Baguio, On My Own

Baguio, On My Own

            I like the idea of motion. I like moving around so much a newly-cleaned room ends up messy after only a few minutes. However, I’m not exactly the most active member of the household. That is because motion, for me, is outdoors, pure kinetic energy needed to stay alive outside the home. We move inside our homes, yes, but the movement is restricted by the furniture placed in strategic angles. Home means rest, time out. Motion means bustle, the game itself.

            I like motion because I like the hum of the engine underneath me. I like to feel the wind whipping my face. I like to follow all the white lines in the middle of the road.And somehow, as a bonus, I get to go somewhere I’ve never been before, and see people outside my small circle.

            Baguio meant all these. It meant exhausting travel for someone who liked exactly that. And it was a long-postponed trip. For two years now our school publication has received and declined invitations to the Organization of Student Services Educators, Inc. (OSSEI) Journalism Training because of either lack of funds or lack of sufficient preparation. Now, Jill, Ronmar, and I were going. It’s all happening!

To the Capital

            The country mouse gaped when he visited the city. The educated country mouse, too, gaped, when he visited the city. There really isn’t any difference between the two: when you come from the country and you look at the capital city for the first time, there’s not much choice but to stare with your mouth open. Simply ain’t no place like Manila, as the Hotdog song says.

            Manila doesn’t disappoint. It opens your eyes to more than you imagined. From above, its cluster of houses that don’t look like clusters but tight clumps of residences seemed dreamy. At home, the houses are scattered from among the greenery. Here, it’s the greenery that seemsas an afterthought.

            Oddly enough, it’s not the people who welcome you to the city. The buildings do it. On the taxi to Binondo, the buildings lined up one after another as though the city was only composed of these structures and nothing more. The city seemed only for business. And it was preoccupied with height. The dozens of buildings seemed to competewith each other for supremacy in elevation. Probably because there isn’t much horizontal space left, the people here take comfort in altitude, with apartments piled up like unwashed dishes in the sink. Here indeed, was the metropolis.

            We stayed for a while in Binondo, in the house of our former layout artist, Kuya Kenneth. Our layout artist could not meet us himself since he was at work so it was arranged that his sister was to do so. When our taxi finally stopped at the Philippines Pan Asia building in San Francisco Street, I was surprised because instead of the usual scene of native-meets-tourist at the lobby, there was no one in sight. As it turns out, we were summoned to Kuya Ken’s house. Yes, summoned. There’s no other word to describe the hand-clapping and ssst ssstswe received from the people in the upper floors of the building across the street, the people who turned out to be Kuya Ken’s family.

            Kuya Ken and his family lived in the fifth floor of the building. It was an exhausting five flights up with our hand-carried baggage. Once there, however, we were treated to classic Waray hospitality: pleasant conversation, good food, and a warm bed. So while the women of the family gathered in the living room to watch a Walang Hanggan replay, we dozed off in preparation for the more exhausting travel later in the day.

            It wasn’t an accident that we stayed in Binondo before taking the trip to Baguio. For three years now, Kuya Ken’s mother’s house served as official stopover to the An Lantawan delegation to OSSEI. As Kuya Ken said, his mother has seen three batches of EICs: Kuya Jed during the training in UP Diliman, Ate Estelle during the training in Tagaytay, and me, on the training in Baguio. It was becoming quite a tradition for us. Here was our mother figure reminding us to take care whenever we left the house, either to go to Divisoria, or finally to the terminal for Baguio: ‘Mag-ingat kayo, maraming loko-loko dito sa Maynila.’

            During our stay however, we haven’t met any loko-loko. It seemed that Kuya Ken and his family lived in a Waray community in Binondo; even the guard was from Waray country. With Kuya Ken and his family for company, we were relatively safe.

            Later in the afternoon, Kuya Ken’s big sister went with us to Divisoria to show us around. I wasn’t new to the concept of Divisoria but the real thing was really more than I imagined. There doesn’t seem to be any idle piece of land in Manila. Every square inch of this cramped city is used for something, more often commercial use. In Divisoria, even the lot behind one mall is another mall.

            We didn’t stay long in our sightseeing trip. After Rizal Park, a quick tour of the malls in Cubao, and a shout of ‘Good evening, Araneta!’, we were off to the bus terminal. Baguio awaited us.

           

The City beneath the Cliff

            You don’t just know it’s Baguio because of the welcome sign. Baguio jolts you into awareness. The sudden swerving of the bus every few seconds awakens any traveler from stupor. And then, when one opens one’s eyes, the city beneath the cliff appears. It is a city of scattered pinpricks of light, unlike Manila whose light merges into one strong glare. The lights from Baguio’s scattered houses high up on the hill give off the feeling of a hundred-eyed giant on the lookout for your arrival.

            We arrived in Baguio at about four in the morning. We hired one of the cabs waiting for us at the terminal and went to Hotel Supreme, the venue of the OSSEI training. However, we couldn’t check in yet since the registration was scheduled at ten in the morning so we just deposited our bags and asked the guards for instructions to the nearest coffee shop. Luckily, one of the guards was Bisaya so it was easier to ask for directions. Somehow, you can count on someone from back home to help you when you needed it.

            And we did need help. We were on our own in this trip to Baguio. No advisers, no chaperones, just us, a bunch of teenagers, who incidentally looked like kids, from Visayan country. We didn’t even have any map of the city. We were in for a true exploration of the city.

Umali Kayo!

If we had only been looking to experience the Baguio cold, we were in for a disappointment. September was too early for the biting cold Baguio is famous for. The cold was only the normal cold I felt back home in December mornings, except that it stayed like that throughout the rest of the day. The fog, however, was fantastic. On the short jeepney ride to Burnham Park, we almost walked into the fog itself, sort of like walking in a tear-gassed area, except that it doesn’t hurt the eyes. Here, even regular speech is enough to fog my eyeglasses.

It wasn’t long before we learned that Burnham Park was the center of the city’s transportation route. Everywhere we went, Burnham seemed to be the final destination, where the jeepney queues were located. It was propitious that we went for Burnham before any other tourist spot in the city. It gave us a sense of direction in a city we hardly knew about.

The sign along Harrison Road that says Umali Kayo, which, a taxi driver later told me meant Halikayo! in Ilocano, seemed to genuinely welcome us into the city.

The Grotto

The stairs were still wet from the night before when we started the long climb to Lourdes Grotto after going to Burnham. The hill is so steep that it looks only three flights up when viewed from the basw. In reality, it is six to seven flights to the top. Under normal conditions, you could reach it in about fifteen minutes.

In the first five minutes: a sense of competition. Whether traveling alone or with a bunch, you drag yourself up the hill, fake light step after another because you don’t want to be the person who didn’t make it to the top.

In the next five minutes: a sense of determination to get it over with. There is no need for pretentions as you reach the middle of the long climb, breathing heavy breaths, treading heavy steps. In the background, a faintly audible but persistent gong of a body slowly weakening against the colossal mountain.

Two flights of stairs before the top: involved silence punctuated by short gasps for breath. Counting the steps has become a triviality. You don’t need to count the steps towards home; you just know you’re there when you’ve arrived.

At the top: a sense of coming home, a fulfilment of the journey upwards from the earth below. Atop the hill, there is an unobstructed view of the city below, and for an insolent moment, a feeling of being on top of the world. But you suddenly remember that you have come from there yourself just a short while ago, breathing heavy breaths, treading heavy steps, so that there is no need for such impertinence. At the top, what remains after you have unburdened yourself of your baggage on the long flight up is your self, small amid the grand creations around you. There is only quiet here.

