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.

How I Lived; and What I Lived For

Notes on English and Writing

When I was still in college, our neighbors who were beneficiaries of the PLAN International would ask me to help them write letters to their foster parents. Free of charge, I would write the letter for an American or German benefactor. But after I had finished the letter, they would send to our house food or similar stuff 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 Salamat Po Kai Foundation at the Ateneo de Naga University, 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.

At the time, 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 basketball in the school gym, I was being groomed to becoming a student writer. Perhaps I just recognized that having good English skills, in fact, was a prized possession in school, in college and in the world. And I think it is.

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 them. Then, English was one subject that I could not trade for any computer game—a leisurely activity which I could hardly afford.

There was also no stopping me from reading books, and 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 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.

While some people say that the knack in writing and perhaps everything related to it are given to rare people, I say it’s not absolutely true. I would like to think that all my choices in the past had collectively done their part to make me like writing, and prefer it to any other occupation or preoccupation.

While it may not be a very lucrative occupation, I also consider that with the power to articulate oneself [in English or any language], I have more chances of being privileged—if at all, not actually being gifted.

And times have changed. Nowadays, people who know how to better communicate cannot just remain disadvantaged or say, underpaid, unlike [what] other people [say].

As editor and journalism teacher, I have been editing my own and other people’s writing. When it comes to expressing ourselves in writing, I find some things which hinder the very purpose for which we write. Let me cite them here.

Verbosity or wordiness
Wordiness results from many things. Regardless of where we are, many of us pad our writing with all sorts of empty phrases perhaps to reach the length required in the school or office. Wordiness tends to occur when we are struggling to clarify our ideas or when we’re tired and therefore cannot think clearly. Regardless of our reason for padded writing, we can achieve concise writing if we are aware of the individual patterns of wordiness which is typical of the way we usually write.

Problem comes in when we do not become aware that we are using more words than is necessary. Because we are the authors—we are not inclined to correct ourselves more openly by perhaps slashing the words we have written. We think they are so perfect because they capture what we wish to express so we could get our message across to whoever reads it.

Yet, it’s good when you come to constantly critique your own work—to the extent that pruning words and phrases in your original draft, revising and rewriting your entire work will come naturally. One day, wordiness will be crime to you. Your familiarity with words will tell you whether you have to improve your drafts and can still make it better, even the ones you have written with a colleague.

For one, knowing that language works best by being brief will help you become a more effective communicator.

English is Filipinos’ second language
This issue is nothing new. We Filipinos normally—or more aptly, by heart—speak Hiligaynon, Waray, Bikol, etc., dialect or vernacular, but we are also asked to write and speak English.

Needless to say, we Filipinos are bombarded by so many languages around us—that we find it confusing which to use and how and why. Consider other languages we learned around us, the street language and the television language, aside from our very own vernaculars—modernized Bikol or Hiligaynon, or combined with Taglish, etc.

When we are asked to write in English but we essentially think in the local language—Bikol, Hiligaynon or Filipino—our mother tongue, which we know by heart. Problem sets in because most of the time we are tempted to transliterate: we write in English what we think, know or feel in our mother tongue. Sadly, because a large number of words in our own language have no exact English equivalents, we end up linguistically challenged—we do not realize that, say, not all things in our realities have counterparts in the English language.

All these years of education in the country, our schools must have not succeeded on an effective English language policy. But in the past, our grandfathers and grandmothers must have been well versed in English because they underwent rigid training on the English language, even studying Latin which is the root of [source of the words in] the language.

Today’s schools tell a different story. Despite DepEd’s staunch campaign to use only English or Filipino in the classrooms and schools, everything boils down to what the learners are really comfortable doing—code-switching [speaking combined English with Filipino combined with Bikol or Hiligaynon, etc.]. Moreover, students are overwhelmed by all forms of media; so asking them to speak and write in perfect, flawless English becomes a dream.

It is not cynical to say that young people can learn. In fact, I had students who were inclined to really write well not only because they were inclined—genetically, personally, whatever—but because they chose to do so.

To write and speak good English then is a choice. One simply prefers to do it, for it is something he strives to do—just like someone who endlessly strums the chords, until he masters them, and who later becomes the best guitarist onstage, because he’s strumming most people’s pains away.

