin leaping against wind currents?
The santilmo gathering its fragmented flames
And, lost from his thicket trails, the tambaloslos?

Brothers, my lips are eloquent of your names,
Pleading once again the textures of water,
Movements of our wind, tongues of our fire,
And in our own home, master of topographies.

This is our universe, the exact point
Where our realities, now separate, still meet.
Come and make manifest yourself so shall
In me you live: bubble, breath, warmth, ground.

The Distance Between Us
Sometime in 2003, when poet Alfred Yuson learned of the death of Clovis Nazareno, he then shared in our poetry class some text messages he received from a number of friends in their literary circle.

The death of the poet Clovis inspired more literary pieces from them. One text read—“like the news of the death of a friend, it burst some dam, then was gone…” or something to that effect. Later, Yuson would ask the same class to read Clovis’s poem on geckos and reflect on it. As a tribute, then, he would publish the same poem in his newspaper column.

Of course, nothing can be a more poetic or more promising subject of a poem than the death of a poet himself. In “Spirit Guides,” Aparece similarly seeks to recognize the space rendered visible by the lives of these two poets—Boholanos Clovis Nazareno, who succumbed to a disease, and Anthony Incon, who met a tragic vehicular accident in his youth.

The poet persona recognizes that the dead poets are articulate about boundaries and distances. After a prosaic phrasing of the poets’ deaths, he then portrays how the two lives perhaps poetically, sweetly met their own Joe Blacks. He realizes that their deaths themselves have well defined those they in life sought to define with their words. He therefore hints at the thought that there can never be more poetic than what their lives were. Having lived by virtue of poetry itself, or perhaps teaching by example, they are the epitome of the things they choose to pursue.

Then word-lovers now spirits, the dead poets now do not fail to steer the spirit of the poet persona himself as he “shares their universe.”

The persona’s mention of sigbin, merman, santilmo, tambaloslos ground the poem on the essence of the dead poets now becoming spirits. Speaking of these supernatural beings elevates the image of the dead poets as it continues to inspire the poet persona. They themselves have become the objects of myths or legends.

He says his lips have even become eloquent of their art; now it is itself the master of topographies—including perhaps the distances which the dead poets covered, or failed to do so.

However, more than a fitting tribute to these two poets who crossed to the other dimension, so to speak—Aparece belabors on the fact that these two are indeed ever present in the very lives of any other poet—as if to say, they haven’t really died.

Rather, the distances which their deaths themselves defined well have rendered more familiarity with the poet persona who continues to plead again and again textures of water, exploring the same experience with life as the dead poets had had, seeking perhaps fresher, newer images with which he can give birth to more eloquence and articulation about life itself, or death.

* * *

Like any other literary work, a poem is prone to ambiguity, that state of having more than one meaning. What follows then is a single interpretation of this ambiguous but prizewinning work.

Tayong Dalawa
Jane Patao

Third Prize, Filipino
Home Life 2005 Poetry Contest

Ganito madalas
ang ating senaryo

pupunahin ko
ang kung anumang
kahinaan mo

aawayin mo ako
magkakasagutan tayo
magkakasugatan
ng damdamin at puso

ipaggigiitan mong
pareho lang tayo
hihilingin mong
hindi ako ang ina mo
at sasabihin mong
wala
akong
kuwenta
sa iyo

dito huhupa ang galit ko
dito—
sapaw ang lungkot ko

Madonna and the Child
No other song of a mother can be sadder than this piece by a new name from Tarlac. Jane Patao’s “Tayong Dalawa” renders the most lucid tension between mother and her child. In the verbal tussle between mother and child, it is the mother persona herself who gives in—the mother persona defines herself—being a mother.

The poem’s play with words is also effective and quite intelligently executed to effect an emotional intention—“magkakasagutan” and “magkakasugatan” deliver the literal and the figurative images of tension and rift between the characters. The mother persona’s reception of the fight is everything that rends her heart—it rips her open, lays her bare and vulnerable.

One essence of the poem resonates a scene in Luis Mandoki’s Message in a Bottle, in which Garrett Blake (Kevin Costner) and his father Dodge (Paul Newman) are having a verbal altercation on pursuing Theresa Osborne. The father is urging his son to pursue Theresa because she is a special woman to him. Garrett brushes his father off, goes out of the bar, and says (of Theresa) it’s none of his business. Dodge flares up, and tells his son that it is his business because it is his son’s business. Then he asks him what his use is if he doesn’t see to his son’s concerns and issues.

Similarly here the mother breaks down after hearing from her child “wala siyang kuwenta sa kanya”—in these very words the child can denigrate his or her mother. Her words of concern indeed only merit the child’s curses and even accusations which break the mother’s heart through and through.