The OSSEI Training

            Ma’am Bella Villanueva, the OSSEI President, said on the opening ceremony that there are only two venues they choose for the OSSEI workshops: Baguio and Tagaytay. They believe that these places are most conducive to learning about campus journalism. I believe she couldn’t have been more right.

            If asked though, I wouldn’t know what it is about Baguio that makes it more conducive to OSSEI. Perhaps it’s the atmosphere of the city, cool enough to warm hotheads, but not too cold to freeze up the mind. Perhaps it’s the feeling of being something other than your usual self, as we undoubtedly felt, students who were supposed to attend the training but were more like tourists combining a little business with the pleasure of touring the city. We even felt rich (or lazy) enough to have our lunch delivered from Jollibeeup to our hotel room on the seventh floor. It was a lovely dream that lasted for three days.

            Every place I go to becomes a place of changes for me, in one way or another. Baguio, this first time, was truly a change, a small but nonetheless heavy step towards maturity. And the OSSEI training was primarily responsible for that. If one listened closely, one will surely pick up more than the subtle rivalry between two of the nation’s leading newspapers, PDI and Star.

            OSSEI surely did a good job in choosing its speakers. The speakers we had during the two and a half days training were more than the ordinary speakers in press cons I have attended. In fact, one of them said that the OSSEI was not supposed to be the venue for talking about skills; it’s the issues that should be talked about, issues that concerned everybody, because after all, journalism is everybody’s business. As college students, we should have mastered our journalism skills ages ago.

            The speakers impressed upon us the import of what we were supposed to be doing as campus journalists. Sir Ben Domingo was vehement about his lecture on citizen journalism to let us know ‘kung ano ang ating lipunang pinapasok at tungkuling dapat gampanan’. The words sounded more portentous in Filipino.

            “Don’t shoot when your heart isn’t beating faster than normal,” said Sir Jimmy Domingo, our lecturer on photojournalism. In Charlotte Bronte’s words, do not condemn yourself to live only by halves. But how do you realize the moment when you live wholly?How do you even start to live that life? I have gone to other writing workshops before, including those in creative writing, and it was only during the OSSEI workshop that it hit me. Living, by halves or by wholes, is a choice between what you really want to do and what you’re doing now. Perhaps it’s because I’m nearing the finish line of college and am about to enter the world of work that these words feel more important. What do I really want to do when I get out of school?The OSSEI lecturers were people who have already made their choice and are happy by it. What was mine?

The City of Vertical Motion

            Still, Baguio wasn’t the place for such deep thoughts. Everywhere you look, from the earphone-wearing joggers and the persistent fortune tellers in Burnham Park, the fog descending on the city almost at all hours of the day, the guitar- and harmonica-playing men in Session Road at night – it seems Baguio doesn’t allow you a moment’s thought, except perhaps when you’re atop Lourdes Grotto and looking at a more congested, colder Kabul that is Baguio City. Baguio,perhaps because of the cold, seems to be the city of vertical motion, where people are always walking on streets sloping downwards or upwards. Even the crossings in the overpasses situated everywhere in the city seem to be unnatural; you either go up, or go down in this city. There’s nothing in between.

By the evening of the second day, Jill, Ronmar and I were quite comfortable with the notion of being on our own and were feeling brave enough to wander around the city at night and tick off some of the must-see places on our list. We didn’t lack for company though. Some of our friends from other schools also attended the workshop. There was Ate Shara, a fellow from the Lamiraw workshop I attended last year, Ate Jen, who also attended the same workshop, and Kuya Kim, a former Associate Editor of An Lantawan.

            Outside Hotel Supreme, we were joined by Kuya Kim’s group from Eastern Visayas State University-Tanauan Campus. We went to the trade center of the city in the areas of Session Road and Harrison Road.In Harrison Road, especially, we sampled the street-long ukay-ukay stands responsible for Baguio’s reputation as the Ukay-ukay Capital of the Philippines.

Every night without fail, the vendors would set up their stands offering everything from Baguio’s multi-colored woven fabrics, beads, and wooden figurines, to jackets, bags and other accessories. The swirling mass of people in Harrison Road at night is so packed closely together that there is a danger of accidentally hitting someone with every small twist you make. I amazed myself by haggling with the ukay-ukay vendor about the bag and the sunglasses I bought. I amazed myself by even buying those things at all.

The next day, our third and last day in Baguio, was the day for unrestricted tour, well, sort of. As recommended by our friends from Zamboanga City, we went first to Bell Church which was just about a hundred meters north of Hotel Supreme and almost directly in front of the welcome sign to La Trinidad. Bell Church was to us, ourmakeshift Chinese Temple, since we didn’t know where the Temple is.

And since we were practically standing on the doorstep of La Trinidad, our next stop was the Strawberry Fields. In the Strawberry Capital of the Philippines, rows of strawberries that stretched to forever were the equivalent of our rice fields in the province. But again, our timing was off. The planting season has just started. However, we were treated to a draft of fog that didn’t just descend from the mountains to the city but which enveloped us till it was too misty to see.

From La Trinidad, we boarded a jeepney back to Burnham before riding again on the jeep for Scout Barrio. A local told us the jeep went on a route that included Camp John Hay. Once there, we transformed into nouveaux riches who were out to see the camp for ourselves. We bought our snacks at the 7-11 store and took pictures of the pines like any other tourist. Except that seeingthe Korean nationals leisurely sipping their coffee in the café beside 7-11 busted our bubble. We were just students who visited the camp on foot while the others whished by on Isuzus.

We visited only two more spots in the city because it was already getting hazy. PMA was a quick visit and a long walk along old military machinery. Mines View, when we got there, was only a smoky monument.

Before the Mines View monument itself, there is a small portion of uneven rocks which served as a butte in the cliff. In the small space was a wishing well with statues of two boys. The wellwas a memorial to the coin-catchers who used to position themselves to catch the coins the tourists toss to them. The onslaught of rain, however, prevented me from reading the whole of the coin-catchers’ story in the signboard posted on the well.

I turned my attention to the white horse with the pink mane and tail whose handler demanded ten pesos per picture and asked him about the story of the boys in the wishing well. He indulged me with the story I already knew from reading the topmost part of the signboard: local boys who sidelined as coin-catchers. After paying for two pictures with the Nicki Minaj-like horse, I tossed a few coins to the boys whose real stories were denied me. The taller boy caught one.

Baguio, On My Own

At school, I became nicknamed Dora the Explorer when I starred in a small production featured during the English month celebration. Ours was a presentation of the cartoon character who liked to explore places with her sidekick pet monkey Boots and her trusty Map in her small but otherwise spacious Backpack. The nickname, I believe, isn’t just because of the lead role and the identical haircut. Like Dora, I like to explore as well, especially on my own.

Oftentimes, in other trips, I’d restrain myself from being lost in a given place and moment. In these trips, I was only a member of a crew with no power to dictate the group where to go. In this trip to Baguio, I was determined to try the city, or at least some small portion of it, literally by myself. I wanted to see the city as I would have seen it if I were alone, with no one to point out sights to me, and only my senses to guide me. I wanted to be my own map.

On our third and last day in Baguio, I went to SM immediately after the morning workshop to buy books. Booksale was already closed when we arrived at the mall the night before with Kuya Kim’s groupso I went back at noon of the next day. I planned on just taking the jeep for Trancoville and walking the rest of the way from Session Road up to SM. That way, I could fully indulge my senses on the busiest road in Baguio that I have seen so far.But I had to be back as soon as possible for check-out time at noon so I took the taxi instead, cutting the time short but alsodefeating my purpose for going out alone.

