'Pan-Academic'

Nagluók na naman si Venancio! Siisay si kairiba?” hapot samò ni Mrs. Avila, si maestra mi kadto sa Grade 5.

“Ma’am, sa Carlito po, tapos si Sanchez, iyo man!” simbag mi.

Poon kadto sagkod ngonyan, ngalás ako kun saìn hálî an taramon na “lu-ók” sa Bikol, na an buot sabihon saná, “buradol” (sa Bikol man), na garo man sana “bulakbol” sa Tagalog, o “cutting class” sa Ingles. 

Dai daw ni hali man sana sa “lóko,” o “lokó” siring sa “lokólokó”? Na siertong hali sa Espanyol na “loco” (meaning “crazy”):

Kan magLU-OK si Venancio kaidto, dai na tinapos kaini si klase mi maghapon. Pagkapangudto niya daa nin prinitos na sira tapos malutô na pinatos sa linubluban na dahon-batag, mayô mi na siya nahiling pag Industrial Arts, sa klase ni Mr. Olarve sa balyong building.

“Ma’am, nagparapantirador po to nin gamgam”, sabi kan iba. O kawasa taga-Banase, tibaad man “pigsugo kan si magurang na mag-uli nin amay” ta “harayo pa an babaklayon patukad”, sabi pa ninda. 

Alagad si Carlito na taga-Iraya man sana, harani sa eskwelahan, tibaad “nagparararawraw sana kairiba sa Simon, nagpaturuyatoy daa sa Katangyanan. “Baad nagtirirador man.”

“Hilingon ta daw, kun siisay an pigloLOKO ninda. Pag naaraman kong nagruLU-ÓK man nanggad sinda, tapos nagparakaraluwág, mahihiling ninda!” hirit ni Ma’am na Avila.

(Mayo pang Child Protection Policy kadto sa DepEd kaya safe pa si Ma’am sa mga comment niyang ini. Mayo pang mareklamong magurang.)

Kun arog kaini an istorya, pwedeng sabihon na an “lu-ók” hali man sana sa Bikol o Tagalog na “lóko.” 

 Iyo gayod: an pag-LU-ÓK, daing kinaiba nanggad sa pag-”LOKÓ”.

 Na hali man sana sa Espanyol na loco (meaning “crazy”). In English, meanwhile, “loco” is an informal or slang term meaning insane, strange, eccentric or stupid. Sabi kan Kano: “Low-kow”.

 I first heard the term “lu-ók” as a pupil in a public elementary school which I attended for six years, from ‘82 to ‘88. “Nagluók” or “paralú-ok” referred to someone who went to school but not finished the entire day. 

 “Paglulu-ók” could happen during the morning recess when a pupil wouldn’t return anymore after taking snacks (An sabi ninda nagbakal saná nin chicheria, idto palan, nag-uli na!).

 It was also when the pupil wouldn’t be present in class before the start of the afternoon session, just after lunch (today, perhaps that would already be considered a half-day absence); and even toward the end of the last period in the afternoon, just before the Flag Retreat at around 4 p.m. 

 I wonder if the same thing happened in private schools during the time. Their (close and closed) monitoring wouldn’t have allowed the pupils to go out of the campus randomly or skip classes as they pleased.

 But even if they did so, why the term “lu-ók”? Where did the word come from? 

 Kun “buradol” para sa “cutting class”, OK lang: Madali sanang isipon kun pâno an buradol nagin cutting class:

 Siisay man bayâ an aking dai mamuyang magpalayog kan saiyang buradol (kite), orog na pag naaraman kaining nagduman si Ma’am ninda sa Principal’s Office ta igwa daang conference?

 Winalat ni Ma’am sinda sa sarong kaklase: tapos igwang pinapakopya sa blackboard. Kaya sabi kan aki, “O, ‘mos na kamo! Karawat kita sa luwas!” 

 Ito palan buminalik pa si Ma’am ninda ta halipot man sana an meeting kaini. Kaya pagsarabing yaon na si Ma’am, duminulág na sana siya. “Ano ko, mapa-rapado? Dai na ko mabalik!” 