Aristotle said we are what we repeatedly do—that excellence therefore is not an act, but a habit. To do something in the best way constantly is to be the very best in it—excel in it.

English is really our second language
Another problem crops up from our unfamiliarity with English. Being Filipinos, let’s face it, we were not born saying, “Oh My God!” or “Ouch!” We rather say things automatically, naturally, using our dialect, depending on our ethnic group.

Despite that some parents today would train their young children to speak English—confident that starting them young might make a difference—it’s the yaya’s English that is rather internalized by their wards. We are naturally born Filipinos, and we live in a country where most people speak countless languages.

This exaggeration is true, given the many kinds of language that we human beings invent to suit their own purposes and eccentricities.
[When we were younger, my brothers and cousins themselves communicated in a way only they understood—they reversed words, phrases and sentences until they learned to speak them spontaneously and with finesse. To them it was cool. I was too young to learn it. I did not find it cool either. So I gave up decoding their conversations. But through the years, that has become their bond. Until now, in family gatherings, they would throw jokes and banters that only they understand.]

Because English is our second language, each of us must be familiar with it.

Back in the campus, I used to tell my students to read English and read anything in English. I asked them further to always find the chance to learn anything in English—word, phrase, title of a movie, catchphrase, etc.—and it will become a habit.

Like many other disciplines, English is habit-forming. Despite what others are saying that it is too late for people to do that, if we do this constantly and earnestly, it will do us good.

The problem with legalese
Browsing over documents—whether in schools or offices—makes me think that we are also hindered by the use of jargon, or technical language, like the ones that lawyers use in public and legal documents.

The use of legalese in government communications has been pervasive. Some people who draft them may be lawyers, law teachers, or administrators who have management credits. In other words, such documents are written by people who have been exposed to organizing their work, starting from what they will do to how they will go about in doing and accomplishing them.

Because legalese reads and sounds so foreign we simply dismiss it as difficult. Indeed, it is difficult because ordinary people have not studied law. Everything legalese sounds alien because it reads so formal—and it sounds detached and impersonal.

Thus our attitude towards this kind of language should be open-minded. For instance, if we encounter a document that reads so difficult—we hardly understand anything it says except the names of those who signed them, let us have this resolve that in our own way, or work, we can simplify our expressions so those who will read anything we have written can understand us.

After all, writing is about seeking understanding.

Walking, graduate studies and other preoccupations

WHILE I consider walking a romantic activity mainly because ever since I could remember I have always walked to wherever I choose to go or to be, or simply because I must have read Henry David Thoreau’s essay on it from Walden and later romanticized the whole idea by treating it as the best daily exercise, I also realize that doing so in the city does not make sense at all.

Funny how I realize that walking from Katipunan Avenue going to the Loyola campus cannot always be a leisurely activity—especially if I have to do it towards noontime. Sun’s heat just becomes unbearable and then it is up for me to be pissed off by the stress it causes me—that later determines my tasks and activities inside the university library where I have to read for my graduate studies.

This morning I realized that taking a tricycle can make a big difference. I chose to ride a tricycle and not walk and that saved my time, effort and energy so that, minutes ago, I already started pounding these keys to write this lament, thus, [this] discourse.
I just realize I am a subject of the urban culture that rather compels people to buy cars so transportation and mobility are a bit easier for them.

Now I also realize I cannot just cater to the demands of such culture. Not right now, at least. I understand I cannot do much to change such culture as I know I am even the object of generosity of the ruling class [my scholarship tells me I am a recipient of their being able to provide for others].

I ride along. There is nothing for me to do. According to literary theorists preoccupied by their presuppositions on the experiencing self, or the subject, I am only a subject.

In fact, I have many subjectivities. I am also a graduate student at the Ateneo de Manila University, an academic institution run by Jesuits that, in more ways than one, have always allowed all kinds of human beings to thrive and live—the dominant ruling class whose names are carved in its buildings, the struggling middle-class who compose the Ph.D. faculty members, and the white-collar workers belonging to either the canteen cooperatives, the maintenance personnel employed by their respective agencies, or the job-hire construction workers hammering at the scaffolds being built for the new social science hall named after a Chinese benefactor. Such culture where I am right now just allows people to live. Yes, live.

That is the essence of life. To live. The purpose of me [read: I] as another subject.