Lucky for me, the driver of the taxi I rode in was up for an informal interview of the place. I was hesitant to ask questions at first because as far as looks go, he looked like the usual kanto boy I see back in Tacloban, complete with pierced ears and defiant mouth, except that he looked more respectable inside the taxi he was driving. If Jill had been with me on this short visit to Booksale in SM, she would have chosen an older, more respectable-looking driver than the one I chose. However, I had loose standards in what looked respectable so I hopped into the taxi the minute I got out of the hotel.

I armed myself with the precaution of knowing the driver’s name, Mr. Johann Christopher Singh, through the displayed ID on the taximeter. After that, I basically threw caution to the wind and asked him some questions I’ve been meaning to ask some of the locals since I arrived. Mr. Singh, who was only several years older than me, answered my questions generously and gave me sort of an informal tourist map of the city: where to go after one place, and what was the best stuff to buy. From him, I learned that a Good Shepherd pasalubong item was generally more delicious (and more expensive) than the others because the business was run by nuns in an orphanage and that cars in Baguio were driven in low gear to be able to climb such steep roads. Mr. Singh even told me that if I ever wanted to try the nightlife in Baguio (which I assured him at the outset that I didn’t), I should look out for taxi drivers who had friends in tow because more often than not, those drivers were in connivance with their friends and were up to no good.

After buying the books in SM, I went back to the hotel in time for check-out. The driver of the taxi I hired was older and more respectable than Mr. Singh. But he wasn’t so sociable either.

My quick visit to SM was the only time I was alone in my stay in Baguio. The rest of the time, I contented myself with snippets of conversation with the man who peddled strawberry taho in Harrison Road, or the man who taught us the way to the Scout Barrio jeepney queue. What amazes me about Baguio is that the people whom we have met and asked questions from were charitable with what they knew. So far, I haven’t seen one hostile creature in this city, except perhaps the dogs barking from above us when we were talking towards the jeep for Trancoville. Baguio jolts one into awareness that a city like this could be as friendly.

In the third floor of a mall, outside the shelter of the tent-like covering, two lovers stand by the railing, looking out on a view of the city. However, they do not notice the lights in the distance.She leans on the fence and turns her back on the city, her eyes on her lover. A current of cold air wafts from the trees in the cliff, causing a few people to shiver involuntarily. She looks at the tight clasp of her lover’s hand on hers and gazes into his face, shadowed by the mall lights behind him. Will he bridge the short distance between them and hold her in his warmth? He pulls her to him and lets her head rest on his shoulders, slowly swaying to the rhythm of music only they can hear. The few people around them clutch themselves and continue to shiver imperceptibly.

Somewhere in the city, a young husband goes home to his young wife at night. The husband who has up until now been labeled as nothing more than a kanto boy because of his unremarkable looks gives his wife a day’s worth of earningsfrom ferrying people to their destinations. He comes from Laguna 164 miles away and has lived in the city for seven years now with no plans of going anywhere. He was ferried here himself. And he will stay because he has already found what he was looking for.

In the terminal, a young woman sits in one of the benches, waiting for a young man to meet her before she boards the bus.The hands that earlier held themselves in silent expectation now embraced him who came at last to see her before she goes. He starts talking of silly things, anything to make her laugh. It is only a temporary parting, but a separation still. In the terminal, beside the trickle of people slowly entering the bus, they hold each other and wait for the hour of leaving. When they do separate, it is not a tearful goodbye but a farewell, hopeful of a reunion to come.

Another young woman sits on the seat that was previously occupied by the young woman.She, too, waits for the hour of leaving. However, there is no one to wait with her yet. Or there had been someone, in a not so distant past, someone she chose to leave when the crowd of passengers surged towards the van, which was why she was here instead, her solitary hands rubbing themselves to keep warm. If she were a writer she would collect these portraits of love and store them deep within her so that the next time it was needed, she could fashion a similar portrait for herself. But she wasn’t. So she entered their stories, knowing at the outset that she was only the viewer, whose life, however akin to those portrayed, was still outside the frame. When she boards the bus, she sits next to the young woman, who is now looking out the window at her lover. When she looks at the window, she gazes at her reflection, dark against the soft light of the bus. Staring harder, she sees him, which was why she was finally taking this trip to somewhere she should have been before, to someone whose arms she should have been held in.

Who was happiest in that city’s mist?

Long Day’s Journey for Home

We arrived in Manila at about five in the morning and after sleeping in the terminal for about an hour, set out for a breakfast in Jollibee and a quick visit to Baclaran Church before we headed for the airport. In Baclaran, surrounded by the inevitability of water, people outside my own tightly-knit world are close enough to touch.

Rohinton Mistry writes: Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. A short plane ride bound for home lengthens because of the persistence of memory: either those carried or left behind.

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"Is it lack of imagination that makes us come/ to imagined places, not just stay at home?/ Or could Pascal have been not entirely right/ about just sitting quietly in one’s room?// Continent, city, country, society:/ the choice is never wide and never free./ And here, or there.../ No. Should we have stayed at home,/ wherever that may be?//”

-Elizabeth Bishop, Questions of Travel

Earlier, I have said that OSSEI was, for me, a choice of sorts. Suffice it to say that I have made my choice by writing about my Baguio experience, albeit belatedly, instead of letting it pass by.

P.S. I’m afraid this is an unbelievably long piece on a three-day journey. However, I believe that the beginnings of something are always of some importance to us, in one way or another, so that everything is infused with a special significance. In my future travels (I hope there’s more), I hope to write shorter pieces, but for now, for a first travel outside Visayas, a first travel without an adult, I think this long piece will do. J

P.S. -- May 27, 2012

P.S. -- May 27, 2012

           It’s a little after five in the afternoon and I decide to go home to rest before continuing my article. As I leave the office however, huge drops of rain start to volley and I run to the Student Center to take shelter. I spot my classmates seated on a bench and I join them. Then I see they’ve got company: Melody and Leila. Melody’s face immediately lights up and just like that, she runs to me and I instinctively crouch to hug her. After a few moments, when we seemed to have gathered our wits about us, I bring her down.  She runs back to the bench where they were seated and just smiles at me, never saying a word.

Melody’s Welcome

            Melody is the daughter of Sir Doms, our teacher in two major subjects. She is only in Grade 1 and so her classes are held only in the morning. Some afternoons she joins our class and brings with her her crayons, book, drawings, or anything she likes. She plays around the room while we are lecturing. She is especially close to Aira, my seatmate, which is why on some days, we find ourselves playing with her than listening to her father.

            I play with her at times but we are not that close really.  We are too much alike. Melody is essentially shy in front of strangers, and a similar shyness like mine doesn’t get us farther than our playtime. Today, however, she hugged me. She embraced me like I was someone she truly missed.

 A Brush with Fame

            I have been shoved to the limelight these past few days. A hundred or more likes on each of the two photos I not-so-humbly posted on Facebook, a hundred other congratulatory messages and greetings from friends and acquaintances, and a tarpaulin on one side of our university skywalk ensured me more than a week of local fame. Suddenly, I was more than just someone on the dean’s list – I was now a professional, and a regional topnotcher at that.