 Dai na nag-Flag Retreat ta úto kaiba si kaklase niya sa likod kan eskwelahan harani na sa may kanipaan. Duman nagparaparaláyog kan saindang buradol. 

 Dai ta man masasabing nagkulang si strategy ni Ma’am na engganyaron su mga eskwela niya ta nganing mag-aradal. Kawasâ aki pa, mas magayon an magrawraw sa luwas, sa mahiwas na kawatan, lalo na sa luwas sana kan eskwelahan. Kaya imbis na magbasa kan pigsugong istorya sa librong Balarila, “nagbururadol” (saranggola) na sana. 

 But to me the term was always “lu-ók,” or “nagluók,” which eventually became “cutting class” when I stepped into high school. 

Halagwat si lumpat kan terminolohiya, hali sa Mother Tongue sa barrio school na (lu-ók), pasiring sa English idiom sa Jesuit school sa Bagumbayan na (cutting-class).

 In Ateneo, I hardly remember “buradol” being used to refer to cutting class. Back then, besides “cutting class,” there was another, more familiar term: “O.B.”, or “Over the Bakod.”  

This was when Ateneo boys, avoiding the guard house in front of the Four Pillars, were caught (skipping school by) climbing over the fence bordering barangay Sta. Cruz at the back of the Gym or the one in barangay Queborac on the other side, ironically near the old Jesuit Residence. Hidden best from the keen watch of the guards or even some school officials, these were the most strategic spots for O.B. 

 But I wonder if it were called “Over the Kudal,” it must have made it certainly “O.K.” 

 But since it was O.B., surely it became a problem, an “OBstruction,” especially if you were caught by Mr. Chancoco or Sir Gene Segarra of the OPD (Office of the Prefect of Discipline). 

 If you were caught on O.B., be prepared to do Jug and Post. Jug was when you were assigned to write a particular text on an unspecified amount of paper until you finished. Or until the day finished. Or until Mr. Chancoco or Mr. Segarra “closed shop.” Post was when you were tasked to do a community service of sorts inside the campus, like clean some office or help the Buildings and Grounds staff in their work.

Had done jug; had done post, (penalties for other misdemeanors) , but modesty aside: never done O.B. 

 Even now, I wouldn’t feel proud if I had done otherwise. There was simply no way I could have cut class in those days. “Tano man ta ma-LU-ÓK ako? O ma-buradol? O ma-O.B.? Pinapaadal na kong libre, madulag pa ko?” Saboot ko sana, “Siisay man an lúgi?”

 I mean: why leave the school, why go over the fence, when there was much to do then inside; when there was “everything to be” there, inside the fences (or more poetic: walls? portals?) of the Ateneo? 

 Well, those were the days before it became Ar’neo. Now I certainly wouldn’t know.

 Dangan, pag-abot sa college sa parehong eskwelahan, “cutting class” became an unacceptable term, almost non-existent, a misnomer, as it were. Especially when young adults, (but still teenagers: 17, eighTEEN, nineTEEN?) like us pursuing ‘higher’ learning became so engaged in studies, excited and can’t hardly wait for “life  to happen”. 

 In college, freedom from school (read: classroom instruction) was so enormous because the free cuts or three or four sessions per subject allowed us to attend to other non-academic interests like clubs, organizations, and...

 And of course, Batibot, the (octagon-shaped or circular) gazebo where student clubs, organizations and yes, fraternities and sororities converged. This was where we went when we felt we needed to take a break whenever we classmates or org-mates felt ‘stifled’ by the academic workload. This was also where we were invited to pursue all other sorts of (“bottled up”) interests outside the walls of the school.

 If we really had to cut class, it was more concealed subtly as “org meeting; may meeting kita sa org”. Or “research,” that ubiquitous, overrated word in college: “Sain kamo hali?” “Nag-research sa lib.” “Kamo?”  “Ma-research man.” 

 “Research.” What a word.