The drama heightens in the part when the mother is spurned by no less than her own child—this is what maims the mother, this is what makes her “mum,” not “mom” [anymore]. This is what makes the parent feel more worthless—nothing more painful can rip a mother’s heart than when her child realizes [or not at all] that her mother is useless to her children.

The poem ends in the persona’s grief—read: gross unhappiness. The poem ends in tension itself. Indeed, the poet’s task to convey her sense is completed, as the conflict between the characters involved in the poetic image is never resolved.

Homecummings

Reading the Second-Prize Winners
of the 2005 Home Life Poetry Contest

FUNDAMENTAL
(IN MEMORIAM: FELINO ARITAO VILLALVA GARCIA, 1925–2002)
Felino Garcia

Father walked out of our house
dragging his feet heavy with age.

When he rested,
he sat in his wheelchair
beneath the shade of the santol tree
hiding the sun-rinsed clouds.

Days later, something tore at my chest
when I saw him in his hospital gown,
tube down his throat…

Last night I dreamed of father walking
light-footed, weightless like air,
out of his body
as if he had long wanted to leave the body,
the fever, the shivers,
the endless restlessness—lakat ‘t, mapuli ‘ta
and pain—Toto, kasakit, masakit…
on the thin white sheet

and float

up those intravenous needles.
past the oxygen tanks and respirator,
beyond the day’s last
remaining

light—

Father walking into his new home
without roof nor door
in the boundless
sky.


In this cliché, sentimental verse by a son about his father, the younger Felino Garcia laments the death of his parent who has the same name as himself who succumbed to a disease in a hospital bed.

Modern poetry, they say, is still considered poetic and highly artistic even if it reads so prosaic. Why? Perhaps because life’s experience is such. And to turn it into a poem is to elevate the experience for much appreciation.

Here, the son persona relates his father’s story in two parts—the first presents his father as a weak patient, “dragging his feet heavy with age.” He is being wheeled to the yard, where the son saw the sun-rinsed clouds. Such images of nature.


AGUA DE MAYO
Kristian Cordero

Hinimay natin nang matiyagang-matiyaga
Ang muling pagbagsak ng mga luha
Sa bahaging ito naitom ang pisngi ng langit
Alam nating darating ito ngayong gabi,
Walang buwan, ang mga bituin nakatulog
Samantalang gumuguhit ang kidlat at kulog,
Ang ihip ng hangin tumatagos sa laman,
Malamig ngunit tayo’y pinagpapawisan.
Walang ekspresyon ang ating mga mukha,
Ngunit mabilis ang pintig ng ating mga puso,
Nababagabag sa pangambang bumabalot
Sakaling di bumuhos ang ulan ngayong gabi,
Dala ang tubig na siyang hihilom sa sugat na dulot
Ng katotohanang ngayong gabi lang tayo
Maaaring magsama’t maging totoo
Dahil bukas, mag-iiba tayo ng mga anyo,
Iisang uri ng damit ang ating isusuot,
Maliligo sa parehong banyo, kakain nang sabay,
Mag-aaral sa pinaghalo-halong pilosopiya,
Iipunin ang mga natuyong dahon ng akasya,
Susunugin at hahayaang paglaruan ng pantasya,
Mag-uusal ng mga panalanging litaniya
At pag-uusapan ang ilang mga bagay
Na parang mga bata at walang malay
Sa kung ano ang nangyari nu’ng nakaraang dilim
Habang hinihintay natin ang unang pagbuhos
Ng ulan na alam nating di dumating ngunit
Nagising tayong basang-basa
At di makatingin sa isa’t isa.

“I’m coming out, I want the world to know…” goes a radio jingle. The same is true for this poem about a cloistered persona who vacillates between being cloistered himself perhaps in a seminary and being able to break free, and fling himself open to expressing his own true self.

Utos ng Pari

Sa National Press Congress na itinaguyod ng Publishers Association of the Philippines, Inc. (PAPI) sa Hyatt Regency at Ambassador Hotel sa Maynila noong 2003—halos isang dekada na ang nakalilipas—nakatawag ng aking pansin ang keynote address ng batikanong mediaman na si Fr. James Reuter, S.J., isang paring Heswitang nakapaglingkod na sa bayan nang halos anim nang dekada.

Binigyang diin ni Reuter ang value o pagpapahalaga ng tao sa kanyang sarili. Ani Reuter, ang value ng world sa ngayon ay “take”—lahat ng ginagawa ng tao sa kasalukuyan ay puro pansarili lamang. Sa halip, hinamon ng paring Heswita ang mga taga-mediang tingnan ang value ng gospel—o ang value ng “give.” Wala nang ibang tumpak na halimbawa ang pagpapahalagang ito kundi ang kahulugan ng Christmas—o ang pagsilang ng Mesias sa mundong makasalanan.