            I sure didn’t mind. For someone who rarely posts pictures of herself on Facebook unless it was a tag from friends, those two posts were a departure from the normal, but certainly not unwelcome. I kind of liked being on the map for a few days. I even spent my time on a whole other article indulging my own pride, rationalizing why I even needed to indulge it. Because, I reasoned out, not everyone is lucky enough to have a tarpaulin to their name. Not everyone gets the chance to take a test manages to top it too. And certainly not everyone who takes the test passes it.

            By all accounts, these were valid reasons. When I took the test, I wasn’t truly prepared as I assumed the others were. I had only reviewed for two days before the exam. And we’re only talking of minutes here, the 30 minutes or so it took me to solve ten or twenty word problems painstakingly, because I had the colds and the cough after that. And that was only on Math because with my sickness I knew that I could not review on the other areas covered by the exam. Also, whenever I computed my rating, it would consistently fall on the borderline 80%.

            So I took the exam with literally two things only: my wits and nerve. Not a bad combination if I was applying for Survivor Philippines, but the thing is, it was a government position I was prospectively applying for, and I was unprepared. I left the rest to luck, and God.

            When I told my mother I passed, but that I thought it was only a minimum rating, she shrugged off my worries and reassured me that I passed anyway. I couldn’t remember anymore what her reaction was when I told her I topped the exam. From that day on, my mind was in a flurry of festive colors.

            The news that I topped the exam came as a pleasant surprise after two semesters of disappointment. I somehow live a life measured by numbers disguised as grades, and my performance is assessed by its slope. The last two semesters saw me on a downward spiral, still pretty well by other standards, but an all-time low according to mine. I knew that it was probably only a phase I was going through, to teach me again to see myself through others’ eyes and realize the joy that an ordinary student would feel if my grades were hers. But still, I was feeling pretty low. Nothing spells failure than losing in your own territory.

            So when I learned about the good news, I allowed myself a small shriek, and of course, a few splashes of vanity here and there. Nothing spells triumph than being stripped bare of everything but your only gift, and finding that you can measure up after all.

Re-writing Smugness

            I write this in response to a previous write-up on the same subject, which, thankfully, you will never get to read. That article, I’m afraid, is too matter-of-fact, too cold, too objective, but also deceptively, too full of itself. Because it is easy after all to fall into a delusion. The only thing is that a big head doesn’t look well on a small frame. It violates the law of proportion.

            When I went home with the conscious purpose of clearing my system, I had unconsciously expected fanfare where there was none. I imagined that when I got home, there would be a feast, and our dinner table would be laden with crab, shrimp, or squid, my favorite seafood. No such thing, however. The only thing my mother allowed me as a treat was a can of Argentina corned beef. Even Gwen, my two-year-old cousin, acted no differently (not that I expected her to). When she visited our house, she again followed me wherever I was, like a faithful puppy following its master. But when she found more interesting playmates outside our house, she didn’t even say goodbye. Life is, indeed, cuttingly eloquent.

            R once told me he admired me because of my incredible capacity to outdo myself, and the idea that I’m flawed at the same time. The first reason is a pressure cooker of expectations that I’d gladly fulfil if I’m equal to it, but oh, the cushion that the second reason provides! I did outdo myself this time, shockingly, but I can’t do it every single time. That’s why I needed to savor it while still there. I needed to feel proud, so I can laugh at myself again.

A Word, Before We Go On

            I used to think about what really happened that 27th day of May. Maybe there was something in the way I woke up early, or the way the proctor looked at me as if I had somehow wandered into the wrong room (she probably thought I was headed to the church, or to the clinic at the very least because I was coughing furiously), or the way I stumbled over a little puddle when I was about to enter the church after the exam, grazed my knee and stained my white pants, or the way I slept like a baby when I was back in the boarding house. Or maybe there was nothing at all there. And maybe I don’t really want to know. It takes the thrill off of things.

            The rain has stopped now and Melody has already gone home with her father. I pack up my things and start to walk towards my boarding house. As I near the gate, a classmate, who has probably only got the chance to approach me now, congratulates me on my tarpaulin, or my achievement, or both. I don’t know which. He says he hopes to see my name soon on tarps, on paper, on TV, or on the next book he’ll read. I smile back and thank him. Melody’s embrace still feels warmer on my skin.

            At the Independencia gate of our university, MCH vehicles line up to ferry students back to wherever they go after school. I cross the street and go home.

Mahitungod kan Senador Sotto, ugbp.

Mahitungod kan Senador Sotto, ugbp.

            Duha la ka gab-i an naglabay, samtang ginbabalik-balikan ko pagbasa han mga balita hiunong han kan Senador Tito Sotto plagyarismo, nagliliniong-liong pa an ak hunahuna kun ano it ak posisyon hini nga mga panhitabo.

            Agosto trese han yana nga tuig, ginyakan ni Senate Majority Leader Tito Sotto an syahan nga parte han iya turno en contra speech kontra han RH Bill. Duha la ka adlaw an naglabay, nadiskubrehan hin usa nga Alfredo Melgar, usa nga magsusurat ha site nga filipinofreethinkers.org, an kan Sotto pagkuha hin mga importante nga mga pulong tikang han blog ni Sarah Pope nga may titulo nga Healthy Home Economist. Siring pa ni Melgar, haros ngatanan nga pulong nga gingamit ni Sen. Sotto ha iya speech, tikang gud han kan Sarah Pope blog. Ini nga mga pulong ni Sarah Pope gingamit ni Senador Sotto para suportahan an iya turno en contra speech kontra han Reproductive Health Bill. Ha mga artikulo ha internet nga ginkokomparar an kan Senador Sotto speech ngan han pipira ka pulong han blog ni Sarah Pope, klarado nga kinopya gud an speech tikang han blog. Bisan an comma nga diri asya an kabutang ha pagpublish han blog article ni Pope, makikita gihapon ha kopya han speech han Senador.

            Han sumunod nga adlaw, Agosto disisais, ha usa nga interbyu ni Karen Davila ha Headstart han ANC, gindiwara ni Sotto an mga alegasyon han iya plagyarismo ha pagsiring nga, “Bakit ko naman iko-quote yung blogger? Blogger lang ‘yon.” (Kay-ano ko man igko-quote an blogger? Blogger la adto.) Ha padayon nga pagpakiana ni Karen Davila kun an iya staff nangingita ha mga blogs kun nagsusurat hit iya speech, bumaton hi Sotto nga diri. An opisyal nga pahayag han opisina han Senador in nasiring nga kun gingamit man nira an blog ni Sarah Pope, ini para la ig-cite an kan Pope usa liwat nga ginkuhaan hin impormasyon, usa nga Dr. Natasha Campbell-McBride.

            Ha usa nga comment ni Sarah Pope, nasiring hiya nga diri niya mahimo nga tumuod nga usa nga senador han Pilipinas in mangangawat ha iya blog. Hiunong han kan Senador Sotto pagdiwara hini nga mga alegasyon, bumaton hi Sarah Pope nga, “A thief is a thief, Mr. Senator. Denying it doesn’t get you off the hook; it just makes you a lying thief.” (It kawatan, kawatan, Mr. Senador. Diri ka masasalbar hit pagdiwara hit imo hinimo; nahihimo ka la hiton nga buwaon nga kawatan.)

Hito gihap nga adlaw, usa nga investigative journalist ha ngaran ni Raissa Robles in nagbalita nga ha iya ikaduha nga turno en contra speech, nagbuhat na liwat hi Sotto hin plagyarismo tikang hin diri maubos ha upat ka mga sources, an iba hini, mga blog gihapon.