Every single day I get opportunities to study and learn new concepts from reading at the library, attending campus lectures, or sitting in my teachers’ classes. And here I am learning and getting to read many things about my presently being a subject of different social structures—from the traffic rules in Katipunan Avenue to the undergraduate class schedules to the terms of use of computers in the Rizal Library.

My graduate studies are not in vain. While a graduate degree will help me land a university slot in teaching or related work, there is much to savor as I finish it. One of the payoffs is being able to realize and understand some terms in my studies that parallel or reflect the things in my present circumstances.

Class mobility, a phrase I caught from sitting in my professor’s undergraduate class—figures in the Marxist reading of Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre. The Marxist train of thought reads that Jane Eyre’s marriage to a wealthy man rather helps her attain class mobility.

The then orphan girl who struggled her way through the social ranks to become a governess and worked her way up the social ladder is sadly just appropriated by her marriage to the dominant ruling class. Class mobility, vulgarly translated or appropriated, refers to people’s ability to further on with how to go about their lives in a society that is both patriarchal and ruled by the dominant class.

There is much truth when I realize that literary theorists—classic or modern, recognized or unacknowledged, mainstream or recalcitrant—have really something to say whenever they claim that to study literature as it relates to social structures is to help define life itself.

I feel relieved at the end of this lament because bit by bit my ideas are being put into paper. Thoughts become my words, and they become truths, at least my truths. I feel justified and lucky because I am learning beyond what books say or what I understand in books—or maybe I am just learning what the books indeed say—I am living a life that goes beyond what can be taught.

Whatever gets you through the day

OURS is now a world of things. Everything around us now is commodified, meaning—produced or made, sold, bought, and consumed. Every single day, we consume—we eat [food], we use things, we burn up [the life of just about] anything, everything. In fact, we consume too much—for there is no satisfying our desire to acquire, to fill ourselves with everything until we tell ourselves we want more.

In particular, the mall culture rules us these days.

Who can resist the itch of malling and shopping when midnight sales and bargains come almost every week? Backed up by television and newspaper, these business strategies do not only deplete our ATM funds; they all the more intensify our desire to constantly acquire. Consumerism—our chronic tendency to have and have more—will be Shelf Life’s concern. Shelf life, per se, is any commodity’s life in a shelf, or how long it lasts—its potency or durability as a product. Compared to a person’s life, one product’s shelf life is an individual life span, or lifetime. Or life’s purpose, if we may.

In every shelf is a life—from a life, about a life, for a life. From every shelf—say, a CD rack in AstroWorld, a bookshelf inside a mall’s bookstore, or a ledge of Taiwan-pirated stuff exposed in J. M. Basa Street, we will take something and talk about it because it primarily concerns us. We [need to] talk about them because we know it is our life. It says much about who we are, what we want, how we want them, why we want such things, and perhaps what we live for. True.

Nowadays, what we live for may, in fact, depend on what we have. And, therefore, what we also don’t. To the extent of spreading ourselves thin, we have required so much of ourselves that our gauges for success or worse, happiness and contentment are mountains of things which we have to acquire and possess and burn up and use up, until it is time for us to have another one and another one and another one and more and more and more and more.

It’s ridiculous that even one newspaper ad reads—“It’s your watch that tells most about who you are.” Taking it quite literally, though, this is not true—you are not your watch. It’s a pity that you depend on a mere wristwatch to say much of yourself. It’s a pity that it is a thing that might just sum you up. Truth is—you use the watch for a purpose, not to tell you essentially who you are. Even then, you are worth more than your watch. Among other things, you’re a human person with a soul; your watch is not.

It’s hilarious how consumerist propaganda can persuade us to think this way about our lives; funny how this sensible persuasion has so pervaded our modern life. We now perceive that everything that is of value is on the shelf and so we should buy them; otherwise, we cease to live—as if not being able to buy them lessens our value.

“Shelf Life” takes on the task of making us think otherwise. We will go out there in the mall, in the flea markets, every stall we can find. We will look for the things we usually look for. To satisfy ourselves. We will browse and read books. We will read ads. We will fit clothes. We will also watch movies and read product labels. We might study just about anything we find on the shelf. And those are what we will read and choose to consider.

In any merchandise we will take out from all types of shelves—books, CDs, DVDs, shoes, store products, anything, or everything—we will benefit from them much more than by just consuming or using them. For one, we might see these things are simply our means to get to where we want to go, or we ought to be. We [just have to] use things, so we as human beings survive, and prosper, and as one friend puts it, “elevate.”