Malugod na naging makabuluhan ang panayam ito nang mag-react ang mga media audience sa open forum pagkatapos ng lecture ni Reuter. Nang tinanong si Reuter ng isang peryodista tungkol sa ano ang pwede niyang gawin laban sa paglaganap ng mga smut publications sa paligid, mariin ang tugon nitong itigil ang paglathala ng mga bold pictures ng mga babae sa mga tabloid. Subalit tulad ng inaasahan, halong reaksyon ang sumalubong sa opinyon ng pari.

Base sa mga diskusyon ng mga peryodista, hati ang kanilang paninindigan sa usaping ito. Kampante na ang ibang mamamahayag sa pagbasura ng ganitong uri ng publikasyon. Sa kabilang dako, ang mungkahing ito ay hindi ganoon kapraktikal sa mga peryodistang diumano’y “nabubuhay” sa paglathala ng nasabing materyal dahil sila ay mga publishers ng mga ito.

Nang hinamon ng paring Heswita ang mga tagamedia na pag-ibayuhin ang value ng Gospel—“give” o maging mapagbigay sa Kristiyanong sense nito, hinamon niya na rin ang sensibilidad ng bawat peryodistang dumalo sa komperensya. Gaano ba kahanda ang mga Pilipinong mamamahayag sa hamong ito?

Ano na nga ba ang value ng media sa kasalukuyan? Ilan pa nga bang mga mamamahayag ang nagtatrabaho tungo sa kabutihan, tungo sa masasabing moral na kamalayan o pagkatao?

Harapin natin ang kasalukuyang katotohanan—iba ang sinasabi ng realidad sa idinidikta ng moralidad. Hindi natin nakikita sa tunay na buhay ang mga retorikang ibinibandilyo ng mga pangulong-tudling sa mga peryodiko, ang sinasabing kaluluwa ng pahayagan, na siya ring makapagsasabi rin tungkol sa kaluluwa ng may-ari ng pahayagan.

Ang sagot sa ganitong tanong ay magpapakakilala atin sa sa dalawang uri ng mamamahayag na Pilipino. Narito ang dilema na sinasabi ng buhong na peryodista. Kung ang isang pahayagan ay nabibili dahil may mga hubad na babae ito sa cover, ano ang mangyayari kung aalisin mo ang mga come-on elements na ito. Wala bang ibang choice ang publisher maliban dito? Hindi pa maaaring mabili ang isang peryodiko kung walang Sam Pinto o Christine Reyes na nakabuyangyang sa cover?

Subalit narito naman ang sagot ng pwede nating sabihing endangered nang journalist. Aniya, maaari ka namang makapaghikayat ng mambabasa sa iyong pahayagan kung ito’y hitik sa impormasyon, pagsisiyasat at analisis ng mga isyung nakakaapekto sa general public. Napagkasunduan din doon na walang ibang pang-akit ang isang matinong pahayagan kundi ang pagiging puno nito ng kaaalaman para sa mambabasa. Marahil ay hindi naman lubhang kailangan ng mambabasa ang sex—maliban na lang kung ang isang pamayanan ay isang sibilisasyon ng mga perverts o sex addicts.

Anila, there is more to publication come-on than sex. Mas magiging mabenta ang pahayagang puno ng makabuluhang isyu at analisis ng mga isyu. Halimbawa na lang, mas magugustuhan ng mga mambabasa ang kopya ng pahayagang hindi niya ikahihiyang basahin sa loob ng MRT dahil wala itong starlets na  malagkit na nakakatitig sa parehong lalaki at babaeng pasaherong nakakaangkas ng mambabasa sa tren. Kailangan lang na ma-educate nang maayos ang mga mambabasa.

Nang sinabi ni Reuter na ang media ang pinakamakapangyarihan instrumento para magturo nang matino sa sangkatauhan, nakita kong hinamon ni Reuter ang bawat mediaman na tingnan ang kanyang sariling bakuran—at simulant niyang walisin ang lugar na yaon—tipunin ang kalat at dumi palabas ng kanyang sariling tugsaran. Sa huli, nakakaawa ang mambabasang tinuturuan ng media ng katotohanan kung ang mga katotohanang kanilang isinasaalang-alang ay iyong mga makapagpapababa ng kanilang pagkatao.

Know thyself, ika nga ng isang dakilang Griyego ng makaunang panahon. Ang mga klasikong kamalayang tulad nito ang gagabay sa atin para suriin ang ating sariling sensibilidad sa ating mga ginagawa sa kasalukuyan. Sa ganyang paraan laman natin masasabing tayo’y mga stewards ng katotohanan. At dahil diyan, tayo’y higit na magiging karapatdapat na basahin ng sangkatauhan.