 “Research” or not, cutting class was not the term used. It was: Meeting, Practice, Tryouts. Or mobi. Or Rally. These were the other reasons for cutting class. Or availing ourselves of the three or four cuts allowed per subject. Of course, we were allowed all these; yet sometimes depending on the teacher, we squeezed them hard for allowances so that we ended up haggling with them.

 Well, “research” or not, it was easy to cut class in college.  Though as freshmen we belonged to a certain block section and had the same subjects and schedules, we could already choose what to attend and what not to attend.

 “Research” or not, it was rather really easier to cut class in college. Especially when we hadn’t done the assigned reading (which was simply Homework or Assignment or Takdang Aralin in kindergarten, grade school or high school). 

 Even if we chose not to attend a certain class or cut it short, it was needed because we were swamped by both academic and non-academic commitments we never knew we’d gotten ourselves into.

 “Research” or not, it was simply impossible to not cut class when you’re in college. To some, it was simply not cool, to have a perfect attendance in one class. But for others who vied for top honors, it was also unacceptable.

 “Cut class?” Hardly rings a bell. “O.B.”? Can’t relate; so, not applicable. How about college: we had “research,” “meetings,” and “more meetings” instead? So they were not “cutting classes”, as mentioned. They were rather more productive pursuits. 

 But to me, the first term I knew is always the most emphatic: “lu-ók”, or “naglu-ók”. It’s the first word I knew on this; but up till now it puzzles me where the word came from. 

 Saìn daw hálî an “lu-ók’?

 Makangirit tâ an mga teacher dai ta pwedeng sabihan na: “Naglu-ók si Ma’am kansuudma (Our teacher cut class yesterday)” o “Nagburadol baga si Sir (Our teacher went out, somewhere, probably to his ‘House by the Prairie’)”. 

Truth be told, kun mayo man maestrang “nagluluók”, ano an apod ta sa mga teacher na nagka-”cut class” man? (Nagpa-Naga kaya si Ma’am kansubâgo  ta nag-file nin salary loan sa Castea, o Camarines Sur Teachers Association. Palibhasa kulang an suweldo: anong magiginibo mo?) 

 So, ano an apod ta sa mga teacher na dai na tinapos si saindang klase?

 “Mayô daa si Ma’am.”

 “Yeheeey! Mayô si Ma’am! Uruliaaan!”

 

#BikolBeautiful

 

 

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

All the Sadness in the World

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

Girok: Erotika, 2017

An Girok: Erotika sarong librong katiripunan kan mga rawitdawit, halipot na usipon, dakitaramon, iskrip sa pelikula, komposisyon asin obra kan mga Bikolanong artista. Nasa nobentang mga Bikolano an nag-arambag tangani na mahaman an antolohiyang ini.

Pigpublikar an librong ini kan Kabulig Bikol, Inc. sa pakikipagtabangan man kan V.C. Igarta Foundation for the Arts, New York, U.S.A. Ipiglunsar an librong ini kan Enero 2017 durante kan ika-limang Pagsurat Bikolnon na ginanap sa Camarines Sur Polytechnic Colleges, in Nabua, Camarines Sur.

Ini an nagkakapirang mga tuyaw manungod sa libro

“Harayo-harani an hiling, parong, tanog, namit, hapiyap kan puso asin sensibilidad. Ini an duon kan Girok: senswal sa laman, nangkikitik; senswal sa isip, nagpapangalas, nagpapalayog. Mateng-matè ta an arualdaw nagdadanay sa hararumon na bubon, sa dakulaon na natad. An tikwil kan dagâ nagigin osipon nin mundo. An sagid kan tagiti nagigin masulog na salog. An huringhuding kan panganuron sa banggi nagrarawitdawit kinaagahan. Ta girok man nanggad an duon kan sensibilidad Bikolnon. Pirmi nang may tama, may masiram na pulikat.”—Merlinda Bobis

“An Girok bakong saro na naman sanáng katiripunan nin mga pagsurat Bikolnon kundi sarong napapalain na pagkadukay kun pànong an imahinasyon—urog na idtong napapalinya sa eros—pwedeng magin sarong paagi nin pasaysay na arte na malighang minakitik sa agimadmad kan parabasa, alagad minatukdo sainda na masabutan an kahulugan kan mga bagay-bagay na danay kutâ sanáng malibog asin harayo.”—Greg Castilla

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.