            Agosto disisyete, nagsiring hi Hector Villacorta, Chief of Staff han senador, nga waray angay aroan hin pasaylo an senador tungod nga, “He can’t apologize for something he did not know.” (Diri hiya makakaaro hin pasaylo para hin usa nga butang nga diri hiya maaram.) Ha usa nga interbyu ha GMA News Online, nagsiring hi Villacorta nga it usa nga blog para ha publiko, sanglit diri matatawag nga plagyarismo an ginbuhat ni Sotto.

            Agosto beinte dos, gin-angkon han kampo ni Sotto nga waray nira mabasa an hinimo ni Campbell-McBride. Han gintetestingan na nira pag-access han mga sinurat ni Campbell-McBride, waray pakakuha an opisina ni Sotto hin kopya han iya libro ha Internet. Ha pagtuo nga an sinurat ni Pope in eksakto nga paghubad han kan Campbell-McBride libro, nagdesisyon hira nga gamiton an kan Pope mga pulong. (Kun kikitaon, ini nga yakan usa nga direkta nga pagsupak han nauna nga pahayag ni Sotto nga waray niya ig-quote hi Pope.)

            Han sumunod liwat nga adlaw, han Agosto beinte tres, ginyakan ni Villacorta ha usa nga sumat ha Philippine Daily Inquirer nga “copying is a common practice in the Senate” (an pangopya usa nga komon nga buruhaton ha Senado). Dugang pa ni Villacorta, ‘awkward’ kuno o malain pamation maghatag hin speech nga masiring nga ‘tikang hini nga blogger nga nag-quote hadi nga author’, bisan amo man it ginhimo han iya opisina.

            Harani usa ka semana tikang han pahayag ni Villacorta, han Agosto beinte nuybe, nagyakan hi Sotto hin pagdepensa ha iya kalugaringon kontra han mga akusasyon han plagyarismo. Naghatag hiya han karuyag sidngon han plagyarismo tikang hin tutulo nga mga diksyunaryo. An plagyarismo, sumala han ginkuhaan ni Sotto nga Black’s Law Dictionary, amo in “deliberate and knowing presentation of another person’s original ideas or creative expressions as one’s own” and the “practice of taking someone else’s work or ideas and passing them off as one’s own” (tinuyo nga pagpresentar han kanan iba nga tawo orihinal nga ideya komo iya kalugaringon o an pagkuha han kanan iba hinimo o ideya ngan pagpresentar hini nga mga ideya komo iya kalugaringon). Pero madig-on hiya ha pagsiring nga diri krimen it plagyarismo.  “…walang krimen ng plagiarism sa Pilipinas. Kahit hanapin ninyo pa sa Revised Penal Code, sa Intellectual Property Code, at maging sa Special Penal Laws, wala kayong makikitang krimen ng plagiarism.” (Waray krimen nga plagyarismo ha Pilipinas. Bisan bilngon pa niyo ha Revised Penal Code, ha Intellectual Property Code, bisan ha Special Penal Laws, waray kamo makikit-an nga krimen nga plagyarismo.)     

            Nasiring hi Senador Miriam Defensor-Santiago, it Senado diri akademya kun diin usa nga sala it plagyarismo. Lugar, may-ada la ngayan hito pinili? Bakay waray kita balaud para hit sugad nga krimen, pwede na la ngayan ito buhaton bisan diri maupay? Bakay diri aada ha akademya, diri aada ha eskwelahan, pwede ngayon ito buhaton bisan diri amo? Bakay Senador hi Senador Tito Sotto, angay na la ba palabyon ini nga isyu? Kun kikitaon, amo gihap mismo ini it rason kun kay-ano diri ini angay palabyon. Kun kay-ano bisan siring pa ni Senate President Juan Ponce Enrile nga waray ideya dinhi ha kalibutan nga diri kinopya ha iba, hi Senador Sotto it ginhuhumtan yana. Tungod nga Senador hi Senador Tito Sotto. Opisyal hiya han publiko nga nakabuhat hin diri maupay. Sanglit kinahanglan nga hiya gihap mag-angkon hin responsibilidad para hito. It pangawat, pangawat la gihap bisan diin nga lente pagkit-an. (Bisan it ordinaryo nga tawo, makakaintindi hit pinamamati hit usa nga ginkawatan, hit usa nga gin-uwat, bisan kun diri hiya makakaintindi hit mga termino sugad hin plagyarismo.)

            Baga-baga la hi Senador Sotto hin nagsiring nga pwede kita mangawat basta ada kita ha posisyon. Pwede kita mangawat kay it mga butang nga kinakawat, sugad hit estudyante nga nasubad ha iya klasmeyt, pampubliko man ngani, angay la ipaangbit ha iba. Kun ha sugad hini ka-importante nga isyu han RH Bill, pagsusugaron la kita hini, pagtatamas-tamasan la kita pinaagi hin pangawat hin mga pulong ngan paggamit hini nga mga pulong ha iba nga pamaagi, ano na man la it aton malalauman tikang hit aton mga talahuron nga mga opisyal han publiko?

            Ini nga isyu diri la mahitungod han plagyarismo. Diri la ini hiunong hin pangawat hin diri imo. Ini nga isyu hiunong hin aton mga opisyal han publiko, hiunong han ira pag-angkon han responsibilidad para han ira mga sala nga nahimo. Kay di ba, komo opisyal han publiko, kinahanglan magin maupay hira nga susbaranan ha aton ngatanan? Kun it mga ordinaryo nga tawo napipriso tungod hin pagbuhat hini nga plagyarismo, kay-ano ginpapalabay la ini nga panhitabo ha Senado?

            Signgon ta na la nga amo ini an mga panhitabo han mga naglabay nga adlaw. Signgon ta na la nga diri tinuyo ni Senador Sotto an pagkuha tikang han pulong han iba, an aton na la gin-aaro in usa nga pahayag kun diin naaro hin pasaylo an Senador para han iya sala. Waray naman ngani kita mahihimo kay tapos na. An aton la unta ginbibiling, an tim-os nga pag-aro ni Senador Sotto hin dispensa han iya nabuhat, tinuyo man o diri, diri la ha mga tawo nga iya ginkuhaan hin impormasyon, kundi pati ha aton. Diri na naton kinahanglan hin damo nga yakan, nga nagpapakita lugod nga waray kita mag-upay nga batasan. (Blogger la adto? Kay-ano mo man ngayan gagamiton an iya pahayag kun waray ka plano ngaranan ito nga tawo komo source? Masiring pa gud nga malain pamation kun ma-quote ka hin blogger ha imo speech.)

            Pero diri pa dinhi natatapos an teleserye. Ha pinakaurhi nga balita, Setyembre singko, ginyakan ni Senador Sotto an ikatulo ngan ikaupat nga parte han iya turno en contra speech. Pero adi na liwat. Iginpakita han iba nga mga online commentators nga an katapusan han iya ikaupat nga speech in kinuha han speech ni Robert F. Kennedy para han National Union of South African Students ha Cape Town. Tagalog an kayakan ni Sotto, pero an mga pulong tikang la gihap han kan Kennedy speech – amo la gihap, waray ngarani kun diin tikang.

            Kun babalikan naton an mga eksplanasyon han mga Senador hadto han kan anay CJ Corona impeachment trial kun kay-ano ginhukman nira nga guilty hi Corona, sumala kan Senador Pia Cayetano, hi Corona nagbuhat hin buruhaton nga paro-pareho hin pagtraydor han pagtapod nga iginhatag ha iya han publiko, sanglit angay hiya paiwason ha pwesto. Hini nga panguwat ni Senador Sotto diri la makausa kundi makadamo ka beses, bisan han madakpan na hiya hit iya panguwat, ginsalikway niya an pagtapod han publiko.