“Shelf Life” will make us see we can use things beyond their normal end. It will make us see we can desire to acquire other things, those things beyond the usual purpose of the tangible things we normally acquire.

The Fashion of Christ

Just when most sources of biblical inspiration seem to dissipate your exhausted soul—with audio-visual materials repeating themselves on television or the papers, one entry from the Encyclopedia Britannica can shed much light, or brand new outlook on your Christian life, as perhaps when you first read Og Mandino’s "The Christ Commission."

Published in the Britannica’s 7th edition under “Jesus” in the years between 1830 and 1842, and penned by Rev. David Welsh, professor of ecclesiastical history at the University of Edinburgh, the attribute to the Savior is a simply fitting description for the doubtful or [even] the individual who has yet to discern his faith.

Reading this on with an open mind can render the much-needed source for introspection and insight.

“The character of Christ, as exhibited in the Gospels, presents to us the only example, anywhere to be found, of the perfection of humanity; and the contemplation of it has ever been considered by his followers as one of the most edifying and delightful exercises of piety.”

What is Christ’s way? What is Christ’s way? To be a Christian demands greatly and much from anyone. It asks him to scrape off his very self—usually brimming with ill wills and selfish motivations. To be Christ-like is to deny the self which, usually, hardly sees the issues and needs of others. To follow Christ and his example is to encounter much difficulty because the situation is uncalled for by the self which usually abhors suffering and pain.

But a Christian life is the most enlightening because only after going through all these pains that one realizes—yes, always, later—that one glorious, redeeming moment is worth all the hurts it entails.

“A constant regard to the will of God, and a delight in doing it, form the distinguishing features of his character.”
In the ways that people live, Jesus Christ and all his lofty examples clearly stand in their way. Ironically, the One who gave life to mankind seems to be the antagonist in any man’s life who has considered himself the protagonist, the very essence of his existence.

But the ways of Jesus Christ make us revert to God’s entire purpose for all our lives. If we have been running away for so long finding our life purpose, Jesus presents to us the “alternative”—which was, in fact, human life’s original purpose. It is just so tragic that regarding God’s will in our lives entails much sacrifices and tradeoffs. God’s ways indeed are certainly not our ways.

“With this was connected the absence of all sordid, or selfish, or ambitious aims, and an enlarged and enlightened philanthropy.”

Denying oneself and seeking to first understand, rather than seeking to be understood. Simple as that. Or is it?

“There is perhaps nothing more remarkable in the life of Jesus than the apparently inconsistent qualities which are blended together in one harmonious whole.”

To imitate Christ is an intimidating task. It is to make ends meet. It is to be certain in the field of uncertainties. It asks one to make a choice in the midst of too much uncertainties and anxieties. It is to crack one’s brain because it is disoriented by the world which only teaches him to consider himself. To be a good Christian is to be virtuous when everyone is corrupt.

We see in him the most unbending constancy united with the great tenderness of feeling—hatred of sin, and compassion for the offender—a heart superior to all the allurements of pleasure, with a condescending indulgence for the innocent relaxations of life—a mind of universal philanthropy, alive to all the domestic charities—views that extended to the whole human race, and a generous compliance with national and individual peculiarities.”

With all these qualities, what more can a schizophrenic ask for? But we may ask how Jesus did it. What was the style of Christ? Jesus lived a life of struggles and strife. Let us consider that he realized he needed God to make his way through.

In the passages, Christ was always said to be offering all his pains to the Father. In fact, hours before he was arrested, he was in great pain, trying to at least bargain with the Father, to let the chalice, the Cross, pass. But all he needed was the trust in God, that the Father’s will, not his be done. The style of Christ was not entirely his—then. his was with the Father.

“It is difficult to conceive that the portraiture presented to us in the sacred history can be contemplated without benefit; but the chief benefit will be lost if it is forgotten that he whose life was the model of every virtue laid down that life for the sins of the world.”

While we have time—either in our youth or whenever this time finds us—to be able to ponder some truths about our existence and essence makes much for what we ought to be. The fashion of Christ goes beyond his passions, or even his Passion—which was only the culmination, the highlight of a well-worn life well lived.