Bolaobalite, 1976

Ma, pasensiya dai na ko nakapaaram saimo
amay-amay pa si first trip marhay ngani
ta nakasakay ako. Dai ta ka na pigmata
paggios ko ta turog-turog ka pa, pagal-pagal
kakaaling ki Nonoy pirang banggi na man
nagpaparapastidyo; pero kun kinakarga ko,
pwerte man baga, nagsisilencio.

Hilingon ko na sana tibaad yaon na
man ko diyan sa Sabado. Pero sabi mo
man ngonyan na semana tibaad mag-abot
na si Onding ni Jeremias. Marhay kun siring
ta igwa na kitang mawalatan kan mga sadit.

Digdi sa eskwelahan, siribot naman kami
ngonyan ta muya kan mga maestrang
mag-Christmas party kaiba kan mga magurang
sa plaza—apwera pa kan sa mga kaakian.
Nahugos na samo an PTA kaya dakulon
gibohon ko digdi. Mga lesson plan ngani
dai ko pa ubos macheck-an. Pero marhay
man ta igwa ako digding masarigan.

Kansubanggi—iparayo nin Dios—
nagralaen naman si pagmati ko. Nagimata ako
sa init; ginagaranot ako; basa-basa si sakong
ulunan, tumtom pati higdaan. Pero tinutumar ko
si bulong na pigreseta kadto sa Naga. Dai ka na
maghadit ta maboot man si May Peling; siya
an kasera ko digdi. Pinapatundugan niya ko ka’yan
sa mga aki nin pangudtuhan o minsan mirindalan.

Nurong semana, makompleanyo ka na baga
kaya maghalat-halat ka ta ako may surpresa.

Pákrit

Kun pákrit ka, tinutuyo mo gayod na magtíos ka. “I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor and believe me, rich is better,” sabi kan sarong artistang Amerikana. Pamoso siyang agít-agitan na minátaram kan nasasaboot alágad habong ihambal kan ibá. Pero tibáad salâ siya. Makahirák man nánggad kun pinapatíos kita kan ibá. Alagad magayonon gayod kun an talagang magtíos muyá ta—mayo kitang gayong problema; mas marhay an salud ta; mas matawhay kaysa kun mayamanon kita. Naiináan an satong mga kahâditan; napaparâ an satong mga kanigoan. Idtong mga nagsurumpâ sa buhay ninda nin chastity, obedience kag poverty—ginpanumdom nindang mangín mas maogma. Ngonyan maogma nanggad sinda. Nungka ka man pagsabihang matios ka ta ngani sanáng makapagsolsol ka. Magdesider kang magtíos ta ngáni sanáng mag-áyo an buhay mo. Dai ka magparápayáman, mas magigi kang maogmá.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon

ihambal, sabihon

matawhay, trangkilo

kag, sagkod

ginpanumdom, inisip

mangin, maging

mag-áyo, maging marhay

Susog sa “Frugality” na yaon sa Worldy Virtues: A Catalogue of Reflections ni Johannes Gaertner. New York: Viking, 1994, 15.

Man in Your Life

Nagpundo an garong motorsiklo sa natad mo; yaon na naman palan siya saimo—siring kan bagyong paabot daa saindo ngonyan na mauranon na Domingo. Tumigil ang parang motorsiklo sa bakuran mo. Nariyan na naman pal siya saiyo. Gaya ng paparating na naman na bagyo ngayong maulang Linggo.

Garo ka naman mataranta; dai mo aram an gigibohon ta maabot na naman siya; pakarhay ka naman kan mga gamit nindo; mahimos ka bago siya mag-abot digdi’ho. Para ka na namang mataranta. Hindi mo na naman alam ang gagawin kasi paparatin na siya. Parang hindi mo maayos-ayos ang mga gamit sa bahay ninyo.