            Iginsurat ko ini ha Waray nga akon una nga yinaknan ha panuyo nga mas maiintindihan hin mas duru-damo nga tawo it panhitabo yana. Kay diri la hi Senador Sotto it upod hini nga isyu. Diri la an mga blogger o an iba pa nga mga manunurat nga iya ginkuhaan hin pulong hin waray pagsarit. Diri la it akademya, kun diin usa nga dako nga sala it plagyarismo, sumala kan Senador Miriam Defensor-Santiago. Ngan labaw ha ngatanan, diri la an mga tawo nga maaram mamag-Iningles it upod hini, bisan kun hasta yana, baga hin hira pa la it nababatian. Kita ngatanan upod hini. Kay diri la an mga manunurat an ginkawatan. Diri la hira it naaagrabyado. Hi kita gihap nga mga ordinaryo nga tawo ginkawatan han aton katungod ha kamatuoran. Ha kada pagbubuwa, ha kada pangunguwat hit usa nga tawo han iya igkasitawo, diri la niya gin-iinsulto it kabaltok han iya ginkawatan, labaw ha ngatanan, ginkakawatan niya ini hin katungod nga mahibaroan an kamatuoran.

            Ha pagkayana, may-ada na petisyon para paiwason hi Senador Sotto ha pwesto. Damo pa nga mga pirma it kinahanglan. Pero bisan diri man ini maabot nga ginkikinahanglan nga usa ka milyon nga pirma, natuod ako nga diri na gud ini masyado ka-importante kompara hit paggios naton para hit pagbag-o. An importante, maaram kita han kamatuoran nga amo ini an mga nahinabo, ngan diri ini naton papalabyon. Tungod nga may labot kita hit nahinanabo. Kay ha katapusan, ini nga isyu hiunong hit aton mga kalugaringon, hiunong hit aton pagpili kun ano it maraut ngan ano it maupay ngan pagkiwa para maniguro nga it maupay amo it magdadaog.

            Diri man kita magdaog tungod nga mga ordinaryo la kita nga tawo, an importante mahibatian kita. An importante waray la kita magtinanga samtang gin-iinuwat kita.

English Majors '13 Class History

How do we, on gaudy pictures of the past/ write words of the moment? Stuck in their midst, how do paint ourselves?
-Leung Ping-Kwan, Postcards of Old Hong Kong


It is difficult Leung Ping-Kwan, especially if there is a crowd of English majors listening or even only pretending to listen to you. It is difficult, especially if you do not know yourself what you are trying to paint. It is difficult, especially because it defies a single connecting frame, even by means of the language we all love.

If our story would be written at all, it would have to be written as a novel, for the main reason that it wouldn’t fit in a short story. It’s because our stories are different stories in themselves, but are only understandable as part of the whole.

Aileen.  Aira. Alvin. Carmie. Darcy. Earl. Janelle.  Jerry. Jessa Li. Jill. Jovit. Karen. Lyka. Martin. Ricah. Ronmar. Roseanne. Sheina. Shella. Sheryl. Teresa. Valerie. Zyrel. Different names, different stories. Yet, somehow, they mean the same.

In the not too distant past, it hasn’t always been like this. Yes, Miguel Syjuco, I believe that there are things that need to finally be said. I have to say them aloud, in front of you, especially in front of the people I talk about. A thing named is a thing conquered.

I believe our stories haven’t met until last semester. Until then, we were just a bunch of egos. Now, we’re just a bunch.

Yes, we were a bunch of egos, frankly speaking. There are BSED students and then there are BEEDBSED students. On our first class in Intro to Linguistics with Ma’am De la Cruz, we were seated at opposite sides of the room, chromosomes in the anaphase stage of cell division, eager to separate to form another independent cell. Perhaps this was one of the reasons some of us left. We couldn’t hold them together.

In the second semester of our second year, things were looking up a bit. We had to work together for Dora’s World Adventure to be a success. Somehow, we made it, but the rift is still there. Volatile tempers during practice didn’t help to smooth things over completely. Two more people left the group.

Third year was a coming of age year. It was the most difficult year so far, and because it was difficult, we had to seek help from forces outside of ourselves. We had to go to the others. And this meant seeking help from the people we once mocked precisely because of their diligence. Our batch of BEEDBSED people liked to be lazy until the last possible moment, to be spontaneous when the moment comes. We believed in the moment of creation, devoid of the artifice of habit and practice. We did things in the spur of the moment. Of course there were regrets gnawing at the back of our minds, regrets of not having done as we would have done it had we prepared, but we were always satisfied that we were still able to deliver, even in the nick of time.

But creating a lesson plan isn’t all about the moment of creation. Delivering the lesson is not all about being spontaneous. A good part of it is about being sufficiently prepared so that you can be efficiently spontaneous when the time comes. A good part of it is discipline.

That’s what the BEEDBSED people lacked. And we learned discipline not so much through our teachers who always pushed us to do more, to do better, but through our own BSED classmates, silent and plodding as the ants saving for the rainy weather.

Suddenly, we found ourselves clutching one another’s hand for support. We found ourselves huddled together, with stacks of lesson plan drafts in the table. We found ourselves studying together for major examinations that were so bloody they always left us in need of blood transfusion. Suddenly, we were one team working for one goal: to stay together, to stay alive.

It wasn’t more manifested than last semester, when we worked again for the Wicked, together this time, in the real sense of the word. Somehow, you begin to enjoy the company of one who has been with you through the times your IQ was falling, your nose was bleeding, and your pocket slowly being emptied of its meagre amount of funds. You enjoy the company of one who, all things considered, are on your side of the coin, struggling against expectations. But mostly, you enjoy the company of a friend who, as different as your stories are, is much more valuable because of that. Because we were different, we had so much to share.

But perhaps at some point, we enjoyed one another’s company so much there was nothing else we liked to do except talk and talk, and listen sometimes. Attitudes were part of what we shared, and this attitude we called laziness. The lazy bone spread through us, and our enthusiasm for learning waned a bit.

But now we’re back on track. We’ve achieved the balance of keeping friendships, and maintaining grades. Because we know we’re near the finish line, and potholes abound the nearer we get to it. But with teachers who remind us at opportune moments, and friends to help us along the way, we can get to it, together.

To our teachers, we do not mention you not so much because you haven’t figured that much in our lives but because the mere fact that we are still in the program, and are here with you today should speak for itself. We’d like to believe we are a testament to your capacities as merciful human beings, helping us fledglings to take flight.

To the other majors, this is the story of the your (dare I say it?) ates and kuyas. This is our story. But this may be yours too. This is a story of passive-aggressive persons who like to seethe silently than speak. A story of unfought battles of temper, a story of probably the most colourful batch of English majors, a story of egos overcoming themselves. This is a story of humans being humans, faulty, yet never beyond improvement and repair.

This is the story of Aileen.  Aira. Alvin. Carmie. Darcy. Earl. Janelle.  Jerry. Jessa Li. Jill. Jovit. Karen. Lyka. Martin. Ricah. Ronmar. Roseanne. Sheina. Shella. Sheryl. Teresa. Valerie. Zyrel. Different names, different stories. Yet, somehow, they mean the same.

*delivered during the Acquaintance Party, August 1, 2012

Weathering the Water

Weathering the Water

           

            I haven’t been able to go home lately. It is now two months since I last saw my hometown, two whole months of weekends spent lazing around the boarding house rather than gossiping with my cousins at the kitchen table. Then it was because it’s tiring to travel home for four hours on a Saturday and then come back to the city on a lazy Sunday. Now, it’s because of habagat, and the rains it brings.