Nag-ayos ka na kan sadiri mo; nagpagayon, nagpustura, pwerte an atado. Pagbukas mo kan pinto, yaon na siya; nakangirit saimo na garong kakakanon ka. Inayos mo na ang sarili mo. Nagpaganda ka, nagpustura, ang ganda ng porma mo. Pagbukas mo ng pinto, nariyan na siya, nakangiti saiyo na parang kakainin ka.

Nagkakalâ-kágâ na an tubig na ininit mo; may pambányos ka sa nauranán niyang payó. Kumukulo na ang tubig na nilaga mo; mayroon ka nang panghugas sa nabasa niyang ulo.

Makanoson an lalaki, sabi ninda saimo; saiya dai ka magrani, hulit ninda saimo. Saboot mo: anong labot nindo? Matagas an payo mo. Ang pangit ng lalaki, yan ang sabi nila saiyo. Iwasan mo siya, payo nila saiyo. Sabi mo: anong paki nyo? Ang tigas ng ulo mo.

An kamatangaan kan kabanggihan iyo sana an saindong espasyo; dawa sa luwas na nagsasalimagyo mayo naman kamong pakimano. Ang hatinggabi lang ang inyong espasyo. Kahit sa labas bumabagyo wala kayong pakialam.

Binabayo kan duros an saindong estada; iniidong-idongan nindo pigpaparamúda. Pag-abot kan matangâ sa saindong istaran, nagtatangis garong mga kalag na dai namisahan. Binabayo ng hangin ang inyong kinalalagyan. Ginabuyayaw ang inyong kinaroroonan. Pagdating ng hatinggabi sa inyong tahanan, umiiyak ang ulan na parang kaluluwang hindi namisahan.

Dinudururos an mahamot niyang parong saimo; pigrurunot na mga dahon ining mga kanigoan mo. Nag-uungol na duros an siram kan simbagan nindo.Nagraragaak na sanga an pwersa niya sa kalunuhan mo.

An Satong Kakanon sa Aroaldaw, 2015

An Satuyang Kakanon Sa Aroaldaw/Ang Ating Biyaya sa Araw-Araw is a collection of poems in several Bikol languages featuring 25 contemporary poets.

Edited and translated into Filipino by Kristian Cordero. Published by Komisyon sa Wikang Filipino with funding grants from the National Commission for Culture and the Arts.

Second-rate, Trying-hard

Joey Ayala at Cafe Terraza, Roxas City, Capiz

ROXAS CITY—Wala nang original sa mga Pilipino artist ngayon. Pare-pareho na lang ang tunog nila; gaya-gaya lang sila. This was the essence of what Joey Ayala said during my conversation—well, informal interview—with him in October last year here.

The Mindanao-born artist also known as the “Karaniwang Tao” (from one of his hit songs ) was hinting at the consciousness of the Filipino music artists nowadays —and how their work is rather determined by Western influences. 

Through the auspices of the Capiz Provincial Tourism and Affairs Office (PTCAO) headed by Mr. Alphonsus Tesoro​, I had the chance to personally meet with Ayala during the Heritage Camp sponsored by Capiz PTCAO. And as per Tesoro, with the assistance of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA), Capiz had the chance to see Joey Ayala for the second time.

Speaking before some 300 student participants at the Capiz National High School during the students semestral break, Ayala practically brought the house down with his rapport with the young learners and leaders who represented their respective municipalities across the province. 

Among other things, Ayala underscored how a nation’s history, heredity, culture, lifestyle and a sense of identity give rise or bear on the consciousness of the individual. For him, the consciousness of the Filipino is determined by his present dispositions acquired gradually through a generation of cultural influences.

In other words, the way we think is influenced by what only prevails in our culture and environment. So, if a Filipino child has long been taught that commodities from the United States are “original’ and therefore “cool” while all products made in the Philippines are “local,” such consciousness will hardly change in his lifetime. He will grow up looking to, patronizing and, yes, worshipping anything that is estetsayd (State-side).

So shouldn't we wonder why many Filipinos would love to pursue their own American dream? For one, not too many in our batch in high school remained in our locality. Subconsciously, it has been made clear that to be successful is to go out of the hometown and make it big in the bigger city where supposedly all the perks of t

echnology; a promising, high-paying job; a successful career; and probably a better life await.

As for the Filipino music artists, Ayala’s claim at the beginning of this piece rings true, indeed, even as growing up, we have come to hear our very own Filipino singers being carbon copies of the Western sensibility.

Upon hearing Ayala’s verdict, I easily recalled how my own favorite alternative bands Cueshe, Hale and a host of similar other bands who rose to prominence in the Tunog Kalye scene in 2000s, indeed, only resonated the vocals and acoustics of Creed, 3 Doors Down, and what-have-you.

You also have the likes of Arnel Pineda and Jovit Baldovino being hailed for singing just like Journey’s Steve Perry and other rock artists who could reach high notes. I also recall hearing over an FM station eons ago how Ilonggo Jose Mari Chan is said to be the Cliff Richard of the Philippines—because of his balladeer sensibility.

I also recall reading one review in the Philippine Collegian back in the 1990s, saying how Cookie Chua’s then-upcoming group Color It Red sounds very much like Natalie Merchant’s 10,000 Maniacs. 

Later I would read about Gary Valenciano being our very own Michael Jackson, owing to the dance moves of the perennial superstar; Regine Velasquez belting it out like Mariah Carey—though the latter later referred to the former as “A BROWN MONKEY WHO CAN SING;” then the list goes on.

I also recall my high school classmates Alfredo and Delfin (who are Roxette and Madonna die-hards, respectively) constantly berated the musical pieces of Original Pilipino Music (OPM) artists who, along with their U.S. Billboard chartmakers, also enjoyed airtime on FM radio stations at the time.

Talk of colonial mentality at its worst—talk of Western parameters always being used to critique Filipino artistry and originality.

So, are contemporary Filipino music artists, indeed, unoriginal—only rather best at copying what they hear? Or is their mentality so westernized already that they cannot help but sound like anything they hear from other countries—especially United States? Is it our consciousness that is so jaded enough to not anymore believe in what the Filipino artist can achieve?

My brief conversation with Joey Ayala has not given me answers; it only raised more questions.

Susog Salog, 2015

Susog Sálog: The Naga River Arts and Culture Initiative Manual for K-12 Teachers. 2015

Gayón

An pisikal na gayón na itinao sana sa tawo—iyo ni an kinakahâditan niya. Dapat orog niyang panumdumon idtong gayón na pwede niyang mapangyari o magibo; ukon itong gayón na pwedeng maparâ o mawarâ. Kaipuhan ta daw magin gayón o magin pirming magayón? Dai gayod. Bako sa sibilisasyon tang ini. Dawa ngani ginadayaw ta idtong mga bagay na mararahay—kaayuhan, kamatuuran, kagayónan.

Napabayaan nang gáyo an gayón sa mga panahon na nakaagi. Alagad ngonyan na mga panahon, an kagayunan na rugaring kan mga diyos sagkod diyosa kan mga Griyego—siempre pa, an gayon na nakukua sa marahay, maboot, marahay an salud, malinig, hipos kag mayad na paminsaron—an mga ini sinasabing rekisitos na ngonyan kan siisay man na tawo, bako na sana kan mga milyonaryo ukon mga tawong yaon sa pwesto. Manongod man sa gayón na naitao sa kada saro sato, dai kita mamroblema, dawa na babaye ka pa. An totoong gayón bako man gabos yaon sa pisikal na komposisyón.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon

panumdumon, isipon

ukon, o

ginadayaw, inoomawkaayuhan, karahayan

kamatuuran, katotoohan

hipos, tuninong

mayad, marhay

paminsaron, pag-iisip

 

Susog sa “Beauty” na yaon sa Worldly Virtues: A Catalogue of Reflections ni Johannes A. Gaertner. New York: Viking Press , 1994.

Hírak

Iyo ni an birtud kan mga santo—an kalangkabaan kan siisay man na kalag. An mga nagmukna kan darakulang pagtúo sa mundo nabibisto sa saindang kapas na magtios kaiba kan mga nagtitíos, na magsakit kaiba kan mga nagsasakit—ukon makidumamay sa pagmundo, pagsakit asin pagtios kan iba. An pagkamoot na dai nin pagkaherak bakong pagkamoot kundi saro sanang pagmâwot.