            Habagat is a word always at the tip of the tongue to us who live near the sea. More than anyone, we live our lives around the weather, always subject to the fickleness of the sea. This may also be the reason we are still people of the sea, because the sea often hinders other people from coming to us, hence minimal tourism, minimal progress. But progress makes for another story.

            I’ve always liked water, especially in the form of rain and the occasional torrent. It is true that rain prevented people to go outdoors and fulfill their work. But we have always found ways to push outdoor activities indoors. And instead of the sweaty shirts, we had countless trips to the comfort room.

            Rainy days usually meant no classes for us. Mahulos it blackboard (the blackboard is wet, we would jokingly say). In most cases, the blackboard or the chalkboard is really wet, thereby preventing the teacher from delivering her lesson well. The next logical thing to do would be to get wet in the rain and play until Mother beckons us to come home.

            Ironically though, my sisters and I would always wake up early in stormy weather. Our body clocks seemed to be especially tuned to the five o-clock weather forecast that would decide our fates for the day. And when Ka Ernie declared Signal No. 2, our play-oriented selves would rejoice with the selfishly happy thought of classes being suspended for the day. We would then climb back to bed not to sleep, but to exchange Johnny Johnny stories, each one more improbable than the previous. Later, we would rejoice some more because Mother allowed us not to take a bath. The weather was so cold it was okay not to. To us kids, this was heaven.

            Later, when our childish energies have quieted down, we’d settle in our comfortable banig, protected by our pillows and blankets from the gusty wind outside. We didn’t have windows before; what we had were only slats of dos por uno wood made to look like bars in a prison cell, except it didn’t feel like prison at all. At night, we covered these ‘windows’ with luna, and when the wind blew a little, the wooden stoppers would bounce lightly against one of the wooden slats, creating a rhythm of their own. When the wind blew as it did on a stormy night, the luna would billow accordingly, like Marilyn Monroe’s skirt being blown gracefully by the wind. In the best of times, this was like being lulled to sleep in a hammock, the rhythmic tap-tapping of the wooden stoppers on the wooden slats serving as the ends of the pendulum, the billowing luna representing the arc in between. Combined with a persistent rain however, it was enough to make us hush and listen to the wind whistling stronger than usual. And with the slapping of the waves on the rocks in our sea wall as the background, this, to us, was the sound of fear.

            And we have enough reason to, as anybody who lives near the sea knows. The sundering sea was only literally seven steps from our house, and should it choose to rise higher than usual, especially during the storm, we knew what would happen. One stormy night when I was only eight or nine years old, the typhoon was so strong we were forced to evacuate to my aunt’s house a few steps away from our own, but far enough from the sea spray. We spent the night in utter darkness because the wind was so strong candlelight wasn’t possible. Surrounded by cold cement walls and even colder cement floors, we slept, hoping the wind would ease even a little the next day. Overnight, the wind and rain combined to make our town look like the sunken city of Atlantis rising from the depths of the sea floor; when the sun came up the next morning, life would return to normal, after picking up the fallen coconuts in the yard.

            Habagat usually comes when it’s the fiesta month of July in our town. During this month, the sea would look so pale it was almost white, and as my mother would say, ‘nababalikad it mga balud’. It was our way of life, that’s why we’ve gotten used to it. The mention of typhoon is not so fearsome anymore. And besides, we never ran out of things to do.

            That was just for a night however, because typhoons are usually fast-moving weather beasts that would move on to the next town overnight. But the unnamed storm that rampaged Manila, causing a death toll of 60 as of August 10 was not an overnight thing. I can only imagine my former school mates in high school running out of their ingenuity for the several days and nights they were stranded in their apartments. Floods are no unusual occurrences in Manila, but still, it isn’t a thing to get used to, it’s nothing to think about especially if it isn’t there. Sure, the Manileños have prepared for a rainy day that would flood the streets, but the half-submerged capital a few days later was far from their minds.

But even in this disaster, the worst flood since 2009 according to experts, even city people like the Manileños learn how to live like people in the sea. And Filipino ingenuity rises to the occasion.

We are a nation that has been censured precisely because of our flair in imitation, very good impersonators and imitators that we are. But I say, in the worst of times, when we are finally stripped of our telephone, television, and internet lines, when we have nowhere to turn to but ourselves for originality, that’s when the Filipino inventiveness shows. Filipinos found a way to turn the much-debated RH Bill into something useful. Condoms were used to keep their gadgets dry. Household items like were used to ferry people in the flooded villages. One team of the Philippine Coast Guard used Styrofoam, slippers, nets and bamboo sticks to carry a 19-year-old Malabon resident who was injured. In this water world, anything that floats -- pails, plastic tubs, even banana trunks – became something to hold on to to survive. Smuggled goods are also being endorsed as donations to the flood victims. And amidst the growing number of videos and photos showing the extent of the disaster, UST photographer Paul Quiambao found beauty and strength in chaos.

Even in a submerged world, 2.44 million affected residents and all other people who have lived through a stormy night, there will always be a reason to smile, be it because of our congenital habit to smile whenever a camera happens to be around. But more than the presence of cameras, I believe we still smile because standing in your own two feet in a submerged world is reason enough. And looking for something to do, exchanging absurd stories, or smiling is never more appropriate than during these times; it keeps our teeth from chattering with fear.

            Ernest Hemingway writes, “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.” This is exactly why we smile; not because we are callous enough not to have known fear, but because we have been there, but we weren’t discouraged. And because we know the places where we are broken, we reinforce them the next time.

            The inevitability of water has caused some of the most dangerous natural disasters like the hurricanes, tsunamis, and tidal waves. When a deluge comes, possessions are destroyed and lives are ruined, leaving us to our own wits. But it is in this time when we are when we are stripped of our adornments, we bare our own selves, bare but still alive.

Serial Self #1

Serial Self #1

            There’s this poem by Denise Levertov: There’s in my mind a woman/ of innocence, unadorned but// Fair-featured, and smelling of/ apples or grass. She wears// a utopian smock or shift, her hair/ is light brown and smooth, and she// is kind and very clean without/ ostentation—/ But she has/ no imagination./ And there’s a/ turbulent moon-ridden girl// or old woman, or both,/ dressed in opals and rags, feathers// and torn taffeta,/ who knows strange songs –// but she is not kind.//

            The woman that I have in mind is one modeled on a certain song. This woman has a face that is a map of the world. She fills up every corner like she’s born in black and white. She walks in a silver pool of light. She makes you calm. She holds you captivated in her palm. But she likes to leave you hanging on her word.

            This woman’s day begins at ten in the morning, when she comes out of the salon. She wears silk as smoothly as if it was her own skin. In fact, she doesn’t wear silk; she is silk herself, on heels. This woman then goes to a party of the organization where she is a member. She knows that she is a full hour and thirty minutes late, but this word doesn’t exist in her vocabulary unless it is preceded by an adverb. To her, she is late, but fashionably so, and this is the most normal thing in the world if you’re going to a party.

            She believes in graceful entrances and exits. There is something graceful and spontaneous in the way she innocently stands for a moment at the door, looking at the roomful of people, as though she’s naively horrified that the show has started without her. However, this is completely belied by her studied walk which doesn’t remind of you of silk at all.