Dawa na ngani masasabi tang saro nang kalangkabaan kan kalag an maherak—na nungka magigibo kan tampalasan na tawo o kaidtong mayo sa sadiring hwisyo—an matúod na pagkahirak dai natatapos diyan.

Dae bastanteng malúoy ka sana. Ini ipinapadayon sa pakiistorya, sa paglinga; sa pagbulong, sa pagtabang, sa pag-ataman kan iba. Kun nahihírak ka, namomoot kang sobra.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon
pagtúo, pagtubod
ukon, o
matúod, totoo

Susog sa “Compassion” na yaon sa Worldly Virtues: A Catalogue of Reflections ni Johannes A. Gaertner. New York: Viking Press, 1994, 63.

Dúnong

Bakô man marhay, bakô man maraot; alagad sa kahaluyan, nagkaigwa na ini nin maláin na kahulugan. Ngonyan an dúnong daa—ukon tálî sa ibang pagtaram—an gusto nang sabihon pagmamaneobra sa búhay kan ibá ukon pag-adimuhán kan sarong tawo na makabentahe sa ibá. Sa sini nga tiempo, an mga maálam na tawo, nasasabi na man na mga túso. Alagad an madunong na tawo iyo idtong an ginigibo bakong suwáy sa háwak—sa gabos na oras siya marigmat. Sa kada hirô niya, minalikáy siya na an ibang tawo sa maráot dai madámay. An mga darakulang santo, praktikal na, madudunong pa. Kun an sarong tawo mayád, madunong siya man nanggad. Syempre man, bakong gabos na madudunong, mayád; kag bako man gabos na bakong madunong na tawo, mayád na tawo.

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon

ukon, o

sini nga, ining

maálam, matali

mayád, marháy

Susog sa “Cleverness” na yaon sa Worldly Virtues: A Catalogue of Reflections ni Johannes A. Gaertner. New York: Viking Press, 1994, 46.

Horóphórop

Iyo man nanggad ni an gustong sabihon kan librong ini. An pagpapangadie kaidto iyo na an paghohoróphórop ngonyan. Pakikipag-ulay sa Dios an pagpapangadie. Ngonyan na mga aldaw, pwedeng nagtutubod kita sa Dios alagad nadidipisilan kitang magtubod sa nagigibo niya sato, o sa puwede niyang gibohon para sato.

Dawa ngani an gabos na kaginhawahan sagkod kasiguruhan na nakukua kaidto sa paagi kan pagpapangadie dai nakukua sa paghoróphórop, kadaklan sa mga ini puwedeng makua. Mayo na man kitang ibang pwedeng gibohon pa.

Sabi ngani kan pilosopong Aleman na si Karl Jaspers, an buhay ta sarong patóod; dangan an dapat tang gibohon, tôdan ta ini. Maaaraman ta asin maiintindihan an kahulugan kaini kun kita may trangkilong pag-iisip; napapades-pades ta an mga sinasabing kolor kan búhay; namamatean ta an drama mantang nasasabotan an sistema.

Sa paghoróphórop, maiintindihan ta an buhay. Iyo ni an magiginibo ta sa parte ta.  Pwede ta man mahiling an kaliwanagan alagad bako bilang premyo, kundi komo regalo. Kun kita minatoktok sa pwertahan, dai man gustong sabihon na makakalaog na tulos kita. Alagad kun dai man kita magpanoktok, mayo man kitang tsansa.

Susog sa “Meditation” na yaon sa Worldly Virtues: A Catalogue of Reflections ni Johannes Gaertner. New York: Viking Press, 1994, p. 26.

Alumni Homecoming

Susog ki David Ray

Abaana! Ano man daw ta nakabali ako

sa grupo kan mga polongóng iniho—

mayo nang giniribo ngonyan na banggi

kundi mag-irinuman tapos magharambugan—

túgbo digdi, túgbo duman, garo man daa

ngonyan lang naman nagkanuruparan.