            This woman strides over to her table in maximum confidence and capability. Silk is her subtle armor, a smoothness to win over people. And she does win over people. Although her walk is studiedly innocent, possibly even subtly predatory, there is nothing calculated in her talk. She laughs with others sincerely, and even exerts effort to bring the outsiders in to her circle of conversation. She is in her element in this; she exchanges wit and humor like she’s done it all her life.

            But there is heart in her too. When she takes the podium to talk about the people in front of her, she drops her predatory subtleness. In this trembling second, she is fragile. Open to sniper shots that will probably come from everywhere in her audience, she takes the risk. The perfect picture of herself is the confident woman in silk and heels, poised at the podium, pausing for a tender moment before speaking, pausing for a moment to calm her fears that are throbbing.

            When she takes her seat with a shy smile, what matters more to her is not the applause of the others but the sincere hug of the friends she talked about. In another tender moment, she will almost reveal herself by crying. But the moment passes. The clear smoke in her eyes remains.

            The rest of the party will happen inside the frames of a digital camera, her eyes uniformly staring, as if defiant, at the transparent lens. In a different time, this look would be offensively piercing, provocative of anger; as it is now, this is her stare, piercing, but ultimately makes her herself. In a different time, this stare would have intimidated others; as it is now, this lures boys who think they’re men.

According to the song, this woman that I have in mind has got the power to be, the power to give, the power to see. That’s why the singer suddenly sees that this woman is what she wants to be. She doesn’t have these things however. I do.

At the end of the day, when this woman that I have in mind comes home to a rented room she shares with three other college girls, when she washes the oil off her face, this woman becomes me. This woman that I have in mind is only me in a different package, which makes everything that is me acceptable.

            The difference is that I created her. I gave her her subtlety, her silky smoothness, but her soul is my own. And at the end of a day of getting acquainted with others, she will be reduced to silk.

            And I, I will get a rest from minding this woman, and will go back to myself. Me with what they say is my intimidating stare. The me that has the power to be create my own serial selves, to give of myself, to see what is worth seeing.

            This is the me I want to be.

           

           

           

A Toast, to the Friendships that See Us Through

A Toast, to the Friendships that See Us Through

            I was browsing Facebook looking for something interesting when I happened to view this two-year-old birthday message to my friend.

            Here it goes:

            I always long for a friend. I am always searching for my best friend, that I can talk with till dawn, that I can share my plans and ambitions in life with…but I haven't found her yet. Or maybe I have. I just didn't think that she was it.

            I was already in my junior year in high school when I really got to know her. Back then, I thought she was just another snobbish, brainy, rich girl from the city, who wouldn't want anything to do with me if given the chance. She did seem haughty and high and mighty and I also thought she had a right to be so, being the best of their batch. But to my surprise, we instantly clicked.

            I got teamed up with three senior students from our school for an upcoming interschool contest on general information, and she was included in the team. I must have felt awful then, when I knew that I was the only junior student there. But they didn't let me feel that way for long. The afternoon that we were told to gather newspapers for the past month and read them, they reached out to me, and I felt better. Even at that time, she was already special.
Walking with my teammates to our coach's house with our arms loaded with newspapers, she talked to me, and it was no ordinary conversation. I really thought she was very assertive, asking me right then and there about my almost non-existent love life. What a way to start a friendship!
            To my amazement, I replied, and I didn't even think that she was invading my personal space, in just a matter of minutes. I found myself telling her even more than she asked for, the things she would have asked further, but was hesitant to do so. And I felt comfortable. I guess real friendship starts there, when you must have blurted out everything you never wanted anyone to know, and yet you still feel comfortable.

            And so, several months later, we were good friends. We had already shared a few snacks, about 2 championships, and countless hours on the phone, and by then, there was little that we didn't know of each other's lives. I felt less lonely. Suddenly, there was this girl (who was also small like me) who understood what I felt, who took pains to make me feel better, and most important of all, who was with me when I needed her. She was like the big sister I never had, and we would exchange messages on the phone late into the night, we would talk about anything we wanted to talk about; we would get in touch however busy our schedules might be. I was growing up, and I had the perfect guide to see me through.

            I was in third year then, the busiest year so far, and the year I went from being a child to a teenager. I had so many distractions, I had my Geometry, Statistics, Chemistry and Trigonometry all in one year, my now-starting-to-rage hormones I had to restrain; I had also joined the Cadet Officers Training Corps where she was the adjutant. And above all that, I had a friendship to keep. I could keep up with my Math, I could repress whatever hormones I had to, but the idea of being an applicant to cadet posts one of them she incidentally held and being friends at the same time, was something I couldn't cope with. I wasn't able to adjust very well, and our friendship somewhat declined. There was even a point when I had almost given up, and that was no fault of hers. Maybe, I thought, this was one of the friendships that, like summer romances, are gone in a flash, and are only meant to be remembered for what they once meant. Then the training ended, and our friendship went on, although it was a teeny bit different this time.

            I was already in my final year in high school, and she was starting in college. Along with the pressure of academic studies was the conscious effort to keep in touch, and it was no small feat. Being school mates and friends with different schedules was hard, but being friends in spite of the hundreds, or maybe thousands of nautical miles separating you was harder, especially that she was now in college, and I'm still in high school. We were both adjusting, and it was difficult. There was almost no one I could share my life with, turn to for comfort, except a small notebook I call a diary who couldn't even talk to me. My big sister was now a grownup; she was now moving on to greater heights, exploring unchartered territories -- and the little sister is somewhat left behind. We were both busy with our lives and we had to move on. We had to grow up for we couldn't do otherwise. 

            But the rare moments we could chat and keep up were really precious ones. When I was growing up and slowly making the transition from childhood to adolescence, she was like the lodestar, the guiding principle and philosophy of my life, and the model I wished I would be like when I grow up too. She was like the big sister who was also your best friend when you were growing up, the way she would tell you that you put a little bit too much powder on your face, the way she would giggle and share your butterflies in the stomach whenever your crush gets near, and the hours you spent late into the night talking and laughing and giggling for no reason at all.

            And among the many distractions of growing up, I realized true friendship is the greatest gift of all. In a period where you have all the time in the world and things seem to be clamoring for your attention all at once, real friendship is like an avenue of hope, a stronghold of faith, a bastion of your ideals to uplift you when you’re let down. In a world where fake friends parade around you and real ones go unrecognized, genuine friendship brings real comfort and assurance. While your erstwhile crush may not appear to notice you, they do, and the world will still keep on turning. Because they're the first persons you turn to, when it seems like everything goes wrong. Friends are the ones you remember when you wake up in the middle of the night and you need someone to talk to, someone to let you know that even though you are sitting on your bed and missing a few important persons several miles away from you, you are not alone -- and you will be just fine. And even if they get annoying and disturbingly honest at times, you know you can trust them to be frank with you, to tell you the things you ought to know.

            They can't fix your life, they can't solve all your problems, they can't stop every tear from falling, but when they're there, you feel normal, you feel okay. You laugh, you cry, you experience being overjoyed and super upset as well -- things that make life so exciting, and thrilling, and worth living. With them, you're just you, and that's all right.
I'm sixteen now, three years and several ideas and experiences ahead of the thirteen year old that I was when our friendship started, and in some ways I have grown up. Our friendship is now reduced to just a snack shared every semester, if we can, and a few messages on the phone every now and then, but it doesn't matter. In any case, friends don't have to prove anything to anybody, much less to each other. We will still be friends, despite the distance, no matter what happens. And after all…

            I always believe in the magic of friendship.

            Funny how, two years later, the last statement still rings true. So let’s toast, my friend, to the friendships that see us through!