Mayo na nin ibang pig-iristoryahan

kundi an saindang nagkágirinibuhan

na aráram kan gabos na man, mga lugar

na nagkádurumanan, mga chicks nindang

nagkátsaransingan—mga nagkágirinibuhan

nindang inda kun anong kamanungdánan.

Igwang nagharáli sa lugar mi pagkatápos

kaidto; tapos ngonyan pagkauruli, huna mo

sainda kun sáirisay na man daang Polano.

Pagkatápos kang tînuhon, mákua man daá

nin serbesa sa lamesa tapos dai ka kakauláyon—

garo dai kamo nagkáibahan nin pirang taon.

Yaon sana sa táid mo, mayong girong.

Ukon kauláyon ka na, masabi siya: dai ka

man giráray palán nag-iinom. Nin huli ta

kaáabot niya pa man saná, dai niya áram

na nakapirá ka na antes mag-sinárom.

Iyo ka man ngaya giráray: dai man nag-iinom,

mayo pa nin agom.  An ibang mga beer belly-hon

huna mo kun sáirisay na iriigwáhon, mga parainom!

Dai man daw an mga empatsádo nindang tulak

an iyong pinag-iimon kan saindang mga agom?

Yaon si Sulpicio, si Crisanto dangan si Claveron.

Padarakuláan nin tulak, pagarabátan nin buy-on.

Ngonyan, garo pa lugod sinda binabayadan

ubuson an pirang kahon kan serbesang dinunaran

kan mga kaklase pang nakabase sa Taiwan.

Kaya na sana man gayod an iba samo

amay nagkagaradán, nagkángaranáan

sa rarâráan sa kada taon na urulian.

Siring sa dati, mayong sistema ining tiripon  

apwera sa limang kahang baseyong

pwede na naman iarapon.

Mauli na akong amay—babayaaan ko

sindang agit-agitan naman magtiripon

sa bagong sumsuman na inorderan pa

sa luwas kan eskwelahan—inasal na hito

sagkod an pinaluto pang dinuguan.

Maagi an mga aldaw siring kan dati,

ma-check ako nin FB sa sakong Galaxy 3;

sa status message sa Group mi, dai ko

mangalas kun igwa na naman R.I.P. 

Ki Protacio, Gadan Sa Edad Na 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 ginadan kan saiyang mga kalaban. Mayo na siya. 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

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.

Sa Telepono

Huna mo kun siisay ka; nakatiwangwang sana baga

sa ibabaw kan lamesa; mayong pakiaram sa opisina.

Alagad an matuod, pastidyo ka sa mga kadakul ginigibo.

Mayo ka man talagang sirbi sa gustong magtrabaho.

Sa hilingko, tinuwadan ka ni Kafka. Luminayas siya sa opisina,

saka niya nabisto si Gregor Samsa, sarong kalag na nabangkag,

por dahil sa hungkag sarong aga nagi na lang kuratsa.

Liniudan ka guro ni Eliot; maghapon dai ka inintindi sa bangko.

Nom! Nagpatuyatoy pasiring sa imprenta; dangan nagparapanlamuda.

Ano daw kun magtanog ka, tapos an makadangog ngaya saimo

si William Shakespeare, aram mo an sasabihon niya saimo? Hellurrr!!!

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.

Mga Pinaghalían Gayód kan Hálas

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

Kagrugáring kan sawá; snake master.

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

2. Uryól. 

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

Mapagpasalúib na tinúga; mayong 

kabaing sa gandá, dáwa sa iya nga 

mga miga, minahira kan saiyang gúya.

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

sa Ingles; after the region’s geography.

Kadagaán na nalilibodan kan Ticao Pass sa mapa, 

tibáad dáting Tico Pass; an kadagaan tikô kun 

idadalágan minakamáng; minsan sain minasúpang.

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

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

Sinurublian sa Hiligaynon

ukón,o
baláan, banal, sagrado
bisán, dawâ

guya, lalawgon

saiya nga, sa saiyang mga
halín, háli